O
IAPETUS
Mortality
James sent Hope a Wiznote that same afternoon, not long after Lily had left.
Prank war 100% called off Pal. I owe you several pizzas. Thanks for being honest with me, I needed it. Think Al and I will be OK going forward but if you see me acting like an ass again, permission to give me a Ur-In-Trouble every day til I get the message. X
Hope smiled on reading this, relieved that James had handled the situation well in the end and that the veiled animosity that had festered between him and Al for so long may finally be on the way out.
Albus also told Ron, Hermione and Rosie, and decided to let the news spread through the Weasley family from there. Hermione had been delighted, Rose happy that Albus wasn't with "another vile cow like Natalie," and Ron, most surprisingly of all, had said with sincerity that he revoked what he had said about Scorpius all those years ago, and wouldn't mind too much if he became part of the family. At which point Albus had gone scarlet and Hermione had given Ron a smack round the head for being inappropriate.
"I'm so happy for them both," Hope said with contentment on Christmas Eve, when the subject was broached in their own home. "It'll be much nicer for them now we all know about it."
Teddy murmured his agreement. Andromeda cleared her throat in the way she often did when she was refraining from saying exactly what was on her mind and Tonks looked over at her sharply.
"Mum, don't tell me you, of all people, have a problem with this?"
"I would have thought you knew me better than that by now," Andromeda sniffed. "I don't have an issue with either Scorpius or Albus - both charming young men and I'm delighted they're happy - but has anyone given a second's thought to how Lucius Malfoy is going to react when the news reaches him?"
There was a silence at this.
"Narcissa has no idea either and I don't plan on telling her," Andromeda continued. "But there's a storm brewing there, I can tell you!"
oOo
January
With the excitement of Christmas over and done with, Hope decided to start her research on William Bulstrode in the hope that it might point to his relation to Marcus Flint and Flint's potential involvement in The Surge. Her initial hunt did not prove enormously successful, as there seemed to be little public information about Bulstrode available. After much reading she discovered that William Bulstrode was in fact an inventor. Not just an inventor, but the one Louis had talked about over the summer, the man who had invented the recyclator. A paragraph in Richest Wizards of the Age also confirmed what Louis had told them at the time - the man had made millions from his invention. Hope already knew that those millions now belonged to the Flint family.
While interesting, this didn't tell her much about his criminal activity, and she turned to books about The Surge instead. She consulted Darkest Wizarding Events of the Twenty-First Century, which mentioned him briefly as a key player in The Surge, alongside the names Theodore Nott, Earnest Mulciber, Cornelia Jugson and Blaise Zabini, but as she had read the book in detail before, she did not discover anything new from it. Motives of Evil mentioned the same names in connection with The Surge, but the content appeared to be speculation rather than fact. The Surge Untangled had seemed like a promising start, but it turned out to be a regurgitation of facts that Hope knew already. She did learn in addition that Bulstrode's own house had been used for headquarters for The Surge - this was the building that had been obliterated in the final explosion, apparently the result of an accident with the substances he experimented with in the first place.
With no immediate access to the Hogwarts library, Hope began to probe more localised sources of knowledge. She had been sure that someone in the family would remember Bulstrode from school. Born in March 1975 meant his Hogwarts years had overlapped with every single member of the Weasley family and her own mother. Most annoyingly, no one she asked could account for him. He had left school by the time of her father's teaching year. Her mother, born in 1973, didn't remember him. Bill, even older, didn't either. Percy, who would have been in the year below, told Hope rather pompously that Bulstrode definitely hadn't been a prefect (and that was likely why he didn't remember him). Angelina asked if she meant Millicent Bulstrode, a vile Slytherin girl who had been temporarily suspended several times for aggression and violence, and whose parents had been in Voldemort's circle during the war. The link wasn't surprising, but no, Hope told Angelina. Definitely William. She had not yet got around to finding a way of casually asking asking Harry, Hermione, Ron or Ginny, but as they were even younger, she was not expecting much from them either.
Knowing that her research may all be fruitless, Hope tried to prioritise her Carlos Institute essay instead. The books Scorpius had leant her were proving invaluable, and Hope read them carefully, noting down all relevant points and becoming more motivated with each paragraph she wrote. Having initially been floundering for what to say, it seemed now that the hardest part would be keeping the essay to only one thousand words. There were a myriad of reasons why it would be fascinating to live in and explore the Spanish capital, and with every passing day, she began to feel more hopeful that this course was the right way forward for her.
"What are you reading?" Michael enquired, coming into The Leaky Cauldron kitchen one lunchtime while she was on a break.
She showed him the cover of Spirits of Spain, and he appeared intrigued.
"Cool - why the interest in Spain? You had a book on Madrid the other day."
Hope hesitated for a fraction of a second. She hadn't yet told anyone about her potential application. She wanted to be sure first. Sure that she was going to apply before telling her parents, Teddy, Dom or Roxanne that she was planning on going away. Sure that she had faith in her application before showing it to anyone else. And above all, sure that her friends wouldn't laugh in her face when she told them she was applying to do further study, after her abysmal OWL and NEWT grades.
But this was Michael, and for all he made her laugh, he had yet to laugh at her for anything. He hadn't made fun of her when the butterbeer keg had exploded in her face during her first week at work, nor when she had tripped on the uneven pub floor and fallen flat on her face (twice), and not even back in December at the unfortunate Ur-In-Trouble incident. He definitely wouldn't laugh at her for this, and so she explained about the course she wanted to apply for and the essay requirements.
"It sounds brilliant," Michael told her. "I knew Carlos ran some courses, but I didn't realise it was that varied. If you want me to proof read your essay when it's done, give me a shout."
"I might take you up on that actually."
"Yeah no problem. Do you speak Spanish?" he added.
"Um. Si...?" She grimaced. "I'll work on it. The course I'm applying for is in English, but I'll need Spanish to get around. I refuse to be one of those people who expect the rest of the world to speak their own language."
"You could always use a translation charm," Michael suggested.
"Isn't that cheating?"
A call came from the bar as he was pondering this.
"Michael!"
"Sounds like Beth to me," Hope laughed. "I'll come out, my break's definitely over."
It was indeed Beth Fitzpatrick, passing through after a shopping trip, as she was laden down with woven tote bags full of purchases.
"I need your help," she implored Michael.
"Yeah?"
"Picking an outfit. I have a date tonight."
"You have a million and one female friends and you want my advice on what to wear?"
"They're all busy."
"Oh of course. Meanwhile, I'm standing here behind a bar all day for no reason at all."
Hope, who had been watching their exchange with a grin, was distracted by a grunt to her left.
"'Scuse me love? Three meads and a gillywater?"
The smile turned false and sickly. One of the elements she didn't appreciate so much about working here. 'Love' was OK when it was Mum or Dad. Or close family friends. Or someone like Hestia with her motherly instincts. Not a strange man who had never spoken to her before. She dealt with the order as fast as she could and turned back to listen to Beth and Michael's conversation.
"I think they're all nice," Michael was saying. Beth was waving her wand in a circular motion to keep the three outfits rotating. She stopped, dressed in a navy blue dress with red dots on it and looked at him with indignation.
"Nice? Those steamed carrots you serve here are 'nice', and they're probably the most boring item on your menu."
"Look Beth, in my wardrobe I have two cloaks, a set of dress robes, three shirts, and the rest is jeans, T-shirts and jumpers. I don't do fashion. Why don't you ask Hope?"
"Hope!" Beth turned to her eagerly. "Yes, you always have good taste!"
"I'm not sure about that," Hope mumbled, but she came forward all the same. Beth twirled her wand to show off the outfits again and Hope took them all in.
"I think you should go with the dress," she concluded. "It covers the biggest range of situations. Like, you could wear it to a party or on a casual day out. But if you're going somewhere more relaxed, the dungarees are cool too. The trousers look good but they won't be comfortable if you're going out to eat, not with the high waste."
"Didn't think of that." Beth looked pointedly over at Michael. "Very helpful input, thank you."
He merely shook his head in amusement and turned to serve the woman who had approached the bar. Beth addressed Hope again.
"Have you played quidditch at all since school?"
"Oh. No. Have you?"
"Yeah, in the Southern England local league. There are loads of teams in it - you should think about joining one!"
"I didn't know there was a local league." Now Hope thought about it, there had to be some quidditch options in between Hogwarts and playing at professional level. Witches and wizards with everyday jobs and average flying ability would still would want to partake in the most popular sport in their world.
"Here, I'll note some down for you." Beth grabbed a plain muggle pen and scrap of paper from her bag. "So I play for Hampshire Horklumps - I know, crap name and I wouldn't advise joining us to be honest, as much as I'd love to play with you rather than against you for once. The coach is a wanker. I'm only sticking around because it looks like he might leave and then I can take over. But Solent Suns, Devon Fiendfyre, Wiltshire Warlocks... They'd be much better shouts. They're a good level and they seem like a friendly bunch too. The play is scrappy, just to warn you. Nothing like school. But it's still good fun. Do NOT-" she underlined not several times "-go to Gloucester Storm, whatever you do - their coach is worse than mine. Here!" She thrust the note into Hope's hand. "You have to play again. You're way too good to give it up."
"Um. Thanks. Maybe," Hope said, reeling slightly from the onslaught. "I do work a lot of evenings though. I don't know if I'd be able to commit to training."
"Surely your shifts can be flexible!" Beth looked up at Michael who nodded, eyes cautious, evidently more aware of Hope's reluctance than his friend was.
"If you want them to be," he told Hope.
"See!"
"OK." Hope knew that Beth's intentions were genuine, but she was still feeling overwhelmed. "Maybe. I'll think about it."
"Sweet. I'd better go. Thanks for the outfit advice."
Hope felt exhausted as Beth grabbed her bags and swirled out of the pub with the force of a small hurricane.
"You've been Beth'ed," Michael said matter-of-factly.
"Does she always have that much energy?"
"Oh yes. I'd say that was her on medium setting." He fell silent, watching her. Hope was turning the scrap of paper over in her hand.
"Mum could easily work your hours around quidditch training," he said. "If you did want to play."
Somewhere inside, Hope knew a longing to fly again, to feel the wind in her hair, to experience that adrenalin that only came from accelerating towards an opponent or chasing down the quaffle. It was buried deep. Too deep to unearth at the present moment. She put the paper in the back pocket of her trousers.
"Maybe," she said, yet again. "I'll think about it."
oOo
February
Hope had all but given up trying to find out about William Bulstrode, when a further piece of information piqued her interest during one late shift at work. After a slower than average afternoon, and an even quieter evening, their only company now was Neville, who had slipped down from Hogwarts for some midweek relief from the students. Hope had been surprised at first to find that Neville did this a lot, but then, she reasoned, why on earth would the teachers stay at school all the time if they had an evening off? They would need to see their families sometimes too.
They were thinking about closing up early when a tall, thickset man entered the pub. He had dark hair, a heavy-jawed face and a grumpy expression, and gave them a surly nod before passing through to the entrance to Diagon Alley without a word. Neville scowled after him.
"Who was that?" Hope muttered. "He didn't seem very friendly."
Michael shot her a strange look.
"That was Marcus Flint. Cadmus and Morella's dad."
Hope felt the physical manifestations of shock crash over her face while Michael remained confused.
"I thought you'd have known," he said. "You were with Cadmus for ages."
"I never met his dad," Hope mumbled. "I avoided going to his house if I knew he was going to be in. I never saw a photo or anything."
Neville was still glaring at the door, face thunderous.
"Dad hates him," Michael said, suppressing a grin.
"So do my parents."
"With good reason," Neville muttered, reaching over to top up his pint glass. "Scum of the earth. As if he isn't going straight through to The Quintaped right now." The Quintaped was the dirtiest, grimiest pub in Knockturn alley, notorious for rough dealings and sketchy activity.
"Dad knew him at school," Michael explained, seeing Hope's curious look. "His friends and family were all Voldemort supporters, muggle haters and pureblood maniacs. Apparently there's no way Flint has really renounced the old ways."
Neville confirmed this with a grunt. "He's been clever at hiding it, that's all. His whole school gang were either imprisoned after the war, or they've landed themselves in Azkaban since. Somehow he has not."
Interesting. Very interesting.
"Except for the Malfoys," Neville added quickly, giving Hope a concessionary nod. "I'll admit that much - Draco and Astoria are decent these days and Scorpius is lovely. The rest of Flint's little group, however." He scowled and reeled them off on his fingers. "You've got Adrian Pucey, done for Manslaugher. Murder more likely. Darius Crabbe for GBH. Urquhart, Gamp and Ravencroft are also in Azkaban for various aggression-related reasons. Zabini was murdered after The Surge - some suspect he was behind the 'anonymous' tip off to the Ministry and this was a revenge kill, because his name didn't get mentioned on the tip off and he definitely was guilty of muggle killings. Then there's Nott, who got himself blown up in the final explosion."
"Nott?" Hope felt a further leap of curiosity at this. "Theodore Nott, you mean?"
"That's the one."
"He was friends with Flint at school?"
"Yes." Neville appeared surprised at her sudden interest. "Very old pals, those two. Why?"
"No reason," Hope said hastily. "I was reading up on The Surge recently and saw his name come up a few times."
The suspicious area of her mind had been kick started into gear again. Theodore Nott. Another link to The Surge. A man whose family had always been associated with the Dark Arts, according to Lily. A man who others had thought respectable and decent with a high up job in the Ministry before his involvement in The Surge had been discovered. A man who, it turned out, had been very old pals with Flint. Neville had confirmed and emphasised what Hope had been thinking for weeks now. If close contacts of Flint had played a role in the deadly events, surely he had as well.
O
This revelation, while intriguing, still wasn't a step forward, and two days later, having turned Neville's words over and over in her head and reread books she had consulted multiple times before, Hope was on the verge of giving up again, when a new idea came to her.
"Charlie and Alex have come to visit," Dom informed Hope, as she reluctantly gave up on both her personal research and editing Madrid essay for the night and came out into the living room to sit by the radio with her friends. "We're invited for lunch on Sunday. Are you free?"
Hope agreed at once and smiled fondly at the thought of seeing the two of them, remembering their kind words when she had told them about giving up quidditch. And Dot would be happy to see Alex again too-
Alex. How had she not thought of him before? Alex had attended Hogwarts. He was younger than Charlie, who had been in her mother's school year. But he was older, she thought, than Percy. Which meant-
"How old is Alex?" she said out loud.
Dom, concentrating on a competition that was being announced over the wireless, shrugged.
"Roughly?"
Roxanne, clearly bewildered, thought for a moment nevertheless. "Um. His fortieth was the around the time of their wedding, wasn't it? Didn't they celebrate it at the same time?"
"That was when I had Knarl Flu, so 2015," Dom chipped in.
Hope did a quick calculation. Born in July 1975. If that was accurate, it would put Alex in the same academic year as William Bulstrode.
O
"You mean Bill Bulstrode?" Alex said, when she had a chance to get him on his own at the weekend and pose the question. "Yeah, absolutely, I shared a dormitory with him."
"You shared a dormitory?" Hope repeated in surprise. "You mean he was in Ravenclaw?"
"Yes. Unsurprising with a brain like his, really."
Guilt squirmed in Hope's midriff. She had been assuming that Bulstrode had been a Slytherin. But not all Slytherins were evil, as Roxanne liked to repeat over and over, and not all those who turned out evil had been in Slytherin. She should know that too, having heard the story of Peter Pettigrew multiple times.
"Why do you ask?" Alex enquired.
"I read about him recently and I was wondering what he was like? At school. Before - you know - The Surge."
Alex chewed his lip in thought.
"He was alright back then. I would say we were friends, even. We got thrown together as the two oddballs of our year group."
"You're not an oddball," Hope objected, and Alex's eyes crinkled in amusement.
"We're all oddballs in this family, Hope." He winked to show he was joking, before his expression became more serious. "I spoke differently from the other boys. I dressed differently. I was the only muggleborn of our dormitory. I wasn't as clever as the others, either. Slytherin gets a bad rap at Hogwarts, but I would say Ravenclaw is just as bad in a different way. It's a cut throat place to be when you don't fit in."
Hope had to swallow hard to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat, as memories of her own school years swirled through her mind, and she hastily pressed on.
"So William Bulstrode - did he not fit in?"
Alex contemplated this.
"He wasn't a sociable person," he said. "Very quiet, kept himself to himself. No interest in the things that bonded the rest of the boys, like quidditch or duelling. And he had some health problems. Sadly, this made him the odd one out, even more than me. He was insanely intelligent though, so he fitted the Ravenclaw mould in that way. He became an inventor."
"Yes! I know he invented the recyclator."
"That was his biggest invention," Alex confirmed. "There were a few others too. His work would be enough to make most wizards a household name, but he didn't want the fame, or any of that. Led a frugal life after school, from what I could tell. That's how I ended up getting in contact with him after the war, though. I was abroad but saw his name mentioned in a paper and got in touch. He was pleased to hear that I was alive and so we corresponded for several years after that. I thought at first the letters fizzled out, as friendship often does - I didn't realise until much later that he got himself mixed up and killed in The Surge. I was in Romania already by that point and the news didn't reach me over there."
"Do you - do you remember anything he said? In his letters?"
"Not a great deal," Alex said, stroking Dot with a thoughtful expression. She had indeed been delighted to see Alex again and was perched on his wrist. "It was mostly general life chat. I know he made a heck of a lot of money, but he never spoke about that. He lived in a small cottage up in central Scotland. Didn't seem to want much else. Think he might have had a girlfriend at one point."
Hope tried to mask her instant excitement on hearing this.
"Did he say much about her?"
Alex screwed up his eyes then shook his head regretfully.
"I'm really sorry, Hope. I don't remember. This was a long time ago now."
"Yeah, of course. Don't worry. That's OK."
The disappointment must have shown on her face, and Alex continued hastily. "The letters are probably at Mum's house somewhere. I kept them and she doesn't throw anything out. I can have a hunt for them when I see her this week if it's important to you?"
O
Don't get excited, Hope reminded herself later that evening. The letters might have nothing of use in them. Alex might forget. His mother might have thrown them away after all. And there might be nothing amiss at all. To keep her mind off the subject of William Bulstrode, she forced herself to work on her Carlos essay instead over the next couple of days and, with slight trepidation, asked Michael to look over it on the Wednesday. Her old sense of pride and stubbornness to do it alone was still strong, but on the other hand he had offered his help and she would be well placed to accept it. Accepting help had proved the best course of action in recent months.
"It's great." Michael looked up from his lunch and indicated the scroll of parchment. "Really good. Detailed and original. You can tell you've done proper research."
Hope glanced at her watch.
"You've read it already? I swear I was only gone a few minutes."
"I read fast! And it's only a thousand words. I'll go through it again tonight and annotate it for you, check for spelling mistakes and there are maybe a few sentences I would add, or word differently. I don't think you need to worry though, the content has to be what they are looking for. They'd be stupid not to offer you a place."
Hope felt a warm glow in her chest.
"Thanks Michael. I appreciate it."
"Course. Any time. What else have you got to do for it?"
Hope thought back to the requirements.
"There's a massive application form that I haven't started yet, but I think it's straightforward enough. And I need to get a couple of references."
At this, her heart sank a little. She still wasn't sure who she was going to ask for those. Hannah would be happy to provide a character reference, she was sure, but she had also been toying with the idea of asking Neville for an academic one, and it might not be the best idea to have the Longbottoms do both. Flitwick, while retired, was another option. She balked at the idea of approaching Edgecombe, although as her most recent head of house, she was the most appropriate teacher to ask.
Thankfully, a customer at the bar distracted her from this predicament for now. She had until April to figure it out. And later that evening, a quick note from Alex drove the thought of applications from her mind entirely.
Found those letters. You free to meet tomorrow at all? It's our last day before we go back.
O
"There you go." Alex handed her a stack of folded parchment and envelopes wrapped in string. "Look through whatever you want, there's nothing private about me in them, and Bill's too far gone to complain."
As Hope reached out to take them, a handsome birthday card fell to the floor, which she admired as she bent down to retrieve it. The front held a clever drawing of an eagle constructed entirely out of tiny isometric shapes. The bird flapped its wings and ruffled its feathers.
"Wow. This is cool."
"I know." Alex reached out to examine it himself. "He did a lot of drawings like that, even when we were at school. I can't draw a stick man, let alone a geometric figure like that and get it to move, so I stuck to shop bought cards if I ever sent him one in return!"
Even within the letters themselves, there were little moving diagrams, all constructed in the same way. Tiny butterflies, bees and birds darted here and there, clouds drifting across the parchment, leaves fluttered as if in the wind. Hope skimmed the neat lines of text, which mostly contained generic discussion of life events as Alex had implied. Bulstrode did not appear to speak of the inventions he was working on, but he always let Alex know if a new one had been patented and approved.
Aha. Here was something, in a letter from late 2001.
….met someone. I won't tell you her name - we are keeping our relationship private at her request as she is afraid that those close to her wouldn't approve. Her mother and sister were killed by Bulstrodes during the war. Nothing to do with my close family, of course, but I can't imagine that would be of consolation to her poor father. We are happy together, and it makes no difference to me who knows or otherwise….
That must be Edgecombe he was referring to, and would explain why they had kept the relationship so secret, Hope supposed. She shuffled through some more letters, skimming through questions about work, life, Alex's travels in Europe, more talk of inventions.
Another paragraph, presumably about Edgecombe too, caught her eye.
…are going well with her, yes. Thank you for asking. It has not always been easy, I admit. You will remember how much I struggle with others in my personal space. And while I have come to love her presence in my home, I cannot let her into my world of work. She finds it difficult that I won't speak to her of my inventions, or let her see what I'm working on until it is finished and approved, but I am hoping that one day she will understand…
"What does he mean here?" Hope asked. "About struggling with people in his space?"
Alex appeared saddened as he took in the paragraph. "I think I told you the other day he had some health issues," he sighed. "He often got upset, or panicked, or had strange moods, and it was particularly bad if other students invaded his privacy or personal space when he didn't want them to. He used to describe it as claustrophobia, at school, but it seemed to be more than that. I think he actually sought medical advice in later years though, he might even mention it in one of the letters."
Hope found the information in question minutes later.
...she convinced me that it would be a good idea to get a medical consultation, as it has not improved in recent years. And after many intense questions and rounds of tests, the healers concluded that I have Anxiety. Apparently that is the official term. What a strangely simplistic way of describing the many ups and downs I have experienced over the years, but it is a relief, I suppose, to know that there is an explanation for them at all. I have received medication too - a potion to take when the symptoms become overwhelming, although I am not sure how much I will use it. The side effects are numerous and unpleasant. And that is the best they can do. For now. There is no spell or incantation that can cure it. How odd, after everything our world has invented - after what I have invented myself - that there is no fix for something so apparently simple as this. All in all, I am well, though, so there is no need to worry. Happier than I have been in a long time, and my work continues to progress...
Alex read this letter too. "Yes, so that was in 2003," he said, glancing at the date at the top of the page. "We started school in '86, and he wasn't well even back then. Today they might deal with such issues sensitively at Hogwarts - at the time he just had to deal with it."
"So what happened?"
Alex spread his hands helplessly.
"You spent seven years at Hogwarts. You know what those dormitories are like. Privacy doesn't exist, nor does personal space. The other boys knew what buttons to push and they didn't hold back. They would go through his trunk, mess up his clothes, close the hangings round him in the night or poke him awake, just for the sake of it." Alex winced. "It was awful. Really bloody awful. It did stop in later years, and I was never involved. I think that's why we became closer - I was the only one he trusted."
Feeling morose at the thought of this poor bullied, young boy, Hope checked herself. Bulstrode had been evil, she reminded herself. He had murdered innocent muggles and wizards, not to mention left Marietta Edgecombe to suffer alone in hospital after a terrible ordeal. And yet-
"He doesn't seem like someone who would plot against muggles," Hope said, reading William's first letter to Alex, which expressed relief that he had survived the war. "I mean, he sounds like a genuinely nice person. And you're muggleborn and you were clearly his friend at the time. Yet not long after he gets convicted of mass muggle killings?"
"I know," Alex sighed. "I've struggled to come to terms with it myself, believe me. But people change. Or they can hide the person they really are."
True, Hope thought, thinking of Peter Pettigrew again.
"Our last year at school was when the Chamber of Secrets was opened," Alex added. "He was even more quiet and withdrawn than usual that year, and I always thought he was worried about the Heir of Slytherin, but looking back, perhaps it was the reverse. Perhaps it gave him ideas for the future."
Hope contemplated this. It was certainly a possibility. Through her family's close connection to the fight against the Dark Arts she had learnt that not everyone was able to resist their tenebrous intrigue.
"Can I ask why you're so interested?" Alex enquired.
"Oh, a few reasons," Hope said vaguely. "Sorry, I know I'm asking weird questions."
"To be honest Hope, after fifteen years of being an honorary Weasley, I'm accustomed to weird questions."
She returned his grin without meeting his eye, because she had seen a sentence that had to be significant. Somehow.
"... I'm so sorry to hear about your brother, but what a relief he is on the mend. Reading your letter made me realise that I should make more effort to repair my relationship with my sister. Family is so important, and she is my only remaining close relative…"
His sister would be Cynthia Flint. Cadmus and Morella's mother. The nondescript, mousy woman she had met on occasion the previous summer.
"What happened to your brother?" she asked first.
"Nasty strain of Dragon Pox," Alex said. "He was ill for months, but he recovered in the end and he's still going strong. That's how I ended up researching dragons and how I met Charlie. It's funny how life works out sometimes."
"Aw!" Hope smiled on hearing this then glanced down at the letter again, rereading the three sentences. Repair my relationship with my sister.
"Do you know why he needed to reach out to his sister?"
"Afraid not. I met her a couple of times at school but she was in Slytherin and spent a lot of time in her own common room. I know Bill worried about her, but I've no idea why. He didn't often mention her to me."
"And did they ever make up?"
"No idea," Alex said. "That was the last letter I ever got from him."
"What?"
Hope took in the date. July 2005. Sure enough, the letters at the bottom of the pile were old ones that had fallen out of order.
"You never heard from him again?"
"No, but we didn't correspond that often, as you can see, and he died in December of that year."
Hope's mind was racing over the dates presented to her. William's last letter to Alex had been in July 2005. A month before her own birth. In August, Marietta Edgecombe had spent time in hospital, alone. Four months later, William had been killed himself. Had he tried to connect with his sister and been caught up with her husband, Marcus Flint, in the process? Had he been coerced into working on The Surge? Imperioused, maybe? It might explain his apparent change of character. But if that were the case there surely must have been some evidence for it at his trial. More likely than not, he had always been evil, biding his time until the right moment came along, and Hope's research was pointless.
There was nothing else in the letters that appeared useful. It seemed she had met another dead end. All the same...
"I couldn't borrow these, could I? For a bit? I'll be extra careful with them, I promise."
"Sure. I'm not going to be using them in Romania. Speaking of Romania." Alex glanced at his watch. "I'd better get back. We're off tomorrow and there's not a chance in hell that Charlie will have started packing. It was lovely to see you," he said, getting up and giving her a one armed hug. "Weird questions and all. And think about going back to quidditch, won't you? I know how much you used to love it. Local league sounds like it could be a good place to start back up again."
"Yeah. I will. I'll think about it. Thanks Alex."
Dot's fur drooped as Alex disappeared through the floo.
"You've still got me," Hope reminded her sternly. "And if you could be that affectionate with my other friends it would be appreciated." The pygmy puff snuggled into her pocket with contrition as Hope carefully stacked up the letters in order of date written, determined to consult them again the next day.
O
Hope combed through the letters that evening and multiple times in the days that followed, but it did seem that she had extracted all the useful information from them already. William didn't come across as an evil person, but as Alex said, people could change, and in any case, it was easier to cover up one's true nature over written correspondence. Maybe it had been a ploy, in the hope that if he were caught, the letters could be used to convince officials of his innocence. He wouldn't have planned to die in The Surge, that much was certain. He must have hoped that if worse came to worst, he would be able to defend himself at his trial.
After several rereads of the letters with no helpful discoveries, Hope decided the time had come to approach Hermione. Hermione had been the one to tell her about Bulstrode initially, she had worked on the enquiries relating to The Surge, and if anyone was going to provide helpful insight, it was surely going to be the recently appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with her detailed memory and first hand knowledge of legal processes and dark events.
Unwilling to divulge the true reason behind her questions, Hope planned a cover story with as much truth as possible, pretending that she trying to keep up academic momentum until she decided on a permanent career, and was currently doing her own little research project on The Surge. She had wondered if Hermione may find this notion suspicious in itself, however Hermione's face lit up at the mere mention of personal research. Hope supposed the instinct to study was so ingrained into her own nature that she could not find it odd if others wanted to do the same.
She began with some generic questions which she knew the answers to, hoping to pave a natural progression to the subjects she wanted to discuss. Ron came in halfway through the conversation and sat down to listen as well, as Hermione talked Hope through some of the main points and she jotted down notes so as to appear serious about the project.
"What made Kingsley suspect magical input?" she asked.
"Several of the wizards killed were active pro-muggle rights campaigners and that seemed suspicious to him," Hermione said. "Then an unignited trail of Detonation Draught was found near the scene of the underground explosion attack - that was a mistake from Cornelia Jugson's end, and thank goodness she made it, because the attack would have been ten times worse otherwise."
Hope had read about this semi-successful attempt at blowing up a tube station in The Surge Untangled. It was still the deadliest of all individual Surge attacks, having claimed twenty-five muggle lives and caused dozens more injuries, however the intention had been for the entire station to be obliterated. Jugson had set off two trails of Detonation Draught with the aim of them detonating at the same time, but had made the mistake of knocking a fallen stone across one of the trails before igniting it. This had caused the trail to be extinguished before the flame reached its end point, and the explosion, while tragic, had not been as disastrous as intended. Hope also knew that Jugson had met her own sticky end, having died with Bulstrode in The Final Surge.
Hope's heartrate accelerated as she came closer to the real reason for her visit. "Can I ask about some of the convicted too?" she said, trying to remain casual. "And how you knew they were guilty?"
"Of course," Hermione said. "Who do you want to know about?"
"Um. William Bulstrode, for one. I know he died in the explosion."
"Bulstrode..." Hermione thought for a moment. Hope wondered if she remembered their conversation about Edgecombe and Bulstrode the previous year, but she made no hint that this was the case.
"Bulstrode's case was clear cut," Hermione said at last. "He owned the house that was used for headquarters and as you say - he was killed when it was blown up. Nearly everyone we interviewed confirmed under Veritaserum that Bulstrode was orchestrating the plan for the final attack in London, the one that was foiled before it happened, but he was likely involved right from the start. The conception of The Surge was never pinned on one person, you see. It was a collaboration of ideas from a few individuals, and Bulstrode was one of them."
"And how do you know - with those sort of cases - that the person in question hasn't been Imperioused?"
Hermione took a sip of her drink, eyes still sharp.
"Are you asking me if Bulstrode could have been Imperioused?"
"Err-" Hope should have known that pulling the wool over Hermione's eyes wasn't going to be simple. "Yes, I suppose I am."
"It's a fair question," Hermione conceded. "We always consider the possibility in cases like this, when the accused is no longer alive to speak in their own defence. We have to. But with Bulstrode there was no sign that he was acting on any impulse other than his own. Many spoke against him during the post Surge trials, no one came forward in his defence and the version of events we were given tallied up with his involvement. Nearly all the wands of those arrested were seized and stripped down too, with a record made of every curse the wands had performed. Plenty of disturbing activity was unearthed there, but unforgiveables lost popularity with dark wizards after the war, and there was no trace of an Imperious curse having been cast by any of those we convicted. If Bulstrode was controlled by someone else, the culprit did an exceptionally thorough job of it, and there is no evidence as to who it was."
"OK." Hope had to admit this sounded pretty ironclad, and moved on. "What about Theodore Nott. What role did he play?"
Ron's face twisted unpleasantly at this, but Hermione's expression remained impassive.
"Nott died alongside Bulstrode in the explosion," she said. "He worked at the Ministry back then - Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Substances. We know from the testimony of those still alive that he played a crucial role in the attacks, although he was a secretive man and with him dead we have no way of knowing the full extent of his actions. His injuries from The Final Surge were appalling. It took a full day to identify him."
"He was a stringy little git and he deserved all he got," Ron put in.
"Ron."
"He was and he did."
"I know, but there's no need for that."
"You knew him at school?" Hope asked, as Hermione turned back to her with an apologetic look.
"He was in our year," Hermione said. "He was a nasty piece of work - exceptionally intelligent though. He went back to Hogwarts after the war to do his NEWTs like I did. His father was a Death Eater but his own record was pristine all through school and afterwards. He flew up the Ministry ladder, gained a network of contacts and once at the top used it all to his advantage. His access to unlimited Polyjuice potion was especially useful to him - his cronies were running around London for months disguised as different muggles causing havoc. I'm guessing you've heard of the Lewisham poisonings? That was Zabini's work, but the poisons were supplied by Nott."
Hope did indeed know about the Lewisham poisonings, in which fifteen muggles had succumbed to agonising and gruesome deaths over the course of a single weekend. Muggles had pinned the incident on a spill of odourless toxic gas and it had only been later, during Kinglsey's investigations, that the Ministry had discovered the role of magical poisons.
"No one noticed him stealing those potions?"
"Polyjuice potion comes under the category of Ministry Regulated," Hermione explained. "So do most poisons. And - conveniently for him - Nott was the regulator."
Interesting. Hope scribbled all this down in her notes. Should she ask about Flint too? It would seem odd, but from the meaningful looks Ron and Hermione had been sharing since the start of the conversation, they seemed to think she was off her head anyway. Why not go for it while the subject was open?
"Can I also ask about - about Marcus Flint?"
At this, Hermione's composure did slip.
"Why do you ask about Flint?" she said, recovering at once but regarding Hope shrewdly over the table. Ron's eyes were also narrowed.
"I know that Bulstrode was his brother-in-law and Nott was his friend at school."
"How do you know that?" Ron demanded.
"Just do." Hope shrugged. Then, feeling bold enough for a cheeky comment. "I find out things. Like you guys did when you were teenagers."
"Yes," Hermione acknowledged, as Ron bit back a reluctant grin. "You are right. Flint had known connections to Bulstrode and Nott, and for that reason he has long been suspected of complicity in The Surge. We do have some evidence that points to contact with Nott in the run up to The Final Surge - witnesses who saw them in Knockturn Alley together on multiple occasions - but there was nothing else we could pin on him. Nothing. He was questioned thoroughly as well at the time."
"Under Veritaserum?" Hope persisted. "Like the others?"
"Well. Yes," Hermione said slowly. "First stage Veritaserum, at least. I should explain how the control of Veritaserum works," she added, in the face of Hope's blank expression. "Ever since legislation passed after the war, Veritaserum interviews have to be conducted over two stages. During stage one interviews, the questions have to be closed, relevant and approved by the Department of Magical Law as being pertinent to the case."
"Why?"
"It helps with compliance," Hermione said. "Veritaserum, believe it or not, is one of the most feared potions in our world, because everybody has secrets to hide, however small or insignificant. Imagine going to the Ministry and knowing that you could be slipped a few drops of truth serum and questioned on whatever came to mind for the person in charge on the day."
Hope recoiled involuntarily at the thought and Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You see. Studies have shown that the tightened regulations, and subsequent publication of these regulations, have done a world of good, and witnesses are far more likely to come forward. Of course, if there is strong supporting evidence or if the initial interview raises suspicion, we proceed to stage two - open and detailed questions - so it does not prevent us from picking up on those who are guilty or those we need detailed accounts from."
Now that Hermione had explained this, Veritaserum regulation did sound vaguely familiar to Hope. She must have read it somewhere before.
"But for Flint," she said. "You only did a stage one interview?"
Hermione confirmed this with a brief nod. "We had no authority to proceed further with Flint. His answers did not arouse suspicions and there was no other evidence that pointed to criminal activity throughout The Surge."
"What questions would he have been asked?"
"I don't remember the exact ones, but likely: did he play a role in The Surge; did he have information on anyone who was; was he guilty of muggle killings... Questions like that. All his answers were negative. I do seem to remember that he complied with all further enquiries of his own volition and had nothing of use to offer us."
Complied with all enquiries. Hope had read that exact sentence in a newspaper article about him. An article dated 5th February 2012. What had she later found out? That he had forced his six-year-old son to witness the death of another little boy. A muggle boy who could have been saved by a simple flick of the wand. Innocent, Flint was not.
"Could he have found a way to get around the Veritaserum?" she continued doggedly. "To stop him having a stage two interview? Could Flint have been guilty too and managed to cover it up."
"In theory, I supposed anything is possible," Hermione agreed, after another bewildered glance at Ron. "But duping Veritaserum in a controlled Ministry setting would be unbelievably complex-"
"-and Flint is thick as pig shit," Ron finished for her. "Harry always reckoned he was part troll."
"Ron, really."
Even while she laughed, Hope digested this latest piece of information. Ron was saying that Flint was stupid. But Neville had said that he had been clever in hiding his deceptions. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as people thought. Or had he received help from an "old pal", one who Hermione Weasley herself admitted had been exceptionally intelligent? Hermione was shaking her head.
"Veritaserum or not, there is zero evidence as to what role Flint could have played. Everyone else we questioned in relation to The Surge attacks did end up having a stage two interview, and no one mentioned him. We stripped Flints' wand - there was nothing unusual about the spells he had performed recently. He didn't even have a job at the time. He did, however, have a criminal record, and so he would have been reluctant to draw further attention to himself and those conducting The Surge attacks wouldn't have wanted him getting in the way either."
Rob muttered something about thick and pig shit again.
"Were there any parts of The Surge that weren't explained?" Hope said at last, aware that she was now clutching at final, straggling straws. "Like attacks that weren't blamed on anyone in particular, or anything like that?"
"No," Hermione said firmly. "The Surge was the deadliest set of crimes since the war, and low Auror numbers meant it endured far longer than it should have done. It started in 2003 and it wasn't until 2005 that Kinglsey launched his investigation. We didn't have many leads after that, other than Jugson's mistake, but when we finally got the anonymous tip off in December, it was remarkably easy to wrap up. There was no mystery to it. Everyone involved was tracked down if they weren't already dead. We know from scouring Bulstrode's ruined house where they operated from, and the details of various plans. We know from Mulciber's confession what the aim of The Surge was - to wreak havoc on the muggle population but make it look like muggles caused it themselves. Nott was useful because of his high up place at the Ministry and his easy access to dangerous potions. Jugson was an idiot but she worked at the Ministry as well so she had useful contacts. Zabini was killed and dumped in the Thames after The Final Surge, but there could be any number of reasons for that - he had many enemies. All individual documented attacks were accounted for among the group we convicted and by early February the trials were concluded. That was the end of it."
Hope stared down at her notes, not even bothering to make any more. She appreciated Hermione's honesty in the face of her bizarre questions, but it was getting her nowhere.
"Hope," Hermione finished gently. "I'm not sure why you're asking about Flint of all people, whether it's to do with Cadmus… maybe…" she trailed off as if waiting for Hope to provide the answer but Hope didn't react. "I assure you, the investigation into him was thorough, and we have kept tabs on him ever since The Surge, so have the MoSS. He's not a pleasant man, he's been involved in nasty incidents, he spends nearly all his time skulking around Knockturn Alley and in the last year we've received three separate tip offs that hint to possession and dealing of illegal drugs. But nearly twenty years on, there is nothing to link Flint to The Surge apart from his prior connections to Bulstrode and Nott. You can't arrest someone based on their family or their friends."
"If you could, both your parents would be in jail," Ron joked, but Hope didn't crack a smile.
"OK," she sighed, sitting back and taking one more look at the notes before folding them neatly. "That helps. Thanks a lot."
"A research project?" Ron snorted to his wife, once Hope had forced herself to make small talk for a while, before declining the offer to stay for dinner and heading back to her flat. "That's an oddly specific research project."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, looking pensive. "I wonder what's really going on. Maybe I should talk to Tonks."
"Nah, leave her be," Ron said, yawning as he got up to make a start on the dinner preparations. "She's been doing loads better recently and if looking into The Surge is keeping her busy, what harm can it do, really?"
O
She should give up and move on, Hope thought. She had to give up and move on. Accept it as one of life's annoying facts and get on with immediate life. She was far less knowledgeable than Hermione on the subject, and the fact that Marcus Flint had bullied his son and forced him to witness another child's death, while horrendous, wasn't in any way related to The Surge. If, in the last twenty years, the most important and powerful authorities in the country hadn't connected him to the deadly events, what chance did she have of doing so?
She should give up, move on and focus on her application. The essay was finished and amended to include Michael's suggestions, but she still needed to fill in the application form itself and decide on her references.
Hope sat down and pulled the form towards her.
Full Name.
Date of birth.
She pushed it away again. She couldn't give up and move on. She couldn't. Because every time she tried she could hear Morella's voice: "My father's always been a despicable human being."
She could see Edgecombe, sobbing over her desk on the anniversary of The Surge.
She could feel Cadmus's hand on the back of her head, holding it there as he told her what his father had done to him. As he told her that his father had relished witnessing the death of a muggle child.
Flint must have been involved in The Surge, the only organized criminal act against muggles since the war, in which his friends and family had played crucial roles. So how had he got off without punishment? Hope couldn't shake the feeling that the only way she was going to find out the answers was by pursuing her research into the elusive William Bulstrode.
oOo
March
Hope was half tempted to raise the subject at their next family dinner, even though it was only a matter of time before her bizarre questions aroused proper suspicion. When it came to it, however, Teddy had an announcement of his own that took precedence by far.
"I've got news," he said, once the four of them were seated at the dining table. "Good news, in many ways. But also bad news."
No one said anything to this, merely waited.
"It works," Teddy said. "My research. Forcing further genetic mutation stops the werewolf transforming on the full moon. The trials show that clearly. We've done all the safety checks we can from our end and we've sent off the findings for final approval. If it comes through we're looking at a certified cure in six to eight months."
Hope's heart was beating manically now, because Teddy's words did not correlate to the expression on his face.
"The thing is," he continued, before any of them could react out loud to this. "And we knew this would be a factor but it's clear cut, looking at the results - the older the bite, the more difficult the process is going to be. The reasons why are numerous and complicated and I won't go into them, but essentially, with every full moon the genetics get a fraction less malleable. So... the little boy Greyback attacked in 2018 might well be cured by the end of the year, but any bite over a decade old has the potential to cause complications. Especially if that person has been through regular full on transformations. And so," he forced himself to look his father directly in the eye and took a deep breath, "for the moment our approval request is only for a cure that can be offered to werewolves bitten in the last decade."
Teddy looked away again, apparently unable to hold his father's gaze. Remus's eyes held a deep, profound sadness.
"I'll keep working at it," he said. "I will! I've already thought of the next step, a way forward that might work for everyone. That blood sample I took that night last year will help too. It's not going to be easy, from now on, that's all. And I thought you should know. I'm sorry, Dad. I do understand. If you're upset, or - or-"
"Sorry?" Remus looked as though he could not believe what he was hearing. "Upset? Teddy, how can you even say that you're sorry? Please, please think about what you have just said. What you skated over as if it were nothing and what you should be shouting from the rooftops. Werewolves with recent bites may be cured within the year?"
Teddy looked sheepish at this.
"I know it's big," he admitted. "If it gets approved, obviously."
"Big?" Hope chipped in. "It's insane, Teddy. That you've got this far, that you've done all this. In the space of a few years. You hadn't even started your research when I went off to Hogwarts. And think of what it will do for werewolves when there is a cure approved. Even if older werewolves can't be cured yet, they won't be so feared, will they? It will help with the prejudice against them."
"Absolutely." Remus nodded his agreement. "Teddy-" He was evidently struggling to find the words. "I could not be prouder of what you are doing, what you have done, everything you have achieved. I know you're doing this for me, and I am - I am more than honoured. But this a far bigger issue than one man, whoever that man is. All that could possibly upset me today is you thinking that this monumental achievement, this overwhelming success that you have dedicated seven years of your life to... somehow constitutes… a failure."
"It's not a failure," Teddy agreed, his eyes glowing, looking more positive at this reaction. "I know it's not a failure."
Tonks, tired from a long shift at work, merely smiled and gave him a hug. "Your father said it all," she said. "We're so, so proud of you, Teddy. So proud."
Teddy did appear to relax at this. Teddy the worrier, Hope sighed to herself, in a different way to herself. The amount of nervous energy that was expended between herself, her brother and her father didn't bear thinking about. At least their mother wasn't such an overthinker.
"Sure you're alright?" Teddy asked Hope later. "I know how much you worry about him."
"I am," she said. "Of course I want him to be cured too, but the fact that you've got a cure at all. One that might be approved this year. It's - I can't even - I'm proud of you too, by the way."
"Right back at you."
Hope snorted with derision. "Nothing to be proud of on my end."
"I hope you don't mean that," Teddy said, his tone sharp. "Think where you were back in July and look where you are now."
That was true, she supposed. Slowly but surely her demons were fading. Time was working the magic that no spell could bring about.
"Fancy coming round tomorrow on your day off?" Teddy enquired.
Hope narrowed her eyes at him.
"What do you need help with?"
He puffed up his chest in mock indignation.
"I'm offended that you would assume I don't want to hang out with my beloved sister." Then, as she continued to look suspicious:
"OK, fine. We've got one more room to strip and I've been putting it off. The wallpaper is plastered down with everlasting glue. Not as bad as a permanent sticking charm but it's a long job to get it off. You don't have to help though. I do want to catch up with you - we haven't done that in ages."
That was true, and Hope secretly enjoyed helping them with the house renovations, even if she affected to complain.
"I'll be there," she assured him. "For a chat and for wallpaper stripping."
O
Back at her flat that evening, Hope tried not to dwell on Teddy's news. Dad was well, she reminded herself. He had said so on multiple occasions. Teddy's achievement was monumental, whether the cure extended to their father or not, and would spare many people from the suffering he had known himself.
If only to stop her thoughts spiralling down from this positive position, Hope took Alex's letters out of her drawer and flicked through them for what felt like the thousandth time. Nothing new jumped out. She hadn't expected it to. She had read them so many times she could probably recite them by heart by now. It really was time to give up and move on. To dedicate her headspace and energy to a more worthwhile cause.
A tiny butterfly was drawn in the corner of a letter from September 2003. It fluttered over to the other side. Hope watched it idly as it settled on the final line of the letter. Then she looked again. She sat up straighter. Every inch of her skin was prickling.
O
"Teddy?" Hope looked up from her corner of the half stripped bedroom, when they hit a silence the following afternoon. This room was going to be their baby's room, Hope was sure, although Teddy and Victoire weren't calling it such. Yet.
"Mmm."
"If someone dies, what happens to the magic they've performed in their lifetime?"
Teddy raised his head, looking rather alarmed.
"I was wondering recently, that's all. I mean, we probably studied it in Charms at some point, but I didn't do much listening last year. Or the year before that."
Teddy returned her joking smile. It felt easier now, to make light of her poor academic performance throughout her later years at Hogwarts.
"It depends on what the magic is," Teddy said, able to provide the answer much as Hope had predicted. "Some spells last many lifetimes. Take healing charms. It wouldn't be any good if the healing magic faded if something happened to the healer who cast it, would it? Healing spells react with the magic in the individual's body which gives them more life. Same for complex enchantments which rely on human emotions or interactions - the Fidelius Charm or the Unbreakable Vow for example. They don't break when the caster dies, because the magic becomes bound by the oaths the individuals have made. Although they can actually undo the Unbreakable Vow anyway now."
"Mmm, I remember Mum saying." Hope said. She scoured another patch of wallpaper. "What about spells that are cast on objects? Like paintings that move - how do they stay enchanted forever."
"Ah." Teddy paused in his own work. "It's a good question. The life of an enchantment cast on an inanimate object is normally bound by the lifetime of the caster. Same for anything that has been conjured or transfigured. However, there is a process called spell binding. It's when a second individual casts a binding spell, which reacts with the original spell. I guess you could say all spells have a sort of fingerprint, and when a spell is bound, it's as if a new fingerprint has been made. Then even when those who made the enchantments die, the enchantment itself survives, because the "magical fingerprint" isn't the same as that of the person who has gone. The portraits in Hogwarts will have have been bound several times over to make sure they last."
"OK. Interesting."
"And you know Harry's invisibility cloak, the one James has now?"
"Yeah."
"Harry thinks that must have been bound multiple times over by immensely powerful wizards," Teddy said. "Because it endures. Has done for centuries. Most invisibility cloaks are normal cloaks enchanted with a hex and wear out when the caster dies. Even if that spell is bound once or twice the cloaks would wear out eventually. But Harry's keeps on... living, I guess you could say."
"I see."
"Does that answer your question?"
"Yes. It does. Thanks."
"Are you going to tell me why you want to know?"
"No. Not right now."
Teddy grinned as he resumed his work on the walls.
"Fair enough."
O
As soon as she was back that evening, Hope took out William Bulstrode's letters again. She spread them all out on the desk in front of her. The tiny moving pictures darted back and forth. The eagle in Alex's birthday card beat its wings once more. Still moving, two decades after William's death.
There were three explanations that Hope could think of.
The first was that someone else had performed the spell binding incantation that Teddy had told her about, making sure Bulstrode's drawings stayed animated long term. It was possible, but surely unlikely when they were simple doodles in a private letter, particularly as he had hated other people touching his possessions.
The most credible explanation was that Bulstrode had created his own, powerful enchantment which rendered his animations everlasting. He had been a highly intelligent individual and an inventor, after all, and Alex had been in possession of these letters for years and not deemed them to be unusual.
That had to be the reason. It made perfect sense. And yet, there was a remote, third possibility, one that was implausible, preposterous even, yet one that Hope could not dislodge from her mind however much she tried.
The possibility that William Bulstrode was still alive.
OOO