Chapter Twenty-Eight

1 January 1964

Something was bothering Alastor.

They'd arrived separately at Amelia's Shepherd's Bush townhouse for her annual "Hair-of-the-Dog" party, and Alastor had greeted Minerva as usual, kissing her absently on the cheek and squeezing her shoulders a bit brusquely, as he always did when they met in public.

But he gave her none of his usual light-hearted teasing...in fact, he didn't volunteer more than a few words to anyone...and he only seemed to be half-listening to any conversations he found himself in.

Is it his eye? she wondered.

He'd been nervous about it with her at first, making jokes and self-deprecating remarks that she knew masked his apprehension about her reaction to his changed visage. She thought...she hoped...she'd put his fears on that score to rest. After he had healed, and his wounds weren't so pointed a reminder of the dangers of his profession, Minerva hadn't found his face difficult or unpleasant to look at, as he'd seemed to fear she would. She was quite sure she'd never shied away from it, even when the cuts that bisected his cheek and the missing chunk of his nose had been new and raw. The eye had unnerved her a bit, but only because, at times, it moved independently of Alastor's remaining natural one, and Minerva knew that it meant he was edgy and scanning for danger, something that he'd always done, even when they were alone (which had always bothered her, truth to tell). The magical eye simply made it more obvious.

She'd thought Alastor had become mostly at ease with the changes to his appearance, but then again, they'd not been at such a large social gathering since his injury.

But if it was his changed appearance that was bothering him, why did his eyes never quite met hers when she tried to catch them?

This is going to be a long afternoon, Minerva sighed to herself as she surveyed the room. She and Amelia were talking with Millicent Bagnold about the Harpies' disappointing showing in their last few matches...ordinarily an interesting topic, but Minerva was anxious to get Alastor alone to try to find out what was eating him.

She spied him standing in the far corner with Rufus Scrimgeour and a young woman...Helga? Hermia? Jones. She excused herself from Amelia and Milly and went to stand next to Alastor, who was obviously not quite listening as Miss Jones asked the two older Aurors what they thought of the new regulations prohibiting MLE interrogators from using Veritaserum to elicit confessions from suspects.

Minerva put a gentle hand on Alastor's arm, leaning in to say in his ear, "I'm going to get something to drink. Would you like anything?"

"No, thanks," he replied without looking at her.

She went to the drinks table and asked the house-elf serving for a glass of orange juice, wondering from whom Amelia had borrowed the elf. Or maybe she was a freed elf, Minerva thought. Elgar had once told her that some of them hired themselves out in exchange for food and shelter on a temporary basis.

"With or without vodka?" the elf asked, taking up three large pieces of fruit and placing them in front of her.

"Without, please," Minerva replied. She watched, fascinated, as the elf snapped her long, spindly fingers, and the oranges split themselves down the middle. The halves began to twist themselves on the reamer so quickly that within ten seconds, the elf was handing Minerva her glass of juice. Minerva had always envied Elgar his dexterity in handling kitchen implements; she'd never gotten very good at chopping or other cutting charms back when they'd been in France, and Elgar had relegated her to more mundane tasks like stirring and managing the heat on the cooker.

On her way back to the corner where Alastor was standing, now nodding absently at something Scrimgeour was saying, she was accosted by Griselda Marchbanks.

"Well, Minerva! Where have you been hiding all these months? Don't tell me Albus has got you so bogged down you can't even slip away for tea once in a while."

"I am sorry, Griselda. Things have been a bit busy," Minerva replied. "I have four students who are in grave danger of failing their O.W.L.s outright, I'm sorry to say. So I've been giving extra lessons on weekends. And I have a student who's beginning Animagus training with me."

"Really? Anyone I should be looking at?" asked a surprised Griselda.

"I don't think she'd be your sort of apprentice," Minerva replied. "Miss Skeeter has a natural gift for Transfiguration, but no real appreciation of its nuances. She's really only interested in what can be applied practically right now. She's a bit . . ."

"Crass?"

"That's not quite the word I'd use, but something like it, maybe. Anyway, she begged and begged me for the Animagus lessons, and I finally agreed. I think her greatest gifts lie in the art of persuasion," Minerva said with a laugh. "Frankly, though, I don't really think she'll stick with it. She has her eye on too many other things."

"Shame. Decent apprentices are hard to come by," remarked Griselda. "Speaking of which, how's Malcolm?"

"He's well. Enjoying Paris, I think," said Minerva.

"I'll bet he is," said Griselda with a smirk. "You tell him from me that I'm still brassed off at him for throwing away all that talent to become a glorified cauldron-washer, but if he wants to come crawling back out of that Froggy Potions lab, I might be able to see my way clear to forgiving him. Out of the goodness of my heart, you understand."

"I'll tell him."

"And I'll tell Bathilda you're coming for tea Sunday next," Griselda said firmly, "and to hell with those brats you're teaching. If they don't know which end of a wand to stick down their skivvies and which to hold by their fifth year, they never will."

Minerva knew better than to argue with her, so she said, "Yes, Madam Marchbanks. Where is Bathilda, anyway? I thought she'd be here."

"She found something important in the Muggle library, of all places," Griselda said with affectionate disgust. "Wants to get in there when it's closed so she can make some magical copies without being seen. Said she'd be along when she was done, but I wouldn't count on it. You know how she is."

"I do," said Minerva.

"You'd better go rescue your man there," said Griselda, crooking her chin at the corner where Alastor stood, still with his colleague, both of them evidently deserted by the fetching Miss Jones. "He looks like he's been dancing with a Dementor. Can't blame him; I spent five minutes talking to that Scrimgeour git and it seemed like five hours."

As Minerva started back toward Alastor and Scrimgeour, Griselda called after her, "Two o'clock Sunday. Bring Alastor, if you like."

Alastor looked up at the sound of his name and gave the approaching Minerva a smile that didn't quite reach his good eye.

Coming up to the two men, Minerva said. "Mr Scrimgeour, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Alastor, didn't you want a word with Barty Crouch? I saw him over near the drinks table, but he was making noises about leaving, so if you want to catch him, you'd better go." She gave Scrimgeour an apologetic smile.

Scrimgeour nodded, saying, "Of course. Good to talk to you, Moody. Maybe we can..."

"Yeah, thanks, Scrimgeour," Alastor said as Minerva drew him away toward the narrow entry hall. "Thanks, Minerva. I don't think I could've stood another minute of Rufus' blather."

"Are you all right, Alastor?" Minerva asked as they passed through the door to the empty hallway.

"Fine, yeah."

"You seem distracted."

"Do I?" he said. "Well, there's a lot on my plate at work, what with having been out for six weeks."

"Is that all it is?"

"Sure," he answered. Then after a moment: "What do you say we get out of here? Go back to my flat where we can have a little privacy."

Now, that was more like him.

Except there was no suggestive wink, no wicked gleam in his eyes.

Eye.

"That sounds very nice," she said. "Let's just find Amelia and say our goodbyes, all right?"

When they arrived at Alastor's flat, he seemed nervous and tetchy...well, tetchier than normal, anyway...so Minerva decided to grab the Vipertooth by the horns.

"Will you tell me now what's really bothering you?"

He met her eyes for the first time that afternoon. He seemed to be wavering, unsure of something, and a shiver of fear shot through her. Searching her face for a few moments, Alastor then turned without a word and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Minerva standing there, unsure if she was meant to follow or not.

He returned a few moments later holding a red folder, which he held out to her, and suddenly and irrationally, she wanted to do anything but touch it.

They stood there for a few moments, making an almost theatrical tableau, Alastor with his arm outstretched bearing the accusatory folder, Minerva recoiling, until she finally took it.

She didn't open it, however.

"What is this?" she asked.

"I got it from France. It's about Gerald. I think you should read what's in it, then we should talk."

Gerald.

Minerva felt her knees trying to turn to water. "May I . . ." she started, then had to clear her throat. "May I sit down?" Her voice sounded a pitch higher than normal in her ears.

"Of course," Alastor replied, looking at her quizzically. She didn't move...felt as if she couldn't move...so Alastor took her gently by the hand and led her to the table, holding out a tatty straight-backed chair for her.

Minerva sat, put the folder on the table, opened it, and looked at the first page. She received her second shock of the day when she recognised Albus' handwriting in the note that prefaced the contents. Her chest constricted tightly, and for a moment, she was absurdly relieved to believe that she was having a heart attack. The moment passed, though, and she was forced to turn the wretched page.

She read silently and quickly, white noise growing inside her head as she turned each leaf. It rose to a shriek when she came to the first letter from Gerald to Monsieur Berquier. She willed it back down, hoping she had not betrayed her distress to Alastor, but afraid that the heat she could feel in her cheeks had done the job. Not that he'd need to see her flush to know she was upset. She could feel him peering at her with that piercing Auror's stare, made all the more discomfiting by the way the formerly tetchy eye was now focused intently on her.

Finally, she closed the back cover and forced herself to look at him.

"Is it true?" he asked.

"Which part?"

"About you and Berquier, for starters."

"Yes," she said. "Are you shocked?"

"Surprised, yes. I wouldn't have thought you'd . . . " He startled her by shaking his head violently, like a dog shaking the water from his fur after a dip in a creek. "No. Look . . . it's not for me to judge, Minerva. I know your marriage was shite. If you . . . if you found a bit of comfort somewhere else, I can't..."

"No," she interrupted, and he looked at her with a confusion she'd rarely seen on his face before.

"It wasn't like that," she said.

"How was it, Minerva?" he enquired softly. Then: "You don't have to tell me. You don't owe me any explanations . . . about that. I just . . . I'd like to understand . . . what was going on with you."

"It was money."

His confusion was back, and for a horrifying moment, she thought she might laugh.

He said, "I don't understand . . ."

"He gave me money. To sleep with him," she answered. She couldn't quite help adding drily, "Do you understand now?"

She could see perfectly well that he did.

"Gods, Minerva," he said. "Why?"

His question...his stupid question...made her suddenly angry, and the relief that came when it overpowered her fear was like manna in the desert, and she clutched at it.

"Why do you think? We were destitute. Gerald's creditors were getting impatient. I had lost so many pupils . . . and I had a son to feed and protect."

"Oh, Minerva . . ." he began, and reached for her hands, but she felt she would scream if he touched her, so she snatched them away.

"I don't need your pity, Alastor," she spat.

His look of hurt sapped her sudden fury for just a moment. "I'm sorry," she said, although her flat tone didn't do much to sell the idea.

"Don't be," he said. "You did what you felt you had to do. There's no shame in that."

This time, she did laugh. "That's easy to say, Alastor. Not quite so easy to believe when you're sitting there looking as if I've told you I've come down with the pox."

"It's . . . it's a shock, Minerva. That's all."

His feeble protest brought the anger flooding back, and she took refuge in it

She said, "What? To find out the woman you love was a prostitute?"

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Minerva..."

"Isn't it?"

"I suppose, technically..."

"Not just technically, Alastor. Legally, too. Don't forget legally . . . You, of all people, should know that."

She was waspish now, stinging him with the truth . . . the relentless, ugly truth. It was cruel, but she couldn't help it. There was bitter wormwood, years of it, built up within her, and none of it was this man's fault . . . this man whose only sin was loving her . . . yet she wanted to scourge him with it, so she went on.

" . . . a person who engages in sexual intercourse for money is a prostitute. Technically and legally. The moment he laid his coin on the table . . . the moment I picked it up and put it in my pocket, I was a prostitute." Her voice was high and fast, and it felt as if her tongue belonged to someone else.

"I told him I'd rather be a whore than a debtor, and I turned out to be both in the end, isn't it funny?" Her long-ago conversation with Albus had sprung suddenly into her head, and the words had come tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Alastor barked, "Minerva, stop!" He took her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. Her teeth clicked together and she bit her tongue, the bright, crystalline pain of it bringing her to her senses.

What am I doing?

He saw the change and drew her into his arms, pressing her head to his shoulder.

"It's all right, love. It's all right," he soothed.

The panic that had overtaken her died down a little as she listened to his steady breathing.

Enjoy it now, Minerva. You won't have the chance again.

She lifted her head reluctantly after a minute and said, "Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"All right?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

But of course, it wasn't. Nothing was all right. Nothing at all. It hadn't been all right since the day she'd signed her name to that god-damned marriage contract.

She pulled out of his arms and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve; she didn't have the strength to conjure a handkerchief.

"He was the only one," she said. "Not that it really matters . . ."

"Minerva, you don't have to explain."

But she wanted to. Everything between them was going to end today; she knew it, and she wanted him to have the truth of it before he left her. She was done with lies and half-truths.

"Let me tell you, Alastor."

"All right, Alastor said.

She sat for a few moments, trying to tame the horses that seemed to have taken up residence in her chest. Then she spoke:

"Petrus Berquier was the father of one of my pupils."

Alastor nodded. Right; he'd have read that in the interrogation report.

"I'd only met him a few times, when I spoke with him and his wife about Henri's progress. He never said more than a few words. So I was very surprised when he called for Henri one day after the lesson. It was usually a house-elf, and Celestine once or twice, who'd collect him. He asked to speak with me privately, and naturally, I assumed it was something about Henri."

"But it wasn't," said Alastor, and she smiled to herself at his no-doubt unconscious interrogator's trick of leading the suspect to the story.

"No. He was very direct, but in a French sort of way," she said.

Alastor nodded as if he understood.

"He told me he found me very attractive and that he knew of our financial situation. And he said that he would be prepared to help us if I would enter into a personal arrangement with him. That's how he put it: a 'personal arrangement'. I pretended not to understand what he was talking about, but I did, of course. And he knew it. He told me he was a busy man and didn't have the time or inclination for what he called 'the traditional pursuits'. Which I knew meant he didn't want to take the traditional mistress. I imagine he wanted to make it clear that the arrangement would not include any emotional entanglements.

"I was shocked, but I suppose I shouldn't have been. It's hardly a secret that wealthy wizards have been taking mistresses since Merlin was in short pants. It was just my understanding that they didn't usually select the wives of their fellow pure-bloods for the honour. But later it began to make a kind of sense. Given my position, I was hardly likely to tell anyone about it, was I? And secrecy was particularly important to Petrus Berquier, with his political ambitions."

"I'm sure it was," Alastor said.

"Anyway, I turned him down then. Politely. I couldn't afford to lose Henri as a pupil, and I didn't want to make an enemy of Petrus Berquier. Most of my other pupils came from the same social circles. He accepted my refusal with good grace.

"Then, less than a month later, I had my first visit from one of Gerald's creditors. They didn't do anything, but they were quite emphatic about being paid and very specific about what might happen if they were not. I gave them several pieces of jewellery, which took care of most of what Gerald owed them. Two days after that, Gerald came home drunk, railing about his mother's sapphire earrings...he must have heard about what I'd done from one of his . . . associates. I was teaching, and when I went to try to calm him, he became belligerent. Unfortunately, my pupil came out to see what was keeping me just as Gerald called me a . . . colourful name and pushed me...I was trying to steer him into another room, farther from the salon in which I taught...and he pushed me away. I don't think he was really trying to hurt me, but he used some force, and I hit the wall, which bloodied my lip. The girl saw it and, quite understandably, reported it to her parents, who promptly withdrew her from lessons. Word travels fast in Paris, and within the week, I had lost three more pupils. Which meant that I would have to choose between paying for the roof over our heads or the food in our mouths.

"So I sent an owl to Chevalier Berquier at his office to tell him I wanted to accept his offer, if it was still open. It was.

"We met once a week at a flat he kept...for just this kind of thing, I imagine. We never spoke about money. I suppose he would have considered it beneath him. But it was generous. We would spend an hour . . . perhaps two . . . in the flat, then he would go. The money was always waiting for me in an envelope before I even got to the flat, and we never referred to it.

"It continued for about five months until one day I received an owl telling me that Henri would no longer be coming for lessons. It was signed 'Celestine Berquier'. That note was followed a few minutes later by another thanking me for my help and wishing me all the best. It was signed by Petrus Berquier, and I knew it meant our arrangement was at an end, too. The envelope also contained eight five-hundred-Livre notes.

"Four thousand Livres?" Alastor said. "Back then, that had to be . . . what . . .twenty-five , thirty Galleons?"

"Thirty-four."

At Alastor's raised eyebrows, she said, "As I told you, Monsieur Berquier was generous. His . . . parting gift paid off Gerald's creditors. The three pupils that remained to me would pay for our rent and food."

She set her chin and looked intently at Alastor's face. "I had to feed my son. I don't regret it."

"I never said you should, Minerva," he answered. "I'm just . . ."

"What?"

"I'm just sorry you had to do that." Minerva saw his eyes widen slightly, as if he were remembering something, then he said, "Did he ever . . . did he hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No."

The idea was almost comical to Minerva, and she wondered for a moment what had prompted the question.

She said, "No, he was never less than courteous. It wasn't . . . it wasn't terrible, if that's what you're worried about. He never asked me to do anything that was abhorrent to me."

In fact, it hadn't been much different from sex with Gerald. The only difference had been that Monsieur Berquier had occasionally wanted to take her from behind. But he'd never held her down as Gerald had done, and for that, she'd been thankful. No, he'd never hurt her, but he'd never been concerned about her pleasure, either. Not that she'd expected him to be. She'd been quite clear on her role in the arrangement.

Alastor's visage relaxed . . . a little.

That's why she was surprised by what he asked next.

"Minerva . . . did Berquier kill Gerald?"

She'd known as she read the report that Alastor would get to the question eventually, but she felt the white noise begin to gallop through her head anyway, and she found she couldn't speak.

Alastor's concerned face appeared close to hers...too close...and she pulled away.

"Minerva?"

"No."

Alastor obviously mistook her distress.

"I know it's hard to fathom, but the blackmail . . . the timing . . . it all fits . . ."

"No."

His eyes...both natural and artificial...were fixed on her face as if transfixed there. "Minerva . . . did you know anything about it?"

"I . . . I knew nothing about the blackmail. Until just now."

She saw Alastor's entire body relax, as if it were a marionette whose too-taut strings had been lengthened, and it sent a piercing pain through her.

He said, "I'm sorry, Minerva . . . I had to ask . . ."

"I know you did. You wouldn't be Alastor Moody if you hadn't asked."

Words began to pour out of him in his relief. "And I'm sorry I dredged all this up. Sorry I didn't tell you about it. I just wanted to find out about Gerald. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to upset you if I couldn't discover anything . . . or if it turned out that something . . . really terrible had happened to him. I wanted the chance to . . . to edit the details, if you take my meaning. It wasn't right, though. I know that now. Screw it, I knew it then. But I didn't want to take the chance of hurting you."

"It doesn't matter," she said, and she was only mildly surprised to realise that it didn't. Had things been otherwise, Minerva would have been angry...no, furious...at his going behind her back, even if he'd done it out of love and concern. But she found she hadn't the energy for that kind of anger now. Too many other emotions were buffeting her about.

"Minerva," he said, taking her hands across the table. "Now that you know, I'd like to follow through on this. Find out what really happened to Macnair. Help you close the books on it, so to speak."

"It isn't necessary," she said, carefully and deliberately taking her hands out of his again.

"Maybe not, but now that I have a lead, a solid lead, I can..."

"You don't."

"I don't what?"

"Have a solid lead."

"Minerva, I can understand it if you don't want to believe that Berquier had anything to do with Gerald's de...disappearance. But the evidence, the circumstantial evidence anyway, is right here in this report. Don't you want to know the truth? If Berquier had anything to do with it, he should be brought to justice. He had the investigation stopped and the records sealed. These rich, pure-blood bastards think they can get away with anything. They..."

"Petrus Berquier didn't kill Gerald."

"You don't know that, Minerva. If he was blackmailing..."

"I do know."

"How?"

"Because I did."

Author's Note In 1956, thirty-four Galleons would have equalled 170 pounds sterling, or 342 U.S. dollars. In 2012 currency, that would equal 3,482 pounds sterling, or 3,100 U.S. dollars.