Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven.

A fine drizzle bullied by a strong wind speckled his spectacles with distorting moisture and stung the exposed skin on his cheek and forehead. His beard glistened with ensnared droplets. He flicked up the collar on his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his fedora, and glanced along the street for his rendezvous...a glass fronted building with Milly's Café glued on the window in peeling letters. He had agreed to meet Moody there, a greasy spoon in a neglected part of Whitehaven. Wind-tossed plastic bags twirled and skittered down the pavement while sodden newspapers floundered weakly in the flooded gutter. A stray dog snatched a morsel of soggy food from a few fat pigeons, and starlings chattered shrilly as they pecked at some spilt chips littering the pavement.

Most of the buildings were industrial and derelict with smashed out windows and boarded up doorways, surrounded by twisted and rusted fences. Milly's Café and the newsagents next to it with their peeling paint and dull security glass seemed to be the only buildings in use. Here was a part of the city dying slowly, the industry already dead and the dilapidated housing erected during its heyday choking as vitality was drawn into the sleeker and healthier parts of the city. This place was home for those too weak, too poor or too stubborn to leave, the opportunistic scavenger and the ever-vigilant carrion eater. The place made him uncomfortable; so different from his school, which bustled and throbbed with frenetic and palpable energy, this was a place to die.

Milly's Café, however, lifted his spirits and shattered his vision of a depressed suburb in its dying throes. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee hit his nose, ridding him of the stench of urine-soaked doorways, and each surface glistened with a fastidious cleanliness to sting his eyes after the washed-out greys and browns of the outside. He quickly removed his hat and flashed a smile at the wizened and apron-clad lady behind the counter. He glanced around the long, rectangular room and saw a familiar grizzled face in the far corner watching him with a piercing blue eye and a ragged fringe of grey hair covering a black eye-patch.

Moody fidgeted and held a menu with the resolve and fervour a knight would employ to clutch his shield. Dumbledore made his way past the sparkling chairs, the pristine tables and the young mother feeding a baby in a high chair, who was too busy trying to grab the spoon to eat. Past an elderly woman in a tweed coat and paisley headscarf, sipping tea whilst holding her handbag on her lap and staring into times gone by. A young toddler watched his progress from the opposite side of the long room, but his awed study was interrupted by his mother's assurances that staring was impolite, whether it was at Gandalf or not. He smiled and winked over at the little boy with butter and toast crumbs clinging to his chin and cheek and gave his blushing mother a respectful and appreciative nod.

"Thank Merlin you're here," whispered Moody. "I almost had to order somethin'."

Dumbledore chuckled and plucked the torturous list of foods and drinks from his friend's fingers. "I think that the very worst thing that could happen here is a bout of indigestion from overindulgence." He subjected the menu to a thorough perusal until a shadow fell across the table and a young woman with short black hair and a collection of rings along the shell of her ear politely asked them if they were ready to order. Dumbledore smiled and ordered a pot of tea for two and a teacake.

A radio played somewhere just out of view, and faint strains of gentle music could be heard above the clatter of cutlery, the chink of crockery and the merry gurgles of children. Dumbledore relaxed into the sounds and thanked the waitress as she placed his order on the table. Once she had returned to the counter, Moody lifted a portfolio file from beneath the table and slid it across to him, and some of his tension returned; not the kind that had weighted him down, but the thrilling sensation one has before embarking on a challenge.

"Your friend discovered all this in a few weeks?"

"I'll say one thing for the Muggles; they know how to keep track of people."

"Remarkable." Dumbledore opened up the file and quickly scanned the first page. "I see that she was given the name Veronica Speedwell, approximate age as sixteen, height, weight, et cetera. Her details were put onto the missing persons database, but it yielded nothing."

"Hardly surprisin'," Moody mumbled tetchily. "No one actually knew her, and all those who did thought she was dead." His friend, armed with significant resources, had worked wonders on the computer, pulling up information about her employment history, her places of residence and the benefits she had claimed since coming of age in the Muggle world. By a few days later, every scrap of information held on a computer and attached to a phone line had been siphoned and printed off: medical history, police records and her file with the social services. On a collection of pages, he had the map of her life.

Dumbledore traced a finger down a list of addresses and frowned. "She didn't seem to settle well."

"I think," Moody responded neutrally, "that she didn't have any choice in that. It appears that several neighbours made complaints about her, and those responsible for her housing moved her to other areas."

"She was a troublemaker?"

"No." Moody shook his head and sighed softly. "Accordin' to the Housin' Offices, she was a model tenant. It seems that when her neighbours discovered that she had spent some time in a mental hospital, they panicked and reported her over the smallest infraction."

Due to her constant relocation, her employment record was just as erratic and consisted mainly of light industrial work and waiting tables. He remembered her Head of House extolling her intellect, and although the Muggle examinations she had undertaken had reflected her keen mind, she had been unable to make much of it. She had no police record, as such, other than a cautioning several years ago following an assault on a hiker. On reflection, a lonely woman living a life far short of the one she was inherently entitled to. He scratched the side of his nose and sucked thoughtfully on his teeth; would the wonders of the Wizarding world justify plucking her from such an ordinary and safe life, and would they outweigh the horrors of it?

Dumbledore flicked over several more pages and studied her medical history with solemnity. A total of five months spent in the hospital recovering from the injuries supposedly sustained in the train accident with an additional three months as an outpatient receiving physiotherapy. Shortly afterwards, she was readmitted as an outpatient to the psychiatric department, and thus began a spiral leading to her internment at a secure facility in Cumbria. He frowned and gently shook his head; there was no information regarding her stay in the institute, but he knew that such places were often a hunting ground for those Dementors that had slipped through Ministry control. He shuddered and swallowed rising bile at the thought of a child dealing with the horrors they inspired. His only hope was that her charm-addled mind was no lure to them in a place where they could glut themselves on the deranged.

Moody poured himself a cup of tea and ripped open two sachets of sugar. He stirred the sweet mixture while casting his trained eye over the café and its occupants. He wished that he could have charmed his magical eye invisible; the eye-patch was uncomfortable, but as the thing had a tendency to fall out, he opted that while in the Muggle world, some discomfort was preferable to hunting on hands and knees for something he could not see.

The baby had finished her yoghurt and was resisting, with surprising strength and determination, her mother's attempts to clean the excess from her face. The old lady still sat facing the window, and the other mother was crouched in front of her toddler, buttoning his coat and muttering softly to him as his pink face portrayed a picture of rapt and devoted attention beneath his blue bobble hat. Since his release from his wretched trunk, Moody had allowed himself to relax, lulled by the quiet and simple sounds of life.

"Have you been to her current address?" asked Dumbledore.

"Yes, but just to look." He watched Dumbledore take a bite from his teacake, butter glistening on his top lip and moustache. "It's a flat not far from here. An elderly woman lives in the downstairs flat, and Ophelia has the upstairs one. There are faint traces of structured magic around the property, but nothin' distinguishable as a specific charm. I cast a Location Charm, and the flat was empty."

Dumbledore wiped his mouth on a napkin and took a sip of tea. "Do you think that she's utilising immature wandless magic?"

"Yes, it has that feel."

"Astounding!" He popped the last of the teacake in his mouth and wiped crumbs from his fingers on a paper napkin. "Shall we go take a look?"

Dumbledore paid for his breakfast at the counter and joined Moody outside the door. The walk was brisk and dismal as the rain gathered momentum and fell in large, fat droplets. Soon, the large warehouses gave way to row upon row of terraced housing before they petered out into collections of shops, semi-detached houses and grand, aloof, detached houses. The streets became cleaner and broader, and traffic rumbled along them with increasing frequency.

They negotiated the steady stream of bustling shoppers, Moody leading him towards the end of the high street and into one of the side streets branching from the arterial main road. They walked past a cluster of bungalows with thick, white handrails running along their paths to the pristine white doors, and past an infant's school where young children squealed and played in the concrete playground. Eventually, they reached a series of houses split into two flats, and Moody paused at the gate of an innocuous, brown, bricked building.

Dumbledore could feel tendrils of magic flickering over his exposed skin and burrowing into his beard so gently that it could be dismissed as the wind. He glanced up at the white voile hanging in the windows and then at the netting in the downstairs windows, seeing a flicker of movement from within.

"Have you spoken with the neighbour?"

"No, but she saw me earlier."

Dumbledore saw the netting twitch ever so slightly and reached over to lift the catch on the gate. Moody followed him up the path and into a narrow passageway from the front garden to the back and between the concrete sheds and the doors to the flats. Dumbledore rapped his knuckles against the blue door to the upstairs flat and waited for the neighbour's door to open.

"What do you want?" The neighbour, a petite woman with tightly curled, grey hair and a powdery, wrinkled face, stepped from her doorway, wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and glared at them suspiciously. "I saw you snooping around earlier." She indicated Moody with a dignified nod of the head and sniffed disdainfully. "If you're here to cause trouble for her, then you can go to the council, and they can deal with you. People like you have given her enough of a hard time in the past." She stretched to her full height and glared up at Dumbledore, unimpressed as he towered over her. "I'm not standing for it: pestering her and whatnot. It shouldn't be allowed, you..." She paused in mid-flow as Dumbledore held up his hands.

"My dear lady," he affirmed gently, "we're not here to cause trouble; quite the contrary in fact."

"How's that then?"

"It's quite difficult to explain," he muttered softly. "It seems that I may have once been her headmaster, and when I came across her picture, the face of a young woman I had thought dead, it inspired me to find her." He reached into his jacket and withdrew two folded pictures; one was a copy of Ophelia's self-portrait, and the other was an old photograph of Ophelia with her cousins. The woman took them with deep distrust etched into her features and squinted at the images. "I came here to determine if she is the little girl we lost some twenty years ago before I involved her family." As he spoke and her eyes were focused on the pictures, he pulled out his wand and cast the Confundus charm.

---X---

Moody and Dumbledore sat together on the floral patterned sofa while Mrs Mathieson busied herself with the tea things. After a few moments, the table was laden with cups, saucers and biscuits. She smiled at the arrangement and, with a soft sigh, muttered about the milk jug and rapidly disappeared into the kitchen.

"Overdid the Confundus a bit, didn't we?" Moody muttered without rancour. "This rate, she'll be too busy playin' the hostess to answer any questions."

"Some things," Dumbledore countered calmly, "cannot be rushed."

Moody was about to retort when the door into the sitting room opened and the elderly lady backed into the room.

"I must say," she began breathlessly while pouring the tea, "that I have often hoped that someday someone would come forward and claim her. She's such a lovely girl." Her brow furrowed, and her wrinkled lips worked mutely.

"But she has a few faults?" Dumbledore supplied helpfully and without accusation.

She smiled gratefully, and her shoulders slumped with relief. "Yes," she said simply and handed him his tea. "She has a bad reputation around here; undeserved," she added quickly and fiercely, fixing them both with a glare daring them to contradict her.

"I'm sure that that is the case," Dumbledore said encouragingly.

She nodded once and filled a second cup. "Of course, she don't help herself," she admitted after some thought while pouring milk into her tea. "She don't make friends; that's not to say she's unfriendly..." Once again, her brow wrinkled. "She's willing enough to help if you ask for it, but she don't offer much of herself."

Mrs Mathieson settled herself in her chair and took a sip of tea, seemingly unaware of the tension coiling within her guests. "She is very private, but comes out when she's needed; not long ago, she helped me with some nuisance when all the council would do was say that they'd look into it. Veronica went out and, well..." She shrugged nonchalantly. "... that was that!" She paused to sip again and nibble the edge of a biscuit. "I don't know what I would have done all these years without her," she mumbled softly, her eyes focused on some distant and troubling time. "Yes," she added quietly. "She's a loyal and caring girl, but..." She swallowed and her lips twitched. "... she sometimes gives me the idea that the whole of my life, with all its woes, has been nothing compared to hers and her suffering." She hastily gulped a mouthful of tea, the saucer quivering in her trembling hand. The crockery grated together, and she was obliged to lower the cup and saucer onto her lap. She turned her head and looked into Dumbledore's eyes, her face a picture of fearful and desperate concern. "You will look after her, won't you? You won't let whatever haunts her get her, will you?"

Dumbledore felt his heart clench, and his breath caught in his throat. For the first time in quite a while, he was speechless; Dark Lords, Ministerial officials and the Minister of Magic had failed to do what this generous lady had done. She had slipped under his armour, past his reasoning and strategy and crushed his heart and resolve. In that moment, he was tempted to stand and leave...to lose this advantage in order to maintain some sense that in a terrified world, the right thing could still be done as a matter of choice. He would have done it had not the pale face of an equally haunted boy drifted into his thoughts; it was a sad fact that in this conflict, no one was free to be protected from their ghosts until the battle was over.

"Where is Miss Speedwell at the moment?" Dumbledore asked gently.

She felt the ridiculous urge to refuse to answer, but quickly smothered it. These two kind gentlemen were here to help Veronica; it was so wonderfully obvious.

"She's on holiday," she said brightly. "She goes away once a year; I think that she's looking for her past, the poor dear." She lowered her cup and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. "I have a postcard somewhere." She bustled off and disappeared through the door; they could hear her muttering to herself from the hallway.

"This has to be done," Moody said softly. Beside him, Dumbledore sagged and slowly placed his untouched tea on the table.

"I know," he replied firmly.

"Here it is," she cried out triumphantly and padded over to them, offering them the postcard with a beaming smile.

"Ah!" Dumbledore exclaimed appreciatively, removing the card from the woman's fingers. He read the card dispassionately; there was no return address, and the picture on the front, a glorious sunset reflected in a lake, was remarkably unspecific. He checked the postmark on the stamp and noted that it was from the northwest, the Peak District, and that it had been posted three days ago. "Do you happen to know where she is staying?"

He watched with some concern as her features hardened and her frame stiffened, and then the charm took over once more and she relaxed into it. "She's staying in a rented cottage in Kendall," she said quickly. "I think the address is in my notebook; she always tells me where she's going in case I need her." She balanced the cup and saucer on the chair arm and moved to fetch the address book.

"And when will she return here?" Dumbledore asked quietly, watching her rummage through her handbag and trying to ignore the uneasiness in his stomach.

"Oh, not till the end of next week," she said consolingly, unaware that they would not be waiting. "Ah, here it is!" She pushed her glasses further up her nose and opened the small book, carefully turning the small pages. "Number 12, Holbourne Lane."

---X---

Dumbledore cleaned and banished the tea things back to their places while the old lady slept in her chair. Moody replaced the postcard amongst the rest of the post on the small table in the hallway and slid the address book in amongst the other objects within the woman's purse.

Dumbledore had cast the Obliviate curse as soon as she divulged Ophelia Black's location and negated any inquiries by using a Soporific charm to encourage her to nap in her chair. When she woke, they would be gone, and she would have no recollection of her unwitting betrayal. They gave the room one last look and saw themselves out.

Dumbledore slowed his pace when he felt a hand grab his elbow and turned enquiringly to the wizard next to him.

"I'll go and check out the cottage; if it's secluded enough, we could do it there."

Dumbledore nodded and turned his head slightly to avoid the worst of the rain. "It would nullify some of the problems if it could be so." Dumbledore tapped Moody lightly on the arm and pointed to a shadowed gap leading to a narrow footpath. They crossed the road and eased their way past drooping, waterlogged nettles and onto the path. Concealed by large overhanging trees and burgeoning shrubs, they Disapparated back to Grimmauld Place and began to plan.