Walden MacNair was an average-sized man, with below-average intelligence, and subpar magical talent. Which is why it defied explanation that out of all Voldemort's supporters, he would be the one that got away.

Some may have thought that meant he was destined for greatness, but in all actuality, he was destined to always be somebody's lackey. After the Dark Lord fell, he vanished like smoke in a breeze and would not be seen until only recently when the Ministry in Great Britain got word that he had returned to Scotland.

Truth be told, he never planned to return to Great Britain at all. His meager intelligence was at the very least wise enough to warn against it. But the allure of being someone's sycophant was simply too great for him to ignore. And destiny always had a way of placing him right where he needed to be. Which at the moment was in the middle of the drawing room at MacNair Manor.

"We can't stay in Scotland for much longer. We're being watched," Walden informed the broad-shouldered man in front of him.

"This was never meant to be a protracted endeavor," he reminded him ruefully. "We got what we came here for. It should be a matter of a week, no more than two, before the potion's complete and we can return home."

"And if the potion doesn't work?" he inquired with a slight air of nervousness.

"It must work," he replied swiftly. "If anything goes wrong, we both die and I'm not about to let that happen. I've waited far too long for this. You're not having second thoughts, are you Walden?"

"Of course, not," he stammered. "I only know that the Aurors are closing in. And it's only a matter of time before they discover what we came here for."

"Don't be ridiculous!" His face contorted into a scornful grimace. "We turned the place upside down. It would be impossible to determine what's missing from the heap of rubble we left behind. Besides, it's been thousands of years since anyone has even spoken of this. The very idea of it was lost to history right after the fall of the dynasty!" With a throaty chuckle, he added, "You worry too much."

"But how do you know you have the correct combination this time?" he pressed, realizing his inquiries were beginning to border on insubordination.

The tall but portly man began to pace, stopping to examine the scattered ingredients laid out on the table. "I've dedicated my entire life to discovering its properties. Countless hours I've spent researching and examining." He picked up one of the sprigs of mistletoe berries and lazily twirled it in his fingers, looking up to search MacNair's face for comprehension. "Besides, these are the ingredients the witch used." There was a resolute finality to his declaration.

Feeling slightly more emboldened by his counterpart's confidence, MacNair flashed him a wide smile, showcasing his grossly decaying teeth. Like a devious lynx eyeing its prey, he slinked over to the table and deeply inhaled the sweet, wafting odor of the bubbling potion, each breath leaving little doubt that success was closer than ever.