O

PROMETHEUS

Forethought

19 years earlier

July

The rusty springs of the faded old armchair were poking out through the fabric yet again. Every time Cynthia repaired the ancient piece of furniture it seemed to get more worn out. The baby in her arms let out a miserable whimper. Morella had never cried as a new born. Cadmus cried all the time.

There came a soft tap on the door and Cynthia, too weary to even contemplate standing, looked imploringly over at her daughter.

"Go and see who that is, Morella, will you?"

Morella toddled off to the door. Her magic was improving by the day and she opened it with ease, even though she could barely reach the handle.

"It's a man," she announced, coming back through to the tiny living area, followed by a tall man with mouse blond hair and light blue eyes that bore a hint of apprehension. His nervous expression increased as Cynthia looked up at him. There was no affection to be seen in her gaze.

"Hi," he started. "How - how are you?"

She glared at him as his wide eyes roved the peeling walls, taking in the damp corners of the room, her daughter in faded, dirty clothes and her son, thin and scrawny in her arms.

"Doing brilliantly," she said. "Can't you tell? Why are you here, William?" she added, before he could speak again.

"I - I wanted to see you."

He took a seat on the hard stool opposite her, willing her to look him in the eye as she maintained her stony silence.

"Cynthia, I miss you," he started. "I never meant for us to be estranged like this. I know you felt I neglected you. When you started school, but-"

"You did neglect me," she bit back at him. "I was on my own, all year. Night after night in the common room listening to the rest of my house crow about the Heir of Slytherin opening the chamber. Bullied every day by dear cousin Millicent. And where were you?"

He spread his hands helplessly.

"I was in a different house. I wasn't well myself. You know that. I've tried to explain over and over. I didn't know what you were going through because you never told me anything. But I am sorry I couldn't do more to help at the time. I'm sorry you felt abandoned - that was never my intention. After I left I wrote to you whenever I could. At least once a week, often more. For years. You were the one who didn't write back."

Cynthia knew this, deep down. The letters were still in a box under the bed. She had read them all word for word and not thrown a single one away. But she had never been able to admit it. Life had never been the same again after her sorting.

"You didn't even come to my wedding," she added bitterly. That had been the final hammer blow for her, after her certitude that during a simple ceremony with only a few attendees, the day that would supposedly be the happiest of her life, she and William would finally put the past behind them. He had never turned up at all.

His face tensed. "I've explained that too," he said. "It was a bad day. A very bad day. I was ill. I didn't even know what the problem was back then. But it does... terrible things, the-"

"I know, I know," she snapped. "Your anxiety. But what do you really have to be anxious about? You're the clever, brilliant, successful one. I'm stuck here. None of those things. With no one."

It was with immense difficulty that William dampened down his own frustration that Cynthia could not see the irony of her situation, in which she pushed others away again and again, and then deplored the fact that no one was there for her. It had always been the case. He had been so protective of his little sister, watching over her every hour of every day for the first five years of her life, that when he had left for school and found himself with other priorities, she had never truly forgiven him. Inside her, still, was the five-year-old needing constant care, and she continued to push away those who could not give her their undivided attention. Had she even spoken to Astoria in recent years? The woman who had been her friend from the age of two. It seemed not.

Despite this, she was his sister and his heart ached to see her situation. He loved her dearly, and he meant it when he said he missed her. He kept his voice calm.

"I didn't know things were this bad for you. I haven't seen you since our father's funeral and even then you wouldn't speak to me. I didn't even know I had a niece and a nephew, for crying out loud."

He gestured to Morella and she smiled up at him placidly and held out her picture book of animals. He nodded, nervous again, reluctant to touch what wasn't his.

"It's wonderful," he assured her, before turning back to his sister. "Please let me help you. I'll be here for you now. I'll give you money, whatever you need. Help get you back on your feet."

Cynthia made no reply. She was thinking back to the day of her sorting.

Hundreds of faces were turned towards the group of first years. She would be one of the first called. Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were whispering behind her, Ginny saying that she hoped to be in Gryffindor. She had to be in Gryffindor. All her family had been in Gryffindor. Luna simply said that she would let the sorting hat decide, because its job was to see inside their minds and know where they would be best suited. She suspected, however, that it might put her in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, where her mother and father had been respectively.

Cynthia was neither hoping nor suspecting. That she could be placed anywhere other than in the same house as William had not even occurred to her. She took her place on the stool and waited, ready to be sent to Ravenclaw where her brother would be waiting, ready to be reunited, finally, after all these years. Ready to resume the relationship they had shared as young children.

"Slytherin!"

She tensed, disbelieving, frozen to the chair in shock, unable to move for many seconds that felt like hours. Eventually McGonagall had to come and chivvy her away to make room for the next student. Moving on her way to the Slytherin table in a daze, Cynthia sought William in the crowd, expecting to see her internal devastation mirrored on his own face. He smiled at her, waved and gave her a thumbs up, before turning to watch Colin Creevey, now up on the stool with the hat covering his whole face.

Steel had set on Cynthia's heart that day. It had been proof of what she had suspected ever since William had left for school, the proof that he did not care about her as much as she cared about him.

"I'm not a charity case," she told him quietly, eyes on her baby son. "You need to go now."

William's face fell, but he did as he was told. Morella gave him a cheerful wave as he made his way out into the filthy stairwell.

0

Marcus Flint returned home to his wife and children later that day, tired from a day's fruitless job hunting. Even the muggle job market was drying up and so were their funds. His three-year-old daughter, blissfully unaware of their precarious position, came running over to greet him on her stumpy legs as he entered the run-down flat.

"Dad, I read my book again."

"Nice work, kid." He hoisted her up to his eye level. "You'll get a job before me at this rate."

"Then there was a man here," Morella told him proudly.

"A man?" Flint repeated, looking over at Cynthia, who scowled at the obvious suspicion in his gaze.

"You know me better than that," she said. "William was here."

"Your brother?"

"Know any other Williams?"

"What did he want?"

"Nothing important. I made him leave."

"Money," Morella interjected. "Money. Money. Money." Flint's face soured as he put his daughter back down and she scampered off to her small, battered pile of toys in the corner of the room.

"Your brother came to ask you for money?"

"Of course he didn't," Cynthia snapped. "He offered me money. I told him I wasn't a charity case."

Marcus's jaw clenched in disbelief. "Charity case? We have no money, Cynthia. I didn't get a job today, as you can probably tell. You don't have one. We've got another mouth to feed and you won't accept money from your own brother?"

0

Marietta put a soothing hand on William's shoulder as he slumped on the kitchen chair, having recounted to her the afternoon's events.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry it didn't go well, but you can keep reaching out. You're her brother and she loves you. She's bound to come round in the end."

"With Cynthia, the more you try the more stubborn she gets," William sighed. "I learnt that when our father died. But I will think of a way to help her. I have to. She is clearly in trouble."

The bang on the front door reverberated through the house. William, surprised and nervous, made his way to answer it and Marietta eyed the man he led through to the kitchen with trepidation. She knew him from school. Not well, but enough to recognise him. Marcus Flint, the husband of the woman they had been discussing moments ago.

"What's this about your act of charity?" he demanded, towering above William. He wasn't that much taller but his breadth made him vastly more intimidating.

"Mr Flint, I meant no offence," William said, holding up his hands in a placatory manner. "I simply offered to help."

"Bit late, don't you think? Do you know how much your sister has suffered? The lows I went to so she didn't starve?"

William swallowed, eyes sad but head held high.

"I didn't know you were in trouble," he stated, still calm. "I know now. I have already offered her help, which she has refused. However-"

"I take back her refusal."

"I wish to speak to Cynthia about this myself," William said. "This issue goes far deeper than money. But I have already promised to help her, and you and your family by extension. I'm not going to take that offer away."

"Yeah. Well. I don't really have time to waste while you patch up your family argument," Flint said irritably. Then he spotted Marietta in the corner of the room, in her casual clothes with unbrushed hair, and the noticeable curve to her stomach. Understanding dawned.

"Oh, I see," he murmured. "Been busy, have you? Your own sister could waste away while you made a nice little family here on your own in your palace."

"That isn't fair," William replied. "That isn't a fair comment. Cynthia distanced herself from me. She cut me out, not the other way round. I keep telling you - I'll do whatever I can to help you, but I want to speak to Cynthia about it myself."

Flint wasn't listening. He had approached Marietta now and was leering down at her.

"Very pretty, isn't she?" he said, looking back towards William, who had frozen. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would you?"

"I can speak for myself, thank you." Marietta pulled out her wand and pointed it in his face, but her hand was shaking. Who knew what this man was capable of? She recalled him resorting to fists, rather than magic, during his altercations at school. Magically, perhaps they could overpower him, but she wasn't certain.

William stepped between them, also nervous. He was not a fighter.

"What do you want?" he asked. "We are not going to fight you. Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want. Money."

William battled with himself, but fear for Marietta and his unborn child won out in the end. She was nearing the due date they had calculated. He could not risk her harm.

"How much? Name your price to leave us in peace."

Flint fixed Marietta with a hard stare.

"Hundred thousand galleons should do alright."

William did not even blink.

"Fine. Done. You'll get it in two days. Once you have it you won't come here again?"

"No." Flint appeared almost amused at the question. "Why should I?"

It seemed he was as good as his word, turning on his heel and leaving the house immediately, even as Marietta's brave face crumbled and William took her in his arms.

0

"You're late." Theodore Nott narrowed his eyes at Flint as he slid into the booth at the very back of the Quintaped. Flint knew he shouldn't be here. Cynthia would be fuming if she found out, and he had sworn to her countless times that he had already broken ties with Nott, that they were no longer friends. But he needed a drink that he could not afford and Nott supplied them in abundance.

"All for a good cause," he said, accepting the pint Nott had already purchased for him and taking a swig.

"Oh yeah?"

"Had dealings with my brother-in-law."

"You have a brother-in-law?" Nott paused with his own drink half-raised to his mouth.

"Cynthia's brother. William. She hasn't spoken to him in years but he turned up in our flat this morning to offer Cynthia financial help. She turned him down so I went to have words." Flint ground his teeth before taking another gulp of his drink. "Sick of being poor. Not for much longer though. Not now."

Nott put down his own glass and traced a thoughtful finger round the droplets of liquid on the rim. "But that would make him William… Bulstrode? The inventor?"

"Uh-huh."

"He's going to give you money?"

"Yep."

"How much?"

"One hundred thousand galleons."

At this, Nott snorted.

"That's the princely sum you've forced out of him?" He took a slow sip of the amber liquid in his glass, eyes concentrated on preoccupations well beyond the confines of the pub. "Do you have any idea how much that man is worth?"

"No - must be loaded though. I thought he was going to beat me down and he didn't seem fussed about the amount. Agreed to it like that."

An evil grin split Nott's thin features. "You wait," he said. "You just wait."

0

Hours later, Nott paced his own sitting room. His father glowered down at him from a faded picture above the fireplace. No doubt Atticus Nott would have approved of his son's recent actions. He had always expressed shame over his son's detachment from Voldemort's ideas and principles, and Nott scowled at the memory of some of their exchanges. His father had been a follower. A sheep. He had no interest in following. Leading was all that had ever inspired him, and heading his own department at the Ministry of Magic mere years after finishing school had been a long awaited triumph. An achievement to be proud of.

At first.

In the end, towing the Ministry line had not been enough for him. Following Shacklebolt's new, tolerant regime and inclusive policies had become irritating. Boring. Nott may not have shared his father's desire to follow Voldemort, but he had inherited no small amount of blood prejudice. When the idea that muggles were inferior to wizards had been ingrained into you from birth, such ideologies followed through into adulthood. And with no one else taking action, all parroting the same speeches about equality and acceptance, Nott had found an opportunity. A way to lead a vendetta against muggles from a different, previously unexplored perspective. One that would, with a large amount of cunning and a dose of luck, go unnoticed by their own authorities.

Small attack after small attack had taken place in muggle areas, and as the death count rose, it had become clear that such a scheme would work over time. Nott had gained savage pleasure from the secrecy of his acts, and from the knowledge that he was causing havoc under the Ministry's nose, picking off the individuals they claimed to protect so fiercely.

In the beginning, caution had been of the utmost importance and he had trusted only a select group of old friends with his plans and ideas. Yet he had become careless in recent months. Arrogant, even. Zabini's mass poisonings back in October of last year had been a triumph, for while muggle authorities had grasped around for explanations to make sense of the events - with their talk of gas leaks and chemical weapons and nerve agents - the Ministry had proved what Nott already suspected. For all their talk of muggle rights and protection, of liaison and cooperation with the 'other' government, when muggle crime hit, the non-magical population were left to their own devices. No one from their end had raised the slightest suspicion about the poisonings and by consequence, Nott had let down his guard and set his sights on grander projects. Larger kills. More devastating tragedies. He had trusted others to be as careful as himself.

A mistake, he now realised.

Jugson's own blunder had come mere weeks ago and her unfinished job was sure to be their downfall, for there could be no non-magical explanation for a substance as recognisable and traceable as Detonation Draught. Kinglsey Shacklebolt was no fool, and aided by Potter and the blasted Weasleys and the remains of the Order of the Phoenix, he was bound to find out the truth.

Nott ground his teeth. He was more afraid than he cared to admit about Azkaban. Even with the improving conditions inside the prison, his father had lasted three short years after the war. Nott's last visit haunted him still as he recalled the sunken eyes, the distant, uninterested expression, the skeletal frame; outward evidence of the malnourishment that had eventually contributed to his demise.

He had been contemplating this dilemma for weeks already. The thrill of his lethal scheme was fading fast, faced with the threat of Azkaban. The glamour of leading paled when the prospect of life imprisonment loomed, especially after his long years of hard work to earn his elevated, connected position within wizarding society.

He needed to extract himself cleanly, a difficult task when so many of his colleagues knew of his deep involvement in recent events.

First and foremost, then, he would need an alternative person to bear the brunt of the fall. And Flint, idiot though he was, appeared to have stumbled across the ideal man.

0

"One hundred million."

Nott casually offered Flint a cigarette, which he refused, staring at him in shock.

"What?" he grunted.

"Bulstrode. One hundred million galleons. Net worth. In terms of gold sitting in his Gringotts vault you're looking at twenty million, but that still means that this lordly, extravagant sum-" Nott took a deep inhale, his voice thickening as he held in the fumes, "is a mere zero point five percent of his capital."

He blew the smoke out in a cloud as Flint's face fell. "So I should have asked for more."

"All in good time, Flint. I think we can use him to our advantage."

"And what does that mean?" Flint demanded suspiciously. "I'm not helping you with some plan. Not again. And I won't hurt Cynthia. He's her brother and she needs his money. End of story."

"Yes, yes, I know you love her. You can spare me your sentiment." Nott glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice, even though there was no one in the vicinity. "Flint, be realistic. This isn't working. Not anymore. The Surge, as it has now been termed, is a sinking ship and we'll be pulled down with it if we're not careful."

This statement did not go down well with his companion.

"There is no we," Flint snarled. "The Surge was your idea. Your plan. And Zabini and Jugson's. Not ours. Not mine. I told you, I don't want anything to do with it."

"Too late," Nott said. "You're involved now. And due to Jugson's balls up last month, now the Minister's involved too. Savage I'm not worried about, blundering fool, but the others… They have the brains between them to figure it out. We need to end this neatly without landing ourselves in jail in the process and for that, we need someone to take the fall. It seems like you've found the man for the job."

Flint's crooked teeth bared in menacing fashion.

"No way. You do whatever you want. Keep me out of it."

A trail of ash rent the air between them as Nott threw down his cigarette and stamped on it.

"You wouldn't want your name to crop up in these 'Surge' investigations would you, Flint?" he asked coolly. "I can arrange for that to happen, you know. It would be so simple for your name to drop onto Potter's desk one day. Or onto Hermione Weasley's, perhaps. They'll have fond memories of you from school, I'm sure."

"But all I did was order muggle guns and knives for you." Flint glowered back at him. "Didn't even touch the damn things. They don't sentence you to life in Azkaban for that. The rest is on you."

"Oh but if I have any say in it, it will be far, far more than guns and knives. We've had fifteen men and women running around in countless disguises for over a year. Killing. Maiming. Poisoning. Any of them could have been you underneath the muggle exterior."

He was pinned against the wall as Flint's arm shot out with considerable force. "Cut the blackmail," he growled. "I told you, I'm not doing this. I have a family to ack-" he gave a hiss of pain. The hand around Nott's throat had burned white hot. His grip slackened at once and Nott took out his wand, pointing it in Flint's face in turn.

"Do you really want to duel?" he drawled. "Really, Flint? The man who failed all his practical OWLs against the man who received six outstanding NEWTs? I didn't think so," he continued smoothly, while Flint glared at the uneven floor. "Anyway, this isn't all about me. There's a hefty reward involved for you."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I did a bit of digging," Nott said, massaging his throat where Flint had held him. "Managed to get access to Bulstrode's affairs, and it seems he doesn't have a will. Never bothered to make one. Not sure why - too caught up in his work, I suppose.'

"So?"

"You really are as thick as you look, aren't you?" Nott spat irritably. "He's a multimillionaire who doesn't have a will. Doesn't have parents anymore. He's not married and he doesn't have children. There is one person who stands to inherit all his wealth when he dies. And she just so happens to be sitting down in your festering hovel with your newborn brat sucking at her tits."

Comprehension dawned on Flint's thickset face. "Cynthia would get all his money if he died?"

"Got it at last."

"What are you saying, that I should kill him?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort." Nott's eyes rolled skywards. "You get done for murder and funnily enough, that will cancel out your right to his money. No. I'm saying we use him. As I just explained. Let him take the fall for this, and if he should - tragically - lose his life in the process, then your family get all his money. I can arrange for that to happen. If you make it worth my while."

He took a hasty step backwards, for Flint had spat on the ground at his feet.

"I'm not going along with that," he said. "It won't work, anyway. You won't get him doing your dirty work. And he does have a child. On the way. Got a girlfriend and she's pregnant. I saw her yesterday, threatened her." He swallowed, remembering the anger he had felt on imagining William Bulstrode's child, born with a silver spoon in its mouth to a plump, radiant mother, when his own daughter dressed every day in the same filthy, ragged clothes and Cynthia was thinner than he had ever known her. "That's why he agreed to the money."

"Well then." Nott stowed his wand in his robes, even as irritation coursed through him on hearing this unwelcome revelation. "We'll have to deal with her as well."

"How?"

0

How remained the question, and Nott's thoughts became an ever more obsessive maelstrom as that night wore on.

He needed a stooge and Bulstrode was the perfect candidate - a secretive man who had almost no contact with the outside world in between the necessary meetings and admin work required for approving his inventions. His latest creation had been patented and rolled out back in August, almost a year ago. No one knew what he had been working on since and who therefore would question that he had been plotting dark crimes against innocent muggles? The fact that Bulstrode was a name long associated with Death Eaters and dark activity was an added advantage.

Such a turn of events was bound to be accepted as a workable explanation, if only Nott could only orchestrate the scenario in the right way. It would need exceptionally careful planning, of course. Framing an innocent man was far more complicated than one might think.

His eyes swept over the shelves lining his kitchen, from which row upon row of potion bottle glinted back at him. Few wizards were able to comprehend the power of potions, the possibilities they offered beyond all other forms of magic. Spells were fallible, as weak or strong as the witch or wizard who cast them, influenced by emotion and by affection, dictated by the composition of the wands they issued from. Potions were different. Potions were either brewed correctly or they were not. They either did their job or they failed.

And Potions likely held the answer to this conundrum too, if only Nott could find it.

0

"Won't work."

The next day, the argument between the two men had resumed itself.

"I admit there are kinks to iron out. Hence the period of observation."

"Nott-"

"I'm not asking much of you, Flint. Three simple things." Nott reeled them off on his bony fingers. "Keep your wife away from Bulstrode. Shouldn't be hard when you say she hates him anyway. Keep your silence. Also not hard - who else do you have to talk to? Most crucially of all - go to Bulstrode tonight and apologize. Do it however you like but tell him you don't want his money. It will look damn suspicious if you suddenly have a load of gold."

"But we need gold," Flint hissed at him. "My wife is starving. That means my son is starving. This morning I found Morella eating mouldy bread she found behind the bin-"

"I'll give you gold in the meantime then." Irritation flared in Nott's face as he cut Flint off mid flow. "If this comes through you'll be richer than the bleeding Malfoys." His lip curled. "Think of it, Flint. A palace as your home. House elves making your dinners. Banquets for your wife and children. They'd never go hungry again."

Cornered, Flint made no reply. If he refused, Nott would throw him to the Ministry lions, and without him, Cynthia was perfectly capable of starving herself to death rather than turn to her brother for help. She had survived Flint's previous incarceration from the small amount of money inherited from her father, and that was long gone now.

"You're sure?" he said at last. "Sure that this will work?"

"With careful planning, yes."

0

"Do you think he meant it?" Marietta turned to William in utter astonishment as the door shut behind Marcus Flint. "How does someone have such a change of heart in two days? I don't trust this, Bill. I don't trust him. He wasn't a good person at school. He was a bully. One of the worst. It doesn't seem like he's changed."

William came forwards and took her hands in his own. The effect was instantly soothing for them both.

"I understand," he said, his voice as soft as ever. "I really do. And I'm so sorry for how he treated you the other day. But my sister isn't a bad person, simply stubborn, too proud to admit when she is wrong. You said yourself that she will likely come around, and maybe she already has, and that was the reason for his visit. I need to give her a bit more time. As for Flint, I know little of him, but Cynthia did choose to spend her life with him, and he's a distant relative too. I doubt he is all bad. So let us put our faith in him, and in his apology."

Marietta was far from convinced, but she was tired. Shattered, in fact. Permanently exhausted these days, so many months into her pregnancy. She didn't have the strength to argue, so her only response was to nod wearily and allow him to pull her into an embrace.

"I'll keep the gold here though," William added. "In case he changes his mind a second time."

oOo

August

A month later Marietta stood at the doorway of William's house, staring out into the shadows of the garden. The nights had begun to close in again but the weather was warmer than ever, the evenings muggy, unusual for Scotland, where the air normally cooled as soon as the sun set. This was her favourite time of year in the beautiful cottage and always had been. At that moment, however, the hairs on her neck were prickling, as she experienced a sensation that had been with her for weeks now. The feeling that she was being… watched.

Marietta had never felt unsafe in William's home before, for all it was lacking in security charms. At first, she had deemed such an unprotected existence strange for a man who kept himself so private, particularly when she was used to visiting her father, whose house bore every protective enchantment known to wizardkind. Over the years, however, she had come to understand. William hated to feel trapped or locked in anywhere. He was a man with few friends, but nor did he have enemies. His gold remained safe in Gringotts and his study area - a huge expanse of space in the basement of the house - was accessible to him alone. He had no reason to add the stress of hiding himself away to his list of anxieties when no one ever bothered him in the first place.

She traced a finger over her swollen stomach, still contemplating the offer William had made her many a time before, that she leave her little studio flat in London and come to live here permanently, with him. She had been refusing for so long and he, in turn, accepted her decision, but she wasn't sure exactly why she continued to say no. It was partly, no doubt, because moving officially would mean having to reveal the relationship. She had resolutely refrained from telling her friends and family that she was involved with a relative of the depraved couple who had murdered her mother and sister.

But William could not help his extended family. He was a good man, and it would soon become irrelevant anyway. The pregnancy had been concealable with a few simple charms and by distancing herself from her old friends, but her child - their child - would be born into this world in a matter of days or weeks. William would be a good father, and he deserved to wear that title with pride.

"Marietta?"

He had come outside to check on her, forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Feeling odd again?" he enquired.

"I think it's the pregnancy." Her hand was still resting on her stomach. "I - I will have the baby in hospital, Bill. You were right. I should have gone long before now, to check everything was OK. So I won't risk having it at home. And you were also right about family being important. When the baby is born I will tell my father. He'll understand that you aren't anything like your relatives and he'll be so happy to have a grandchild, I'm sure. I'll tell all the people I've cut out recently. Cho, and Edward, and Roger. I promise I will. We won't have secrets anymore."

Invisible in the shadows, having heard every word, Nott smiled grimly to himself as he watched the couple share a gentle kiss, before going inside and shutting the door. At long last, his hours of observation had struck gold. He had all the information he needed.

0

Almost.

There was still one, glaring problem.

He had seen and heard enough of Bulstrode's routine and ways of life to know that his plan was workable. Dropping Bulstrode's name into the melee he himself had created would, in fact, be simple. Keeping tabs on the girl was an added annoyance but a manageable task. But how did Nott evade Azkaban himself - the whole point of his plan in the first place - when his tally of criminal activity ran higher than all other members of their little group?

The issue of erasing all trace of his own involvement was more problematic by far. His name would be on the tip of many tongues. Tongues of those intent on their own survival if this operation was blown open. Loyalty did not exist among their group and loyalty became pointless anyway, when Veritaserum came into play, as it surely must when the Ministry began exploring such a serious case as this.

He needed a way of duping truth serum. That much had been obvious for weeks now. The problem was that the only reliable way of deceiving Veritaserum within a controlled Ministry environment was to ensure that the memory of the truth wasn't there to be recalled at all. Subsequently, the only way of wiping a memory indefinitely was to use a powerful memory potion, because charms could be broken or reversed. But no known memory potion was specific enough to allow him to select which memories were removed. The closest was Essence of Swooping Evil, which wiped negative memories, and Nott and his associates had gained too much savage pleasure from the muggle attacks for such recollections to be classed as negative.

Mnemosynic, while reliable and powerful, was no good either. If the Ministry were to interrogate nearly twenty people with no memory of the past two years, it would be highly suspicious, and Nott knew the Ministry would keep digging until they found an explanation.

He scowled down at the sheets of parchment in front of him - page after page of his own writing which bore testimony to his personal work over the past four weeks. Every minute of his spare time had been poured into researching theories, calculating dosages, listing the properties of all the memory potions he could think of, trying to find a way to create a new potion that would do everything he needed. Still, he had no fruitful solution.

He was beginning to draw the conclusion that producing a potion that permitted the removal of specific memories without a trace wasn't possible. That it couldn't exist.

'There are only two reasons why something doesn't exist. Either it is not possible, or others have given up in the attempt to create it. And if you give up in the attempt, you will never know what might have been possible had you persevered.'

Such had been a favourite saying of Professor Slughorn, a teacher Nott had held in high esteem, albeit with disdain for his brown-nosing of famous names and faces. But inspiring as old Sluggy's quote was, the real issue here was time. Nott didn't have months and years to persevere until he got this right. Not when Shacklebolt had already started making enquiries.

He caught sight of his reflection in the window of his kitchen. It disturbed him deeply; the pained face, the worried expression. He had all the appearance of a desperate, guilty man resorting to drastic and ridiculous measures to evade capture by those less intelligent than him.

The thought struck a chord even as it formed in his mind. Perhaps he was approaching his dilemma from the wrong angle. His plan centred around Bulstrode being the guilty party. With that in mind, perhaps he didn't need to create his own memory potion at all. Perhaps he simply needed to engineer a situation where it appeared that someone else had been trying to create it. And who better to produce a new potion than a known inventor?

Mind now racing, Nott snatched up a blank parchment and began to write in almost feverish fashion.

If, as Bulstrode, he researched and attempted to create a memory potion that would wipe all evidence of The Surge from the minds of those involved, an apparent attempt at evading the effects of truth serum, would it matter if that potion was useless? No, it would simply be further evidence against Bulstrode when the time came. If, by some miracle, Nott managed to hit on a workable concoction, it was all to his advantage. If not, he could use Mnemosynic on his colleagues where necessary to ensure they didn't remember how The Surge had come about, and yes, the Ministry would raise suspicions, but an obvious answer would be before their eyes. Bulstrode had been testing his ludicrous experiment on his associates.

He would still need to impersonate Bulstrode over the coming months, build up proof of his visions for mass muggle slaughter, in case something should slip through the net, but that had always been the easier part of the scheme. And it would be essential that Bulstrode be unable to speak in his own defence when the time finally came to tip off the Ministry, but his death could easily be arranged, and that was part of his bargain to Flint anyway.

Nott's quill hovered over the words Elixir of Oblivion on a previous attempt to hash out an unsuccessful theory. He grimaced. The thought of using such a temperamental and dangerous potion was unappealing, but on the other hand it would be a perfect cover for Bulstrode's untimely demise. The fumes were toxic if inhaled in large doses, and the manticore venom needed for its composition could be used to poison Bulstrode without a trace when the time was right.

How neat. How very, very convenient.

Nott's heart raced with excitement for all of twenty seconds, certain he had finally hit on a viable solution, and then he swore under his breath, realising the fatal flaw in this new version of events. It offered him no protection if the Ministry found reason to interrogate him. He was not prepared to sacrifice two years' worth of his own memory, but without a reliable means of removing specific memories, he would be forced to spill all, if the Ministry found reason to summon him to a Veritaserum interview. Even a stage one interview would be disastrous. Mr Theodore Nott, please answer yes or no, were you responsible for muggle killings during the past two years?

He'd be screwed by the very first question.

Fuck.

Back to square one.

Unless… Nott's eyes roved to the bottle of crystal clear liquid sitting on a nearby shelf, a bottle of Veritaserum that he kept at his disposal should he need it himself. Creating convincing fake truth serum was not a simple task, but it had been done before, and it was easier by far than inventing a memory potion that may or may not have the potential to exist. And he alone held the privileged position and access to replace official Ministry Veritaserum with an alternate concoction. One identical in appearance but as effective as tap water.

It was a multifaceted scheme. He would need to impersonate Bulstrode convincingly enough to frame him. Wipe the memories of his colleagues where necessary to prevent them from telling Ministry officials that The Surge was his own conception. Create evidence of a detailed experiment to provide the Ministry with an explanation for their convicts' lack of memories. And finally but most crucially of all, he would need to brew counterfeit Veritaserum and find a way of smuggling it into the Ministry, as a back up to spare him should he be interrogated himself.

Far, far more complex than he had wanted. Would it even work? He reread the notes he had just made. Will need substantial evidence to be found at Bulstrode's house (books, letters, attack plans, traces of Polyjuice potions/poisons…)... convincing memory potion experiment (Try Mnemosynic, Essence of Swooping Evil, Elixir of Oblivion, Forgetfulness draughts). Procure Manticore venom for Elixir (can also be used as poison for B, untraceable. Investigators will think he is dead from Elixir fumes)... Create counterfeit Veritaserum (try Golpalott's old theories)… Keep an eye on Edgecombe girl… child still an issue - check specifics of muggle cryptic pregnancies…

Convoluted, certainly. It also relied heavily on outside parties acting as he hoped and predicted, and relying on others was an act Nott tried to avoid at all costs. However, he could see few alternatives and the clock was already running down. It had been ticking ever since the discovery of Jugson's Detonation Draught.

He would have to ensure that he was successful.

He set the parchment alight with his wand, knowing it would be foolish to leave any written evidence of his plans, even within his own home.

Convoluted indeed. But it could be done.

He would see it done.

0

"It will work," Nott informed Flint. "I'm sure of it."

Flint sat in silence as Nott summarised his forthcoming plan of action. He was to overpower Bulstrode as soon as possible. The man would then be kept alive but sedated through Draught of Living Death. Nott would use Polyjuice to impersonate him over the coming months, forging links with the rest of their group, dropping hints about his previously anonymous role in the muggle attacks. His knowledge of such events was detailed enough to be convincing, and with a bit of added information from Nott himself, their colleagues would not question that Bulstrode had been involved in The Surge from the start. And 'Bulstrode' would have grander plans still. A vision of a huge, widespread attack spanning the whole of London at the end of the year, one that would claim not dozens, not even hundreds, but thousands of muggle lives.

"Why do you have to keep the real Bulstrode under sedation?" Flint interjected, as Nott paused in his explanation.

"Because, fool, we want him discovered dead no less than twenty-four hours after he actually dies. St Mungo's are understaffed but even they won't mistake a rotting corpse for a man who died a day ago, will they? We need to keep him alive until all the evidence is planted perfectly, and Draught of Living Death is the best way. The Imperious curse isn't reliable. I can't do it myself - they'd find out when they scan my wand at work - and I don't trust you or your wand to cast a curse strong enough. He's a clever man and we can't risk him fighting it off."

"So you're going to keep him locked up, unconscious, in his own house?" And when Nott gave a curt nod in answer: "What if he's reported missing?"

"I already told you he has no close friends. No one will ask after him immediately. Apart from the girl, and she's manageable. I can have her tracked and I can dispose of a report if one comes in. She'll need to be kept well out of the way once the Ministry finally catch up with Bulstrode. He, however, will be past the point of speaking in his own defence."

An evil chuckle issued from the back of Nott's throat and Flint met his gaze without flinching, if only to stop himself thinking about the horror that would appear in Cynthia's wide brown eyes, should she ever find out about this plot to end her brother's life. Estranged though they were, she would never wish him harm. Flint had seen her on occasion, reading William's old letters when she thought no one was watching.

"And this potion you're going to make," he added. "This fake truth stuff. How long will it take?"

"Brewing true Veritaserum takes a full lunar phase," Nott said, after a moment's thought. "I would guess that creating a fake solution that is convincing enough to fool the Ministry would take a bit longer. Six weeks perhaps. Maybe two or three months. But that's fine. It will take me that long to create a trail of evidence anyway."

"Two or three months?" Flint did not appear to share his view of a 'fine' situation, and slammed both his fists down on the table. "What happens if the Ministry catch up with us before then?"

Nott's mouth twisted with bitter mirth. It was remarkable how menacing such a small, scrawny man could look, particularly when he leant across the table to put his face closer to Flint's.

"Then I am far, far more likely than you are to figure out an escape from Azkaban," he hissed. "I see what you're thinking, Flint, but you would do well to remember something. I don't need you for any of this. You're here in my kitchen right now because I took pity on you above everyone else. I don't even need you for Bulstrode anymore - I'll be dealing with him tomorrow. You're the one who needs me. So I would think very carefully before walking away. Before doing anything… reckless."

"You've been making empty threats for years now," Flint retorted. "I'm not scared of you."

But there was a falter in his voice and he knew Nott had detected it.

"Empty, are they?" He stood up in a jerky movement and found a small bottle from one of the shelves.

"Any idea what this is, Flint?" he enquired, placing it on the table between them.

"I failed potions, remember?"

"Mnemosynic. One of the potions 'Bulstrode' will be experimenting with. Most powerful memory potion in the world. Wipes out all memories that stand in its path, working backwards from the present day."

He picked it up again before holding it up to the light. At some angles it was crystal clear, but it shone oily blue at others, as if a drop of soap had been mixed into the concoction.

"It's a complicated dosage, for Mnemosynic," he said, running a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Needs to be diluted in water and calculated carefully. But I would say we're talking… two drops and you'd forget the past week of your life. Four drops, a month." His mouth curled again. "Remind me - how old is your son?"

Flint recoiled at once. "You wouldn't dare."

'I wouldn't want to," Nott corrected him. "But I could. Easily. If you gave me reason."

Flint's jaw worked furiously. Blackmail again, but he could see no way out of this. He should have cut ties with Nott long ago, when Cynthia had asked him to - begged him to - and he had promised her in return. He had not kept that promise and now he was paying the price.

"What about the child?" he muttered at last, and Nott, knowing he had won, yet again, banished the potion to its place on the shelf.

"Oh yes," he said. "How could I forget? Our little growing problem."

He slid a second potion bottle out of his robes. The liquid inside was jet black.

"This will take care of it."

"You're going to kill it?"

Nott smirked at Flint's expression of abject horror.

"This is a new side of you. Marcus Flint, the biggest bully in the playground."

"I haven't bullied anyone for years."

"No?" His tone both was sickly sweet and laced with derision. "Bulstrode agreed to give you one hundred thousand galleons because of your charming smile, did he?"

"Never killed anyone, did I?" Flint scowled. "Not like you. Especially not an unborn child. Maybe if you had children you'd understand."

"Maybe," Nott said, indifference obvious. "Luckily I'm spared such indecency for now. And you'll be pleased to know that isn't my intention. Murder is messy and traceable and I want as little magical blood on my hands as possible. However, Bulstrode having a child and therefore an heir creates a hoard of problems for us both. So we simply need to give it a loving home. One that is far away from Bulstrode and his pretty little lovebird."

He held this bottle up to the light too, eyes glittering and dark as the potion itself. Flint had always found Nott's obsession with potions to be unnerving. Unnatural.

"This is Changeling Potion," he breathed. "Untraceable as Veritaserum, malleable as Polyuice, irreversible as the Avada Kedavra. It hasn't been used for centuries, and it's been banned for two. It was brewed in the middle ages by desperate, barren old crones who didn't - or couldn't - have children of their own. One hair is all they needed, much like Polyjuice. They would give it to the woman carrying the child and that child became theirs instead. By right." He sat back with a meaningful widen of the eyes. "By birth."

Disgusted by what he had just heard, Flint looked even more gormless than usual as he gaped back at the man he had once considered to be a friend.

"Before it was born? These women would give birth to - to another woman's child?"

"Yes." Unlike Flint, Nott did not appear to find this idea sickening and he pressed on matter-of-factly. "Now, the spell you need to seal its properties is taboo. You wouldn't be able to create it without ending up in Azkaban. Fortunately my department keeps a sample of many contra-banned substances and I've managed to get my hands on it. That was the hard part. Slipping a couple of drops to an unsuspecting woman if I'm taking the form of the devoted father of her child - piece of cauldron cake."

Flint remained unimpressed.

"I thought I was the stupid one," he snapped. "She's eight months pregnant, not two. How's that going to work?"

"I take it something else you've never heard of is cryptic pregnancies?" Nott enquired coolly. "When a mother gives birth without even knowing she's pregnant. Far more common than you'd think in the muggle world, it turns out - "

"Muggles can have babies without knowing they're pregnant?"

"Yes. Don't ask me how they can be so clueless but it's all to our advantage. I've already located our target. Over in Belfast. Not too near, not too far. Trust me, I've done my research. She's the right size, the right place, right situation not to arouse suspicions." He held up a third bottle. Inside was a thick, black curl of hair. "I've got everything we need for it right here."

0

The ease with which Nott overpowered Bulstrode the following evening surprised even him. His partner was at her father's as was usual for a Friday evening, and all it took was a stunning charm to the back as Bulstrode wandered outside to check on some plants. He crumpled at once.

Simple. So beautifully simple. Still under his disillusionment charm, Nott levitated Bulstrode's unresisting body in through the doors of the house and right down to his study, using his finger prints to gain access to the work area which was in the basement of the house and removing the protective magical device from the inside, to ensure easy future access for himself.

After some deliberation, he made Bulstrode a comfortable bed in the corner of the study, rather than leaving him on the cold stone floor. There was no need to treat him badly yet, after all. The Polyjuice hair was collected before the administration of Draught of Living Death, and then Nott did a sweep of the work area, impressed by what he saw. It was an ideal space for carrying out his scheme, pristine and immaculately arranged, with shelf upon shelf of books, any number of magical devices, and a huge potions bench on the far side of the room, constricted entirely of marble.

The rest of the house was far less impressive, with old, mismatched furniture and outdated decoration, but Nott was not bothered by that. He made himself at home that night, determined to rehash his ideas to be sure he wasn't missing any crucial details that would give him away.

The following day, as expected, Marietta Edgecombe arrived for the weekend. The door was answered by William after the third knock, and he was smiling nervously as he always did, holding out his arms to greet her.

OOO