Chapter Four

"And this, of course, is the classroom, with your office adjoining it just up those stairs." Minerva stepped aside to let Dolores Umbridge saunter into the classroom and watched with reined-in dislike as the stumpy woman surveyed the room. "Please feel free to alter the room as you see fit, just as all the other professors have before you."

"Oh, I shall," Umbridge responded breathlessly, her face splitting into an officious smile. "I so want the students to know that things are changing for the better."

Minerva bristled at the insinuation, but managed to summon a gracious smile. "I'm sure that the Ministry wants nothing more than to demonstrate that to the students." She smirked as she noted Umbridge's wide smile falter and her large eyes narrow. "Shall I show you the staffroom now, or would you prefer to settle in first?"

"The students will be arriving in just under an hour, so I shall set to work preparing the classroom and repairing the office."

"Very well." Minerva grabbed the handle and started to back out, but was stopped by a curious delicate sound.

"Hem hem."

"Yes, Professor Umbridge?"

"I would very much like to speak with all the teachers at some point during the evening."

"I don't see a problem with that; I'm sure the rest of the staff will be equally delighted to meet you."

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I think it's important that we all know where we stand with each other from the offset."

"Of course; I'm sure that the sentiment will be appreciated and duly reciprocated. Good evening, Professor Umbridge."

With the door shut behind her, Minerva exhaled slowly and eased the throbbing joints in her hand. She noted with some annoyance the groove on her palm where the door handle had bitten into the skin from her ever tightening grip in response to her rising anger. She had been shocked and dismayed when Dolores Jane Umbridge had walked into her office and presented herself as the Ministry's approved teacher. She recalled that Umbridge had been the Senior Undersecretary for the Minister, and had been one of those wizards present at Harry Potter's mockery of a trial who had sought a conviction. The few words of pleasantries shared between them had done nothing to ease Minerva's appalled disgust, but Dumbledore had insisted that the woman be treated cordially, and, therefore, Minerva would be nothing less than polite. The effort had left her with aching jaw muscles, a throbbing headache and lancing pains through her wrist. She grimaced at the prospect of working with Dolores Umbridge, wondering if Madam Pomfrey had sufficient supplies of Headease Potion, and was only mildly comforted by the fact that no Defence teacher had lasted more than a year in nearly two decades.

"I must pass on my respects to Onesiphorus for his foresight and quick actions," Dumbledore said solemnly.

"I've got Smith lookin' into things at the Ministry; no one better suited to go pokin' around."

Dumbledore nodded slowly and tapped his forefinger against his lips. "I wonder what is in her head, lost in the chaos, which could be so important as to cause such consternation. The paperwork alone should be enough to put off even the most stalwart keeper of secrets."

"Norwood was telling the truth about extractin' Ophelia Black on Ministry orders, and all the other Aurors involved in the abduction are now dead, so I can't check with 'em." He gave the tea a once-over and then took a large gulp. "He got little from her, even under Veritaserum and the Imperius Curse. He cast a Memory Modification Charm an' put her back on the train. All neat an' without fuss. Accordin' to him, the train was intact and even runnin' on time."

"What do you suspect?"

"It's a little too early to go guessin'." Moody glowered and drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "I checked out ol' Norwood and he was clean, no sign of memory tamperin' at all." He leant forward, and the firelight caught his eye. "I suggest someone being there when Ophelia wakes up...just in case."

"I'm thinking of asking Remus to assist Minerva."

"Lupin's no good for this," he scoffed gently. "You need someone who'll look for wrongness." He sat back and scratched idly at his chin. "Don't think I ain't takin' this pers'nal. It's my name on those reports sayin' she's dead, and it seems a bit too coincidental that my hairs should be placed at the murder of the only person around who may have been able to shed some light on the matter." He glared at Dumbledore, both eyes equally terrible as they blazed with indignant fury. "Someone used my good name to cover somethin' up back then and is using my bad reputation to incriminate me now."

He knew better than to mock his friend; indeed, it was wiser to listen to him. "Come now, Alastor; they would have to have known a fair bit about your reasons for visiting Norwood in the first place to be able to successfully implicate you in his murder on the grounds of reasonable motive."

Moody shrugged indifferently and took another gulp of tea.

"And who would feel obliged to hold on to clippings of your hair for nearly twenty years on the off chance that you would visit with a prospective and propitious murder victim?" Dumbledore ignored Moody's scowl and smoothed down his beard. "However, as absurd as it sounds, I am inclined to believe you; too many other incidents have taken place over the last few months for me to comfortably dismiss anything at the moment."

"Smith says that things are happenin' within the Ministry as well, reassignments and old scrolls being shuffled around. Of course," he said slowly, "could be just them clearin' house in light of what you've said."

"Well, it is nice to think that my words have had some impact upon the Ministry," Dumbledore said with a wry smile.

Moody dragged his hand down his face and grimaced at the stubble scratching his palm; he needed to rest, but he sensed that clouds were gathering and that Ophelia Black was some desperate conductor to that ever-increasing power. His investigations had yielded little and what he had was contradictory. He had resigned himself to just finding her and leaving the pesky details until later... after she was suitably restrained and her possible threat diminished.

"Smith has a lead," he said quietly. "A wizard by the name of Smethwyck."

"Walter?" Dumbledore asked with some caution.

"The very same," Moody answered, nodding and studying the blank face before him. "Apparently, he was involved in some scheme to influence and blackmail high rankin' wizards. Of course, most of that is well known if not now forgotten, but Smith seems to think that he may have more information about Ophelia." He sat back and winced as both the chair and his spine creaked.

"Let us hope that the trail, as they say, does not dry up; we have so little to go on." Dumbledore dropped the hairs and fibres onto his saucer and waved a hand over them; the silver and black strands curled up, smoked a little, and then turned to barely visible ash. "How is your Muggle friend progressing?"

"He's sortin' through her past addresses." Moody gave a sudden harsh bark of a laugh and grinned bitterly. "She's moved round quite a bit, hasn't settled... flighty little thing. Anyone would think that she was either runnin' or been made to move on." He inhaled and grunted unhappily. "The proverbial needle wasn't as hard to find!" He leaned forward over the table and fixed Dumbledore with an intense glare. "There are other things that he's findin' an' all," he added firmly. He shook his head and grimaced. "A fair mystery is Ophelia!"

"We must solve this puzzle quickly," Dumbledore responded firmly. "Things are moving too quickly for this to be drawn out much longer."

"What he's found so far is pretty good, in a way. Apparently, she was put in isolation for attackin' another patient. She said that she was keepin' him safe from these demons that swept through the hospital."

"Now, that is interesting," Dumbledore said softly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Are you suggesting that she fought Dementors?"

"Accordin' to the doctor's report, she was screamin' and tryin' to drag the man off the bed. The nurse who witnessed it all said that it looked as if she were battlin' with somethin' at the side of the bed. O' course, the poor devil didn't add anythin' on account of him havin' been Kissed."

"How could she have withstood being that close to a Dementor?"

Moody shrugged his shoulders. "You can gain some tolerance to them if you have to and they aren't focused on you. She did spend a few weeks in the infirmary, however, recoverin' from the ordeal; had to be heavily sedated." Moody frowned and scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. "In fact, that incident seemed to spark a spate of attacks and aggressive behaviour."

"It's not unrealistic to think that the presence of Dementors feeding off the other patients would have impacted upon her." Dumbledore shuddered slightly and wondered if Ophelia had been in such proximity to gorging Dementors that she had managed to tolerate them.

Dumbledore had devoted quite a large proportion of his free time to finding out about Ophelia Black. He had collated all her school reports and coursework and had pored over the treasured parchments. He had literally sifted through his memories, trying to build a picture of a rather demure and unremarkable witch. He was aggrieved to realise that although she had been in the school for five years, very little was known about her. It was just like a puzzle; he had pieces here and there, some were scattered across the table, and the rest were still in the box. It was made worse by the fact that he had no picture to follow... no real clues as to how they fitted together. What would the puzzle reveal? Would it be an accurate representation of the woman that she had become? Would it bolster his flagging hopes and reveal a woman ready to aid them, or crush him with an image of a viper?

"O' course not," Moody readily agreed. "I was just ponderin' her desire to protect the others. Don't really smack of being a vicious Muggle-hatin' Death Eater."

"No," Dumbledore said with a smile. "It doesn't."

"Now, don't go grinnin' on me!" warned Moody grimly. "Just because I may be thinkin' that she could be more than she seems don't mean that I believe it!"

Dumbledore chuckled amiably. "Alastor, have no fear; I still know that you're a cynic through and through."

Despite the humour between them and the faint hope of an ally, they were aware that this was only a lull in the storm. They sat in silence save for the tap dripping into the deep ceramic sink and the creaks and groans of the house settling. From upstairs came the muffled sound of hooves and claws scrabbling on the wooden floor as Buckbeak paced his attic prison. Lost in their thoughts, time carelessly moved on, measured by the regular drips and their own breaths, unceasingly leading them to an uncertain future.

His appetite had long withered. He ate because he knew that he had to. Sitting opposite, his wife chattered away about how the day had gone and would he mind if she went and had her hair done? He mumbled his approval while moving a piece of potato round his plate. When did this start? When did his life become so swamped and smothered? When did he start to doubt his own mind?

"What is it, dear?" she asked gently. She had watched him idly pushing food around and then eating with apparent gusto, only to look queasy and return to his playing. Her unease and concern had increased in intensity over the last week, and she had blamed the Ministry for his lacklustre outlook and diminished appetite. He was quiet and subdued, yet mumbled and muttered under his breath when he thought her out of ear-shot.

He looked up from his plate and into her concerned blue eyes. He was about to answer, to do as he always did and confide in her the woes of his job and the weight of his position. But tonight, he felt a vice round his throat and a stifling pressure in his head. It seemed that a thousand voices were screaming and shouting in his ears. He felt bowed and battered beneath the mental barrage. He wondered why she sat there, so quiet and still, while he trembled and struggled for breath. Couldn't she see that he was straining, that he was suffering, that each breath was a labour and each thought an agony?

"Nothing, dear," he finally managed to mutter. Run, my love, some deep part of him screamed. Get away! Get away before I do that terrible, disgusting thing to you again ...oh ... not again ... Who are you that do this to me?

She pursed her lips in annoyance; he was so listless and withdrawn lately. He sat morosely at the dinner table whenever he managed to come home in time to eat with her and seemed to stay seated out of politeness rather than desire. His simple yet staggering signs of affection that still stole her breath after twenty years of marriage had become more a thing of habit than need. She was at a loss for what to do. He was slipping away from her and she had no idea why, or more importantly, how to stop it.

He saw a flicker of pain and confusion cross her features, and then she smiled. He felt his lips twitch in weak mimicry and tried to eat a few more mouthfuls under her concerned scrutiny. The clock chimed and their cutlery clattered against crockery. He was aware of her curious glances, and was surprised at the rising wave of irritation he felt. To distract himself, he gathered up the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. In the solitude, he could hear the whispers that were now such a part of him that he couldn't remember what silence was.

She knows! She suspects! She is a threat to us!

We cannot allow her to interfere. She must not divert us. She must not stop us!

She daintily dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin and tried not to succumb to her nascent dread. She had never known him to be so closed, so reticent, and if his work meant that he had to be so withdrawn, he had always made it clear that he couldn't tell her. She disliked this wall, this barrier that had descended between them. She decided to wait; Brian always told her what was bothering him, and she would be there when he was ready.

He placed the plates in the sink and turned on the tap to rinse the gravy and remains of potato away. He frowned and tried to block out the thoughts that had pestered and plagued him since he had heard a name that he had hoped would never be uttered by a wizard. He felt bile rush up, burning as it did; he realised that he had done everything that those whispered voices had asked.

You need to do these things; you know that they are important. One curse! One life! These are nothing to what will result, should you fail.

He turned off the tap and watched the last dirty dregs of water slip down the plughole. He swallowed as a wave of nausea rolled up, and he had to take a steadying breath to control the burgeoning desperation. He had done what he had had to do; he derived little comfort from the fact that fate had allowed him to walk away, knowing that he wasn't a killer. He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut until the orbs hurt under the pressure.

He had held his wand against Norwood's temple, and the words had leapt to his lips. A frantic part of him had raged and screamed, while another smothered and made him carry out his grim duty. He had barely uttered the first syllable of the Killing Curse when Norwood had jerked and spluttered in his chair, his red eyes bulging as he clutched at his heart and reached out beseechingly. Ashen faced and pleading, Norwood had managed to stand and lunge towards him, his potential murderer now his only hope as he fought and struggled to live.

Stepping back, he had left the old man to fall heavily onto the rug. He had watched dispassionately as the dying man choked and gasped, shuddered and jerked. The little, frantic movements slowed, and then as Norwood gave his last sigh, his last rattling gasp, movement ceased. Viscous drool ran from the grotesque, gaping mouth and pooled by the flaccid and grey cheek. Breathing hard, he had cast the Killing Curse upon the still warm corpse and then had arranged the room to suit his purpose.

He knew that his efforts had not yielded everything that he had intended, but it was no matter, as he was in a position to have a great many things arranged. He smiled grimly and looked up and out of the window; his smile slipped when he saw his reflection in the glass. Who was it that looked back? Who was it that could do these things? He shivered and turned away; whoever it was, they were needed. For what dread purpose and till what end, he had no idea, and he found some comfort in the fact that he didn't have to look them in the eyes.

"Shall I wash, Brian?" Evelyn asked softly, almost tentatively, as if she feared her question would cause concern.

"Evelyn, my dear," Brian crooned gently, smiling and opening up his arms to her. He felt disgust and fear clash with triumph and glee as she smiled and stepped into his duplicitous embrace. "I have to do this!"

Evelyn stiffened in his arms at the tone he used; she inhaled slowly and her mouth went dry. The arms around her no longer seemed loving, but restricting. She tried to pull away, to look her husband in the eye.

"If there were any other way, I would take it, but I have no choice," he continued in the same light-hearted voice, so viciously paradoxical to the way he gripped and held her.

She sobbed, and for the first time in her life, she felt panicked in her husband's presence; the strength that once supported her now smothered her. "Please, Brian," she whispered breathlessly. "Whatever it is, we can fix it."

"No, my love," he responded firmly and without any trace of remorse or regret. "This is the only way."

Evelyn felt him shift his stance and his right arm slide away from her body. With a shriek, she felt the tip of something press into her ribs, and as she used all her strength to push him away, she saw a mad fire in his eyes as he smiled softly at her. Her wide, fear-stricken eyes searched his for any clue to his delusion and madness, and then to the steady wand aimed at her heart.

"Imperio!"