Prologue
The Assignment

May 1985

Marlow Barkley loathed the Floo Network.

She was not a fan of most methods of wizarding transportation, but at least Apparition allowed one to travel to a destination with their dignity relatively intact. She could hardly recall a situation where suddenly appearing in a fireplace was beneficial to anyone. Unlike the Ministry's glamorized entryways, most families tended to use their hearths, which always involved an unamusing amount of ash scattered everywhere. Once there was even a bat.

She'd worn a gray overcoat for just that occasion, stepping out of the green flames with a puff of smoke and dust that threatened the stability of her nose and eyes. Her shoes had become another color entirely and she shook them off with a grumbled 'unsophisticated.'

An older gentleman seated at the table beside her lifted his cup in jest acknowledgment, his morning drink undoubtedly another victim of Ignatia Wildsmith's invention.

With a last stomp of her foot, Marlow made her way into The Three Broomsticks proper. The interior had hardly changed since her school days, with warm light illuminating every corner of its rustic dining area. She imagined it was much the same way centuries ago, though a few pieces had been replaced, and more still bore the scars of disagreements between patrons. There were fewer tables than she remembered, although it was normally too crowded to see them all.

Even with the quiet and empty atmosphere due to the early hour, there was still a welcoming and familiar quality to the pieces of furniture and eccentric decorations that made a weary traveler feel at home. The most distinguished change were a few additional picture frames along the walls.

Marlow froze mid-step, watching as James Potter winked at her from across the room.

Barkley! As Hogwarts's official Quidditch commentator, I believe you are morally obligated to describe the game in as great and accurate a detail as possible. As such, you are failing miserably by leaving out my rugged good looks and windswept hair. But all is not lost! You can still make it up to me. All you have to do is announce that James Potter is the-

"Well, if it isn't Miss Barkley, back from London herself!" Marlow jumped at the sudden voice, distantly concerned that she'd been staring too long. Madam Rosmerta greeted her with a pat on the shoulder, liberating more ash. "You're more grim-faced than the last time you came through. City life doesn't suit you."

"I believe I've established that no life suits me," she replied, awkwardly shifting her travel bag between hands when a heavy silence fell. Easing herself into a subject had never been a strong point of hers. "Is there a room available? I've been asked to profile the life of a Hogwarts student by the Prophet, and if Professor Binns is as long-winded as I recall, I may be here for a while."

Rosmerta smiled, the previous words forgotten, though she stole a glance at James's eternally winking frame. "Always for you, dear. You know, I've had my share of students enter this place, but no one could whip them into a frenzy quite like you."

Marlow's cheeks grew warm as she remembered a young Hufflepuff standing on one of the tables, a mug of butterbeer in one hand, her wand in the other, a conductor's baton as she had gathered the crowd in a lyrically-challenged version of "The Axe-Wizard's Ballad." Even now, she could not recall what the actual words were, only the thrumming of dozens of witches and wizards shouting OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

"I think it made the boys jealous."

There was no need to mention names.

The walk between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts felt longer than before. Then again, as a student, she'd practically run down the worn path, eager to escape school and homework, if only for a few hours. Now, Marlow took her time, watching the rise and fall of the highlands that surrounded the school, the way the water of the Black Lake shone in the early morning sun. There was a quiet beauty to the lands that she'd utterly ignored as a child.

She almost snorted at the thought. She'd only graduated four years ago.

Despite her casual pace, Marlow found Hogwarts looming over her before she knew it, the once welcoming home to student witches and wizards suddenly an imposing presence. Her gaze drifted from tower to tower, feeling as though the behemoth could somehow see her. It weighed her carefully, stripping bare the young woman before it, and judged her unworthy.

Shaking her head at silly superstition, Marlow shoved her hands in her pockets and carried on.

As it was still early in the day - a Saturday no less - only a handful of students occupied the courtyards. They watched her with fleeting interest before resuming games of gobstones or impromptu flying practice. All of them were from younger years. The few sixth or seventh year students that might recognize her had yet to emerge from their dorms, no doubt languishing from their last minute assignments and N.E.W.T.s. Marlow pictured late night study sessions huddled by the common room fireplace with Beatrice Buchanon and Marwa Ibrahim. She ignored the studying she did in the broom closet with Marcus Nettleworth.

When she approached the castle entrance, Marlow was greeted by an exceptionally tall man. She'd have ventured to call him part giant if it weren't for his wisp-like appearance. A small breeze might catch in his robes and drag him away - which may have been why he did not leave the threshold, she thought amusedly.

"Would I be remiss in calling you Miss Barkley?" he asked with a creaking voice, like a tree groaning against the wind. He was a willow brought to life, she decided.

"You would not," Marlow replied, her voice bereft of the mockery in her head. "Although, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Professor…?"

His smile was strained, wax-like skin pulling harshly against sharp facial features. "Abbott. Silas Abbott. I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

Not for much longer, she imagined. There never had been a professor who lasted more than a year.

Marlow shook his outstretched hand, careful not to squeeze too tightly lest his bones break in her grasp. With a nod, Professor Abbott led her into the castle, through achingly familiar hallways that hadn't changed, either in size or disposition. There were more students inside, all wearing various half-lidded expressions as they made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. One or two of the older ones glanced her way, but no words were said, and soon she and the professor were alone in silence, save for the click of her heels on the marble. He made no sound at all, not even a rustle of his robes. She wondered if he was floating.

Professor Abbott did not offer her anything in the way of conversation, and she obliged him, watching the various portraits moving on the wall without a word. Unlike the sleepy students, they were quick to gossip, and she heard her name flying between them once or twice. Marlow took a deep breath, focusing on the sound of her shoes.

"Forgive me if I do not appear very accommodating," the professor wheezed as they approached the second floor. "Minerva meant to meet you, but there was an incident in the kitchens involving an abnormally large diricawl."

Marlow bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She wondered what these students called themselves, or if they realized Professor McGonagall was already experienced with oversized fauna creating chaos.

"I've never been much of a conversationalist anyway," she replied, stopping before the gargoyle statue that marked the entryway to the Headmaster's Office. Speaking of people had always been easier than speaking to them.

Professor Abbott lifted a pale eyebrow. "An unusual trait for a journalist."

"I've found that the ability to listen far outweighs one's initiative to insert their narrative into the conversation."

With a quiet nod, the professor drifted away, leaving Marlow to stare at the gargoyle. Without the clicking of her heels to focus on, she realized her breathing had grown heavy, and her heartbeat began to pound inside her ears, a war drum, a call to fight or to flee. She'd felt it enough in her lifetime.

Marlow was afraid.

She sighed, swallowing the sensation with a dry tongue. "Chocolate jazzies."

The staircase opened moments later, and Marlow began her slow ascent, her mind racing.

Life at the Daily Prophet had not been the riveting adventure she had been hoping for, and Marlow knew that the only reason she'd been given this assignment, over yet another piece about vanishing toiletry in the Ministry, was that Albus Dumbledore had personally requested her. As the Headmaster was constantly engulfed in rumors of becoming the next Minister of Magic, the Daily Prophet felt compelled to oblige, but not before sending a Howler to her flat detailing the fallout should she muck it all up.

As she knew Dumbledore had requested her to do anything but write a genuine slice-of-life article, Marlow found herself staring at a bleak end to an utterly uninteresting and miniscule career.

She ought to have just quit and gone home.

Frustration and anger blooming anew in her chest, she knocked on his office door with harder force than necessary. She stared at the knocker, waiting for permission to enter. The little gargoyle etched into the surface made a face at her.

"Do come in," his voice drifted through the wood, and Marlow stood straight, stiff, with a quick breath.

She had only been in his office once - that fateful afternoon before her commencement when he'd made her a life-changing offer - but it still resembled the room in her memories, covered in trinkets older than the castle itself and a menagerie of books lining the walls, all in remarkable condition in spite of their age. It held an air of barely contained chaos, a perfect reflection of the mind it housed. The phoenix still rested behind his desk, looking younger than when she'd seen it last.

Seated at the desk was Albus Dumbledore himself, the same silver-haired man she'd known all her schooling years, clothed in eccentric blue velvet robes that shifted color in the light. He was writing something as she entered, and she noticed a dab of ink caught in his beard. He was distracted then. It was an unusual flaw.

"I suppose you met Professor Abbott," he continued, not looking up. "It's a shame what's happened to poor Silas. He started the term barely over five feet. St. Mungo's has been working around the clock to find a way to, ahem, unstretch him."

She watched him prattle on about how he believed it was an allergic reaction to fire slug mucus, frown deepening. As a student, she had always admired the calm and collected nature of the Headmaster, even as the world outside fell apart. Now she found it apathetic and insulting, as if the last time they had seen one another hadn't been the singular most devastating day of her life.

Sensing her thoughts, Dumbledore looked up, bright eyes shining over half-moon spectacles. He almost appeared amused. "My dear Miss Barkley, might you put your wand away and take a seat?"

Marlow looked to her right hand, which had indeed extricated itself from the folds of her pocket, producing both her wand and a grip so tight her knuckles threatened to burst from the skin. Thoroughly ashamed of her undisciplined behavior, Marlow hid it away and sat in the chair across from his desk without question, staring at the grain in the wood to avoid his studious gaze. Funny how daring disappeared in a puff of smoke when confronted with the source of one's ire.

"How is your mother?" he asked, sounding as if he truly cared.

"She has her better days," she replied, the words wrenched out of her by some unseen force. However, whatever spell he'd managed to put on her couldn't convince Marlow to talk about the less than agreeable ones.

Dumbledore hummed. "Constance always had a strength that I admired."

"She shouldn't have to be strong," Marlow spat. Her embarrassment was quickly wearing off, replaced by frustration at the unnecessary small talk. "Now can you spare me the pleasantries and explain why I have been summoned?"

There was a hint of a smile on his face, as if she'd just touched upon some inside joke. She supposed when he'd seen nearly every wizard in the country grow up in the walls around them, all their spiteful anger felt like one.

Dumbledore opened the top drawer of his desk, producing several sheets of paper. Marlow took in the neatly typed lines as he laid them before her, noting the handful of messy blotches from corrected mistakes and the torn edge from a curious and apparently hungry owl.

Marlow closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Of course you have it."

It was her latest and greatest failure to be taken seriously as a journalist at the Prophet. While Rita Skeeter was busy writing about political gossip and the nightly affairs of the most prominent members of the Wizengamot, Marlow had been focusing on how Muggleborns still struggled to gain any significant positions in wizarding society. In fact, she found some of the most brilliant witches and wizards to be pigeonholed due to their blood status. Death Eaters had represented the worst aspects of their community, but they never would have posed a serious threat if there weren't a large number of people willing to look the other way.

Barnabas Cuffe buried her article so deep, she thought he'd taken it home to use as kindling. The Ministry relied on the Daily Prophet to keep things running smoothly, and her editor was keen to keep that relationship steady. He'd gone as far as to accuse her of wanting to bring back the memory of You-Know-Who himself.

"It's a wonderful article. You've always had a penchant for rousing speeches, although I see you still struggle with spelling 'egregious.'" Marlow opened her eyes slowly, expecting to meet a teasing grin given the lighthearted tone of his voice, but Dumbledore's eyes had narrowed, and he'd taken on a most serious disposition. "You aren't wrong in your writing. The wizarding world is plagued by injustice and bigotry, but with the Dark Lord seemingly gone, we are just as quick to ignore our more subtle problems."

She thought to argue that it wasn't subtle for those who experienced it, but semantics were the least of her problems.

"If you're thinking of having that published in place of a puffery, I'm afraid you'll find the gossip column will be your greatest adversary to date."

No hint of a smile that time, though there was a slight twinkle in his eyes. "I'm afraid not, although I believe there is a time and place for this. I thought you might want the copy back."

"I typed it in triplicate. The other two are stashed away at home."

Now he did smile, placing the papers back in the drawer. Marlow wondered if she might regret letting him keep them.

Dumbledore folded his hands. "Do you believe in second chances, Miss Barkley?"

Her witty response died on her tongue as she took in the intense gaze that Dumbledore leveled on her. Something hung in the balance with her answer. Life and death, she wondered? She imagined that Dumbledore did not dabble in much else, especially when he was bringing her to the castle under the guise of lighthearted journalism.

She blinked slowly. "Depends on the person."

Dumbledore chuckled, sensing the direction of her vague response. "I believe that I am far past receiving chances, but there are others who could use the help of one."

"Who is it?" she asked, a little too fast. Her curiosity overwhelmed every part of her that screamed not to get involved again.

"You are aware of the attempted prison break at Azkaban last year, are you not?"

Marlow nodded, unable to help herself despite her growing apprehension at the direction the conversation was taking. "Who isn't? A dozen Death Eaters blasted the prison open, only to become occupants themselves. It was a spectacular failure."

"And what if I told you it wasn't? What if I told you that it was the brilliant execution of a mad plan that against all odds became a success?"

"Then I would be very curious as to what your definition of failure is."

He toyed with a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly as he examined her, deliberating. "The goal of the operation was Sirius Black, and it was achieved."

The room turned cold, her blood ice in her veins. The picture of James was winking at her again, then it was screaming. Did one get the chance to scream when the Killing Curse struck?

"No one said he escaped," she managed to whisper.

"And why should they?" he continued, ignoring her change in tone, if he noticed at all. "It is far more glamorous to declare more Death Eaters have been captured rather than one escaping. We should consider ourselves fortunate that their pride is so strong."

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Dumbledore, who is the second chance for?" He gave her a pointed look then, disappointed she had not made the connection yet. "You can't be serious. He's a killer. He is the reason James and Lily are dead!"

"He is an innocent man wronged by many assumptions, including my own, I'm afraid. There are many who suffered from it, and I am hoping your words may begin to set things right."

Marlow wondered if she was watching the same man, for Dumbledore had aged before her. He'd always been considered elderly in the years she knew him, but only now did he seem old. A spark in him had disappeared, swallowed whole by what she might have called regret, even guilt.

"Allow me to share their story before you lay judgment upon their lot in life."

She ought to leave; she knew that. Logic dictated that not only would his wish not pan out the way he wanted it to, but that it would drag her down with it. Losing her job at the Prophet would be the least of her worries. She'd be lucky if getting blacklisted from every prospective job in the country was her punishment. But the part of her that had desperately wanted to leave earlier had fallen silent, and she found herself looking upon Dumbledore not as the untrustworthy general she had come to view him as, but as a fellow survivor of the war, looking to make amends where he could.

Could she truly see herself as better than him if she were to deny it?

Imperceptibly, Marlow nodded, but it was enough for him to take notice. Was there relief in his sagging shoulders or had she simply gone mad?

She grabbed a small notepad and pen from her other pocket. Dumbledore made no comment on the 'Muggleness' of it all, but she hadn't missed how his eyebrow had twitched.

"Now, Miss Barkley, if you might indulge an old man, this story begins well before the prison break. It was when you were all in school, and I'm sure you can guess which year. None were quite so terrible as that one. In fact, we owe its resolution, and much of this tale, to Sirius Black's sister, Aquila."

Yes, welcome to yet another story. Marlow doesn't have a large presence in this story, but her role is still incredibly important. I hope you have enjoyed this and will join me for the next chapter. Thank you!