Falling

by trynathink

It had been seven years. Of course they had a little of the other in them. Of course it hurt when the other wasn't there anymore. The separation could have been a day, an hour, a minute, and Grace was sure it would have hurt the same—a cleaver sailing straight through her soul, severing it into two. (Everyone Lives AU; sequel to 'Flying')

22. Scrawl

Scrawl

Dirk returns to England with a tan, charms his old professor into having a full-on mental breakdown, and convinces resident stickler-for-the-rules Regulus Black to commit a federal crime.

---

Truth be told, there was a part of Dirk that liked to get on people's nerves. He wasn't sure when it started, this interest in exploring people, in pushing boundaries and seeing how long people were willing to tolerate him, in understanding what it took to unravel someone. He just knew it interested him. It was why he wanted to work with goblins: they were similarly sly, barbs unfurling from their tongues to slip and slink under people's skin, sneers and slights flung to throw people off-kilter, to disarm them, unmake them just to make them all over again. So, yeah, Dirk sometimes pushed people's buttons on purpose, just so he could dissect the anger and puzzle the person out.

It was just that now wasn't one of those times.

"—and you just can't be crowding the phone room like this all the time," Anita scolded. She stood in front of him, arms folded across her chest, an unhappy little grimace stuck to her lips. (She was in Muggle clothes, jeans and a breezy cotton shirt, just like everyone else in the house had been for months now… And Dirk would never admit it, but it felt strange, bizarre even, to wander from room to room and see only Muggle stuff. No moving photographs, no unwieldy robes, no biting teacups switched out for normal ones. It was almost like the past seven years never happened. Some days, he woke up, saw the sputtering ceiling fan above the bed, and wondered if he'd simply dreamed up Hogwarts.) "It's the only phone we have here, and I need it free at any possible moment. You never know when something will happen, who'll ring up if something goes wrong—"

"How am I crowding it?" Dirk interrupted, unable to hold it in any longer. He had been enduring her lecture for what felt like decades now. "I'm one person."

"Your presence," she said flatly, "is annoyingly large."

"Also, why does the phone have its own room? I don't even have my own room, and I'm a human person."

"It's more important than you."

"It is an inanimate object, Anita. I am a full human being, with feelings and dreams and—"

"And you keep hogging the phone at all hours of the day just to talk with your friends—wizard friends, I might add," she said with particular strain of venom, "who not might keep their mouths shut about—"

"I'm talking to Order members!"

"You are supposed to be cut off from the magical world," she said firmly. "That was the agreement that was made when you came here."

"Technically, only my parents agreed to that," he muttered.

"And you are supposed to leave the phone free, so other people can contact me in an emergency."

"Why can't you just get another phone?" he pleaded.

She ignored him. "Also, don't think I haven't noticed you slipping out to the bridge. You are not supposed to be engaging with the wizarding community here. What happens if they realize you're British?"

Funnily enough, Dirk had already asked himself the very same question. He asked it to himself weeks ago, in fact, when he first learned of the secret wizarding community hidden underneath the Alhambra. He asked himself if it was really worth it, if he really ought to jeopardize the fragile life the Order managed to give his family here. And he never answered that question, actually. He put it off, because he hadn't anticipated actually finding the place. Anita certainly didn't give him any hints about how magic worked here, and his parents were naturally of no help where magic was concerned.

But Dirk had been bored out of his bloody mind, and, somehow, he'd figured it out. Maybe there was a reason Slughorn had singled him out for his club after all.

"You think it doesn't matter, but it does," she continued, almost desperate in her hope that Dirk could just, for one moment, understand her. "There are other British wizards who have come here, hoping to leave behind all the business back home and wait it out. We're lucky that the Spanish Ministry is turning a blind eye to British wizards entering the country, but that doesn't mean the wizards who actually live here agree with their policies. Suppose there are a few wizards here who notice that there's a growing community of British wizards hiding out? Suppose a few of them actually like the idea of pure-blood supremacy, and want to rat us out? Or suppose they just don't want any of us here, in case their community becomes a target for You-Know-Who, too? I know you're willing to take the risk, Dirk, but there are other people here, families we've relocated here so that they can pretend they're Muggles for the next year or so, until everything dies down. And you're supposed to be one of those families! You're supposed to be a Muggle!"

"Except I'm not," Dirk snapped. He'd come a long way from first-year, from wishing he didn't know magic at all. "I can't just ignore everything that's happening. I can't just pretend it all away."

"Well, you'd better learn how. Remember—you came here to hide, not fight."

With that, Anita turned on her heel and briskly left the phone room. She left the door wide open, intending for Dirk to follow out shortly, but he found he could not move. The truth of his situation sank into him deep and fast. He hadn't meant to hide, really. It was just that the Dark Mark was being thrown around an awful lot during the winter, and his parents were worried, and he kept thinking about how the previous Head Boy had left so suddenly, and…

Oh, he didn't know. He just wanted a break, really. He just wanted to be away from the whispers and stares at Hogwarts, because it wasn't as if his being a Muggle-born wasn't any big secret, you know. He just wanted to be where things felt normal instead of terrifyingly strange.

But now things were too normal. Funny how it took leaving Hogwarts for him to realize how much he loved it, and how much it had changed him.

Without even realizing it, his feet began to move him out of the room, down the steep steps of the townhouse Anita's parents owned, and out the front door. He walked along the River Darro, over which five bridges crossed at different points. Underneath each bridge, regardless of water levels or the previous night's weather, the river grew shallow, only able to lap pathetically at the underside of the stone pillars that upheld the bridges. This was the effect of an elemental charm, which suppressed the flow of water at these key locations so that wizards could access the underside of the bridge. Just hidden beneath the arc of the stone, wedged between natural rock and manmade structure, was a door that could only be seen by wizards, and if you drew out the correct pattern against the stone with your wand, the door would slide open and reveal a long, winding tunnel. The hidden entrances from each of the five bridges all led to the same place: underneath the Alhambra, where Arab wizards had moved their sprawling marketplaces during the Reconquista (Muggles had been all over the place then, you see, and the wizards panicked and went underground). The palace itself was largely derelict, and more a museum and tourist spot than anything, but the wizards and witches underneath continued to go about their daily business, careful to keep up illusionary charms and glamour to hide their underground city: Zilía (the full, proper name used to be Al-madinat taht al-zilal, the City under the Shadows, but after years of Castilian rule and the emergence of a Spanish wizarding community, the name underwent some mistranslations and changes).

It had taken Dirk a great deal of pestering, reading, and trial and error to figure out the pattern for the bridge he was closest to, and then another great deal of pestering, reading, and trial and error just to navigate the tunnels to Zilía. But he had found his way (mostly by getting lost), and now the underground city was something like his haven. It was strange, really, entirely counterintuitive: his family had ferried away to be safe from magic, but Dirk only felt safest—only felt himself—when he wandered through the ever-winding streets and bright marketplaces of Spain's largest wizarding community.

Maybe magic meant more to him than he cared to admit, after all. Maybe the truest version of himself, and the one he longed to be most, was the one lost among the crowd, unknown and unnoticed. Maybe—

A large fist shoved a bouquet of steaming, sugared churros in front of Dirk's face. The hand was accompanied by a rapid succession of Spanish that Dirk, for all his knack at languages, failed to grasp in the moment.

It was one of the street vendors that lined the path leading from the entrance to Zilía Dirk had come through. There were a great many food stalls set up along here, and Dirk felt that the vendors had gotten the right idea. Visitors were always hungry, right?

Dirk certainly was. Maybe that was why he felt so out of it today.

He exchanged a few coins with the vendor, and was soon strolling through the shining city with churro in hand. He glanced up and had to shield his eyes with his free hands as he took in the great orbs of conjured light that kept the underground city lit during the day. There were a few towers that almost reached the lights swinging far above; perhaps they were filled with wizards to monitor the lights and extinguish them once it approached dusk. Perhaps there were weather wizards, too, who conjured light drizzle or streaming hail in order to mimic the weather above ground.

Fascination gripped Dirk quickly and tightly. That had always been his problem, really. Even the boring subjects at Hogwarts delighted Dirk to no end—and it had bothered him for some time, honestly. Back when every Slytherin under the sun had been telling him he oughtn't to be attending Hogwarts, Dirk had wished he wasn't. He'd been so desperate to convince himself that magic was worse than what Muggles had, that what he had before was better.

And then he realized something: actually, it was kind of the same. That's what he liked most about toeing the line. He drew connections and insights most people wouldn't think of. There had been wizarding wars against the backdrop of global wars in the Muggle world, and it made Dirk wonder how intertwined the two really were. There were financial disruptions in the Muggle world that affected the wizarding one. And—it went beyond that. Sometimes, it was just the fact they were all human, wizard and Muggle alike, and bound to do the same things independent of one another.

Those lights rotating far above Zilía? They could have used torches, or had massive hearths roaring at every corner of the city. But, no, some bloke took the time and effort to invent that spell.

Wizarding version of lightbulbs, really.

"Nihil sub sole novum," Dirk whispered cheerily to himself as he took a large bite of his churro.

---

Dirk's good mood vanished as soon as he left Zilía and returned to the townhouse. He found his joy in exploring and wondering and discovering new things, and everything in the townhouse was so…dull. Stagnant.

Dinner was an especially sordid affair. Well, just for him. Everyone else seemed to be having a good enough time exchanging small talk over the table, passing salt and pepper shakers. Dirk, for his part, simply couldn't seem to shake the depressing air that had been clinging to him for the better part of today.

Anita was conspicuously missing from dinner, and it didn't take much to put together that she was likely in the dedicated phone room taking a call from an Order member. Just the mere thought of this made Dirk feel strangely ill. He couldn't help but think of whether or not it was Grace on the other end, relaying yet another risky but necessary plan. And if it was not Grace, then was it Lily? Sending the details of a new Muggle-born family in need of an escape?

"Dirk, please stop playing with your food. It's rude," his mother scolded him quietly as he picked at his steamed vegetables for the hundredth time. She looked across the table and gave Lila's dad, a middle-aged man with a healthy dose of grey overcoming his hair, a pleasant smile. "Thank you for putting together dinner tonight, Nathan. Your roast beef is simply wonderful!"

He predictably beamed.

Dirk glumly shoveled a spoonful of lima beans into his mouth, chewed, and without swallowing said, "It's all right."

At the end of the table, Lila shot him a glare.

Dirk expertly avoided her gaze and decided to add: "It's the lima beans that really stand out to me, actually. So expertly seasoned. How do you do it, Mr. Colvin?"

This was apparently a bit too much, because his mother coughed a little uncomfortably and Lila's dad seemed too flustered to respond. Lila's glare softened into light annoyance.

"I can give you the recipe," Lila's dad said eventually, if only to break the awkward silence.

"Please don't," Dirk responded promptly.

What remained of the evening quickly dwindled away. Lila's dad made a good effort to corral the others into a board game or some charades, but there weren't enough people interested. Dirk's parents retired to bed shortly after dinner, and Dirk made it clear (by saying aloud) he would rather eat his left shoe than play backgammon. Any proposed social activities after that were quickly shelved away for a day that Dirk was sure would never come.

He tried to read some old comics in his room after that, but the eight-year-old boy he shared with was being absolutely insufferable (he just had a cold and was coughing up a racket, but Dirk was in too foul a mood to put up with it) so he left and ended up wandering into the drawing room.

He ended up flipping through some channels on TV before landing on what seemed to be a dramatic, modern-day retelling of Tristan and Isolde in Spanish. He stared mindlessly at the screen, wondering why on earth he felt so guilty about watching a soap opera.

It just felt…too normal. Life felt so normal so much of the time, and today was no exception (apart from the illicit visit to Zilía). Dinner had been completely ordinary, and now he was doing what he'd normally do if he was back at his parent's during holiday. But he had to remind himself—and it was getting so difficult to remind himself—that this wasn't holiday. Everything was just fine here in Spain, sure, but there were moments now and again, between the shrill rings of Anita's beloved telephone, when Dirk knew with absolute surety that nothing was fine.

My friends are fighting in a war that could kill them at any moment, he thought grimly as he watched a woman on screen reveal that it was her twin sister all along. And whoever's not fighting on the frontlines is in Hogwarts, where there are active Death Eaters who could also kill them at any moment. And I'm sitting here watching TV.

He scarcely noticed Lila come in. She sat down on the other end of the couch, curling into a fluffy throw blanket she had brought with her.

"Mind if I change the channel?" she called, and Dirk almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of her voice.

"What?" he said, turning to her.

"Give me the remote," she snapped, apparently done with any and all pretense of politeness.

He tossed her the remote. She flipped to a late night news report. How typical of a Slytherin to gather intel even during these late hours.

"I really did like the lima beans," Dirk eventually said. Not quite an apology, but not quite not an apology.

She barely spared him a glance. "You're lucky Dad can't tell your insults from your compliments."

He snorted. "What would you do if he could?"

"Don't doubt I could make your life even more miserable than it already is, Dirk. I heard you got into trouble with Anita today. I could make that happen every day."

He sunk further into the couch, sulking. "I just wanted to use the phone is all."

"In her defense, you have been hogging it a lot this week," Lila pointed out. "You spend most of every other evening talking to Potter. And Anita does get a lot of Order calls to set up more safe houses. It's a big deal if she misses one because the line is busy."

Dirk felt even worse. Lila seemed to catch on that simply airing all his wrongs out in the open wasn't the way to go. She turned off the TV with a quick click of the remote and angled herself better towards him.

"What is it?" she asked with a heavy, slightly irritated sigh.

He didn't say anything, deep in thought.

She briefly contemplated violence. He could see it in her eyes. But instead of strangling him with her throw, she bit out, "I don't want to listen to you, you know. But your horrible attitude makes sharing the same floor let alone same room as you nearly unbearable. So—"

"Do you think I'm just jealous?" he found himself asking.

Lila stared at him, dumbfounded—and a little horrified. "Of…Anita?"

"No! Of what Grace and the other Order members are doing," he clarified. It all came spilling out at once. "It's just… I keep trying to figure out exactly why staying here is bothering me so much. It didn't used to bother me as much before, when I didn't know Grace was a spy, but now I feel so… I wish I wasn't here. And I really, truly hope it's not because I'm jealous, because that would be so ridiculous. I shouldn't be jealous of someone having several near-death experiences… Or is it normal to be jealous of that sort of thing?"

"It could be normal for you," Lila said honestly. "You're stranger than most."

He shot her the Look, the one that means 'that was pretty funny, but we're not close enough to banter with each other like that (yet),' and Lila merely rolled her eyes.

"I don't think you're jealous," Lila sighed, putting a hand under her chin. "I think you're just feeling helpless. And, to be honest, it makes some degree of sense, doesn't it? It wasn't as though there was some personal stake in any of this for either of us before. Like, yeah, we were targets—generally speaking—but when we first went into hiding, it wasn't for a specific reason. It was because we knew things were getting dangerous for Muggle-borns. It didn't feel real before."

"And now it is," Dirk agreed. He found his heart sinking at how…mundane the truth of the matter was. Lila was right. It all felt more real now. How could it not, when Grace had witnessed so much firsthand and was sharing every awful, gory detail over the phone?

"We didn't know anyone directly involved in the war before," Lila continued. "The war used to be some big, nameless thing that we knew we ought to fear but we didn't quite know why, right? It's like when parents warn their children not to touch a hot stove. Kids'll still listen, right? But they won't really know till they touch it themselves. And that's what happened to us, when you think on it. Potter joined the war effort, and then Fee got roped into it, too. We're certainly not touching the stovetop, but we can feel the heat."

And it's becoming intolerable, Dirk thought. "We know what's at stake now."

Lila gave a curt nod. "Exactly."

The drawing room felt so serious: angular and strict, shades of brown and grey. The moment was tenuous and high-strung. Dirk found himself shuddering under the pressure.

"But it's bollocks!" he cried out at last.

Lila was unimpressed. "I felt it was a rather fair assessment, all things considered."

"No, I mean—yeah, you're probably right, but that's not how things should be! We understand the severity of the situation and now we want to be involved? That's insane!"

"I like to think we're just good people who want to help our loved ones, Dirk."

"That's horrible!"

Lila rolled her eyes. "Here we go…"

"We're the ones with the biggest targets on our backs! We're the victims—and it's not even really our war, Lila! It's a bunch of hoity-toity pure-blood nonsense that went too far. We should just let them sort it out themselves. We shouldn't have to correct their wrongs and risk our lives—"

"We both know you don't believe any of that."

"Then what about this: we're unhappy here because we can't help, but we'll still be unhappy there because—in case you've forgotten—a homicidal maniac is running amok!"

"He's not amok," Lila protested.

"Well, he's certainly not not amok!"

"I didn't say we wouldn't suffer if we were to return to England, Dirk. Or was my stovetop metaphor completely lost on you? There's a reason you shouldn't stick your hand in the fire!"

"But you still want to! That's the problem. And what's worse—I want to, too!"

"Then why don't we!"

"Because it's a war, Lila! It's a war. You can't just decide when to leave and when to come back."

They couldn't just change their minds like that. It sounded ridiculous just to say it. It sounded impossible, even horrible to say. Because they'd wanted to leave in the first place. Because they ran away, really. This wasn't just something you could change your mind about.

"You feel guilty," Lila noted.

"No," Dirk said, but it sounded unconvincing even to himself.

She sighed. "I never wanted to come here, either. I wanted to go back to Hogwarts for our last year. No one found out about my father all through my last six years, so why would they now? But Dad didn't want to take chances. I suppose he knows, firsthand, what pure-bloods are capable of…"

Dirk had no idea what the hell this meant and, quite frankly, had bigger things to worry about at the moment. "Okay, and?"

She scowled at him. "And, he decided it was better to go into hiding than risk either of our lives. He's my dad, so of course I listened to him. You did the same with your parents. Who could blame that?"

"Me. I can blame it." He didn't know why he felt so awful, just that he did, just that the walls of the townhouse were tall and claustrophobic, just that his heart felt torn and trampled. "You know… I never even said goodbye to anyone. I just didn't show next term."

"I feel like you would have an easier time being pitied by someone who wasn't going through the exact same situation as you."

"Touché." His shoulders slumped and he leaned back against the edge of the couch. "So…you just want to go back? No plan, nothing?"

"I didn't say I didn't have a plan," Lila corrected. "But, yeah, basically… It's not anything I haven't been thinking of for months now. I've always wanted to go back. It's worse now, really, because at least Potter was with Fee at Hogwarts before. Now, Potter's thought to be dead and Fee's alone there. Allies aren't exactly plenty to come by in Slytherin. And if any of the Death Eaters were to find out that all the rumors Fee helped to start were false… I dunno, I just feel like I should be there and actually doing something instead of writing her a few instructions over our spellbound sheets."

Dirk nodded. "Yeah—yeah, it's… I understand."

Lila stared at him for a moment. Her dark brown eyes bored into his. "What do you think? Do you want to go, too?"

Dirk could read other people easily, too easily, sometimes, but when it came to himself—God, it just felt like he was on a makeshift raft in the middle of a vast, rolling ocean sometimes.

"I don't know what I want," he said honestly. (He wasn't even sure if he liked Abbott yet…) There were a hundred branching thoughts and ideas forming in his head, and he wanted all and none of them at once.

"Then…what if I just asked you to come with me? It's more than a little nerve-wracking to go alone."

They simply looked at one another, hard stare into tired gaze, and Dirk felt something in him give way. He was tired of pretending like he was in control of anything at all. Why not have Lila make the decision for him? There hadn't been a moment in his life when he wasn't ready to follow a friend's ridiculous request. He could think of this as just another ask—and it was just absurd enough to fit right into his repertoire.

Quiet finality seeped into him. He felt assured, and the feeling was foreign for far too many reasons. He never knew himself to be so nervous. Spending months cooped up in a townhouse with only a handful of people for company sure hadn't done wonders for his mental health, it turned out. What a surprise.

"All right," he said. "That's that, then?"

Lila let out a breath she'd been holding and fell back against the couch. She gave him a wan smile. "That's that."

---

It took quite a lot of negotiating on both of their parts to convince Anita—and, er, that was a lie, actually. They never truly convinced Anita. Dirk suspected Anita was vaguely all right with shipping him and Lila back to England now, but earlier… Well, suffice it to say: Anita was far more stubborn than Dirk and Lila combined. After their initial conversation with her, it was clear she was never going to greenlight this mission of theirs. So, they intercepted a phone call from the Order one evening and, after a few hyperbolic statements on Dirk's part and a heartfelt speech from Lila, they managed to convince Vance to let them, well, not only return to England but also join the Order. Like—officially. As a wizard vigilante. (He did not tell his parents that part, naturally. They thought Dirk was only going back to shepherd more Muggle-borns abroad and that it would only be a brief stint, a month at most.)

It had scarcely been three days since Lila first brought up this idea of hers with him, and now Dirk was going to be fighting on the frontlines of the war he had been so hellbent on ignoring. Funny how life turns out, right?

A sharp rapping came at his door, pulling Dirk out of his daze. He quickly folded the shirt he had been limply holding his hand and placed it in his duffel bag. He crossed to the door in two long strides, opening it to find Anita—face all scrunched up and displeased as usual—on the other end.

"Are you packed?" she said sourly. Her eyes flitted to Dirk's bed, where he had propped up his bag and the stack of novels he was choosing from for the trip.

They were traveling "the Muggle way," as Vance had deemed it, since Death Eaters likely hadn't the foggiest about how to intercept an airline. They would be flying from Granada to London, and Dorcas Meadowes (Dirk faintly remembered her from Hogwarts: a tawny-skinned woman who propelled the Ravenclaw Quidditch team to victory every year until graduating) would meet them at the airport. From there… Well, who knew what would happen, really? They could be cornered by Death Eaters or Snatchers the moment they set foot in London. Or Dorcas may never arrive to pick them up in the first place. The future was uncertain and risky.

It really got the blood pumping, eh?

"Almost," Dirk said, picking up both Children of Dune and The Caves of Drach. How could he choose between these two? He tossed both novels into his bag. They would both have to come with him.

Anita gritted her teeth. "Your flight leaves in four hours."

"So? That's plenty of time."

"You need to be out of here in an hour. You were supposed to be finished packing last night."

"I'll be finished in the next ten minutes," Dirk promised.

Anita didn't seem to believe him, but she swallowed down the urge to contest this. She took a deep breath, extinguishing her ire, and in a much softer tone said, "Look—I won't say I agree—"

"Then don't say anything," Dirk interrupted nonchalantly.

Her expression soured immediately. "Is it too much effort for you to even pretend to accept the olive branch?"

Dirk bit his tongue. He crossed his arms over his chest and leveled Anita with a cool gaze. "I don't think you need to offer one. Listen, I'm sorry that I've been such an arse during my stay here. I know you were just trying to do your job, and I'm thankful to you for putting up with me for as long as you did—along with giving my family and me a place to stay, of course."

She neither accepted nor rejected his apology. She looked at him for a moment—suspiciously, at first—before relaxing into something more weary. "All right… Well," she began, making her way towards the door, "finish packing. You need to be out of here in—"

"An hour," Dirk finished for her, sighing.

The door closed behind her. Dirk stared at the array of possessions he had brought with him from Tutshill during winter: half of his life packed into a suitcase. Now, he was bringing back even less of that with him. He didn't need much, and it was better to pack light lest he and Lila would be forced to relocate once they reached their new safe house in London, but it still made him feel uneasy, to be bringing back so little of himself.

He swapped out Children of Dune with a textbook about Gobbledegook, threw in his toothbrush and a bar of soap, and almost packed the old Remembrall Abbott had given him back in first year when he expressed interest in how a knickknack like that even worked—before deciding that he shouldn't get his hopes up. He wasn't going back to Hogwarts. He was still in hiding, technically. It was better to leave behind and forget all the things he wouldn't see again.

He zipped up the bag, hefted it over his shoulder by the strap, gave his parents another farewell, and went to meet Lila at the front of the building. At 12 PM on the dot, Anita's father arrived to drive them to the airport, and a mere three hours later, they were sitting side-by-side in economy with only a pack of peanuts to keep them company.

Lila was busy with her spellbound sheet for most of the four hour plane ride, and Dirk tried to distract himself by making funny foil sculptures out of the peanut packaging. But most of the trip was spent with him drumming his fingers against the arm of his seat, staring blankly out the window as white and blue streamed past him, hoping he wouldn't regret all of this once they landed.

---

Dorcas was far more surly than he recalled, but perhaps that was just what working long hours as a vigilante did to a person. She arrived disguised as a pencil-thin old woman and greeted Lila and Dirk in code. They had been prepared for this, thanks to Anita's incessant reminders over the past few days, and it almost frightened Dirk when he responded so smoothly and quickly.

"We'll be Side-Along Apparating to the Bones residence," Dorcas said quickly and quietly, speeding along the uneven cobblestone road. She was leading them into an out-of-view alleyway. "The Apparition spot is a little out of the way from Edgar's house, on account of the wards, but it's not too bad of a walk. Once we're there, you can settle in—or come to the Order meeting tonight. Whichever you'd prefer. There's no pressure to begin with any Order activities yet, of course. You've—"

Lila and Dirk glanced at each, nodded, and said together: "We'll come."

They each clasped onto Dorcas's hands, and within seconds were off to the Order headquarters. He was so starved for intrigue, drama, and company, that he found he actually missed Apparation. He had only ever experienced the sensation once before, when a member of the Order came to collect him and his parents before heading to Spain, and found it horribly disorienting.

He had thrown up, actually. On the sidewalk. Over the Order member's shoes (Podmore, if he recalled the name correctly).

Thankfully, he didn't do the same once they appeared at the bottom of a grassy hillside—although he did need to spend a few seconds off to the side to settle his stomach.

Once the dizzy feeling faded, he released a breath and looked up. The Longbottom estate was quite shoddy: a derelict country manor surrounded by an overrun garden. Although, to be fair, it was still a bleeding manor of all things, so he didn't find himself feeling too put out at the idea of spending most of his day there. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and began to hastily follow Dorcas and Lila up along the hill. They had gotten a bit of a head start on him, having shaken off the bitter aftertaste of Apparation far quicker than he did.

With each step forward, he found every nerve in his body buzz with more and more excitement. He dearly hoped Grace and Lily would be there, too, so they might finally catch up in person. And even if they were not, at least he would finally be seeing other people. People who weren't his parents or Lila's dad or Benjamin, the kid he'd been sharing a room with. People who were busy battling for the fate of the wizarding world and wouldn't waste his time asking if he might like to play a game of backgammon, of all things.

Dorcas led them inside the manor, and Dirk was immediately met with the sweet, soothing sound of an angry Scottish man yelling like there was no tomorrow. (Strangely, he was reminded of Anita. How was she doing, now that there was no one to scold for illicitly using the telephone?)

"—PUT OUR WHOLE OPERATION IN JEOPARDY!"

Dorcas winced. "Ah, shit. Someone must've upset Moody. It'd be wise for you two to just linger to the side for a bit. Vance is due—" she glanced at a wristwatch, "—in about twenty minutes, so just hold out till then. She'll assign you roles."

With this Dorcas, swiftly left their sides to hurriedly catch and speak to a tall, middle-aged man before he left. Dirk half-heartedly glanced about the Order headquarters, taking in the puddles of desks and chairs, the blackboards with messy scribbles and hastily-drawn diagrams, and the few members who were strolling about. But most of his focus was on the yelling, and as he delved deeper in the enormous foyer, he soon found the source of it.

Moody was a heavyset man with a grizzled face and a strong voice. He was currently speaking to a handsome, olive-skinned fellow who Dirk was able to recognize as Sirius Black and—of course—Grace.

"Oh, no," Lila said, having been closely following Dirk as he maneuvered through the Longbottom's home. "It looks like she's in trouble."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Dirk sighed.

The duo shuffled along the sides of the room, careful not to fall into Moody's sight lest they be pulled into the current of his anger. They found two others also watching Moody's loud lecture with heavy interest: a pair of gangly, red-haired twins.

"Sir," Sirius Black said with so much reverence and humility that Dirk found himself momentarily stunned. He was no stranger to the older Black's antics at Hogwarts, and this tone certainly didn't seem to suit him. "Truthfully, this was all my idea. I felt like time was of the essence and waiting to find a workaround to get to Avery would hurt us in the long run. Since Grace only just joined, she doesn't know how our approval process for missions work."

What an absolute load of dung. Grace looked incredibly surprised to hear all this, which Dirk felt was a dead giveaway that Sirius was not the sole mastermind behind their troublemaking. Was Moody really buying this?

"It doesn't surprise me in the least that you were behind this, Black," Moody responded in his rough, gravelly voice.

Okay, then. It seemed he was buying this.

"Ah, here it comes," one of the twins said, clicking his tongue. "Black's about to be booted."

"How is it someone always drops out of our team?" the other twin lamented. "We didn't even do anything this time."

Just as predicted, Moody said: "You'll be off the spy team, Black, and back on patrols with Jones. Speak to her whenever she stops by today. And—Potter, something tells me you weren't entirely uninvolved with all this. There won't be any second chances here on out. Am I understood?"

"Yes," Grace and Sirius said together.

With that, Moody let out one last, irritated huff of air and hobbled off to find his next victim. Sirius, who seemed to still be in a good mood despite all the berating, immediately sped to the corner of the room the twins—and, consequently, Dirk and Lila—were standing in. Grace followed behind with slumped shoulders and a put-out expression.

She caught sight of Dirk fairly quickly and let out a groan. "Oh, no—don't tell me you heard all that."

Dirk grinned. "It's all engraved into memory, I'm afraid."

She rolled her eyes but perked up a bit. Spotting Lila, she greeted the duo properly. "Glad to see you both made it here in one piece."

"So, you're the new recruits," one of the twins said, eagerly shuffling closer. "I was wondering why your faces seemed unfamiliar."

"This is Fabian and Gideon Prewett," Grace introduced. She inclined her head towards Sirius, who was leaning against the wall, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. "And that's Sirius Black. We're all working in the same team—well, I suppose only three of us are now."

"We're lucky it isn't just the two of us now," the Prewett on the left said (Dirk hadn't quite been paying attention to which was which). "Merlin, you two didn't waste a minute going behind our backs, did you?"

Sirius merely shrugged, apparently quite over the whole ordeal.

"You both were ready to abandon my plan completely!" Grace said indignantly. "I'm glad Sirius and I contacted Avery on our own. We did succeed in turning him to our side, mind you."

"Something Moody seemed to minimize during his little speech," Sirius added.

"Congratulations," the Prewett on the right dryly, "but we're still one member short now."

Left Prewett eyed Dirk and Lila with a particular glint in his eye. "I rather think our meeting here is quite serendipitous. We need a new teammate, and seeing as you two are the only ones unassigned to a group…"

"What exactly is your group doing?" Lila questioned, eyeing the two carefully.

"Liaising with a Death Eater who we've managed to convince to turn sides," Left Prewett said loftily. "We'll need to draft up next steps, but I suppose we'll mostly be rendezvousing with said Death Eater to exchange intel."

Now this sounded like exactly the sort of thing Dirk wanted to get into. He opened his mouth to volunteer, but he was stopped before he could even say anything.

"One of you was in Slytherin, right?" Right Prewett asked.

"Yup," Dirk said confidently, stepping forward.

Lila shoved him aside. "Ignore him. It's me." She stretched out a hand. "Lila Colvin."

"I might as well be in Slytherin, considering how much time I spend around your lot," Dirk muttered.

Right Prewett shook Lila's hand. "Welcome to the team, Lila Colvin." He shot Dirk a somewhat apologetic look. "It'll be better to have another Slytherin with us. Avery isn't very fond of us—" he pointed at himself and his twin, "—so we've got to build up trust. Having another member who was in the same House as him will put him at ease."

Sirius waved away the concern. "There's no need for that. He already trusts us, because—"

Grace abruptly erupted into a fit of thick, long-lasting coughs. Surprised, Lila dug into her cross-body bag and offered Grace a cough drop.

"Er, because…" Sirius picked up awkwardly, "…because we…happen to have the same star sign."

"Is that so?" Left Prewett said. "Makes sense. He was always a nutter for birth charts and whatnot."

"What star sign is that?" Right Prewett asked curiously.

Sirius stared at them. It became increasingly apparent to Dirk that Sirius hadn't the foggiest idea what a star sign even was. After a few seconds of rapid blinking, Sirius mumbled out, "Cap…rio…?"

Grace sighed heavily.

"Really?" Left Prewett said with heavy interest. He glanced at his brother. "I think that's ours, too. Right, Gid?"

"My God," Dirk said, leaning towards Grace to whisper in her ear, "how has the Order been accomplishing anything with this team?"

"They have their moments," she admitted quietly. "This just isn't one of them."

"Well—if it matters," Dirk began, speaking aloud, "I'm a Gemini."

"Why would that matter?" Grace hissed.

He shrugged. "I dunno—if you lot are assigning people to tasks based on their star signs, I supposed—"

"We're not making teams based on star signs!"

"Maybe you ought to. I think it would do wonders for team harmony."

"I think I'm a Caprio, too," Lila said thoughtfully.

"Wonderful," Right Prewett said. "The three of us and Avery have the same sign. Feels like an omen that things will be going in our favor here on out."

"Yeah," Grace said dryly. "Definitely."

As much as Dirk wished to continue listening in on this fascinatingly wayward foray into astrology, Vance arrived in a flurry of robes. She quickly approved Lila joining the Prewett's team, and the new team quickly sped off for (in the Prewetts' words) 'another team-bonding exercise.' Meanwhile, Dirk was given the choice between helping out with patrolling Death Eaters and working on a smear campaign against Voldemort.

He didn't even have to think on it.

"Smear campaign. A hundred times over the smear campaign," Dirk pleaded. "I already have so many insulting nicknames for Lord Voldeprat—"

Vance chuckled. "I'm not sure how much that will come into play, but it's certainly not useless. Let me see who can—" her eyes did a quick scan of whoever was in sight, "—ah, Black!"

Regulus Black, who appeared to be ferrying a few scrolls of parchment across the room, nearly jumped out of his skin. Vance ushered him over, and he quickly scampered forward. Cresswell was amused to find he was wearing his Hogwarts uniform.

"Yes?" Regulus said apprehensively.

"Lily won't be stopping by today. She's caught up in safe house business. Do you mind catching Cresswell up to speed on the status of the smear campaign?"

"Not at all," Regulus said.

Vance smiled, imparted a few last words to Dirk, and then hurried off to do the next thing on her seemingly inexhaustible list of tasks.

Regulus looked at Dirk with a faintly uncomfortable expression. Not exactly surprising; Regulus had always been more Grace's friend than Dirk's. "Hello."

"Hullo."

"How have you been?" he asked politely.

Nostalgia swept through Dirk's bones, warm and fuzzy, as he recalled all the times he'd copied Regulus's homework through Grace. "I can't believe this…"

Regulus shot him a suspicious look: crumpled brows and careful eyes. "What?"

"I think I actually missed you. God, Anita really did a number on me…"

---

Within a few days, Dirk found himself feeling incredibly foolish for thinking there would be any time to simply…hang out. There was no shortage of work to do at the Order. If he wasn't working on the smear campaign with Lily, then he was helping Edgar Bones brew more healing potions or sweeping up the floor of the foyer alongside Frank Longbottom. He didn't mind doing all the work; he was happy simply having something to do. He only wished he could do at least a fraction of it with Grace or Lila. They were the only two Order members he knew well and got on with—and, frankly speaking, he was growing jealous of all the team bonding they were doing with the Prewetts. Just the other day, he'd overheard Grace telling Dorcas that the majority of their 'team bonding' consisted of frequenting new ice cream parlors in disguise.

Instead of suspiciously slinking around dessert shops, Dirk was sitting next to Regulus Black, waiting for another smear team meeting to commence in one of the many spare rooms at Longbottom Manor. He'd quickly gotten over his nostalgic appreciation for Regulus, having quickly remembered what an enormous bore the Slytherin was.

"…it was terrible, really," Regulus droned in that insufferably posh voice of his. "Grace even tried to get Muggle cleaning product to kill the Doxy eggs, but they just drank the stuff up. I'm certain they've hatched by now, which must mean the summer house is virtually unlivable. A Doxy infestation is—"

"Why didn't you just smush the eggs?" Dirk interjected, finding this nearly ten-minute recollection of what appeared to be the single most traumatic experience in Regulus's life too much to bear.

Regulus stared at him. "Pardon?"

"Why didn't you just smush the eggs with your foot, scrape them off the floor, and throw them out?"

"I—is that possible with Doxy eggs?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Actually, no he didn't. He rolled his eyes with extreme prejudice. "You know you don't need to use magic for everything, right?"

"Yes, but…" Regulus seemed faintly nauseated. "Then you'd have to touch the eggs."

"Oh, my God—just wear gloves!"

"You don't understand." A dark expression shadowed his face. "You don't know how disgusting it was."

This was the man who braved Inferi to steal some sort of valuable artefact from Voldemort himself. It was also the man who fell for Dirk's hand buzzer prank not once, not twice, but seven separate times—so, he couldn't find himself too surprised by all this.

Thankfully, Dirk was saved from being pulled into the depths of Regulus's unique brand of insanity. Lily and Dorcas entered the room in a flurry of chatter, having arrived from scoping out a potential safe house. Edgar, Alice, and Sturgis Podmore (the bloke Dirk vomited on that one time) looked up from their own conversation.

"Hello, everyone," Lily greeted, pulling out a chair to collapse into. Dorcas sat to her immediate right. "Vance won't be able to join us today, unfortunately—caught up in Ministry business again."

"What else is new?" Sturgis sighed.

"I'll be meeting with Vance at the Ministry tomorrow morning," Dorcas said, "so, I'll catch her up on anything new we come up with today."

"Sounds good," Lily said before launching into a brief recap of what they'd all found out recently.

It wasn't anything too damning, Dirk felt. Lord Moldy Shorts appeared to be shrouded in enigma, and no one in their team was able to find even the slightest shred of personal information about him. The plan so far was to sow some discord between Death Eaters and Greyback's faction by spreading a few baseless rumors that the Dark Lord was in fact doing this all for werewolves rather than purebloods.

Dirk felt it wasn't a very good plan. Confusion like this could be swiftly corrected by Voldemort himself clearly stating his end goal to his followers.

"Isn't there anything more personal we can go after?" Dirk interrupted rather rudely. "I'm sorry, but it feels like only low-ranking Death Eaters would ever believe any of this. And shouldn't we go after the ones in his inner circle? He can get lackeys to do his dirty work whenever he wants, but the Death Eaters in his inner circle are the ones who really form the foundation of his power, right?"

Surprisingly, Regulus came to his defense: "I agree. If we can instigate some level of distrust between, say, the Lestranges and Voldemort—that is a huge chunk of his influence gone."

"I don't think we'll ever find anything that could shake the Lestranges' trust in You-Know-Who," Alice said. "We weren't even able to find out his real name, so how on earth are we supposed to find some dirty secret that could have his most loyal followers turn tail?"

Dirk frowned. "His real name isn't Voldemort?"

Edgar wheezed with barely held back laughter. "Merlin—if only!"

"I feel like it's reasonable to think it is," Dirk said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You lot already have such weird names. Is Voldemort really so out there?"

Dorcas inclined her head. "You've got a point. But Vance already looked through genealogical records at the Ministry; she didn't find anyone in the pureblood family trees who might have—"

"What if he's not pureblood?" Dirk cut in.

The words faltered in Dorcas's throat. The rest of the room stared at him, taken aback.

"What?" Dirk said defensively. "Is it really so crazy to consider he might not even be pureblood?"

"Yes," Sturgis said. "Yes, that is crazy."

Dirk frowned. "No, it's not. This guy is literally obsessed with bloody purity. It's not totally farfetched to think he might be projecting. I'm not saying he's Muggle-born per se, but there are probably some stains in his ancestry. It would explain why no one was able to find out his real name; he probably went to great lengths to hide it."

Another bout of silence followed as everyone digested his words. Truthfully, Dirk wasn't very confident in himself. He was going out on a limb here, but there certainly was something suspicious about the fact that none of the bright witches and wizards before him were able to find anything remotely related to Voldemort's identity.

At last, Regulus, with some degree of hesitance, said, "He can speak to his snake."

Lily blinked rapidly and swung her head around to face his. Her crimson hair swept over her neck in one smooth motion. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

"He's able to communicate with his snake—and…I know he could have just trained his snake or picked up some Parseltongue from books—but based on a few things I've overheard some of the older Death Eaters say, I think it's more likely he's descended from Slytherin," Regulus continued softly. "He's never directly said anything about it though, and I never cared to ask. I just assumed that Bellatrix knew everything about him, and I didn't care to find out personal details from her… But, now that I'm thinking about it, Bellatrix—or any of the Lestranges—have never mentioned anything about Voldemort's lineage. They've only ever just talked about him, how powerful of a wizard he is, as though he just appeared on his own one day."

"So, what?" Alice said with furrowed brows. "You're saying he's related to Slytherin? Salazar Slytherin?"

"It's one possibility," Regulus answered. "The line died out fairly early, though, probably before Voldemort's time, so I'm not sure…"

"Hold on a minute," Edgar said. His forehead was lined with concentration. "Have any of you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"

Some shook their heads, others shrugged.

"Legend says it's a chamber that Salazar Slytherin built into Hogwarts. It's supposed to house a terrifying power that can only be controlled by a descendant of Slytherin."

"And…?" Dorcas said.

"It was opened in my father's first year at Hogwarts," Edgar continued. "Later, the Board of Governors said what happened had nothing to do with the Chamber, that it was an unfortunate incident with a dangerous creature that had been smuggled into the school. But—someone that year was claiming to be Slytherin's descendant. We can't be certain if it was some kind of badly played out joke, but my father always seemed to think the Chamber was opened. If that's the case, then there was a descendant of Slytherin at Hogwarts less than forty years ago. All we'd have to do is cross-check student records from then against genealogical records of pureblood families."

"If he was the byproduct of an affair with someone of less pure blood, then he wouldn't appear in the records of pureblood families," Regulus pointed out.

"But surely there'll be some connection," Dorcas countered, "a mother or father that can be traced back to the family tree. At the very least, we can start with the school records. We'll begin with all the Slytherins that year. It'll be easy enough to get them from Dumbledore."

"Suppose we do manage to figure out You-Know-Who's real name, his parentage and all that—then what?" Alice asked. "Are we just supposed to visit the pubs in Knockturn Alley and not-so-discreetly talk about the possibility of You-Know-Who being an affair baby?"

Sturgis snorted.

Regulus grimaced. "Badmouthing Voldemort in a place frequented by dark wizards and witches is a surefire way to get everyone in the room to turn on you. If we want to malign Voldemort, we can only do so in a setting Death Eaters are forced to listen but cannot act."

"Not to mention," Sturgis added, "what good is spreading misinformation to the ones who go to pubs? The low-ranking Death Eaters aren't the brightest bunch. They're not brainy enough to do much of anything with any info we slip them."

Alice nodded. "In fact, they might be too scared to spread it."

"Like I said before," Dirk said loudly, "we've got to go after the ones in his inner circle."

Edgar sighed. "The problem, of course, is that the influential Death Eaters are actually competent. And the only place I believe we could ever have them listen to us badmouth their 'Dark Lord' without outwardly rebuking us is their place of work—namely, the Ministry."

"That's ridiculous," Sturgis scoffed. "You're suggesting we—what?—infiltrate the Ministry just to spread a few rumors?"

A couple of people snorted, others chuckled, but soon the light laughs melted into serious contemplation. No one said anything for a long moment, the idea quietly sinking into their heads. Dirk cast a long look in Lily's direction. She was twisting a pen in her hands.

Right now was his one and only chance to be the most hilarious person on the planet.

"I mean," he began, looking around the room, "why not?"

"You can't be serious," Dorcas said, shaking her head.

"Maybe I am," Dirk shrugged. "Why not pretend to be Ministry employees and just muck around there for a bit, just an hour or so? All we've got to do is chat about Voldemort by the water cooler every now and then."

"We can't," Dorcas protested. "As though the Ministry doesn't have extensive security protocols in place to—"

"They really don't," Alice said. "We can all get in by pretending we have appointments. Vance and Moody can set us up with that easily. Once we're inside, we only have to disguise ourselves and go off to find our target Death Eaters to spread rumors to."

Dirk snapped his fingers. "See? Thank you."

"Listen," Lily said slowly, speaking up for the first time in a while, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. We have yet to confirm that Voldemort even has anything salacious in his past that we can spread to high-ranking Death Eaters. We need to look into this Slytherin descendant possibility first, see if we can't find Voldemort's true identity and if it's less than ideal by pureblood standards. After that, we'll regroup with Vance and see how we should approach spreading this information. Got it?"

Dirk's shoulders slumped, but he nodded along with everyone else.

Dorcas picked up with a few ideas about scaring low-ranking Death Eaters into thinking it was too dangerous to work for Voldemort because he'd, now and again, kill his followers for fun. Dirk wasn't too keen on listening to any of this. He hoped fervently that they could get those school records from Dumbledore soon and unravel the mystery of Voldemort's history—not because he was genuinely curious or anything like that but because there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to run around the Ministry of Magic in disguise.

---

It was a sunny April day when Dirk arrived at Longbottom Manor for an Order meeting and was abruptly pulled aside by a frantic Edgar Bones.

"Dirk," Edgar began, "you're Muggle-born, right?"

Usually, being asked this question never boded well for him. But everyone here was staunchly fighting against blood purists, so surely this interaction wouldn't go sideways.

"Yes," Dirk said carefully.

"D'you know how to play—er, what was it again? Pack—no, backgame…" He snapped his fingers suddenly. "Backgammon! That's it! McKinnon roped me into a game last week and didn't bother explaining the rules, and I'm short about fifty Galleons now. You must know how to play, right? Would you mind showing me for a bit? I desperately need to win this money back."

He had been sorely mistaken. The question indeed hadn't boded well for him. He really ought to start lying whenever someone asked him if he was Muggle-born.

"I don't know how to play," he lied.

"Yes, you do," Lila called from literally across the room. Had she somehow acquired super-hearing in the past five minutes? And why was she using her newfound power to torture him? "You played a few times with my dad, remember?"

"Did I?" Dirk said with gritted teeth, leveling a glare in her direction which she conveniently ignored. "I must have repressed those memories."

"Dirk, please," Edgar begged. "If my wife finds out I've gambled away—"

"Oh, all right, fine," Dirk snapped. "But never speak to me about that terrible game afterwards, okay?"

Relief spread across Edgar's face. "You have my utmost thanks. If you ever need anything—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dirk said, already strolling away to join Lily at a table near the front of the foyer.

Moody was off to the side, talking in hushed whispers with the Prewett twins. When he noticed that most of the Order members had arrived and were waiting for the meeting to commence, he shooed aside the twins and coughed gruffly.

"I trust you made your way here discreetly," he began. "We'll start with some news we've discovered through our spy. We have reason to believe that one of the receptacles for Voldemort's power has been discovered."

"Ah, we're back on this weakness shite, then?" McKinnon said.

Moody sent her a pointed glare, which she ignored cheerily. "This particular artefact is a book, possibly a journal as the pages are blank. It is suspected the artefact has been handed off to a fellow Death Eater to keep in hiding. Unfortunately, Voldemort was not too keen on advertising just who he entrusted with this artefact. Our best guess is that it must be a trusted member of his inner circle."

"It seems to me like this is a problem best solved by the Auror Office," Hestia said. "Conduct raids on the houses of known or suspected Death Eaters until you find—"

The front doors of the manor flew open with a loud bang! Every person in the room leapt to their feet, wands at the ready—only to find an extremely frustrated Emmeline Vance hurrying inside.

She glanced around the room, taking in the drawn wands, and raised a brow. "Merlin, it's just me."

Moody remained suspicious. Wand still raised, he asked, "What did you get me for Christmas last year?"

"Nothing," she snapped. "Your paranoid arse has been destroying every present you've received since '56. Why on earth would I waste money on you?"

Moody merely grunted in response, lowering his wand at last.

Vance's steely eyes roved across the room until they landed on Lily. "Potter, who was it that came up with looking through Hogwarts records?"

Lily appeared faintly surprised. "Well, Edgar suggested we start with the school records—"

"Hold on!" Edgar interrupted. He seemed to think he might be inflicted with bodily harm should his name be offered up to Vance. Dirk didn't think he was entirely far off. Vance did look particularly furious. "It was just a suggestion to get started! Looking into You-Know-Who's ancestry again was Dirk's idea to begin with—"

"You're joking, Edgar!" Dirk cried out. "How could you immediately throw me under the bus like this? You owe me a favor! You literally just said if I ever needed anything—"

"Enough!" Vance barked. "Cresswell, come with me. Now."

With that, she went back through the large double doors, robes flapping behind her. Dirk shot Edgar a dirty look as he followed, making a promise to himself right there and then to teach the older man all the wrong ways to play backgammon. He hoped viciously that Edgar might lose his life savings to Marlene McKinnon in the coming days.

Vance was stopped just outside the double doors that led into the manor. A light breeze was picking up outside, gently playing with her long, untied hair. Some of her frustration seemed to have eased out of her, though her face was still tight and pinched. She appeared high-strung and impatient, which was entirely out of character from the Vance that Dirk had come to know as both a professor and Order member. Vance was usually more laidback than this.

"Did, er, something happen?" Dirk broached hesitantly.

Vance pulled out a tube of lipstick, clasping onto one end of it while offering the other to Dirk. "Hold onto it. It's a Portkey. We need to talk to the Headmaster about this plan of yours."

He was even more befuddled than before. "Wouldn't Lily be better suited? This is all her operation, isn't it?"

"Potter doesn't hold much stock in looking through Voldemort's ancestry. I could be wrong, but I doubt she has much interest in trying to convince Dumbledore of our idea. I wanted the person who convinced her and the rest of the team to continue down this path when we already hit a dead end before."

"Why?" Dirk frowned. He felt like he was missing something crucial here. "What do you mean 'convince Dumbledore'?"

She grimaced. "Dumbledore has refused to hand over school records. If it were a matter of integrity and privacy, I would have let it lie—but he even refused to pore over the records himself. Something tells me…" She seemed reluctant to admit it, but eventually she let it out. "Dumbledore is keeping something to himself."

"That's not surprisingly in the slightest. He's the cagiest man I've ever met."

Vance inclined her head in agreement. "You're not wrong. In any case, better you than Bones. I doubt you'd have reservations about arguing with Dumbledore for the next hour. Now, come on." She shook the lipstick tube. "Off we pop."

Though Dirk certainly couldn't say he was enthused about all this, he did find himself intrigued by the possibility that Dumbledore was hiding crucial information from Vance. He reached out a hand to hold onto the other end of Vance's lipstick. With a quick mutter of the keyword, the Portkey transported them from the lush hillside of the Longbottom estate to the bleak interior of Vance's office.

Dirk collapsed against the stone floor, head ringing from the force of transportation. Vance rummaged around the room while he collected his whereabouts. After a few minutes, his head stopped spinning and he managed to stand up without keeling over immediately.

"Here," Vance said, tossing what appeared to be the world's sheerest blanket at him. "Invisibility cloak. Most students should be in class right now, but we wouldn't want you to be seen around the castle all the same."

"Right," Dirk said weakly, draping the cloak over himself.

The material was scratchy and stiff, not at all like the smooth velvet of Grace's family cloak. Still, he put up with it and followed Vance dutifully to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle seemed to faintly sense Dirk's presence despite his invisibility, which solidified in his mind that Grace's cloak was far superior to this secondhand thing. The gargoyle relented all the same, letting Vance and Dirk ascend the cramped, spiral staircase.

Dirk took off his cloak the moment they entered the office. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, and didn't seem the least bit surprised to see him appear out of thin air.

"I'm back with reinforcements," Vance announced. She stalked over to one of the seats in front of Dumbledore's desk and sat down angrily. "Cresswell—explain."

"Er, right," Dirk began, quietly shuffling towards the seat next to Vance. He wracked his brain for something to say, wishing fervently that Vance had given him more time to think about all this. "So, I've heard you're rather reluctant to explore Voldemort's ancestry, sir."

"I don't believe it will be of any use to do so," Dumbledore said plainly.

Dirk nodded along emptily. "Right, right. But have you considered—"

"Who cares if it may not be useful!" Vance cut in, clearly unable to keep her mouth shut after hearing Dumbledore's frustrating non-answer. "Perhaps we find out that Voldemort's true identity is some model pureblood after all. At least we have the benefit of knowing that now. Knowledge, no matter how mundane, can never be completely useless."

Calmly, Dumbledore ignored Vance's entire point and said, "I will not allow you to look through Hogwarts records."

Vance bristled. "I do not need to see them. If it is a matter of secrecy, then you yourself could do it."

"Again, I do not see the need to—"

"Why?" Vance burst. "Why will you not at least humor us?"

What struck Dirk the most about this exchange was that Dumbledore did not seem the slightest bit defensive or argumentative. He did not seem to be taking a side. If anything, he seemed almost indulgent. It reminded Dirk of how his mother or father might put up with his antics, hopeful he would soon tire himself out without either of them having to do anything.

"Because you already know," Dirk realized. Dumbledore's eyes caught onto his. "You already know who Voldemort is."

He did not bother to hide it. Dumbledore nodded, at least now having the decency to appear a little bashful. "Yes, I taught Voldemort myself—though, at the time, he was simply a boy named Tom Riddle."

An awful silence swelled between the three of them. Dumbledore patiently watched as Vance's enmity reached a fever pitch.

"What a terribly dull name," Dirk said eventually, hoping this might ease some of the tension in the room.

It did not.

"Why have you never said anything?" Vance demanded. "'Riddle' is not a pureblood surname—"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. Dirk could only assume the old wizard had gone momentarily insane to have so blatantly interrupted Vance. "I believe he is half-blood."

Vance's fingers curled into the armrests of her seat tightly. "And you kept this all to yourself," she seethed. "If the younger Death Eaters knew their leader is a half-blood, they might have second thoughts about following him! The Lestranges, certainly, would abandon their—"

"And yet Galen Lestrange followed Tom Riddle loyally throughout their seven years here," Dumbledore said, cutting her off for a second time. Vance trembled with rage. Dirk slunk down into his seat. "As did Misters Avery, Rosier, Mulciber, and Nott. Voldemort has hidden his past not because it is an impediment to gaining followers but because he personally abhors it."

"The public could still benefit from knowing," Vance said, each word sharp and stinging. "If everyone knew the Dark Lord they so feared was really a man named Tom Riddle, I think they would be a little less scared. It is the mystery that scares people just as much as the terrible acts of violence. We fear what we do not know, Albus."

Dumbledore did not say anything immediately. A small frown flew over Dirk's lips, and he gathered himself in his chair, something serious and sinister pressing into his bones. There was only one reason a person might withhold important information: to use it for himself. There was some benefit to keeping Voldemort's identity secret. There was same game here, and it was one Dumbledore had been playing for a long, long time.

"I am giving him a false sense of security," Dumbledore said at last.

Vance raised a brow. "It doesn't seem very false to me."

"It is better, for the time being, to let him believe his past is well and truly buried. It means he has no incentive to revisit anything from his youth. There are many people alive right now who once knew and interacted with Tom Riddle. Not all of these people know that Tom Riddle is Voldemort. If they were to find out, I suspect the vast majority of them would erase any connection they once had to Voldemort. Based on the prophecy Grace provided us with, there is at least one Horcrux Voldemort hid in his youth. Rooting out intact connections from his past are crucial in finding these Horcuxes."

Vance's eyes narrowed. "We only just found out about the Horcruxes."

"No, Emmeline," he sighed, "I have suspected this since Voldemort applied for the position of Defense professor here many years ago. I simply did not have the proof I needed until Regulus and Grace provided me with it."

"You suspected all this time," Vance breathed, "and said nothing?"

"I did not have proof beyond my own inkling." For the first time, Dumbledore looked well and truly sorry. "It is not the sort of accusation that can be readily believed. The Ministry did not even believe Voldemort would rise to become a threat until three years ago."

Silent understanding emanated from Vance, though her gaze remained hard and unwavering. "Still, we cannot hide Voldemort's identity for him. It may be true his closest followers will continue to stick by his side if his heritage were revealed, but the newer ones may not. It will, at the very least, cause rifts between new and old Death Eaters. It may slow Voldemort from gaining new followers as well. More than anything, it will reduce the power of his image."

Dumbledore leaned back, hands steepling against each other. He drank in Vances words and, slowly, nodded. "You are certainly not wrong, Emmeline. I am not opposed to your plan, but understand that there are connections to Voldemort's past I must follow before they become publicly known."

"How much time do you need?" Vance asked.

"A month would be ideal."

"We do not live in an ideal world," she deadpanned. "We cannot afford to waste time. The summer solstice is fast approaching—assuming the final confrontation Grace prophesied is to occur this year. We must move quickly."

"Very well," Dumbledore acquiesced. "Perhaps I can finish my own investigation sooner if someone would lend a hand? There is a particular task connected to Voldemort's time at Hogwarts that requires some degree of tact and persuasion."

Dumbledore's eyes wavered to Dirk. He could feel Vance's gaze on him, too. How the hell was he getting wrapped up in all this, now? He'd lost the thread on Vance and Dumbledore's conversation a long time ago. He was still confused as to what a Horcrux was supposed to be, and why it was so unbelievable Voldemort might have one.

"You get Cresswell for three days," Vance said resolutely. "Then, we're doing our smear campaign."

"Understood," Dumbledore answered.

"Don't I get a say in any of this?" Dirk protested weakly.

"Consider it a side mission for the smear campaign," Vance said. She rose, continuing to eye Dumbledore doubtingly. "We'll continue our discussion about this later. Cresswell, see what you can do to help. Meet me in my office later. I've a class to teach now."

With that, she departed, grumbling to herself as she hurried down the stairs.

"So," Dirk began awkwardly, "what is it you need help with?"

"There is a particular memory I would like to acquire from someone who knew Voldemort while he attended Hogwarts. It is a memory that I believe would help me understand Voldemort's use of Horcruxes."

"Cool. What exactly is a Horcrux?"

"A soul receptacle that allows the creator to extend his life indefinitely," he explained away.

"Cool," Dirk repeated, now feeling a bit sick at the idea of an unkillable Voldemort. "And you would like me to get this memory?"

"That is correct."

"From whom?"

"Horace Slughorn."

"Okay—and, sorry about this, but one more question, sir."

"By all means."

"Exactly how on earth am I supposed to accomplish that?"

Dumbledore seemed a touch amused by the question. How very precious of him. "Well, I suppose the method is entirely up to you."

Dirk was, quite frankly, baffled. Usually, he was the one doing the baffling, so to find himself thrown into left field so abruptly like this was certainly not a welcome feeling. "Surely Vance would be better suited for something like this. Why do you want me to do this?"

"Why ever not?" Dumbledore said smilingly. "You have a rather well-developed rapport with Professor Slughorn, after all."

Dirk stared at the Headmaster for a moment, and, suddenly, he found himself overcome with the urge to laugh. Hadn't he been in the very same situation just a few months ago? Hadn't he come to Dumbledore's office under the guise of a Head Boy meeting, and hadn't Dumbledore said those very same words? Why not join the Order, Mr. Cresswell? Why not risk life and limb to fight in the war? Why not be utterly reckless and entirely foolish? (Okay, he hadn't quite said it like that, but the sentiment was there.)

"Despite your, ah, less dedicated fashion of study, you have always managed to charm and convince your professors to allow you to pass," Dumbledore continued. "I daresay one of your greatest achievements here was somehow convincing Professor Slughorn to allow you into his dearly-beloved Slug Club despite having no family connections or prodigious skill in a magical subject. Oh, and not to mention your sudden appointment as Head Boy. From the pool of remaining candidates, Professors Flitwick and Sprout campaigned heavily on your behalf, and for no reason beyond the fact that they felt you would be good at it."

Dirk gave him a thin smile. "It's very lovely, sir, to hear that I have no obvious talents."

Dumbledore offered a thin smile of his own. "I said no such thing. I think you very well know precisely the sort of talent you possess, Mr. Cresswell."

Dirk leaned back in his chair and appraised Dumbledore carefully. Cheekily, he said, "Can you really call natural charisma a talent? Isn't it more a personality trait?"

"Perhaps, but it is certainly a trait you have cultivated well past face value. I am certain you will be able to succeed where I have failed and convince Professor Slughorn to hand over this memory." And then, perhaps because Dirk still didn't seem quite convinced, Dumbledore added: "It was and continues to be my belief that you are an indispensable source of intelligence within the Order. There are many people, those related to Death Eaters, witnesses and neighbors alike, who refuse to say anything out of fear of crossing some line. You are the type of person, Mr. Cresswell, who can ease the fears of any individual and convince them to willingly divulge precisely what they sought to keep to themselves."

Dirk felt at once both pleased and wary. "Honestly, it's a little alarming to hear you say that with such certainty—unless you've been monitoring me that closely for the past seven years."

"I find it somewhat obvious," Dumbledore said simply. "For a Muggle-born Sorted into Hufflepuff, you possess rather a fair number of Slytherin friends, wouldn't you say?"

God, he really should have avoided Slytherin like the plague back in his first year. Sighing, he relented. "You've certainly got me there, sir."

---

What Dumbledore had asked Dirk to do was no light thing. For the rest of the day, he struggled to figure out how to convince Slughorn to hand over a memory that he had refused even Dumbledore. Slughorn was not immune to flattery or bribery, but somehow, Dirk felt that neither of those tactics would be especially useful in persuading him this time.

The next morning, he set out from the Bones estate to Potter Cottage, eager to meet with Lily or Grace. Lily had been one of Slughorn's favorites, and would surely have some insight into the Potions professor's habits. And though Grace had been banned from Slug Club in third year, there was a certain advantage in being able to push Slughorn's buttons. She was the resident expert in getting Slughorn to throw all sense and rationality to the wind.

Dirk hurried down the winding cobblestone path that led to the Potters'. He passed through the wards effortlessly and hurriedly knocked on the door.

"Password?" a muffled voice asked from the other side.

"Since when have you lot been doing passwords?" Dirk asked, bewildered.

"Exactly," the voice said appreciatively. "A Death Eater wouldn't know that."

It took another second or two for the door to be unlocked and opened.

"Hullo," Grace's brother greeted, covered head-to-toe in feathers.

Dirk decided he didn't want to ask. "Hi—is Grace or Lily in?"

"Out on Order business, I'm afraid." James awkwardly tried to bat at a few of the feathers that were obscuring his line of sight. "Er, sorry about this, Frank was trying out a new spell and, as you can see—"

"Is Regulus there?" he interrupted. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. Urgent situation."

"Oh, right, yeah," James said, stepping aside to let Dirk in. "He's upstairs, I think."

Dirk dashed through the sitting area and up the stairs. He had been over enough times by now to know which guest room was Regulus's. He barged in without knocking, and Regulus—sitting crosslegged against the foot of his bed with what was presumably his diary out in front of him—immediately yelped.

"Hi," Dirk said lamely.

"Are you allergic to knocking?" Regulus demanded, swiftly closing his journal.

"Good Lord, Reg, that was almost a joke," Dirk mocked.

"Get out of my—"

"No, wait, I need help," Dirk pleaded, immediately backtracking. "I've got a request from Dumbledore that I'm not sure how to tackle."

Regulus simply observed him for a moment, lips pursing then un-pursing, before finally saying, "Does this have to do with Vance taking you out of yesterday's meeting?"

Dirk nodded emphatically, collapsing opposite Regulus in an untidy sprawl. The soft carpeting tickled his arms. "Yeah. She was having trouble convincing Dumbledore to let us look through Hogwarts records to see if we might find some hint as to just who Voldemort is. Turns out, Dumbledore's known who Voldemort is this whole time."

Regulus was not nearly as surprised as Dirk wanted him to be. He simply cocked his head thoughtfully. "I suppose that makes sense. Voldemort doesn't appear particularly old; he might have gone to Hogwarts when Dumbledore was teaching. Although, I always figured he had taught himself magic rather than go to any wizarding school."

"Well, you figured wrong," Dirk said flatly. "Dumbledore did teach Voldemort when he went to Hogwarts. His real name is Tom Riddle."

Now, Regulus seemed surprised. His face scrunched up, brows furrowing, forehead creasing. "I've never heard of that name before…"

"Yeah, neither have I," Dirk shrugged. "Dumbledore seems to think Voldemort's half-blood. Vance wants to spread it around, have newer Death Eaters lose a bit of faith in the whole operation, put off potential Death Eaters from joining—the whole works. Problem is, Dumbledore has been hiding this little tidbit from us all this while because he's been investigating Voldemort's past on his own."

"Right," Regulus said wearily. "He wants to investigate without worrying about people hiding their connection to Voldemort, should they realize who he really was. I suppose if word spread that 'Tom Riddle' was really Voldemort, there'd likely be a lot of false accounts made by people, too."

Dirk lazily threw him a couple of finger guns. "Bingo."

Regulus seemed vaguely affronted by the phrase. "What?"

"Never mind." He straightened himself up. "So, basically, Vance has given Dumbledore a few days to get his ducks in a row before we start spreading the word about this Tom Riddle. Dumbledore needs a bit of help with his ducks, which is where I come in. He needs a memory Professor Slughorn has of Voldemort when he used to go to Hogwarts. It's a memory that involves something called a Horcrux."

Regulus stiffened. "He told you about that?"

"Am I not supposed to know?"

"I just assumed Dumbledore didn't want anyone else to know, considering Moody has never revealed what these 'artefacts' we're after really are."

Dirk merely shrugged. "I suppose Dumbledore thought I ought to know in order to get this memory from Slughorn."

"I suppose," Regulus repeated hesitantly.

"Anyway, this is where you come in. I've got a million and one ideas about how I should go about this, and I'm not certain which one is best. At first, I thought maybe I'd better don some sort of disguise, but I think it'd be better to just go as myself. Slughorn knows me well, and he won't expect that I'm approaching him to ask about Horcruxes, of all things. I think the key here is to take him by surprise, you see."

"Okay…?"

"I was thinking I'd start off by telling him how much I miss Slug Club. It's what he's most proud of at Hogwarts, so it'd be easy to get him all relaxed and unsuspecting if I begin there. But then after that is where all the trouble starts. I need to disarm him somehow. Slughorn has always been very touchy about mentioning the war, so maybe I'll just bring that up?" Dirk's eyes lit up. "Ooh—or make him feel a bit uncomfortable by bringing up how my family had to go into hiding. But that'll probably just make him want to talk less, which is really the opposite of what I want. It'd be nice to get him going on some sort of rant. People reveal all sorts of things once they start ranting. There are a handful of things Slughorn hates—wasted time, poachers, wine that hasn't been properly aged—but I don't think I can get him to reveal anything about Horcruxes or Tom Riddle from those topics."

"Why don't you just ask him?"

Dirk faltered. "What?"

"If you want honesty from Slughorn, perhaps you should simply try being honest with him first."

How very naïve. Dirk only just managed to keep his eyes from rolling. "If I state my intention upfront, Slughorn will become immediately defensive. I'll be lucky if he even wants to sit down and chat at that point. This isn't the sort of thing that can be approached so directly. I need to ease Slughorn into a vulnerable state—and even then, it's safest to assume he's still at least a little wary of my motives."

In Dirk's mind was an enormous tree of decisions: introductions that branched into varying levels of receptiveness based on wording alone, dialogue paths that he would have to follow depending on facial expressions, arguments and counterarguments that would need to be swiftly conjured should Slughorn grow defensive, loopholes in logic that he would need to keep track of in order to disarm Slughorn at a moment's notice. There was no reality where they could simply be honest with each other. Slughorn had something he wanted to hide. Dirk's job was to pull and prod and push until he got it out; it was the only thing he knew how to do, really.

"That's not going to happen," Regulus said. "Slughorn is clever, yes, but at heart, he's a simple man. A few cups of whiskey, and you can probably ask him whatever you want."

"But—"

With the barest shadow of exasperation, Regulus added, "You do know not everything is a facade, right? Sometimes what you see is exactly what is."

Dirk blinked. He hadn't known, actually.

---

Dirk cast one final look at himself in the plain mirror that hung in Vance's office. He tried patting down his hair a bit but ultimately failed in having it resemble anything other than a bird's nest. He practiced a quick smile—his gap tooth just peeking through—before deciding he looked a tad manic forcing a grin like this. Slughorn would simply have to look past appearances tonight. He let out a breath and slipped on Vance's secondhand invisibility cloak. Quietly, he crept out of the office, picking up the box of crystallized pineapple he'd asked Dumbledore to procure for tonight's plan. (Actually, he'd asked for two—one for himself, but Dumbledore didn't need to know that.) After briefly checking the coast was clear, Dirk began to quickly but discreetly hurry down to the dungeons, where Slughorn resided.

The trek was relatively uneventful, apart from the brief scare when he'd nearly tripped over Filch's cat. Once he arrived, he did a quick scan of the Potions classroom, confirming with his wand that there was only one other person besides himself in the area, and then headed on to the backroom. The invisibility cloak was shrugged off and tucked into a satchel. He took a deep breath, grip tightening around the crystallized pineapple in his left hand. With his right hand, he knocked.

There was a brief bit of shuffling, and then Slughorn, in a plush robe and nightcap, opened the door.

"Who—" he began, and then immediately startled upon seeing Dirk's cheery face. "Dirk, my boy, is that really you? We were told you'd—"

"Ah, yes, I did leave Hogwarts," Dirk interceded smoothly. He didn't want their conversation to delve too deeply into this particular topic, at least not right now. "I came back briefly today to discuss the possibility of taking my N.E.W.T.s next year with Dumbledore. I thought I would stop by to see you before I left, sir. You've influenced me a great deal during my time at Hogwarts, and I never did get a chance to thank you properly for it before I left during the winter."

Slughorn's expression had quickly morphed from bewilderment to something soft, amiable, and pleased. His eyes dropped down to the sweet in Dirk's hands, and he smiled a little wider.

"I would have preferred a visit earlier in the day," Slughorn scolded lightly, "but I would never turn away such a promising student from my door. Come in, come in. There's no harm in catching up for a bit. Tell me, do you still have your heart set on the Goblin Liaison Office?"

Dirk beamed as he was led inside Slughorn's quarters. "Oh, yes, sir. All I've been doing lately is practicing my Gobbledegook."

The room was warm, flush with light from a roaring hearth. There were a great deal of ornate knickknacks and presents strewn about in decoration. Slughorn went to sit in a lavish, paisley armchair. He gestured for Dirk to sit in a corner chair opposite him.

"Shall I take that off your hands?" Slughorn asked, eyeing the crystallized pineapple.

"Please," Dirk said, handing it off as he sat down.

Slughorn promptly took a piece for tasting before storing off the rest. "Very good of you to be practicing," he continued on. "Should you finish your N.E.W.T.s next year, do let me know. While I don't have any connections to the Goblin Liaison Office, a handful of my students have found their way into the overseeing department. I should think a letter recommending your candidacy wouldn't hurt at all."

"I'd appreciate that very much, sir." Dirk gave a slightly strained smile. "I do hope I'll be able to apply there next year, but, truthfully, who knows what's to come? With the climate as it is…"

"Yes, yes," Slughorn agreed. "It is dreadful business. But the Ministry has quite a good hold on things, I believe. Why, by this time next year, I rather think this will all be resolved."

Where Slughorn got this time estimate from, Dirk had no idea. Still, he smiled good-naturedly and suggested, "Shall we have a toast then, sir? To the war's swift end?"

The mention of war seemed to put a slight damper on Slughorn's mood, but he was certainly not about to refuse a little night cap. Slughorn eagerly toddled over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's finest.

Dirk conjured two glasses, and soon they were off to the races.

As soon as Slughorn was onto his second glass, Dirk decided it was time to begin: "Truthfully, sir, there is another reason I've come to see you tonight."

"Is that so?"

"While speaking with Dumbledore, he did mention that there was something you had that he'd like to borrow."

The first hint of suspicion began to cross Slughorn's face, but it was mainly overshadowed by confusion. "Borrow?" he repeated, adding a somewhat forced chuckle. "I doubt I have anything that Dumbledore can't simply get himself. I don't see why he should stoop to borrowing possessions."

A brief quiet passed. The second glass was quickly drained in a fit of nervousness.

Dirk silently poured a third glass for Slughorn, though the Potions professor did not immediately bring this glass to his lips. Slughorn was no fool. He was well aware that the easy, peaceable air between them was quickly being replaced by something else, something tense. This moment hung like a fragile thread between them, taut and slight, easy to snap—oh, but Dirk did love pulling at stray threads. It was just too satisfying watching stitchwork fall apart.

"I've come here tonight for a memory."

"A—a memory?" Slughorn repeated, voice now an octave higher than it was before. "I've no idea what you could possibly mean—"

"I think we both know that's not true."

Something inscrutable passed within Slughorn's gaze. He set his glass down against the table hard. "I believe it has been rather a long day for the two of us. You ought to get going—"

"It's a memory involving Voldemort," Dirk continued very softly. "You may have known him back then as Tom Riddle. He came to discuss Horcruxes."

Slughorn shot up from his seat at once, spluttering. "As if I—to think I might have discussed such—such vile magic with—with—"

Ah, so that's what all this was? Slughorn had been cowed by his guilt.

"How were you to know, sir? That Tom Riddle would become Voldemort? That some things would be taken beyond theory? You can't fault yourself for what you didn't know, for believing the best in a person."

Slughorn was not falling for any of these sweet, empty words. He collapsed back into his armchair, having given up on kicking Dirk out of the room. It was clear that this needed to be addressed now. It could not be swept away by anything other than explanation. With a shaky hand, he reached out to gulp down the third glass of firewhisky.

Dirk quietly sipped at his own glass, still only halfway through his first. The whisky stung his tongue, burned as it slipped down his throat. Perhaps the only way to overcome Slughorn's guilt was with more guilt.

He lowered his glass from his lips and clinked the very edge of it against the table rim. Slughorn startled at the noise; amid the silence of the room, the clear, hollow ring was deafening. Their eyes clashed against each other: a calm gaze boring into a petrified one.

"I didn't want to leave Hogwarts," Dirk said at last. "I wanted to stay here. Of course I did. But how could I? When Death Eaters go knocking from town to town, juggling Muggles in the air like it's a party trick they're showing off rather than cold-blooded murder? What choice did I have besides going into hiding?"

Slughorn could no longer maintain eye contact. "It is…a shame that it has come to this…"

"That it's come to this?" Dirk repeated with astonishment. "Professor, it's always been like this. My second day at Hogwarts, Myrcella Rosier knocked me out with a hex. I hadn't even said 'hello' to her yet. It only got worse from there. It's always been like this. It's just that they've gotten a bit bolder now. And you know who's let them?"

The liquor was finally hitting Slughorn. He blinked unsteadily, slumping further into his chair. "Of course, I know… I understand—but what you're asking of me… The information you seek…"

Slughorn swallowed thickly, falling silent. He held his half-full glass of firewhisky against his chest protectively. Dirk suddenly felt very tired, worn to the very bone. He had never seen Slughorn as a particularly big man, some larger-than-life figure, but he seemed smaller than ever now. Pathetic wasn't quite the right word. He just looked…sorry.

Dirk knew how to deal with sorry people: make it seem as though there were a way to end the feeling.

"Perhaps I am asking too much of you," Dirk agreed. "But not asking would be the worse crime here. Voldemort must be stopped. And you've got the only memory in the world, as far as I'm aware, that mentions his only weakness. If you're as regretful as you're making yourself seem, then wouldn't it only be right to share that memory? You could be Voldemort's undoing. You could erase that mistake you made."

That appealed to Slughorn very much. Dirk could see it: that hope, that want, that desperate wish. To not be responsible. To cut off all ties with the past. To no longer have to hear the name Voldemort and think of Tom Riddle.

"I—I did not know," Slughorn wept quietly. "How could I…? If I had known…"

Dirk let him steep in that feeling for a bit longer. Then, with just a touch of lightheartedness, he leaned forward and said, "If we all knew exactly how things would turn out, then I reckon life'd be very boring."

A strange sound escaped Slughorn, a dry chuckle mixed with a sob. He dropped his glass against the table, the whisky within sloshing dangerously against the rim. He raised his wand to his temple and, very slowly, began to draw out a long, silver strand.

Dirk quickly chugged the rest of his whisky. He raised his empty glass forward, and Slughorn dropped the memory into it.

"I did not know…" he continued to blubber.

Dirk rose from his seat, one hand around his hard-won memory. Slughorn did not pay him any mind, too lost in his drink and thoughts. Dirk tugged out the invisibility cloak, wrapping it around himself. As soon as he was behind Slughorn, he raised his wand, the tip of it peeking outside the boundaries of the cloak.

"Obliviate," Dirk murmured, erasing this night and his presence from Slughorn's memory.

Carefully, he made his way out. It was an easy walk to Dumbledore's office, and though the gargoyle step was very mistrustful of the disembodied voice speaking the password, it still let him up.

Dumbledore was pleased to see him. "Ah, Mr. Cresswell."

"Here you are," Dirk said cheerily, feeling the full weight of the whisky as it lit through his bloodstream. He placed the glass containing the memory on top of Dumbledore's desk. "Didn't think to bring a container for the memory, so 'smy bad if it reeks of whisky."

Dumbledore did not appear too pleased that the memory had been placed in a used glass, but he didn't say anything about it. He took the glass over to a half-concealed Pensieve in the corner of the room and quickly transferred the contents.

"Thank you, Mr. Cresswell, for having—"

"Can I watch, too?" Dirk interrupted.

It was at this point Dumbledore seemed to catch on that Dirk was a smidge tipsy.

"I don't see the harm, really," Dirk continued boldly. "I doubt I'll even understand the contents of the memory. This is merely to sate my own curiosity. And considering the emotional turmoil I just put myself through, I daresay I deserve to have my curiosity sated."

Dumbledore looked away in silence for a long moment. His long fingers skimmed the rim of the Pensieve. At last, he said, "I do not think it is a matter of what you will or will not understand, Mr. Cresswell, but rather what you will or will not divulge to others. But…I do not deny that you deserve to see what you have gone to such great lengths to acquire. Come, then."

Dirk exulted internally, and followed Dumbledore into the memory.

His vision rippled in a disorienting manner as the pale silver of the Pensieve was replaced with a sight not entirely unfamiliar: Slughorn's office. There was Slughorn himself, looking quite a bit younger, with darker hair and rosier cheeks. He was accompanied by quite a few Slytherin students close in age to Dirk. He could not tell which one was supposed to be Tom Riddle.

The clock chimed suddenly, signaling the end of their meeting. The students dispersed, save one: a lean boy with dark hair and a somewhat sallow face. He lingered in the room while the others filed out, clearly eager to corner Slughorn by himself.

So, this was Tom Riddle? Dirk found it a tad difficult to reconcile his image of Voldemort with the boy before him. Tom Riddle was weedy and distinctly human: no devil horns or anything. Dirk was fairly certain he would have been able to defeat the Voldemort of the past in a fistfight.

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," the future Dark Lord began.

Busily, Slughorn responded, "Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about…about Horcruxes?"

Dirk saw it before Slughorn did, perhaps even before Dumbledore himself. The shift in this Tom Riddle, how easily he went from model student to power-hungry wizard. It was not in the eyes. People were too drawn to eyes, in Dirk's opinion. It was in the voice: so careful and meticulous, like a perfectly drawn sabre angled in the precise position to strike at the heart. Dirk thought he was quite decent at pulling people apart, but seeing Voldemort at work suddenly made him feel like he'd done quite a piss poor job of negotiating with Slughorn earlier.

Slughorn dithered and trembled under the question, and Dirk watched with growing ennui as Riddle gained all the knowledge he wanted ("—isn't seven the most powerfully magical number?" teenage Voldemort asked eagerly). At some point, he stopped listening to the conversation and simply watched, gaze stuck to the kid who, in this memory, was younger than him. He did not voice the thought aloud, but it bothered him how…ordinary Voldemort looked. Handsomer than most, sure, but still undeniably human. The Voldemort he knew of now, the one he had heard about from fellow Order members as they recounted their numerous near-death experiences, seemed akin to a monster, a thing born of nightmare. It frightened him to know that Voldemort started the same way the rest of them had: just a schoolboy at Hogwarts.

How many more will come and go? Dirk wondered. Because before Voldemort there had been Grindelwald, and before Grindelwald there had been Ekrizdis, and so many, many more.

He watched silently as Slughorn sweated and stuttered under Voldemort's eager questions, and then he turned his gaze to Dumbledore, who watched on with a quiet sharpness eerily similar to his own.

"Is this what you were looking for?" he asked once the memory finished, and they had both landed back in Dumbledore's office. The ghostly water of the Pensieve held strange, shadowy reflections of their faces.

"Yes, I believe so," Dumbledore murmured, still very much deep in thought.

Dirk wanted to ask why—why this memory? Why this path at all? And why keep it all to himself? But he knew Dumbledore would sooner kiss a Hippogriff than reveal the innermost workings of his mind to a man who hadn't even finished his final year at Hogwarts.

Instead, he settled on this: "Do you think we'll win now?"

Dumbledore's eyes caught his own. An age of difference clashed between them.

Solemnly, Dumbledore answered, "I must admit, I now have more questions than answers…"

It wasn't exactly a comforting statement, but it comforted Dirk all the same, perhaps because it was a familiar sentiment.

---

Despite his best efforts, Dirk was not able to get Edgar Bones booted from the Ministry infiltration operation. This was in large part due to the fact Edgar's sister, Amelia, was a clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and could get a few of them appointments within the Ministry. (Vance and Moody could only do so much at a time without arousing suspicion.) The most Dirk could manage was partner with someone other than Edgar. He'd wanted to go with Lily, honestly, but she and Dorcas had opted out of this particular piece of the smear campaign. They were too swamped with safe house duty, and it was decided they would focus on discreetly and anonymously contacting journalists of lesser-known publications so they could start slipping the idea that Voldemort was not even a pureblood wizard. The others—Dirk, Edgar, Regulus, Alice, and Sturgis—were to do two rotations through the Ministry of Magic (each a week apart) to simply gossip about Voldemort. Essentially, they would float through the halls of the Ministry in pairs and simply talk about how they'd 'heard so-and-so say this-and-that about You-Know-Who.' Dirk had managed to snag Regulus; Alice was with Sturgis; and Edgar, that lucky bastard, just got to hang around his sister's office all day long.

Today was their second rotation, and to be quite frank, Dirk felt like they weren't making any waves in the Ministry. Sure, they got the odd look now and again whenever someone overheard a particularly salacious piece of information about Voldemort, but it didn't seem like anything was spreading quite in the way he'd hoped.

At least they'd gotten to wear disguises.

"Yeah," Dirk said to no one in particular as he and Regulus rounded yet another hallway, "and I heard from my cousin whose aunt used to be You-Know-Who's hairdresser that he's—

"Oi!" a voice called out from behind.

Regulus froze in his tracks. Dirk made to keep going, but sympathy for his fellow man stopped him and he hissed to Regulus, "Keep moving."

"But what if—"

A hand tightened around Dirk's shoulder, and he was spun around to meet a portly fellow in deep purple robes. "Spirits Division?"

It took Dirk a moment to process what was being asked. His robes had been borrowed from the Spirits Division by Vance, so it seemed that, for the time being, Dirk was the foremost expert on spirits."Er, yeah?"

"Sweet Circe," the man said, exasperation bleeding into his face. "We've been sending word for a Spirit Specialist for ages now. Follow me."

There was really no way to get out of this. Mostly because the man physically grabbed Dirk by the upper arm and began to haul him forward. From his periphery, Dirk could see that Regulus was following behind dutifully despite the fact that he was wearing robes taken from the Scribes Office.

"We're having a crisis upstairs," the man continued busily, "and it's been hours since we sent the last memo down to your lot." Dirk was shoved into an elevator. Regulus stepped in beside him. The man pressed a button—in fact, it was the only button there to press—and stepped out. "Second door on the right. Ask your department head to send us a write-up once it's all cleared up."

The doors closed. A haunting song began to emanate from the interior of the elevator as it ascended.

"What just happened?" Dirk asked dumbly.

"I think that Unspeakable wants you to get rid of some spirits in the Department of Mysteries."

"What?" Dirk said faintly. He glanced at Regulus. "Why did you follow me?"

"Aren't we partnered together? Where else am I supposed to go?"

The elevator came to a halt. With a ding, the doors opened and the duo stepped out into a hallway that seemed to be cut from the night itself. They stumbled forward.

"Lumos," Regulus said, drawing out his wand.

Dirk turned around to access the elevator again, only to find it was gone. "Brilliant," he said through gritted teeth. "How are we supposed to get out of here now?"

"I suppose we'll need to ask for directions," Regulus sighed.

They wandered around a bit. Dirk quickly found that the Unspeakable's direction to take the 'second door on the right' was largely useless because they were in a circular room and he and Regulus had shuffled about for so long now that he could not tell from where they first came. Eventually, Dirk simply picked a room to enter.

Somehow, it was even more dark than the room they had just come out of. Dirk pulled out his own wand to cast some additional light. He could just faintly make out an enormous bookshelf to his left. Stopping for a moment, he raised his wand up and craned his neck, impressed to see that the bookshelf appeared to stretch on to infinity. Similar bookshelves dotted the area.

Dirk twisted around. "Do you think—"

The question died in his throat. Regulus was gone.

"Oh, you are kidding me," Dirk groaned. All it took was a never-before-seen library to entice Regulus into wandering away, huh? "I swear to God, Reg, I am never partnering with you for anything again…"

With only a spot of light and his determination, Dirk began to comb through the bookshelves, occasionally calling for Regulus. He soon very seriously began to consider leaving Regulus behind and finding the exit for himself when he rounded a corner and finally caught sight of Regulus, who was huddled in the center of a row of books. He seemed to be perusing the collection, meticulously passing through the spines of the books.

"What are you doing?" Dirk hissed, hurrying over. "This isn't the time to sit down and read a novel. We need to get out of here. Somehow."

Regulus shot him a supremely exasperated look, one Dirk was certain he had learned from Grace. "I'm not picking out a book to read. I realized that we're in the Department of Mysteries—"

"Just now?" Dirk said shrilly. "You only realized that just now?"

"And," Regulus continued with remarkable patience, "this place might have answers to Grace's condition."

Dirk stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"

"Her condition," Regulus repeated, as though Dirk were exceptionally dumb—though, to be honest, Regulus probably did think he was thick.

"Yeah? What the blinking hell does that have to do with this creepy place?"

"Her condition is related to Seeing," Regulus said, returning his attention to the book that were neatly lined along the shelves. One book was already being held tightly in his left hand. His right danced over the spines of the shelved books. He pulled another one out and began to flip through the pages. "And we're in a top-secret enclave that houses information about the Sight that most people probably don't believe exists. There must be something here that describes some sort of cure to her condition—or at least gives a proper description of it to begin with."

"Okay, fine, suppose you're right. There's information here about the Sight and how to help Grace. Still, there must be at least a million books here, how on earth are you going to find the one you need?"

"I already have."

"What?"

"This is a library," Regulus said. He returned the book he'd been flipping through back to its shelf. "Books are always organized according to a catalog."

"I—" Dirk began again before giving up. "What book did you find?"

Regulus held out the book in his left hand. It was an entirely unassuming thing—brown and ragged from age, with a gilded border that had long faded into dull ochre—save for the sinister scrawl of the title. In sharp, jagged letters: De Oculus Mentis.

Normally, Dirk was not one to judge a book by its literal cover, but he felt it was not too far a leap in logic to think this particular publication might be dangerous. It must have been shelved away in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries for a reason. It was not as though Unspeakables were puttering about with armfuls of children's books to read in their spare time; this book was either deadly or contained knowledge that oughtn't to be made known to the public.

"How can you be so sure this can help?" Dirk found himself asking.

Regulus flipped the book to its table of contents. His finger slid down the list of chapters until it stopped at one: XI — De Inhibere Oculus Mentis. "Concerning the inhibition of the Inner Eye."

Dirk was momentarily at a loss for words. Languages were supposed to be his thing. "Since when were you able to speak Latin?"

"I only know a little," Regulus admitted, as though this were a particularly shameful secret of his.

Dirk scoffed. His gaze floated back to the text and he said, somewhat pompously, "It doesn't say Inner Eye. 'Oculus mentis' means 'eye of the mind.'"

Now, Regulus seemed taken aback. "You know Latin?"

"You don't need to act so surprised," Dirk replied. "Of course I picked up a little. Half our bloody spells are Latin incantations."

Regulus at least had the decency to appear embarrassed. "Right," he nodded. He turned his attention back to the book. "Well, in any case, I believe the 'eye of the mind' is the old way of referring to the Inner Eye. Not to mention, this is the only text I've ever come across that has ever mentioned anything about inhibiting the Inner Eye rather than accessing it. It might be able to help Grace."

"All right," Dirk acquiesced. "Let's just steal it, then, and get out of here."

Regulus stared at him, a faint crease between his brows appearing. "What?"

"Let's steal the book," Dirk repeated. "And get out of here."

Regulus seemed stuck on the first part of that plan. "Steal…it?"

"Yeah, just—" Dirk blew out a long breath. "God, didn't you steal something from the Prat Lord?"

"…Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"This is government property!"

"So?"

"Stealing something from the Ministry is very different from stealing something from a maniac—"

"Yeah," Dirk stressed, "one is significantly easier than the other. And you already did the hard one!"

"I am not a petty criminal—"

"You had better become one fast."

"No, listen." Regulus gave him an uncharacteristically frustrated look. "I… I'm going to duplicate it and take the copy."

"Oh, my God… Fine, whatever."

Regulus muttered a spell under his breath. The book remained just that: a single book. Still, Regulus tried again—and again, and again—

"I don't think it'll magically work the tenth time you do it," Dirk drawled. "Face it, you're going to just have to steal the thing."

"Fine, then you steal it," Regulus said, shoving the book into Dirk's hands.

"Are you mad? No, it's your girlfriend." Dirk shoved the book back into Regulus's arms.

Regulus stared at him. "But—"

"It probably has some sort of Trace on it! If they find out it's missing, they'll track it down to me and I'll get arrested."

"You thought that and were still trying to convince me to take it?!"

"You're not me!"

"Thank Merlin for that!"

"Hard same!"

They simply glared at each another for a moment—and then Regulus softened and relented. He stared down at the tome in his hands. After perhaps the third minute of utter silence, Dirk grew concerned that he had broken Regulus's brain by forcing him into this ethical dilemma. Hesitantly, he reached out and gave Regulus's shoulder a quick shake.

Regulus's gaze snapped to meet his, and he shrugged away from Dirk's touch. "What are you doing?"

"I was afraid you had gone catatonic."

"I'm thinking."

"God, if we all thought the way you did, half the country'd be suffering from aneurysms." Regulus didn't say anything; his stare wavered back to the book. Dirk sighed and said, "Okay, we need to make a decision. We need to get out of here as soon as possible."

Regulus sighed deeply before stuffing the book underneath his robes. "All right. Let's go."

After an agonizing twenty minutes of trying to retrace their steps, they managed to find their way back into the circular room. This time, Regulus picked a door, but just as soon as he opened it and walked inside, he stopped. Dirk collided roughly against Regulus's back.

"What?" Dirk asked.

"Avery," Regulus whispered.

"What?" Dirk repeated. He peered around Regulus's slight frame. There was a tall man with neatly styled hair deeply engrossed in his work. "Is that someone I should know?"

"He's our spy," Regulus continued, so quiet that Dirk could barely hear him.

"That's good, right? We'll just tell him who we are and ask him to escort us out of here."

Regulus hesitated. "I don't think we should reveal ourselves. It might put him in a tricky situation. Let's just say we were sent up from the Spirits Division and we're done with our job now. He'll show us out then."

"Fine," Dirk agreed.

He sidestepped Regulus and strode forward, excited at the prospect of no longer having to be in this ominous, faintly terrifying place.

"Hello!" Dirk greeted once he was close enough.

Avery looked up sharply. On his desk was what seemed to be a crystal ball, though it didn't resemble any of the ones Dirk had seen in Divination class. Placed precariously on an intricate pedestal, it pulsed with an eerie white light. A fluttering shape within pressed itself against the glass.

Avery rose and immediately asked, "Who are you?"

Dirk glanced at Regulus, who was doing a fantastic job of pretending to be mute when he should have been doing anything else. "We're with the Spirits Division. Someone called us up here, and—"

"That's a fascinatingly long name," Avery said, looking less and less unimpressed as the seconds went by. "Is there anything shorter I can call you by?"

Dirk wondered how it was possible for him to hate someone so deeply after barely a minute of interaction. "Nestor Byrd, mate—pleasure to meet you."

He put a hand out. Avery did not take it.

"I can't really say the same," Avery replied. His gaze traveled to Regulus. "And you?"

Regulus didn't answer.

Dirk slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him forward a little roughly. "Ah, he's my assistant."

"He works for the Spirits Division?"

"Of course."

"Are you certain?"

"I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Then why are you both wearing different uniforms?"

Dirk gave a very slow, drawn-out blink. Right. "That's because the Spirits Division has a very intricate and multi-layered uniform system. His robes signify that he's a recent hire and needs to be shown the ropes."

"Is that so? The insignia on the shoulder of his robes looks quite a bit like the one for the Scribes Office," Avery drawled.

"Common mistake. The logo for Junior Spirit Specialists resembles the logo for the Scribes Office quite a lot. I know it looks like a quill, but it's actually supposed to be a ghoul. The artist who designed it was hired on a budget."

Avery digested this slowly. He glanced at Regulus again, who was now looking a little nauseous. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's just scared of ghosts is all."

"Then why," Avery, who appeared to actively be losing braincells as the conversation progressed, sighed, "does he work for the Spirits Division?"

Dirk shrugged. "Best way to overcome your fear is to confront it, right?"

"Sure…" Avery said slowly. He seemed to be wiping the conversation from his mind as it went. "Go back through the door you came from, second door on the left, Life Chamber. They're working on something new in there, and it's attracting spirits. I'd advise you get rid of them quickly and leave. Their project involved draining essence from living beings, and it seems the process is still active."

"I'm sorry, are you saying that if we go into that room, our essence will begin to drain from our bodies?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Extrasensory metaphysics."

"That explains it." It didn't.

"Good."

"Why can't you just get rid of the stuff in the air that's causing this?"

"With the knowledge and magic we currently have, detangling the particles that were created from those that make up the atmosphere of the Life Chamber would unleash an energy blast so powerful it would likely kill everyone in this building."

Dirk nodded. "So, you lot just live like this?"

"…You can't really live in that room, remember."

"Right. And, by the way, just wondering—how many people have died so far?"

"Two today."

"Cool, well…" Dirk looked to Regulus, who was still playing mute. "Once we get rid of the spirits in that room, how exactly do we get out of here and back to the atrium?"

"Just tell the room you want to leave."

"What?"

"Go back to the room you just came from and ask for the exit."

I truly hate this place, Dirk thought viciously.

"Great, thanks, mate. We'll be on our way, then."

Avery did not say anything, simply watched with silent annoyance as Dirk dragged Regulus back into the circular room. As soon as the door closed behind them, he whirled toward Regulus and cried out, "Would it have killed you to say anything?"

"I tend to over-speak when I'm pretending to be someone I'm not," Regulus said nervously.

"What do you mean? You were a spy."

"That was a different case."

"How?!"

---

They returned from the Ministry before evening, heading to Longbottom Manor to have a late lunch with the other members of the smear team. After recapping their efforts in the Department of Mysteries (and receiving a stern lecture from Vance about how they ought to be more careful next time—despite the fact there wouldn't even be a next time), Dirk returned to the Bones house so he could collapse into bed and forget all about the chilling air of the Department of Mysteries.

The next few days passed in something of a haze. The results of their little Ministry stint were yet to be seen. All that was left to do was for Lily and Dorcas to start spreading a few tidbits about Voldemort's personal life through the press, something Dirk had not been asked to help with. As a result, he was relegated to a series of odd jobs for the Order: picking up a patrol here and there, helping Hestia Jones organize her intel files, and so on and so forth.

After yet another exhausting day of running about Longbottom Manor, Dirk followed Regulus back to the Potter Cottage. Grace was still out and about with Lila and the Prewetts, and Lily would not be back until late. (She was busy escorting a new family to the latest Order-sanctioned safe house.) So, Dirk was left with no other option than to while away the time with Regulus—something he had recently begun to think was not so bad.

They were playing a game of chess because Regulus was an insufferable know-it-all who liked to show off how clever he was whenever he got the chance (and also because Dirk thought it was funny how violent the pieces in wizarding chess were).

"Has the book helped at all with Grace's condition?" Dirk asked as Regulus's knight collided against his pawn and knocked it to the ground.

"I'm still reading it," Regulus sighed. He looked away from the game for a second, giving Dirk the perfect opportunity to switch a few key pieces in his favor. Regulus pulled out a huge stack of printer paper from his bedside drawer. "It's quite difficult to decipher, so I haven't made much progress."

Dirk craned his neck to get a look at the pages. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be knowledgeable enough to make photocopies."

"I'm not," Regulus said flatly. "Lily went to a Muggle library to make them. The original seems to have only been warded against magical means of duplication."

"What'd you do with the original book?"

"Grace is going to pass it on to Avery during their next meeting. He should be able to get it back there. She said she wouldn't tell him how we got the book, but I think he'll end up putting two and two together." Regulus turned to toss the pages back in his drawer. When his gaze returned to the game, he frowned as he noticed that his queen was not where he had left it. "Did you move my pieces?"

"What? Why would I ever do that?"

"Because you've lost six games in a row and you're getting desperate?" Regulus suggested.

"You know—after mercilessly watching their opponent lose game after game, most people would start to feel guilty and suggest doing something else."

"Like what?"

"What do you mean 'like what'?" Dirk said indignantly. "What else do you do for fun? There's no way you just play chess by yourself all the time."

"I mostly read," Regulus acknowledged. "But I used to play chess by myself sometimes, at home. There's not much to do during the summer there, so I'd read chess books and practice openings."

Dirk found himself feeling a bit bad for Regulus. He knew a bit of what the Slytherin's home life was like. But in place of a functioning brain, Dirk actually had a Magic 8 Ball. So, instead of saying something consoling, he said, "You're strange."

Regulus blinked at him owlishly, and then frowned. "Sorry, I'm the one who's strange?"

"Well, it's certainly not me," Dirk scoffed.

"I'd beg to differ," Regulus responded indignantly. "If anyone's strange here, it's you. I've never known someone to go so out of their way to make themselves a nuisance on purpose."

Now it was Dirk's turn to be surprised. "Oh. You noticed?"

Regulus gave him a very put-out look. "You're hardly subtle about it. Do you have any idea how much Grace complained about you in first-year alone? Half the time it was about things you were absolutely capable of not doing."

"I'll be honest, it was probably because I was an annoying little snot back then, not because I was doing it on purpose. Now…I sort of just do it to do it, y'know?"

"No, I don't know," Regulus replied succinctly. "It's baffling. It doesn't do anyone any good—and, hold on, if you're perfectly aware of this, then why did you say I'm the strange one?"

"Because you are? You just said I went out of my way to annoy everyone. You know that includes you, right? And you never, not even once, got riled up—and boy did I try. Do you remember back in fifth year, when you were all mopey and wouldn't leave Grace's side? God, you were so annoying then—"

"Forgive me for being so affected by family strife," Regulus said dryly.

Dirk rolled his eyes. "Didn't mean you had to sit in and just stare while we worked on our projects, did it? I really went out of my way to irritate you then—"

"Trust me, it didn't go unnoticed. I got the memo after the third time you put a pouch of ink on my seat."

"Most people would have lost it the first time."

"Most people don't grow up with the insufferable Sirius Black," he pointed out. "And, besides, it's not…productive. Getting angry doesn't do anything but cause harm."

He was certainly talking about his family. Dirk didn't want to get into it, truthfully, but he also couldn't let this sit. He stared at Regulus for a moment—wary, somber Regulus Black, who he had never seen so much as snap at another person—and wondered if perhaps the ex-Death Eater simply lacked the ability to get angry.

"You can't possibly believe that."

"Excuse me?"

"You're surrounded by some of the angriest people I know," Dirk explained. "If you really believed anger to be the danger it was, you certainly wouldn't have gotten with Grace."

"I—she doesn't—I don't mean it's always bad to be angry. I just mean… It's not as though I never get angry, you know. I just don't show it."

"I know," Dirk said simply. "It's because you're scared."

"What?"

"I think you're scared to be angry," he continued. "You're scared to let yourself be angry. I dunno why precisely. If I had to take a guess, it's probably something to do with your family; these sorts of things usually start there, and from what I've heard, your family is as messed up as they come. But…look, bottom line is this: if you never let yourself be angry, you'll never get it out. It doesn't need to be destructive, you know. It just needs to be said. It needs to be acknowledged. You can be angry, and that's okay. If you've been wronged, it's certainly okay."

Regulus looked away from Dirk and didn't respond for a long moment. As the seconds mounted, a nascent worry seeded itself in the pit of Dirk's stomach: had he gone a little too far this time? He seldom gave out his opinion like this. (He'd done it a couple of times with Grace, mostly about her envy back in third year, but people rarely liked to hear about their flaws—and Grace certainly made it known that she wasn't in that minority.)

"I don't know," Regulus said at last, and Dirk was both surprised and comforted to hear how confused he sounded. It reminded Dirk of himself, of how easy it was to read everything except yourself. It made him think suddenly, strangely, that he and Regulus were not so dissimilar after all.

For the first time, with ringing clarity, Dirk saw why he liked doing this so much. It had never been about the pushing and pulling, had it? It wasn't that he simply longed to poke and prod until someone fell apart; it was just that dissection was the easiest way to understand how to put someone back together again. When all the discrete parts had been pulled out—all of Regulus's shame and pride—it was easier to tell what was missing. What he needed.

"Yeah," Dirk exhaled. "It's hard."

"It feels like it should be easy."

Dirk smiled. "Really difficult things always feel that way, I've found."

Regulus hummed with quiet acknowledgement, and another brief silence passed. This one was much more comfortable, however. Companionable. Dirk could practically feel the kinship growing between them. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. It was funny, really, how he swore up and down during his first week at Hogwarts that he'd never befriend a pure-blood after having one jinx him when a professor's back was turned. Now, it seemed he was every pure-blood's best friend.

It was exhausting being so charismatic.

"There's something I haven't told Grace," Regulus said.

"Secrets already? Not a good sign," Dirk drawled.

"I'm serious—and no, don't make that joke," he added, when he saw Dirk open his mouth. "It's just that I don't want to burden her with it. I know she wouldn't tell anyone if I asked her not to, but I think she'd still try to do something about it—and I don't know if I… I think she'd change her behavior if I told her, and James would notice, and I don't want to…disrupt anything…"

Dirk studied him quietly. "What is it?"

"I hate having Sirius around."

"Ah."

"It's like…everyone's conveniently forgotten what happened that summer. But I didn't forget. I wish I could, but I can't. And it makes me…"

"Angry?"

Regulus let out a long breath. "I don't want to be."

"You can't help how you feel," Dirk pointed out.

"I should be able to," Regulus argued. "I'm not a child. I can control my emotions."

"Well, of course. That just means you won't let things get out of hand. You're not a child, so you should be able to talk through your emotions. You should be able to communicate them—not shut them away." Dirk drummed his fingers against his thigh. "You need to talk to your brother."

"The problem is that I'd rather do anything than talk to him, especially about this. And—to be frank—he should feel far more tortured than me about any of this. He should feel guilty, and it baffles me to see him so carefree every day, as though he doesn't even—!"

"God, you are angry," Dirk said lowly.

Regulus sighed. "I've always been angry with him, ever since he ran away, but I've never… I suppose the distance softened it into something like bitterness. Now that we're around each other so often, it's unbearable."

"You need to get it out," Dirk urged.

"But I don't want to…" Here, Regulus struggled. "Mess things up."

"Mess what up?"

"Sirius is James's best mate."

"So?"

"It'll create rifts, if I dredge all this up."

"So?"

Regulus stared at him, taken aback. "What do you mean 'so?' I don't want to be the cause of any discomfort. Isn't that obvious?"

"Who cares if you are? You were hurt. You deserve to be angry, and it doesn't matter who's uncomfortable with that. They can stuff it."

"But it's—" Regulus sounded strangled, "—it's Grace's family."

"I don't understand what her family has to do with your relationship with your brother."

"I just told you he's James's—"

"It doesn't matter! Jesus Christ, I half-think you just don't have the time to let out your feelings, if you have to jump through all these hoops every time you feel anything at all. Thinking about how it affects so-and-so, and how so-and-so might affect someone else, and on and on… Doesn't it get exhausting?"

"I don't…" He swallowed thickly. "I suppose. But it's the decent thing to do, I think. Actions and words have consequences."

Dirk frowned. "What? Just for you?"

Regulus's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You can't really think it's the decent thing to do—"

"Of course I do!"

"No, you don't! You make all these special rules just for yourself! Do you think Grace gives a rat's arse about whether or not someone is uncomfortable with her anger? Do you think your brother does? Do you think half the people in your life do? No—but you love them all the same, don't you?"

Regulus stared at him, wide-eyed, abrupt realization slamming into him.

"I hope you're seeing it now," Dirk muttered. "It's exhausting just to watch you go through it, mate."

"Thank you," Regulus said softly. "Really."

"Yeah," Dirk waved it off. He stared up at the ceiling and let out a puff of air. "Next time, you're listening to my woes, all right?"

"Is it about Abbott?"

God, he almost forgot Regulus was clever, too. What an irritating bastard.

But…he was an irritating bastard who 1) came from the same hoity-toity pureblood world Abbott did and 2) had actually managed to snag a girlfriend.

"Er, yeah," Dirk admitted.

"Well, first of all," Regulus began, eyeing him with mild concern, "it would help if you actually took the time and care to style yourself and press your clothes—"

"Yeah, mate, because Grace is definitely head over heels for you because you put product in your hair and iron your robes," Dirk said, rolling his eyes.

"I'm just saying it would help if you looked a bit more put together."

"No, you're saying it would help to look like you, which is to say: to have the fashion style and sense of someone who works at a funeral home."

And then, something close to a miracle happened: Regulus gave Dirk the Look. The one that meant 'that was pretty funny, but we're not close enough to banter with each other like that (yet),' and Dirk couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing.

Pretty soon, Regulus followed suit.

---

A/N: hello, everyone! i know it's been ages. life has been a rollercoaster, but i recently remembered this story and decided to try to finish up this chapter. i do have the next few planned out pretty well, but can't really make any promises about consistent uploading. hopefully they'll come out eventually, once i find the time to write!

as always, thanks so much for all the kudos and comments!