The Wizarding World of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just putting my own take on that story.

Chapter Fourteen

"Hey, quit daydreaming!" Honeywell's voice cut through Heather's thoughts like a whip, "Boss just called us into his office. We've got a job." She stuck her head through the opening in the cubicle just in time to see Heather jump an inch or so. For the tenth time since opening Grimmauld Place to her friends she had been debating whether or not to join them. Luna, Katie, and Seamus had all taken up residence there on cleaning day, and since then they had been joined by Neville, Susan, and Ron. As Ron had been expecting, his mother was none to pleased to hear he was moving up to London, but her reaction was nothing compared to Ginny's. Heather was surprised the rickety house was still standing after the ensuing tirade. George had also left, returning to the flat over his shop, even though he still wasn't sure he wanted to reopen, and that meant that if Heather and Ron both left, Ginny would be living at home alone with her parents. Even though she was also of age, Mrs. Weasley had put her foot down at the merest suggestion of Ginny leaving home.

Ginny had told Heather in no uncertain terms on the night Ron left, that if Heather were to leave her there by herself with her parents, she would run away. It was well after midnight before Heather finally convinced her friend that she had no plans to leave the comfort of the Burrow. "Why would I choose dark and gloomy Grimmauld Place over the comfort and warmth here?" she reasoned, mollifying Ginny somewhat. She didn't blame Ron for wanting out, it was different when you grew up like this. But the Burrow was still as close to a home as Heather had ever really known, and she wasn't ready to give that up quite yet. "Besides," she continued, "None of them know how to cook worth a damn." Ginny had laughed at that. Still, the thought of moving to London continued to weigh heavily on Heather's thoughts.

It was Honeywell's feral grin that snapped her fully back to reality. Whatever it was that Robards wanted to see them for, Heather knew that it wasn't a training mission. For over a week now there had been persistent rumors that the trainees would be getting their first field assignments field soon. According to one highly knowledgeable, and equally anonymous, source, the powers that be believed them to be as trained up as time would allow. It was time for them to start earning their paychecks.

May had ended and June was now almost a week old. It had been a month since the victory at Hogwarts that had supposedly ended the war, not that you could tell. The danger was still as real as it had been during Voldemort's reign, it was just subtler now, and easier for the public at large to ignore. They were as close to being one hundred percent certain that the Lestrange brothers were leading the largest cell of remaining death eaters, but there were still no known leads on where they were. Their greatest fear was that the Lestrange's would unite with one or both of the other known groups, which might just give them the numbers and power to go back on the offensive.

Robards was waiting for them in his office. "Close the door," he said by way of greeting. When both were seated, he looked up from his desk which was buried in parchment and spoke again. "Right, listen up 'cause I don't have time to say this more than once. You two are going to track this man." From the small mountain of paper on his desk, he extracted a purple folder and slid it towards Honeywell. Clipped to the front was a face Heather had seen in the recent wanted posters. It was Mulciber, the name came to her a moment later. Yes, she had encountered him in the Department of Mysteries two years ago. He glowered up at them from the black and white mugshot.

"Isn't he a peach," commented Honeywell dryly as she flipped open the folder.

"Quite the looker, yes." Robards agreed just as tonelessly. "We've gotten reports that place him near Little Hangleton more than once. Best guess, he's waiting or looking for something."

"Or someone," added Honeywell.

"Little Hangleton?" asked Heather as a bucket of cold water ran down her spine.

"Yes." Robards replied fixing her with a stern eye. "It makes sense, considering the connections that place has with the death eaters." Heather thought this was something of an understatement but kept that to herself. Robards looked even more haggard than ever, and she didn't want to risk his irritation.

"Do we think one of the groups is operating there?" Honeywell asked, still perusing the file.

Robards leaned back in his chair which gave an audible groan. "Not at the moment. That's why we want the two of you out there. If you see him, track him, quietly." He stressed this last word. "Do not engage unless your cover is blown or he presents a threat to innocent bystanders, magical or otherwise. If you locate the main outfit he's working for, one of you will report back here immediately. Understood?" They both nodded. "You'll be working in shifts with Jones and Campbell. Forty-eight-hour rotations. Get on with it then." Robards said, waving towards his door in a clear dismissal.

Back in their cubicle, Honeywell began spreading the contents of the folder across her desk. Both witches were forced to stand to be able to read everything, there just wasn't room for both chairs to fit in front of the desk. Most of what they saw was fairly straightforward. It was a very comprehensive personal history, containing Hogwarts academic reports, employment status, trial records from his first, second, and third convictions, family ownings he might have access too, and a list of known associates.

"I don't know why they include this sheet," Honeywell said, holding up that last page and waving it airily. "It's almost identical for every death eater. News flash, they all know each other."

"Right," agreed Heather, grabbing at the Hogwarts record, and pointing to the embossed silver serpent in the upper right-hand corner, "surprise, surprise, he's a Slytherin. As if most of them aren't."

There was the slightest scoff at these words, and Heather whipped around to see Daphne's blonde hair vanishing around the corner.

"Oops." Heather said, instantly regretting her choice of words.

"Yup. Nice going, Potter."

"I should go say something." She started to follow Daphne, but Honeywell stopped her.

"Later. We have a mission to plan for. Let's get at this."

From a dusty archive somewhere, a map of Little Hangleton was summoned and Heather pinned it to a wall of the cubicle. The map and the wall surrounding it were quickly covered in different colored push pins notating where Mulciber had been reportedly seen, though they had both agreed to take those with a grain of salt. A quick check showed that the auror who had filed these sighting had also been responsible for watching three other areas and it was very likely that in all of that he could have mistaken the precise locations, what with everything else he had to handle.

The village was, as the name implied, not particularly large. Other than the few rows of houses and the small high street, the only notable landmarks were the graveyard and the large manor house on the hill overlooking the village. Heather ran Honeywell through both her previous visits to the area, trying to convince her stomach to settle at the prospect of returning there for a third time.

"So, what's the play?" asked Honeywell after several hours of reading and talking, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

Heather leaned against the wall and studied the map for the hundredth time. "Well, I think that depends on how we go about it. The few times he's been spotted have been mostly around here," she gestured to a row of houses halfway between the graveyard and the high street. "The real question is, what keeps bringing him back here?"

"Good question. Assuming there isn't a group operating there, maybe there's some cache of supplies left behind by Voldemort he's looking for?" Honeywell suggested idly.

Heather didn't think this very likely, but she didn't like shutting down someone else's idea without having one of her own. "Maybe. Hermione, Ron, and I checked the manor house last year and didn't find anything. Nothing in the file says he's been seen anywhere near the house, but it'd be hard to get eyes on him inside if he did. All the approaches to the house can be easily watched from inside, and it wouldn't be hard to lay some detection spell against invisible intruders."

"So you think that whatever he's looking for, it's the house?" Honeywell pressed. She was still leaning back in her chair, watching Heather with her head resting on the other wall.

Heather considered before answering. If there were a group based in Little Hangleton, why would they use the house as a base? She knew from personal experience that when trying to hide it was best to limit the amount of accidental attention that might be drawn to you. Using such a visible and prominent structure, particularly in a community like Little Hangleton, would be incredibly dangerous. The slightest thing out of place would stand out like fireworks to nosy neighbors who were used to everything being exactly the same, day after day. It was true that there were enchantments like muggle repelling charms and memory modification that could help in the short term, but those weren't infallible. Eventually the effects of those would be noticed by muggle authorities, and shortly afterwards, the Ministry.

On the other hand, Heather doubted that the death eaters would bother with such humane methods of keeping muggles at bay. To them, muggles were nothing more than dumb animals. If one happened to accidentally come across their hideout, cache, whatever it was that Mulciber was hunting for, they would probably just kill the poor muggle outright and be done with it. That came with its own risks of discovery, but it took less time.

"No." she said at last. "It's too obvious. Death eaters may not be the brightest lot out there, but they aren't all stupid." She stopped and considered the map again. "That doesn't mean they aren't using it for something else though. It does make a good meeting place. Easy to secure for short intervals, and unless you're inside with them there's no way to listen in."

"So?" Honeywell asked again.

"You know, you could throw in your two knuts worth," Heather said grumpily. Her head was starting to ache.

"I could, but then this wouldn't be as good of a learning opportunity for you." She replied evenly.

"Fine." Heather bit out. "What we need is real information on Mulciber's movements around Little Hangleton. These reports tell us nothing except that he was seen there."

"True."

"I say we take rooms at the local pub here on the high street. If anyone asks, we can say we're sisters looking up old family history or something. That gives us a reason to be poking around a cemetery that looks innocent enough. A few days of wandering around should give us a feeling for the lay of the village. After that, we'll just have to wait until Mulciber shows up.

Honeywell smirked. "So you want us to play muggle for a few days?"

"Why not?" Heather shrugged. "I figure Mulciber isn't paying too close attention to any muggles, and maybe we can pick up some chatter of strange things happening in the pub. We can always use repelling charms on our clothes if we need to, but this way we have something close to a cover without having to try too hard."

Honeywell nodded. "And then?"

"I dunno. I've learned not to try and plan that far in the distance. My plans tend to fall apart pretty quick. We'll just have to play it by ear." Heather said, shrugging again.

Honeywell stood and stretched. Several of her joints popped audibly. "Good, that's two lessons I won't have to worry about teaching you." She held up a finger. "Plan, but don't try and plan too far into the future," she added a second finger, "and know how to fly by the seat of your pants. I'll go chat with Campbell. We take first watch tomorrow. Go home, Potter. Be back here first thing with a few days' worth of muggle clothing and any muggle money you have."

Heather checked her watch as Honeywell stepped out; it was past seven o'clock. That meant that everyone was most likely already at the Wyvern. She knew that she needed to pack and the last thing she needed to be was hungover in the morning, but the prospect of getting back out there had made her giddy.

It had become a fast tradition to go out for a few rounds once or twice a week. Sometimes they'd go to the Leaky Cauldron, but whenever it was Seamus' turn to pick, he always insisted on going back to the Wyvern. While the little pub wasn't her favorite place to go, Heather only joined them on the nights they went there. The Leaky Cauldron was too well trafficked. Someone always spotted her and before long a reporter or two would show up.

To her, and everyone else's, relief, Rita Skeeter had not written an article expressly about Heather since her first ones. She had alluded to Heather in her almost daily articles, written about 'that boy who thinks he's a girl,' but always stopped shy of calling her out by name, either old or new. Other reporters were doing their best to make up for that, however. Relentlessly, both in the morning and evening, the small knot of them would be waiting in the Atrium to try and catch her coming to and going home from work. Her initial cover of hiding in the crowd had long since failed. Now, on the suggestion of Padma, she was trying a different tactic. Every day, regardless of what she wore underneath it, she would always wear Tonk's coat, buttoned up exactly the same way, with her hair in an identical ponytail. She hoped that if their photographs of her were identical from one day to the next, they might just give up trying. It had half worked. Instead, once word had gotten out about her infrequent appearances at the Leaky Cauldron, reporters had started staking out the pub or paying patrons to do it for them. How long it would be before they found out about the Wyvern, she didn't know.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and releasing her hair from the messy bun it had spent the afternoon up in, she set off for the lifts. Ten feet in front of her was Daphne, also on her way out. "Daphne! Wait up," she called. Daphne didn't react but Heather caught up to her while she was waiting for a lift. "Listen, I'm sorry about that crack earlier. I don't know why I said it."

Daphne's eyes remained fived ahead of her on the empty grille. "Because it's true, isn't it. All Slytherins are death eaters, right Potter?" she bit out.

Heather could see her neck muscles spasming with restrained tension. "That's…not what I said," she replied, backpedaling a hair.

"It's what you meant though. I know how you all look at me. The Slytherin traitor."

"Daphne, that's not how any of us see you. In fact, we don't really know what to make of you." Heather said slowly.

"Yeah, and why is that?" She snapped, her body vibrating with restrained energy while her eyes found Heather's.

Heather watched her nervously, fighting the urge to retreat from the icy fire directed at her. Was it possible that Daphne's face was even more drawn that it had been the last time she had looked this closely? "Because for one thing you don't talk to any of us." she answered quietly. "You just keep to yourself."

"What's there to say. I'm a Slytherin. That's all that matters." Daphne turned her head again forward and adjusted the strap of her back on her shoulder.

The lift arrived at that moment, and Daphne lunged forward. Heather stood rooted to the spot, hesitating. At the last moment, just before the grille slammed closed, she threw herself into the lift far less gracefully than she had intended to. Her left shoulder slammed painfully into the wall, and she staggered slightly as the lift began to descend. Daphne was facing away from her, pretending for all the world that she was lone in the lift.

"Listen, none of us care what house you were in at school," Heather said to Daphne's back once she was upright again. "We've all heard about what you did during the Battle, and to us that's all that matters."

"Nice try, Potter." Daphne snorted derisively, still facing away from Heather. "Like I said, it's written on your face what you think of me."

"And what's that then?" Heather asked perplexedly.

Daphne's shoulders quivered again, and her spine slumped the slightest fraction of an inch. "You either see a traitor who betrayed everyone she ever knew, her house, her friends, her parents," Her voice trembled for a half second before she brought it back under control, "whose probably going to betray you too as soon as it's convenient for her, or you see some sad, pathetic little girl who-"

"You aren't pathetic." Heather cut her off without meaning to. "You think that any of us look at the choice you made as weak or convenient? You're right, you turned your back on everything you were raised to believe and did the right thing. If that isn't bravery, then I don't know what is." Her cheeks had flushed, raising the temperature of her face uncomfortably.

"Clearly not as brave as you Gryffindors" Daphne spat out, turning to face Heather.

"Are you kidding? Do you really still think that the characters of our house define us? Not every death eater was a Slytherin, not everyone who fought for our side was a Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw. Peter Pettigrew, you know who he was?" Daphne nodded. "He was one of my dad's best mates at school. He was a Gryffindor. He betrayed them to Voldemort and became a death eater. He was the reason Voldemort returned in the first place. Slughorn, a Slytherin, spent a year running from the death eaters and ended up fighting for our side."
"So, what then?" Daphne asked, sounding almost resentful.

"For Merlin's sake," Heather was trying not to sound exasperated now, "you heard the Sorting Hat's songs our last few years just like I did. Even Dumbledore thought we sorted too early." She let out a long breath to calm herself. "Listen, I know, I'm just as guilty as anyone else of hating Slytherins just for being Slytherins. It's force of habit when a prat named Malfoy makes it his life goal to have you kicked out of school your first week there. Am I working on that? Absolutely. Is it easy? Definitely not. The important thing," she reached out and tentatively rested a hand on Daphne's shoulder, "is that we try. I promise you, not one of us see you as what you think we do."

The lift came to a stop and the grilles opened. Daphne didn't move. Heather had expected her to jerk away at her touch, but she still stood rooted to the spot. Heather could feel her shoulder shaking through her jacket. "So, what do I do now?" Daphne asked. The anger was gone now, replaced by a cold, dead emptiness that mirrored the darkness Heather had seen in her eyes weeks ago.

"You reach out to your friends," she replied, gripping Daphne's shoulder a little tighter.

"Friends?" Daphne asked. "Most everyone I know is in prison or wants nothing to do with an auror."

"Then you make new friends." Heather suggested. "How about you come with me to the Wyvern for a drink. Everyone else is probably there by now."

"I…I don't know if that's a good idea." Daphne stammered, her gaze dropping to her feet.

"Trust me. Give us a chance." When Daphne didn't say anything, Heather added, "First rounds on me."

Daphne looked up and nodded. "Sounds good, Potter."

"You can call me Heather, you know. Potter sounds a bit stuffy."

"Right…Heather." Daphne said as they strode past the Fountain of Magical Brethren and through the Atrium, which was blessedly empty of reporters.

Their arrival at the pub nearly filled the place to bursting. Ron, Seamus, Katie, Neville, Susan, Padma, her twin sister Pavarti, and, to Heather's pleasant surprise, George loudly cheered their entrance, even though several of them were forced to stand up to let them through. Heather acknowledged the noise with a wave, and led Daphne, who looked ready to bolt in terror, up to the bar where she squeezed in as best as she could.

Jugson, the bartender, already had a pint waiting for her and he quickly poured another for Daphne. He had told them his name on their third visit, once he had come to the realization that he wasn't going to be getting rid of them any time soon. They had been instantly suspicious; Heather remembered encountering a death eater named Jugson before but the bartender had sworn up and down that that was his "damned fool of a brother."

None of them were really sure if Jugson liked the fact that his bar had become a regular stop for a half dozen aurors. After all, when you ran a place like this in Knockturn Alley, law enforcement was not your ideal clientele. Heather supposed that since most dark witches and wizards were either in jail or keeping low profiles right now, money was money to the man.

"Put that on my tab," Heather insisted when Jugson set the glass in front of Daphne. Turning to Seamus, who she was quite literally shoulder to shoulder with, she said, "Seamus, this is my new friend Daphne," as though they all hadn't been working together for weeks.

Seamus looked confused but nodded and raised his mug in greeting. "Hello, Daphne."

From Seamus' other side, George, who had somehow maneuvered his way to the bar, piped up. "Hi Daphne, come here often?"

Daphne blinked twice, unsure of what to say. "No," she replied slowly at an encouraging nod from Heather.

"Well then!" said George loudly, shoving Seamus and Heather out of the way as best as he could and pulling Daphne into a one-armed hug, "let me show you the place." He turned her on the spot. After all, there wasn't much to really show her that she couldn't already see. Heather leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Trust me, it's easier to deal with him after a few sips of that." She tapped Daphne's untasted drink with her own glass. Daphne took a sip, almost spat it out, and then looked around at Heather. "How do you drink this stuff?" she asked incredulously.

"Very carefully," interjected George who downed the contents of his glass and loudly called for another. "Now, Daphne, tell me, do you like card tricks?" He led her back towards the seat he had recently abandoned next to Padma.

Heather laughed and knew Daphne would be all right. If anyone could convince her that she was among friends, it would be George. It was just another sign of how far some of them had come in the last month, and how far they still had to go. She made sure to keep a close eye on the two of them while she bragged to Seamus about her new assignment, while making sure to keep the details a close secret. Jugson may not be a death eater himself but having one as a brother meant that he was still to be treated with some suspicion. By the time she had finished her first drink and called for her second, and last of the evening, Daphne was laughing so hard at some unheard story of George's that her beer was slopping down her front.