Chapter Fourteen: Morsmordre!

The students poured off the Hogwarts Express, starving and looking forward to tea and then bed after their long journey north. There was one final moment of stillness lingering over the castle, and then the oak front doors were pushed open and a wave of children surged inside, noisy, chattering, laughing, pushing and shoving (Regulus was knocked to the ground, and the armful of chocolate frogs he had bought on the train spilled everywhere).

'They don't know, do they?' James said quietly - the four boys were on the landing above, watching their classmates arrive - all four of them looked grim.

Sirius snorted. 'Some of them won't care .'

But it seemed James was correct - there was no wireless on the train, after all, and the students would have long since left London when the announcement was made. In fact - even from up here - it was possible to hear some of the children chatting excitedly about catching up with the Quidditch score, and what a shame it was to have missed the match by travelling.

They came down the stairs and joined the throng, feeling heavy hearted with the knowledge they had - that everyone else was yet to learn - and feeling as separate from them as if a veil was cast between them. Everybody else was in the before - the time before the knowing, and the four of them were irrevocably in the after - where they knew what had happened, and dreaded what it meant. A line was crossed. The war was started. It was the early days still but - nevertheless - in years to come, when people wondered what the spark was, that raised the situation from tense to boiling over, they would point to this day - this event. The first mass muggle killing.

Up on the staff table, Dumbledore looked every bit as grave as the boys felt and - as all the students settled at their tables - he rose to his feet. A susurration of surprise rustled around the room, Dumbledore did not usually make a speech at the beginning of the summer term, but everyone fell quiet soon enough … and the boys felt that heavy veil settle on everyone else, as if they too knew something was wrong - even if they did not yet know what.

'Welcome back, one and all,' the Headmaster said to them, though his arms were not opened wide and his eyes did not twinkle. 'I hope you have all enjoyed a well earned rest and are ready for another term filled to the brim with the seeking of knowledge and the adventure of learning…' There was a long pause, everyone waited silently, eyes trained on him. 'It is with immeasurable sadness,' he said after a long moment, 'that I must welcome you back with some difficult news. I am afraid to tell you that the comfort of our little world, which so many of you have seen destabilised these past few years - through the loss of family members, through a rise in prejudice - has been shaken once again. This afternoon a colony of giants left their homes in the mountains and perpetrated a mass muggle killing in the Valleys of South Wales.'

There was an audible intake of breath. Azalea Marsh in fifth year, who lived in Abergavenny with her grandmother, began to cry.

'Even the Ministry is acknowledging that this was a purposeful act,' Dumbledore told them. 'Giants are very different to us in many ways, they have their own customs, they have their own language and they - by and large - are of a different temperament. Nevertheless, they have lived peacefully for centuries in the Ministry appointed colonies - away from humans, and with enough land and food to keep them happy. It seems … unlikely that they have acted on their own accord.

'It is my fear that someone - a human, a wizard, one of us - has stirred them up and encouraged them to this slaughter. That - though the giants may be the weapon - they were not the wielders. It may have been giant fists and feet which killed those poor muggles, but the real murderer lives within our own society.

'It is my fear that we have some very dark days ahead of us, and that this is only the beginning of it. I fear there are many hardships yet to come and that you all - young as you are - will be called upon to be very brave. But I do not wish to leave you without any hope. We pay tribute to those poor muggles, and grieve for their families - and we must make up our minds now to open our hearts, to reject prejudice and fear and to stand united in the face of hatred. If we can meet destruction with courage, ignorance with compassion and evil with love then we can beat back the rising tide of darkness. The future is in your hands, I bid you to never forget that.'

He sat back down… There was a ringing silence, where no one was quite sure if they should clap or not - and then the food appeared on the golden plates. No one moved. Up on the top table, Dumbledore helped himself to some stew. Professor McGonagall's eyes flicked towards him - and then she served herself and Professor Sprout… and then - with clattering and bustle - everyone returned to life, remembered where they were, and joined in.

But it was a very quiet and sombre start of term meal; the sound of cutlery scraping on plates echoed around the Hall, and no one spoke very much.

…

Dumbledore still looked grave, the next morning, when they arrived for their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, though he still managed to greet them with a shadow of his genial smile. He told them to take out their textbooks and turn to page 453 - they would be learning about banshees today, and how to ward off their cries.

There was a rustle of pages as everyone leafed through their books, apart from Ellis Stebbins (who had woken up from his mishap with the suit of armour none the worse for wear but with no idea what had happened - it seemed like he had been crept up on from behind) whose textbook lay unopened and discarded on the desk, instead he had his hand raised high in the air.

'Mr. Stebbins?'

'Professor Dumbledore, sir, don't you think we should be learning how to protect ourselves from giants after … everything?'

The atmosphere of the room thickened - and everyone's eyes darted between Dumbledore and Stebbins, Pete's mouth was hanging slightly open in surprise.

'I am afraid, Mr. Stebbins, that there are some things even magic cannot protect against,' Dumbledore said, his voice was quite calm. 'Especially the magic of a 14 year old. And giants, as it happens, are one of those things. Not only is their size and strength formidable, but - I am sure I have mentioned before - their skin is almost entirely curse proof. The best way of protecting against a giant is to stay out of their way.'

'Well that's easier said than done if they're going to pour out of the mountains and rampage through Wales … Sir.'

Dumbledore sighed. 'You are quite correct,' he said (to everyone's surprise). 'But - as I intimated last night - I do not believe the giants have acted of their own volition. Of course, whether or not a giant is smashing you with his club under his own steam or under the instructions of sinister agents will be of little importance to you in that moment of smashing. But from the safe distance of the castle - where all this is theoretical - the reasoning of the giants' actions should be paramount, as it is this that can guide us to a peaceful solution.'

He looked around at the class, hanging on his every word, steepled his fingers and surveyed them keenly over the tips. 'According to Ministry classifications, giants hold "being status",' he told them. 'That is to say they are recognised as having a near human level of intelligence, understanding and feeling - and this affords them certain rights; the right to exist peacefully without let or hindrance, in a habitat fit for their needs, being one of them. As beings, they are not covered in the Defence curriculum - they are not dark creatures to be defeated but our own equals to be respected.'

There was a murmur of disquiet at this, but he held their gaze with his calm, blue eyes and, once again, everyone fell silent. 'As beings, the place to learn about them - their history and how it interacts with our own, their wars, their customs and how we ended up with colonies away from human habitations - is in your History of Magic lessons.

'And should you ever find yourself in a position where you must make contact with the giants, then you do not require the knowledge of how to defeat them - but how to show them respect, how to speak with them in a way that will not end with the gurg of the giants literally biting your head off.'

James and Sirius exchanged a look, raising their eyebrows at each other.

'But now we find ourselves in a place where the giants have been stirred to insurrection. And it will do us little good to punish the giants or mobilise against them. Instead we must look to who is behind this outrage, who has whispered poison into the ear of the giants, who has promised them better things in return for violent cooperation - and what those promises are. It is this shadowy figure, pulling the strings, which we must learn to defend ourselves against.

'And so our Mr. Stebbins has raised an interesting point - although he did not mean to do so. Perhaps there is more to Defence Against the Dark Arts than jinxes and counter jinxes; perhaps, central to the curriculum, there should be a focus on tolerance and acceptance and understanding those who are different. As this is the only way to banish fear of the other, and it is only with open minds and open hearts that we can hope to counteract the pernicious messages that those who embrace the Dark Arts choose to spread. It is with reason and love, as much as it is with magic, that we can defend ourselves against all that is evil and cruel in this world. And that is a lesson very much worth learning.

'... Still - it is not the focus of today's lesson. So - back to banshees…'

There was a moment of silence, and then the rustling sound of pages turning as everyone rifled through their books once again.

'Now - the earliest recording of banshees comes from 17th century Ireland, though they are thought to go back further and have been sighted all across Europe. The word itself comes from the Irish "bean sidhe" meaning "woman of the fairies" - though the banshee is in fact, no relation to the fairy family. Muggles near the point of death can see and hear them, though healthy muggles remain oblivious, and it is from their experiences (and lack of experience with fairies) that this misnomer arises…'

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A prefect entered, bearing a note, which they handed to the Headmaster. He read it quickly and then looked at Remus. 'Mr. Lupin, Professor McGonagall has requested that you go and speak with her in her office. Take your things.'

Feeling rather bewildered, Remus got to his feet and packed up his book, parchment and quill. 'What did you do?' James hissed at him, but he only shrugged. He racked his brain to see if he could remember any misdeed that was his alone, and would not have resulted in them all being summoned, but he drew a blank. He was very much a follower and not a leader in their little band of rulebreakers.

The last thing he saw was Sirius's keen grey eyes watching him as he walked away. He heard Dumbledore resume his lecture on Banshees - and then the door closed behind him.

…

Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk when he knocked and entered her office. She was drinking a cup of tea, and she poured him one and offered him a biscuit. This was very unsettling.

'Take a seat, Remus,' she said to him.

And though he did as she said, his heart plummeted in his chest. Big Macca using his given name always meant that something terrible had happened, so terrible that even she felt her deserved kind treatment. Her thinnest lips and most flared nostrils were far less terrifying than when she was gentle.

'I'm afraid I've had a letter from your father,' she told him - her voice was soft, and all the more frightening for it. He closed his eyes and held his breath - and heard the distinct sound of her blowing her nose.

'I'm not sure if you knew, but your Uncle Robert - your mother's brother - and his family had recently moved to a house just outside Porth, in the Welsh valleys.'

Remus's eyes flew open. His heart was hammering in his chest and he did not want to hear the rest - but he at least thought he had an idea where this was going.

'I'm very sorry to tell you that his new home was right in the path of the giants. Furthermore - your grandparents were visiting on the day of the .. well… The house was completely destroyed. There were no… I'm sorry, Remus, but there were no survivors.'

He closed his eyes again, and let out his breath. For just a moment he was glad his mother was not still here, that she did not have to withstand the loss of her brother and parents all in one day.

McGonagall was still talking. 'Your father writes that you are to go home immediately. The funeral will be in a couple of days.'

He forced his eyes open. 'Yes - of course - th-thank you for telling me.'

She looked at him, her usually stern eyes were a little damp. 'I'm sorry to have to deliver yet more bad news to you. These years have been hard for you.'

'Yes - I - er - I should go. My dad…'

She nodded, got to her feet and offered him the jar of floo powder which sat on her mantel piece. He took a pinch.

'The others - my friends - they'll want to know where I am.'

'I will let them know. We will see you soon. I really am very sorry for your loss.'

He nodded, threw his floo powder into the fire and went home.

…

When the bell rang, the others packed away and headed for herbology, hoping Remus would be waiting for them. However there was no sign of him at the greenhouses, he did not turn up at break, was notable only by his absence in Potions and missed lunch entirely.

'Do you think something bad has happened to him?' Sirius asked rather worriedly, as he pushed his steak and ale pie around his plate and stared at the empty seat where Remus should be sitting. 'Should we check the Hospital Wing?'

'He walked out of Defence, alright.' James said. 'No signs of injury. Tell you what, If he doesn't turn up this afternoon, we'll ask Big Macca in Transfiguration.'

Though, in the end, they did not have to ask - as Big Macca, herself, called them over at the end of her lesson and told them in hushed tones what had happened and where Remus had gone.

They decided to bunk off History of Magic and instead went back up to their dorms, where they lay on their beds, staring up at the canopies, and feeling sorry for Remus. Sirius cuddled his puffskein, feeling comfort from its warm weight on his chest.

'It's all very well and good, Dumbledore saying we should understand and respect the giants,' he said glumly. 'But it's a bit harder if it's your own family that's just been crushed under their massive boots.'

'That's Dumbledore, though, isn't it,' James said with a shrug. 'He always preaches tolerance, understanding, respect … compassion, love. It's what he believes in. More than magic, more than anything. He thinks if we're all just nice enough - if we can all just get along - then everything and everyone will be OK.'

'Which I suppose worked out nicely for us - no other Headmaster would have let Remus come to school. And this place would be pretty rubbish without him.'

James threw his pillow at him. 'I like to think I could keep you sufficiently entertained.'

Sirius grinned and threw it back. 'Dream on, Speccy.'

Peter looked between the two of them. His eyes were dark and worried. 'Do you think he's right?' he asked. 'Dumbledore? What if he's wrong? What if we should be doing more - what if love and tolerance only ends up getting us flattened? Do you really think respect and understanding is enough to get us through … everything ?'

James thought about this for a moment. 'Yes,' he said, finally. 'I think Dumbledore knows what he's talking about. I think we can't live our lives being afraid of anyone different, and fear comes from ignorance. Fear will only tear us down. We need to put our trust in Dumbledore - and in each other. It wouldn't really be a world worth living in if we couldn't do that. Keeping an open mind and meeting differences with respect - that's the way to beat back the darkness.'

There was a moment of silence. Then: 'do we have to respect the Slytherins?' Sirius asked.

'Don't be soft.' James scoffed. 'No one has to respect the Slytherins! '

…

The funeral was held on Wednesday. Remus and his father dressed themselves carefully in the sombre muggle suits they had bought for Hope's funeral two years previously (though Lyall had had to put lengthening charms on Remus's sleeves and trouser legs - he had grown a lot since he was twelve). Then they had climbed onto Lyall's battered old broom and flown down to the valleys. The funeral would not be held in his Uncle's town, for there was no town left to hold it in. Instead they were headed for a village which lay just outside the range of the giant's rampage.

There had been so much death and destruction that the service was not just for Remus's family, but for everyone who had lived - and died - in their street. They sat in folding chairs under a marquee - because the church hall itself was being used as a refuge for survivors who found themselves dispossessed, and there was no room for mourners among the camp beds. The burials were being held back to back, and Remus and his father hovered awkwardly near the edge of the graveyard, waiting for it to be the Howell family's turn.

His mother's other brothers and sister were there, along with their families - and Lyall shook hands, gave his condolences and made polite small talk while they waited. Remus eyed up his muggle cousins - and worked out which two were missing, which two were about to be buried beneath the soil with his Uncle Robert, Aunt Myfanwe and his Grandma and Grandad Howell (he had never known his cousins well - having to keep both his magic and his being a werewolf a secret, he had never been allowed to meet with them often - and his mum's family was so large, and there were so many cousins, that he could never quite keep straight who belonged to whom).

It was Cerys and Daffyd, he realised. The twins - and only a year younger than him. He felt sick, remembering them just two years ago - almost to the day - at Hope's funeral, their dark eyes staring at him in frightened wonder that anyone could be so unlucky as to lose a mother.

Before that most awful of days, though, he had seen them at Christmas - and they had laughed loudly and played roughly and he had a great deal of fun with them. He remembered telling Sirius about them, once he was back at school:

'I don't want to boast, Sirius, but my muggle cousins are better than your wizarding ones.'

'A pack of slavering cannibals with meat cleavers are better than my cousins.'

It seemed strange to think they were now dead. He had barely ever seen them, never really thought about them, they existed in a world he knew next to nothing about - but they had always been out there, nevertheless. And now they were not. And, as mystifying as death had seemed when it had taken his mother, it was almost incomprehensible that it could come for someone who was younger even than him.

Soon, all that would be left of thirteen year old Cerys and Daffyd would be a mound of earth and a slab of stone with their names on it, weathering away until it was forgotten about entirely.

For all he was only fourteen, he suddenly felt very old and tired, standing here and contemplating death. And, listening in to all the surrounding muggles discussing the suddenness of the hurricane, he also felt heavy with the knowledge of the giants' rampage. The truth was a weight pressing down on him: this was not a freak accident, this was an act of war - and it was just getting started, and there would be more deaths - and, of all the people standing here, only he and his father knew it. His world was encroaching on the muggle one, causing harm, and he found he could not quite meet his cousins' eyes, as they all milled around awkwardly and tried to get used to being down by two.

The vicar, an exhausted looking little man in a black cassock and dog collar, finished up with one burial, shook hands and then called 'Howell family'. With a sigh of relief, they all trudged down the overgrown path to the six plots laid side by side and stood, heads bowed, as the coffins were lowered in and the words were intoned: 'Ashes to ashes… dust to dust...'

Remus looked up and caught sight of an elderly woman standing a little apart from all the ongoing burials, she was stern faced and her eyes were like gimlets - and everyone seemed to be giving her a wide berth, or eyeing her suspiciously - as if they were not quite sure who she was, or why she was there. And Remus was not surprised people were looking askance - for she was dressed in a floor length Victorian gown, complete with bustle, and wore a heavy black veil, which she had pushed back over her hat so it stuck out wildly like a bird's nest made of netting and lace.

Remus nudged his father, and pointed at her. She was a witch, he was sure of it. Lyall's eyes met with the woman's - and the pair of them nodded at each other. Well, that confirmed it.

When the funeral was done, and the family had said their goodbyes and walked away (there would be no tea and sandwiches after this, there were not enough pubs and village halls to cater for so many different grieving families) Lyall took Remus by the shoulder and guided him over to where the elderly witch was standing.

'Madam Marsh.'

'Lyall.'

They shook hands.

'This must be your boy - Remus, isn't it?' She scanned the churchyard. 'Your wife's family lived locally, I take it?'

'Yes, her parents and brother were killed - along with his family.'

'I'm sorry to hear it.' They started to walk back down the overgrown path towards the gates. 'I felt I had to come,' she said to them. 'South Wales is my home - always has been. These muggles are my neighbours. I felt someone - one of us - needed to mark… Of course the Ministry has sent no one.' She made a harrumphing noise. 'Apart from a team of Obliviators, working to quash rumours and remove memories from any of the survivors who try to tell what really happened. See…'

She nodded across the road in the direction of two men, one wearing a woollen bathing suit, top hat and riding boots and the other wearing plus fours and a deerstalker. Remus glanced at them, and thought that the pair of them were a far greater risk to the statute of secrecy, dressed as they were, than the confused ramblings of any bewildered giant victims could ever be.

'But they haven't sent a representative to any of the funerals. You would think - after everything … But then they don't care, do they, the Ministry? Only muggles…' Her voice had become harsh, her tone was bitter. 'This won't be the last time.'

'I hope you are wrong, Madam Marsh. I fear you are right - but, still…'

'We've been sent a sign - a warning. There is more of this to come.'

'I know.'

'Dark days lie ahead of us. They lie ahead of the muggles too, only they don't know it.'

'Perhaps there is a chance more disasters can be averted,' Lyall said.

Madam Marsh gave him an appraising look. 'Perhaps,' she agreed. 'But only if the Ministry cares enough to avert them. And I'm not sure they do… Only muggles …'

Once they were out of sight of anyone, Madam Marsh stuck out her wand hand and, with a deafening BANG and a flash of blinding light, the gigantic wheels of the triple decker Knight bus screeched to a halt right in front of them. She said her goodbyes and clambered on. There was another BANG and the bus vanished into thin air.

'She's right, isn't she?' Remus said, rather glumly. 'The Ministry don't care - not really.'

'Not yet.'

'What will it take for them to start caring, if the death of Grandma Howell and a thousand other muggles isn't enough?'

'I don't know… Come on, let's go home, get warm.' And they retrieved their broom and flew back North to the border.

…

A Giant Warning Sign

The headline of The Evening Prophet blared that night - and Remus was disgusted to discover that Lord Voldemort, himself, had written it.

I am sure you all grieve alongside me for the deaths of those thousand muggles who lost their lives so suddenly last weekend…

Remus felt physically sick at the insincerity. Grandma Howell had always had a warm home (with a toaster, just like Sirius had) and was ever ready with a cup of tea and a kind word, fretting for her own children and indulging her grandchildren. Cerys and Daffyd had spoken to each other in rapid fire Welsh, which they had learned from their own mother, and - when they spoke in English for the benefit of everyone else - their voices were soft, and lilted up and down like some beautiful musical instrument.

Voldemort did not grieve for the Howell family. He did not even think they were human. And Remus was willing to bet everything he had - including his Cleansweep 4 - that the Dark Lord was the shadowy figure Dumbledore had warned against, the one responsible for the mass killing. That he would then offer his condolences in the newspaper seemed obscene… And yet there would be people out there who believed him, because they wanted to. Like the Ministry, they were not yet ready to face the truth.

Feeling a boiling mixture of outrage and impotence, he read on:

We have perhaps grown soft, grown used to the giants behaving peacefully - allowed ourselves to forget the violence of their true nature - and have chosen to believe that they would always be content in their little colonies far from our homes.

Certainly, the Ministry still cling to the notion that the giants are fairly treated, that they would not act out in this way unless they were stirred up by wizards unknown. Perhaps they are angling to blame me - and my loyal Knights - for this tragedy.

Rest assured, I do not know who is behind this, or even if there is a puppet master to find. I do not know who would wish to stir up trouble with the giants or rain destruction on the muggle world. I do not know why this has happened at this particular moment.

What I do know, however, is that giants are not peaceful by nature - and the hope that we could forever keep them out of the way, and forget about them, was a foolhardy one. They are violent, they are brutal and - if their population is growing - then hoping to contain them in a habitat too small for them is as cruel as it is foolish.

The problem that the giants pose for a world trying to remain hidden was never going to go away - and now we have been reminded, in the most tragic circumstances, how the Ministry's current policy - both on secrecy of magic and on the safety of giants - is foolhardy and not fit for purpose.

If the giant population is growing, then they cannot be contained. Nor can our dragons, our centaurs or even our hags. As long as the statue of secrecy holds, we are forced to expend time, effort and money fighting a losing battle keeping all manner of magical creatures hidden. And, as Sunday has shown us, our efforts can be fruitless, and we cannot even claim that we are keeping our lesser humans - the muggles - safe with our policy.

Indeed - as long as these lesser humans rule the land, and we cling to the margins, we risk tragedy after tragedy like the one we have just suffered. But if we were to cast off the cloak of secrecy, make ourselves known, claim our rightful place as Kings among ants, then we could give much needed land to the giants, to the centaurs, to the dragons - we could much better protect those ants from the creatures who stand poised to squash them if those creatures find themselves too confined in the meagre parcel of land apportioned to them.

The giants' rampage has caused monstrous loss. But it was more than mindless violence. It was a reminder that Ministry policy does not work - not for us, not for magical creatures and not for the muggles. It was a warning sign, writ in giant letters, which we must heed, that more tragedy will follow if we do not change this policy, and it was a wake up call, to the Ministry and all of us, sounded by giant boots - that magic is might, it cannot be contained, it cannot be suppressed and it cannot be hidden. We must respect that, and shape the whole world accordingly, or run the risk of more loss of life.

…

Down in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by discarded chocolate frog cards, Regulus read the article carefully and then cut it out. He could hear Rabastan Lestrange snickering over it with his seventh year friends. No one in the dungeons was pretending they did not know who was behind the mass muggle killing, or that the Dark Lord was really sorry all those muggles were dead. That was a sop for the useful idiots in the lower ranks of the Knights of Walpurgis.

The Dark Lord had it right when he called the muggles "ants" - and no one ever cried over the squashing of ants.

Severus was also reading the article, he was sitting alone on the green sofa and his large nose was so close to the print that it looked like he was trying to inhale the words. When he was finished, he sat back and closed his eyes. He imagined the giants lumbering down from the mountainsides and forging their path towards their target, smashing their way through that small stretch of muggle settlements at the behest of the Dark Lord.

He only wished that, instead of sweeping South to the Rhondda Valley, they had headed North East - crossed the border - and taken out the whole of Cokeworth; the mill, the railway and his father included.

…

Remus arrived back at Hogwarts on Thursday afternoon. He went up to the dorm and waited for his friends; they had flying and were bound to come up here to put their brooms away once the day was done. He settled down on his bed and took out his latest book ("The Minds of Manticores: maws, mandibles and maulings by Leiurus Lionhart" ) and read for an interrupted thirty minutes until a roar of delight, and Sirius bounding onto his bed and pulling him into a bear hug, pulled him back into the dorm.

'We've missed you.'

'I was sorry to have to go.'

'Yeah - sorry about your family.'

'Thanks.'

'How long have you been back?'

'Not long - how was flying?'

'Rubbish - James kept showing off.'

'I did not show off,' James said indignantly, opening up his trunk and carefully putting his prized Silver Arrow 2.0 away. 'I can't help it if I'm just better than everyone else.'

Sirius picked up Remus's pillow and threw it at James.

'Is your dad alright?' Peter asked Remus, putting his own broom away.

'Yes - it was a shock for him; I suppose it brought back memories of my mum, being around her family - but, well, it can't be helped. We couldn't not say a proper "goodbye" to my grandma. Not that it was a proper goodbye.' And he told them all about the back to back burials and the communal services and the refugees camping out in the church hall. 'Everyone's just getting on - trying to clear up a natural disaster. And meanwhile the Ministry Obliviators are out in force wiping the memories of any survivors who dare to mention that it wasn't a hurricane.'

'Gits,' Sirius snorted. 'It's been rubbish round here as well - everyone's in shock, everyone's whispering… and did you see the paper last night?'

Remus told him he had.

'Can you believe Mortal Love Rodd is trying to pretend it wasn't him?'

'He's trying to capitalise on it - trying to use it as leverage to get the Ministry to overthrow the statute of secrecy and let him have a free hand to take over and enslave muggles.'

'Total git.'

That night they swiped some bread from the kitchens and used Sirius's toaster to make toast the muggle way, in honour of the Howell family. This time it only took ten minutes and, though the toaster belched out thick, black smoke which made them choke, there were no actual flames. 'I'm still not sure this is right,' Peter said doubtfully, looking at his burned and blackened toast.

'It's getting there,' Sirius was impatient - and Peter flinched.

'It's great,' Remus said. 'Not knowing whether or not the bread will be on fire is half the fun.'

…

The next day, Remus saw for himself how the shadow of the Rhondda Valley was still casting its pall over the school. At mealtimes, the teachers sat together in clumps, poring over the papers and all but ignoring the students. Benjy Fenwick, the Head Boy, actually got into trouble with Filch for carving:

You Know Who Did It

On the walls down near the Potions classroom. And there were constant whispers and rumours floating around, trailing in the air like a living thing. It seemed like, somehow, the news that Remus had lost family in the attack had spread around and become common knowledge - and the whispers followed him around the castle, eyes swivelled to get a better look at him, and he found himself the subject of a form of ghoulish celebrity.

It came as something of a relief when it was Saturday, and he could just hide up in the common room away from prying eyes and swirling rumours. 'I know what it's like to be Barking Mad Black, now,' he said rather gloomily.

'Just without the immense wealth and devastating good looks.'

He threw a cushion at Sirius. 'Ponce.'

'Oik.'

'Nutter.'

'Werewolf.'

'Shame of your mother's flesh!'

As the next day was Sunday, that meant that most of the late afternoon and evening was, much to James' chagrin, taken up with the Wiz Hits Top 40. The girls put the wireless on at 4 o'clock and - across the common room - a hush descended so that everyone could listen in, whether they were playing gobstones, toasting marshmallows or finishing off last minute homework.

Lily was sitting beside the wireless, her chin resting on her fists and a dreamy expression on her face, as she waited for the next Kneazles song to come on. Her eyes widened and she squealed with excitement when Bobby Darrow's Liverpudlian voice suddenly floated out across the room.

'I know, I know, Joel - another Sunday and we're back again, like the proverbial bad sickle. And thanks for having us on at such short notice.'

'Always a pleasure, Bobby - we're here to give the listeners what they want, and what they want is you. So - what do you have for us today?'

'It's something we've been working on for a while - but we've brought its release forward after what happened last Sunday.'

His voice became more serious.

'We know who was behind that mass muggle killing, and so does everybody else - even if they don't want to admit it. We have muggle families, we're from Liverpool - which is practically in Wales - this muggle killing matters to us, and it hurts. But we're not going to be frightened into being quiet, into going away, into leaving the magic world - even if that's what Mortal Love Rodd wants us to do.'

He suddenly sounded much cheerier again.

'So we've been inspired by some Hellraising Gryffindor girls…'

There was a moment of silence, and then Lily screamed and fell off her chair…

'... to write this new song. It's based on an article they wrote in their totally rad magazine, of which they were kind enough to send us a copy (and which we'd be honoured to give an exclusive interview for if they want to send us some questions)…'

Lily was on the floor whimpering softly. Petra helped her to feet (though she was just as pale and disbelieving). Mary's eyes were popping out of her head and Mandy's jaw was well and truly dropped.

'Even though they're only 14, they're out there spreading the good word, fighting the good fight - and that takes real courage in these dark times. So - Lily Evans, if you're listening - this is our rebel song, and this one is for you.'

Lily burst into floods of noisy tears. On the wireless, the guitars started to jangle - and Bobby started to sing.

Oh yeah, I'll tell you something

Of this I have to warn

Yeah, when I - say this somethin:

I'm glad I'm muggleborn!

I'm glad I'm muggleborn.

I'm glad I'm muggleborn!

Oh yeah, we deserve to be

Part of this magic world

And please say to me

You'll be my muggleborn girl!

Lily and Mary clutched each other so tightly and screamed so loudly that the next few lines were inaudible.

You'll be my muggleborn girl

You'll be my muggleborn girl!

And this I got to say

I'm proud of my muggle family

Between our two worlds is right

Where I wanna be!

I wanna be!

I wanna be!

Oh yeah we've - got that somethin'

That we feel inside

And there's nothin' you can say

To take our muggleborn pride!

We got our muggleborn pride

We got our muggleborn pride

The four girls were now clinging together, and all eyes in the common room were fixed on them, though they did not notice. They were entirely entranced by the wireless. When the song finally came to an end, Lily gasped for breath and then burst into tears again. They didn't move for a full fifteen minutes, frozen somewhere between ecstasy and hysteria, and they did not sleep a wink in their dormitory that night.

…

The next day the Rhondda Valley seemed like a distant memory, and Remus's celebrity was well and truly over. The only news in town was that Bobby Darrow - The Bobby Darrow - had written a song, and dedicated it to Lily Evans, and it was she who was now the recipient of heads whipping around, eyes following her and whispers floating towards her on the air.

And some of those eyes and whispers were very jealous indeed. 'She's only a third year!' Linda Lively of Ravenclaw hissed, as Lily walked past her in the hallway. 'She's not even that pretty!'

And Linda was not the only one who was letting her sourness get the better of her. Among many of the girls, the nickname "Hellraiser" was quietly dropped and "FlatuLily" was taken up again. ("He wouldn't have dedicated a song to her if he'd had to sit in that History of Magic exam!")

It wasn't even just the girls who loved Bobby that were green with envy. Even the girls who couldn't care less about The Kneazles were incensed that some jumped up nobody in the third year (a "mudblood" some of them even said) had got a mention on the wireless - that the whole wizarding world now knew her name.

Lily didn't even notice. She was on cloud nine all day, walking on air, and it would take a heck of a lot more than the entire student body making farty raspberry noises at her as she walked past to bring her back down to earth.

She didn't even mind when Severus told her, in Potions, that she needed to be careful, that Bobby had put a target on her back by mentioning her name on the wireless.

'Oh don't be silly, Sev - no one knows who I am!'

'They know you're a Gryffindor. They know you join in with mocking the Dark Lord - you shouldn't do that.'

'Oh - Mortal Love Rodd needs mocking. It's the only way to beat people like him.'

Severus flushed a blotchy red. 'It was irresponsible of Darrow to put you in danger.'

'Maybe he thinks I can handle myself.'

'You're just a little girl!'

'Says you! Maybe Bobby can see me for the sophisticated woman I am.'

Over on the back benches, James was watching the conversation carefully - and paying no attention to the fact he was mutilating the caterpillars he was supposed to be finely slicing into equal parts. 'Is that Bobby Darrow a slick git or what?' He said. 'Writing a song for Evans when she's only 14…'

'What do you care?' Sirius asked him.

'Well I don't care, do I?' James snapped - and viciously decapitated his final caterpillar.

…

Once the day's lessons were over, the four girls reconvened in their dorm and set to business composing the questions they wanted to ask The Kneazles ('I can't believe they're really giving us an interview!' Mandy squealed).

'We need to get this right,' Lily told them sternly. 'They get interviewed all the time, we need ours to stand out. We need to ask intelligent questions, sophisticated ones - to show them we're women to be reckoned with. Not silly kid questions.'

'We should ask them why they're glad they're muggleborn,' Petra said. 'It's what's in their song, it's what our article was about.'

'Yes - we should either start or finish with that one.'

'And we can ask when they first realised they were different,' Mandy said. 'What the first magic they remember doing was.'

'Good thinking!'

'We should ask some fun questions though,' Mary said. 'Like - if they could kiss anybody who would it be.'

'It's a bit personal.'

'Alright - how about, which would you rather kiss: the giant squid or an acromantula?'

'Better. We need to strike the right balance - show that we're fun and serious at the same time. That we can have a laugh, but that we understand the importance of the political situation we're living through.' Lily scrunched up her nose, and then scratched through one of the questions with her quill. 'It's going to be tricky.'

They stayed up all night getting it right - and posted their interview first thing in the morning.

…

It was late in the day when Bobby sat down at his kitchen table, pulled a scroll of parchment towards himself and started answering the questions the girls had sent him - to be published in their magazine.

He grinned as he read them, and scratched his quill with his ear. These girls were alright. They had a good sense of humour - but they also cared about the state of the world and the fight they were in, even if their understanding was naive… and their occasional misspelled words were oddly endearing.

Roger came into the kitchen. 'Cup of tea?'

'Why not? Hey - Rodge, which would you prefer to kiss - the giant squid or an acromantula?'

'Giant squid. I couldn't be doing with all those eight eyes staring at me while I snogged a spider.'

Bobby nodded - and started to write. Upstairs he could hear Richard and Kenny practising the tune to "Yellow Submarine" as they tried to write magical lyrics for the music.

'If you could buy one thing from Diagon Alley, what would it be?' He asked Roger.

Roger paused for a moment. 'I could do with a new set of dress robes.'

'I like your blue ones… Nah. Coconut jelly ice cream from Fortescue's.' And he wrote his answer down.

…

When he was finished, he rolled his parchment up and went outside. He tied his letter to the leg of Paul, his owl, and then sent him off. As Paul's fluttering wings disappeared into the distance, he shoved his hand in his pockets and closed his eyes - enjoying the late April, early evening sun on his face.

Life felt pretty good …

A loud popping sound, like a car backfiring, made him open his eyes in surprise - there were no cars around here… Then there was another pop and another, and another, and he realised it was the sound of people apparating, right into his garden. Figures in dark robes, their faces covered by hoods, swarmed across the lawn and into the house - like shadows encroaching on the light

He stared around, a feeling of unease creeping up on him. 'Hey!' he shouted at the strangers, but his mouth was suddenly dry, and his voice came out as a choked rasp, which was all too easy to ignore. A faceless wizard, robed and hooded like the rest, pointed his wand into the sky and yelled: 'Morsmordre!'

Bobby watched, frozen to the spot - as something exploded out of the tip of the wand and rose into the air above his house. It was a shape - picked out in green stars. But before it had finished unfurling, before he could work out what it was, he heard screaming, coming from inside the house. The sound made his blood run cold.

His Roger was screaming, as if he was being tortured, and - forgetting all about the wizard and the mark in the sky - Bobby ran for the front door. But his way was barred. There was another figure, also hooded, their wand raised and pointed at Bobby's chest. He did not see their face - and he never got to Roger - but he heard their cold voice over Roger's screams.

'Avada Kedavra!'

There was a blinding flash of bright green light. And then all was black.