Chapter Twenty two

Author's notes: Many thanks to falconfalmorgan and Trickie Woo.

The archive was a truly magnificent thing of beauty. Built hundreds of years ago by craftsmen of uncommon skill, many of the secrets of its impressive structure had since been lost, but Smith had delved deep enough to divine a few of those long-forgotten wonders. For instance, not many realised that the archive itself was capable of archiving.

In his personal slice of time, Smith stared at the thick scroll, and he felt his enthusiasm wither. He hadn't expected it to be so... daunting. The scroll was as thick and as wide as his forearm. Apparently, numerous wizards had felt it necessary to study the scrolls into Ophelia's and Capella's deaths. It would take days to trawl through the scroll, looking for some anomaly or clue...he needed to refine his search. But to what? What variable would give him what he sought?

Capella had left the Wizarding world, and she had managed it so effectively that she had only been located at the time of her death when the use of the Killing Curse had lured in the Aurors. Why had she left? What had prompted her to flee? Moody had discussed Dumbledore's plans with him, the old camaraderie returning, and with it, that wonderful sense of purpose and vitality. As Moody had talked, postulated and occasionally ranted, Smith had learnt that Capella had smothered all magical attributes in both herself and her daughter. Fear had made her run, and based on the timescale, she had fled in the very early stages of her pregnancy.

Smith sighed; they had studied the illegitimate child as the reason for the escape, but despite other attitudes harboured by purebloods, a bastard was not generally frowned upon, unless the parentage was considered repugnant. Had Capella taken someone to her heart and bed that she'd known her family would have disapproved of? There again, would she have known that she was pregnant when she had disappeared? Her effort had required planning, and he doubted that there had been time between being aware of the child and the escape to concoct such a feat. No. It was more likely that the pregnancy had happened en route... which brought them right back to square one.

As delightful as the archive was, he began to suspect that the answers weren't here. Maybe centuries of prejudice and distance between wizards and Muggles had blinded them; maybe the answers lay in the world that Capella had cleaved to? It was the only way forward for him, and for some reason, he considered the answer of Ophelia's parentage to be in some way important. He suspected that it was the reason for their murders, and if he only solved the mystery surrounding Capella's death, then he could hold his head up as an Auror rather than be browbeaten as a caretaker.

oooXooo

Moody watched with appalled fascination as Smith dipped the biscuit into the china cup, swirled it around in the stewed tea and swiftly navigated the soggy biscuit into his mouth.

"What?" asked Smith after swallowing the offending mouthful.

"Yer had no idea where that biscuit's been or who made the tea?" Moody hissed out; he was incredulous at Smith's lack of care.

"It came out of that packet there, Moody," he responded patiently. "And the tea was made in that urn what everyone in this bank has been drinkin' out of since we've been here." He took a deep gulp, inwardly relishing the sight of Moody's shudder at the wilful disregard of personal safety. "Don't be so uptight," he suggested amiably. "Have some faith in the fact that I'm just not interestin' enough to need killin'."

Harrumphing, Moody removed his hipflask and took a quick sip. "Complacency will be the death of yer."

"Sounds better than evisceration," Smith quipped while reaching out for another biscuit. But as he dunked the digestive, he watched his friend carefully, and he saw behind the scowl, the smallest flicker of pain and fear. The long and hard years since they had worked together seemed to sublime into so much inconsequential vapour, and Smith felt much as he had back then: an affectionate concern and wry fondness. Those feelings stirred at the sight of fear on Moody's face, and if nothing had quite drummed home the despair and the dread that the Order were experiencing, then that flitter of fear had pounded the message deep. Voldemort was close to winning.

Moody inhaled to scold his glib friend when the door opened and a young woman walked in, carrying a plastic wallet folder and smiling in a slightly bemused manner.

"You're lucky," she said breathlessly while sitting next to them, dropping the A4 wallet onto the coffee table and pushing her slipping glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "It seems that we did keep the old passbooks."

Moody and Smith exchanged a baffled glance due to her terminology, but Smith had always been faster at taking things in his stride. "Remarkably efficient of ye," he bluffed. "Could ye 'elp us old 'uns out and give us a clue as to what we need to be lookin' for?"

The young bank clerk blinked slowly, seemed to battle the hex holding her, but then smiled sweetly. "Of course," she said brightly, and under the power of Smith's magic, she began to assist them as best she could.

Moody edged closer to the table as she tipped out the contents of the folder, and his eye roamed over the vaguely recognisable books and slips of paper. But despite the apparent glee on the clerk's face and the anticipation on Smith's, he saw an incomprehensible mass of letters and numbers. It had all seemed quite positive when Smith had burst into his kitchen in the early hours of that morning and said that he had a line of enquiry that could help them. But now, sitting in the Muggle bank's over-bright office, his head pounding from lack of sleep and the seemingly never-ending tension of meetings and spying, he felt that it was just another bitter dead-end.

"It's quite simple, really," trilled the woman as she opened up one of the passbooks. "This section gives you a rough or specific identity of whoever received money from the account or paid money into it; these spaces relate to the bank and verify the amount and authorises the withdrawal or deposit." She offered Smith the sheet that she was holding and reached for another. "This account was opened in nineteen sixty-three with a payment of sixty-pounds...a cash payment. Here," she exclaimed, pointing out the date and the amount.

Moody studied the printed date...twenty-second of January. That rendered the idea that Capella had fled due to her pregnancy moot, the opening of the account happened before Ophelia had been conceived.

"Ah," sighed the clerk, "there was a standing order generated a few weeks after the account was opened... Hmm... Could have been for rent or a mortgage."

"Do you have any idea who opened the account?" Moody asked, his interest piqued once more; he felt that he began to understand where Smith was going with this looking into bank accounts.

"It says that the account was opened by... Mary Croft and Martin Stote. It was closed on eighteenth of March nineteen-sixty-nine; the monies within the account awarded to... a... hmmm... oh, transferred to Trevillian and Mariband solicitors."

"Martin Stote," grumbled Moody. "Who the 'ell is 'e?"

Under the influence of the hex, the woman frowned and studied the small, brown book before her, trying to divine what she could from the neat print. An idea seemed to blossom, and she began flicking through the book and the stapled pile of slips. Moody and Smith watched her with polite and hopeful interest.

"Lover? Husband?" Smith muttered.

"Such a romantic!" griped Moody.

"Cynic!"

"The debits from the account were fairly standard," exclaimed the clerk. "There was a standing order once a month, one small cash withdrawal at the start of the week, and a few other payments here and there." She daintily licked the pad of her forefinger and quickly rifled through the books, her brow furrowed and her eyes wide and keen. "It seems that the payments into the account were also standard: a cash deposit at the start of every month and... oh yes... a larger payment at the start of December. The monies alter in relation to inflation and cost of living changes. There's a strange payment here, dated twelfth August nineteen sixty-two...it was a Banker's Draft, but I don't recognise the name of the bank."

Smith extended his hand. "May I?"

Smiling, she dropped the book into his hand and picked up another. Whoever these two gentlemen are, they're so charming and polite, she mused as she went through the statements. It was so bizarre to think that she had originally refused their request. They were lucky that Mary and Martin had been so frugal, otherwise the workload would have been immense, trawling through countless transactions. It struck her that there was something so mechanical about the statements, nothing to suggest spontaneity or light-heartedness. In fact, the regularity seemed quite sinister, but towards the end of nineteen-sixty-four, the outgoings increased, and fickle withdrawals began.

Relaying her findings to the two grizzled men made them seem edgy, and they muttered under their breath, but they seemed very pleased with her efforts, so she was happy. The information seemed to tell them a different story, and she could see their mounting excitement and energy as they read the financial record.

While Smith frowned over the strange entry, Moody leant forwards. "Any change in payments from nineteen-sixty-four and onwards?"

Nodding, the woman hastily retrieved the relevant pages. "Hmm... yes!" she said excitedly. "From May of that year, the monthly deposit almost doubled, and the standing order changes too...and it's a mortgage payment; the payee is a building society."

A sharp nudge in his ribs made Moody grumble and turn to Smith with a scowl, but Smith was grinning and holding up the passbook, his long crooked finger pointing at a name...Marmaduke's Monetary Exchange.

The Wizarding and the Muggle worlds were required at times to do business with one another; Muggleborns required Galleons for school, and wizards required pounds sterling to purchase items when away from Wizarding establishments. In fact, a rather healthy coexistence was to be found between certain businesses and suppliers in both worlds. Marmaduke's Monetary Exchange had been one of a few banks that had exchanged between the two currencies; wizards paid in Galleons could have their wages exchanged into pounds and pence and transferred into their own Muggle bank accounts and vice versa.

Moody felt his eye bulge. With that snippet, they had a chance to find out who Capella's mysterious benefactor had been, and they could use that date and the reference number to track the Wizarding account of Martin Stote.

"There was a significant change in Mary's banking details in October of nineteen-sixty-eight."

Moody and Smith turned back expectantly to their generous assistant.

"The monthly credit stopped," she said solemnly. "All payments into the account ceased, as did all withdrawals, save for the standing order which was nullified a few months later."

Moody exhaled slowly and Smith pursed his lips...Capella had died eight days after that missed October payment. Had she sought out the reason for that waylaid payment, and had that led to her death? Or had some unknown assassin killed Martin and then hunted down Mary? Smith closed his eyes; had the lack of payment been the portent that Capella had needed to take her own life?

oooXooo

"I never actually was retired," stated Smith with some smugness. He recalled Moody's look of shock in Marmaduke's Monetary Exchange when he had withdrawn his identification and waved it at the sneering clerk.

Moody mouthed silently, his amazement snatching his thoughts. "Ye are still an active Auror?" He waved a hand at the bent wizard smirking at him, and his frustration grew. "But ye were hurt, and ye... ye... well, ye're older than me!" he ended lamely.

"I guess that still havin' most me own body-parts impressed 'em," Smith countered with some amusement. His tone developed a brief bit of bitterness then. "Besides, I don't exactly do much runnin' around these days, but I needed the same privileges as the others so I could go in and do me job in some of the restricted areas," he explained soothingly.

Moody was only slightly mollified, but he saw the wisdom in allowing Smith to keep his active Auror status, so he smothered how it irked him and focused on the benefits of his friend still being what he longed to be.

The bank clerk at Marmaduke's had been less inclined to fall for a Befuddlement Charm, and as a result, he had been typically surly and unhelpful. Smith's credentials had only managed to impact upon the man's willingness to provide them with what they had asked for, but the irritated clerk had made sure that the Aurors had known that he wasn't happy.

Sitting in Smith's kitchen with a coffee and a pile of transactions, Moody felt the last dregs of his frustration slip away; it was just good to be working with Smith again. He had forgotten how much better he had been able to cope with things, how much easier work had been while standing by Smith's side. They had been a good team, not only for the Ministry, but also for themselves. Even during the worst of times, they had kept each other going, and Moody wondered how he'd coped for so long without such support. Guilt wove its way through his realisations, and he felt a painful pang that he hadn't worked harder to maintain his friendship. Time had just slipped by....

"Knut for ye thoughts," remarked Smith as he sat down at the table, placing his cup of tea on the table and picking up a sheaf of papers to study.

Moody wanted to share his thoughts, express his sense of companionship... his affection for Smith, but he couldn't formulate the words. "Just glad to be workin' with a professional," he finally said. "These new recruits in the Order are downright frustratin'...got no idea."

Smith grinned and looked up. "As I recall, we were wet behind the ears once," he said generously. "Or at least mildly damp."

"They'll get 'emselves killed," continued Moody, his mind following a lonely, often travelled path.

Smith placed his papers on the table and picked up his tea. "Ye can't protect 'em all." Moody's outburst had surprised him. Not the issue or Moody's obvious concern, but the fact that it had erupted from such a small spark. Moody was notoriously introverted about his feelings, and for him to be so expressive was a startling revelation.

Moody's eye snapped back to focus angrily upon Smith. "I know that! Don't ye think that I know that?" he snarled out.

"I know that," Smith answered softly. Moody's temper had always been terrible when provoked, but as fearsome as it was, it generally stemmed from some desperate sense of inadequacy or uselessness. As such, it heralded some need rather than signified some antagonism. It was Moody's useful mechanism to express his disguised weaknesses. Many stumbled into his trap, and his character would send many running, but Smith had known him far too long to be deterred by the prospect of being cursed. Besides, smirked Smith, Moody hadn't inserted his magical eye, and without it, he had poor depth perception.

"They're so bloody young," Moody whispered.

"We shouldn't be worryin' about their age," Smith said sternly. "Ye can damn well believe that Voldemort and 'is Death Eaters ain't worryin'."

"Smith!" Moody scolded, appalled at the wizard's attitude. "'Ow can ye say that? They're bairns most of 'em... Potter ain't passed sixteen yet. None of 'em 'ave any trainin'," he said bitterly.

"Ye want 'em to live past fifteen?" Smith hissed out. "Then stop worryin about 'em and bloody well do ye job!"

"Ow dare ye!" Moody yelled out, his hands gripping the edges of the table. "I 'aven't been bustin' a gut over the last year for nothin'!" He reared back, his eye blazing and his lips pulled back. "I've been preparin' 'em as best I can; trainin' 'em and warnin' 'em."

"While back at the Academy, we 'ad people to do those things," countered Smith smoothly. "We called 'em lecturers!" There was more than just Moody's disquiet hanging in the air between them. "They did their job, and if we were wise, we paid attention, but most of our learnin' 'appened outside the Academy...you know that! Mollycoddlin' is what we 'ad until we were let loose on the world. Out there, and it were a whole new cauldron of toads.

Ye can yell at 'em and advise 'em all ye want, Moody, but they'll still make the mistakes that we can see 'em settin' 'emselves up for, and we 'ave to let 'em."

"They'll die!" Moody shouted out.

Smith reared back in the face of Moody's ferocious prediction, but something lurked beyond the anger, beyond the outrage. Something was festering that needed lancing, and Smith loved Moody enough to suffer the wizard's wrath if it meant that his friend of over six decades would be pure once again.

"That Potter kid seems to be holdin' 'is own," Smith stated with simple conviction. "'Ave some faith in the kids, Moody. If ye don't and ye keep on doin' this, then ye'll all fail." He leant forwards and licked his lips, preparing to lift the lid on the can of worms. "Ye got to stop thinkin' that they'll fail because ye 'ave." There was the barest flicker in Moody's blue eye, but Smith caught it. "There's no Auror out there who hasn't failed at some point, and we 'ave to learn to use that, we 'ave to use it in whatever way we can, because if we let it use us, then we've lost."

"Ye're wittering on about second year psychology, Smith," ground out Moody. "Don't think that I can't remember discussin' the psychology of loss!"

"Oh ye discussed it alright," Smith said bitterly. "But ye never had to do it because of ye being so bloody good! Nowt what 'as 'appened was ever down to ye or a mark on ye," he hissed out. "Ye 'ave never really faced personal defeat; ye've never faced 'ow to deal with failure. Ye've suffered seein' friends and fellow Aurors get devoured by this life, but ye've never 'ad to face that there was somethin' that ye could 'ave done."

Both of them were breathing hard, wheezing and smothering the urge to cough as the row went on, but Smith wasn't quite finished yet. "Moody, ye've been so bloody perfect that ye're only facin' the idea that ye can fail now! Ye've never 'ad to worry that ye're not up for it or that there are those who are worse and better than ye out there."

"They," Moody snapped out, "got me from behind. I should 'ave known."

"Known what?" Smith said contemptuously. "That ye'd be stuffed in a trunk for a year?" He snorted in disgust. "Ye arrogant scallywag, Moody, to think that ye're so much better than everyone else, that just because ye got caught, then the whole Order is doomed!"

"That's not it!" Moody howled out. "Ye 'ave no idea, Smith. Ye 'ave no idea what it's like to know that ye lost so easily, that all it took were one moment of weakness and ye were as good as meat for the Death Eater dogs. Knowin' that ye could 'ave been the one who ended the Order before it began."

The anger seemed to evaporate, leaving Moody to sag in the chair and hold his head as the despair swirled unpleasantly through him. Smith closed his eyes, and he felt a complete bastard for riling Moody up, but he'd do it again and again if it meant that Moody would heal.

"It were terrible," Moody said softly. "I couldn't get out, and there were no way of warnin' anyone, and he kept me alive, so I couldn't even 'elp in that way."

Smith's eyes snapped open at Moody's words, and a chill dread crept up his spine to freeze his lungs and squeeze his heart...damn Moody's professionalism! Tears prickled his eyes as he realised that the last dignity and honour had been wrested from Moody's grasp... No wonder he felt such a failure...to have it snatched away from him when so many of his friends and colleagues had died so disgustingly easily doing their jobs. The sense of uselessness must have been worse than death. Smith shook his head. Moody had sought death as the last and only weapon and defence.

What could he say? What words could possibly begin to ease the pain that flowed through Moody? Smith knew that there were no words. There was just work. There was always work. Moody would never really recover from his ordeal, and the scars of it would pull and tear at him at every opportunity. His fears for the others would never diminish, because his own fear would never let-up. All Smith could hope for was that Moody would rise up from it and battle it, to be the Auror that had survived so many times before.

"E's just a boy, Smith," Moody continued chillingly tonelessly. "'E's a boy and 'e 'as to do so much. From what Dumbledore says, 'e's the only one who can kill Voldemort. It is just... so worryin' that it rests in Potter's 'ands." Moody slumped further and sighed woefully. "It ain't my failure that haunts me, Smith." His head lifted, and Smith gasped at the dread pooling in Moody's eye. "Do ye know 'ow 'ard it is for me to trust that Potter can do what's needed?" Shaking his head, he settled back against the chair. "I know that I can't make 'im understand what's loomin'... I try, and it almost cripples me to know that until 'e suffers the same, 'e'll never know. To be honest, I doubt that what we've seen and dealt with will come close to what's goin' to 'appen next."

A flash of understanding burst in his skull; Smith began to see everything in a new light, and in that harsh glare, he felt his own unease blossom. Moody wasn't trying to protect the kids from the Death Eaters, but the Order from the kids.

"What a task ye've set yerself, me friend." Smith said kindly. "But ye know that it ain't down to ye... it's somethin' that all of ye are bound to support. Whether the Potter boy can deal with it all is not ours to decide or fathom; all we can do is give 'im the best of us an' hope because we can't protect 'em all... not even 'im."

"Ye're right!" Moody affirmed brightly. "I can't look after 'em all." The smile slipped, and the blue eye glistened. "I can only be damned sure that they 'ave a bloody good chance at doin' what they 'ave to do!"

Smith felt his own eyes prickle once again with the promise of tears, but old men did not cry, so they grinned at each other.

"Die an Auror," Smith said grimly. And there was no greater threat against the Death Eaters than an old Auror ready to die.

Moody nodded firmly, reaching out to grasp Smith's hand. "No better way to die."