Chapter Eleven

On Apparating, Moody was struck by the brine-scented wind as it whipped around him; he staggered for a moment at the intensity of it and then glanced around. The furze seemed to go on forever, vibrating stiffly as the air rushed over it; only the occasional scrawny tree lancing upwards broke the monotony of the scene. Seagulls screeched and soared overheard, and he could hear the heavy, dull pounding of waves against rock.

The house he sought was perched on the very edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the heavy, bruised sky. Had it not belonged to a wizard, it would have surely succumbed to gravity and fallen. Tall and slender with numerous chimneys sprouting from the sharply angled roof, it suggested great melancholy; the very building seemed to lean over so that it could watch the waves bite and grind at the cliff, as if wishing that it could tumble into the ocean's uncaring maw. The shingles had been painted black, but over time, sea-spray and rain had bleached most of it. It now looked like a solitary, partially rotten tooth, jutting up from a gangrenous jaw. Moody shuddered and wound his way through the resisting furze: Smith was expecting him.

The door opened without so much as a creak, and Moody felt slightly disappointed at the anti-climax before the thin and pale face of Smith appeared in the thin gap between door and frame.

"Come in, Moody," he said quickly while stepping aside and pulling the door open further. With a sense of urgency, he helped Moody to remove his thick travelling cloak before hanging it up alongside his own coat.

Moody followed Smith along a narrow hallway, which was contradictorily light and cheering, and into a small kitchen. Smith ushered him into a chair, finished making his tea and then slid into the chair opposite.

"I went and saw Smethwyck today," Smith said curtly. "We had a nice chat about the good ol' days."

"Get much from him?"

Smith frowned and took a sip of tea. "He gave me the name of someone who may be able to help us further."

"This is turnin' into a right melodrama, Smith."

"Well, I think we're in the closing chapters, my friend."

"The suspense is killin' me," groused Moody.

Smith chuckled and told the Auror what Smethwyck had divulged, watching the grizzled face before him darken as the tale unfolded.

"Topliss!" Moody exclaimed. "I wouldn' have thought it."

"I tried to get in touch with him at the Ministry, but he hasn't been in work for months; apparently, he's been transferred to an isolation ward in St Mungo's." He took another deep gulp of tea and then sighed softly. "Could just be another dead end." Despite his careful and consoling tone, Smith thrummed deep inside; it was like he'd woken after a long sleep and was shaking with that raw power of sudden understanding and purpose. The challenge of the investigation had given him a new lease, a new joy and fervour that had been absent since the death of his wife. He knew that the search had to end soon, but some secret, deep-down part wanted it to last, wanted to savour it; knowing that this would be his last meal before he died, he wanted to glut.

"If it ain't, then that lad has some explainin' to do!" snarled Moody. Going back to those memories that the damned Pensieve had stirred up all those months ago, he tried to see how Topliss could have been involved...if the boy had done anything that in hindsight had been suspicious...and there was nothing! Topliss had been the model of proficiency and professionalism. His mood worsened as he tried to connect the cadet to the apparent death of the young witch. "Don't make sense though," he muttered. "What would he have to gain by makin' it look like she'd died?" Both his eyes fixed on Smith's carefully blank face. "What would have been the point?"

Smith shook his head slowly. His mind had been whirling and spinning with various ideas and theories, but none of them made much sense. He had even pondered that Ophelia had been abducted for ransom, but so many years and knowing that she had been released into the care of the Muggle emergency services rendered it unreasonable. Darker and more evil suggestions had crawled up from the blackest corner of his imaginings, but he doubted that Ophelia would have been allowed to live if she had suffered that nightmare. And if she had been taken for extra, less official questioning, then why not do it all under the guise of the Ministry acting in everyone's best interests? She would have been unaware if the questions were unnecessary or unethical.

"Nothin' else has been goin' on," said Smith dejectedly after his thoughts had spiralled back into doubts and confusion. "In fact, a remarkable amount of nothin' has been goin' on. It seems that what Dumbledore and young Potter have been sayin' has been put down to either high spirits, madness or scaremongerin'."

Moody snorted at the stupidity of it all, at the sheer bloody-mindedness of them all that they could have such warnings and yet ignore them. He shook his head and sighed loudly.

"'Spose we'd best check out Topliss, as he is our only lead," grumbled Moody.

--X--

She had walked this road many times before; some sign of her should be imprinted upon the pavement, some testament to her many footsteps, but all that existed were cracks, litter and other, less pleasant, adornments. She had, at one time, walked briskly and eagerly to St Mungo's where she worked as a Healer. With time, however, her enthusiasm had been dented and bruised by the constancy of it all, all the injuries and accidents, all the tears and fears. There had been a time, a terrible time, when her feet had pounded upon it after Death Eaters had attacked a Muggle school and her fiancé had been injured, caught between two vile hexes.

Now, her feet scuffed against the uneven, cracked slabs, as if of their own will, while she stared ahead with unfocused and sunken eyes. Rain pummelled the ground, and water rushed and gurgled along the gutters. The pavement was slick, and cars went past in a hiss of spray. She failed to notice the two men standing in the bus shelter and the silver tabby crouched under the hedgerow, but it was no matter as Evelyn Topliss had not noticed anything for quite some time.

Continuing past the bus stop and ambling along the pavement, unaware of her concerned and determined entourage, her feet took her to the end of the street and then turned her right. The wind was fierce, channelled between two tall rows of flats; her breath was snatched away, tears plucked from her eyes, and her hat blew from her head to roll on its rim, bouncing and darting up the road. But still her feet marched her forward.

Pushing open the gate, she strode on, not bothering that she did not hear the gate close behind her, and neither did she jerk or scream when a gentle hand caught her elbow.

--X--

Various emotions warred across her face; fear, confusion, despair, anger, sorrow, grief, disgust and disbelief. Her fingers mindlessly entwined and writhed in her lap, and her eyes flicked from one face to another, trying to see the cruel joke or some chance of error. But some part of her knew that what they said, what deceit and horror they had suggested, was indeed true; she could recall the moment he had fixed his wand upon her and how his eyes had burned with some strange zeal as he cast the curse.

"Why?"

It was such a small word, one that could be a mere exhalation rather than a question. She tried to answer it for herself, tried to see the reason for such a thing because there had to be, and when her shattered and exhausted mind had turned from the task, she had begged to know from those around her.

Moody sighed softly, such a gentle demonstration of grief and sorrow that Minerva had reached out to grip his shoulder on instinct.

"Can yer remember what he asked yer to do?" Moody asked gently.

Evelyn shook her head and stared at Moody as he knelt near her feet; her eyes scrutinised his face, and then she tentatively reached out a hand to gently catch a few strands of his wispy, grey hair between her fingers. Moody held his breath as she rolled the strands between thumb and forefinger; an idea began to crystallize in his skull, lancing through his brain and thundering down his spine.

"He asked me to get some of your hair," she whispered, her horrified expression belying the soft wonder of her voice. "He said that he was going to get you to go to St Mungo's for a health check with one of the healers." Her eyes lost their focus as she trawled through her memories.

Moody nodded and remembered how the team of Aurors investigating his ordeal had asked that he return to St Mungo's. He had baulked at the idea, but had finally agreed, constant nightmares and exhaustion giving him little recourse.

"A while back, Brian came home all flustered and bothered." She licked her lips and frowned. "He said something about an old scroll and how it mustn't be reopened. It seemed to weigh heavily on him, and he seemed to get even worse as time wore on; I was so worried." Her voice was getting softer and softer, as if she dared not vocalise her fears. "We'd just finished dinner, and he'd gone to do the dishes; I followed him to help." Her face twisted as a painful memory made itself known. "I saw him open up his arms, and I thought ... I thought that he'd found some peace with it all. I rushed to hold him, my husband." She held her head and trembled. "He whispered in my ear that he was sorry and that if there was another way, then he would take it." She sobbed into her thin hands. "He pulled his wand and cast that hideous curse." She collapsed in on herself, curling up on the chair; they could hear soft sobs and moans coming from the tight mass of misery.

Dumbledore stood by the mantelpiece; he had maintained a silent vigil on the empty, dark, wind-ravaged street while Moody had cast the counter-curse and started questioning the woman. He had sensed Minerva's eyes upon him several times, and he had felt an irrational anger and resentment bubbling up inside. Couldn't he be allowed to keep himself separate from one painful act? He was being gracious after all. This was no atrocity or necessary evil; this was the liberation of a woman from a terrible curse.

Closing his eyes and listening to the barely audible grief that still somehow managed to drown out the ticking of the clock, the fire crackling in the hearth and his blood rushing through his ears, he tried to keep his frustration from escalating. The search for Ophelia Black was unearthing skeletons in the closets of some very powerful wizards, and he feared that the more they searched, the greater the risk of Ophelia being discovered by Voldemort. It was a terrible dilemma, and as the weeks wore on, he found himself regretting his decision. A particularly violent surge of anger made him wince; he did not have that luxury, and he knew that whatever the outcome, the information that he suspected lurked in her addled brain was worth Ophelia's death.

He opened his eyes and turned to study the tableau before him...it was quite stunning. Evelyn was a tight bundle of grief wrapped up in a floral print chair with Moody on his knees, his hands on the ends of the chair arms. Minerva stood to the side, her body bent at the waist as she studied the poor creature with blatant sympathy, her hands clenched above her own breaking heart.

"Where is Brian now, Evelyn?" asked Dumbledore.

Minerva blinked and turned her head to glance at Dumbledore; his tone had been sharp and unsympathetic. Evelyn stopped and slowly lifted her head to peer at the man through her stick-thin fingers. An answer sprang to mind, but she knew that it was false; she felt compelled to answer nonetheless.

"He's at St. Mungo's." Her tremulous voice conveyed her forced dishonesty, and she whimpered as the last vestige of the curse worked its evil magic. She clutched her head as if in pain and then sagged back. "I don't know where he is." She moistened her lips nervously and fixed Dumbledore with a beseeching stare. "I believe him when he said that he had no choice; whatever made him do this, I have to believe that he had no choice. Please, when you find him, please remember that."

Dumbledore studied the pale woman, trembling and fearful, and he wished that he could think as she. However, he smiled and nodded; he could afford her this. She visibly sagged with relief.

"How did he pass on his instructions?" Moody enquired gently.

"He talked to me via the Floo," she admitted quietly.

"On a daily basis?" Moody asked.

"No, but I knew to sit by the fire at eleven every night in case he needed me." She would have thought that she would be feeling something: anger, hate, disgust, betrayal; and yet, she now felt eerily calm. Her thoughts were ordered and precise, they all focused upon one thing: why? Without the curse crushing her mind, she wondered why these people had been her rescuers and not the Ministry of Magic; why were these people not calling the Aurors? In those questions, she saw some benefit to her husband, and she clung to it. She recognised them all; McGonagall had been her teacher, Moody had been an important figure in her husband's early career, and Dumbledore was, obviously, just well known.

"I cannot impress upon you, my dear, how important it is that we speak with your husband," Dumbledore said firmly.

Evelyn felt a flash of irritation, her first unfettered and honest emotion in many months, and she pursed her lips. "I managed to deduce that for myself, sir! When I said the time, I was already thinking that you would wish to be here."

Dumbledore smiled and bowed...the woman had returned! The strength that had supported her husband, only to be stolen by him, was flooding back; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes now blazed with a fierce determination.

"Very well," Dumbledore said decisively. "We shall, in a few hours, seek the truth in this matter."