Lying In Ambush

The man behind the desk in the small, windowless office stared down at the neatly written duty roster with every sign of a surfeit of frustration.

Healer Phyllis Smith had asked for relief from her duties in the Janus Thickey Ward; the man’s haggard face grimaced with bitter sarcasm at her justification. “Smith states that she is unable to stand Gilderoy Lockhart’s wish to perform endless signing sessions any longer, and given his sudden, bodily attack against her last week – caused by her refusal to read him the final chapter of Year with the Yeti for the sixth time in a row – she claims that this ‘makes her fear for her physical health and sanity’”.

As if taking care of that sorry excuse of a former celebrity was any problem. Smith had never worked on the First Floor, had never seen the wounds caused by a centaur’s hooves, by a giant spider’s sting, by the fangs of a werewolf. She had no idea of the real risks of her own profession.

William Pemberthy gave a snort of disdain; he would recommend her transfer nonetheless, he simply had no choice. After that extremely disconcerting conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the beginning of October, he had to be very careful not to fall even further from favor. He remembered standing in Shacklebolt's office, defending his actions in the case of Ruta Lupin with piqued probity.

“I have followed the mandatory procedure, Minister; the patient was neither hurt nor humiliated, and her complaint must be seen as a result of her personal antipathy towards me. I have no doubt that she misused her acquaintance with Harry Potter to question my professionalism.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt had studied him wordlessly for minutes, his face an ebony mask, revealing nothing about the thoughts beyond. Finally he spoke, the dark voice cool and firm.

“If you are actually incapable of imagining what it means for an innocent victim to be chained against a bed, waiting for a change she is unable to prevent, the Dai Llewellyn Ward is not the right place for you. Miss Lupin nearly sacrificed her life to save a child. She deserved more respect than you were willing to give. And by the way – Harry Potter did not interfere; it was Lottie Stanhope who filed the complaint against you. You should be thankful I have decided against a thorough investigation of Miss Stanhope’s accusation of unprofessional prejudice, at least for the time being. I might change my mind, however, should there be any future incident. The attitude shown by you was what caused the most severe damage during the times of Voldemort’s return, and I must confess that I’m getting sick and tired of that kind of ignorance and stupidity.”

Within the week, William Pemberthy had to clear his office at the Dai Llewellyn Ward. It had taken him almost a decade to patiently work his way towards the position Hippocrates Smethwyck had occupied for thirty years until he retired in December 2005, and with barely veiled triumph he had exploited the fact that Augustus Pye – as the most presumable successor of Smethwyck – had decided instead for a year of medical research on magical snakes in Australia.* And now, after having been in that long desired leading position for scarcely a year, Pemberthy’s dream was over. To his great anger and dismay, he suddenly found himself in a small office opposite the Tea Room, doomed to write long, trivial lists and handle the stupid lamentations of minor Healers unable to hold a candle to his skills and experience.

“Sir…?”

Pemberthy’s head jerked up. He must have missed the knocking; the door stood half open, revealing the figure of a slender woman in her forties. She was obviously taking scrupulous care of her outward appearance; he saw an oval, pretty face with eyes of a remarkable bright grey, a delicate, upturned nose and full, rosy lips; her long, strawberry-blonde hair was held back by a blue circlet. She eyed him shyly.

“Excuse me, but are you William Pemberthy, provost of the Dai Llewellyn Ward?”

The affront felt like a fresh wound. “I am William Pemberthy, that much is correct,” he said stiffly. “But I am no longer provost, Miss…?”

“Stone, Vicky Stone.” The woman stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I am sorry, Mr. Pemberthy. I didn’t mean to insult you. I came here because you might be able to help me.” She gave the chair in front of his desk a short look. “May I sit down?”

“Of course,” he said, slowly growing curious. Her politeness and quiet respect was strangely uplifting. “What can I do for you, Miss Stone?”

“Answer a question or two, I hope. I’m a reporter for the Daily Prophet,” she said, her expression open and straightforward. “But the research I’m doing right now is strictly private. I’m trying to discover something about the recent fate of a close friend of mine.”

She sighed, a smile trembling around her lips.

“Well, at least she once was a close friend,” she continued. “We lost contact after we graduated from Hogwarts in 1980. Her name is Ruta Lupin.”

“Lupin…?”

William Pemberthy stared at her, gasping for air; his first attempt of an answer was smothered by a sudden coughing fit. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief to dry his streaming eyes, while Vicky Stone waited patiently for him to regain his breath.

“I finally managed to ferret her out in the Lake District, one month ago,” she said. “She has been working in a garden market there, and she helped Andromeda Tonks raise her orphaned grandchild... Remus Lupin's son. But something must have happened at the end of August; nobody was willing to tell me what it was. Finally Mrs. Tonks let slip out that Ruta had been in St. Mungo’s for weeks… and she was obviously brought here only days after some mysterious creature was killed in St. Mary Green, close to where she lives.”

She leaned in, her gaze sharp as a knife; William Pemberthy looked back, hypnotized by her eyes like the proverbial rabbit in front of a snake.

“Once again, Mr. Pemberthy… this research is strictly private. I will lay my cards on the table, and tell you that although I can assure you that I’m solely interested in Ruta’s well-being, the Ministry officials and the administration of this hospital have both refused to help me, and my opportunities to find out the truth are growing limited. It may sound ridiculous and trite, but you really are my last hope.”

William Pemberthy bravely tried to avert his eyes from the delicate face of the temptress in front of him. He was absolutely aware that it was strictly forbidden to forward any information to this woman he knew nothing about. The fact that she was working for a newspaper only added to the risk, no matter if Miss Stone’s story rang heartbreakingly true… especially in this case. He highly doubted that Ruta Lupin would cherish finding her tragic fate publicly displayed as a sensational report in the Daily Prophet. And the official regulations of St. Mungo’s contained a long list of penalties for Healers who forgot the strict pledge of confidentiality they had agreed to follow when signing their contracts.

On the other hand…

The fact that he, William Pemberthy, sat in this small, cramped office, buried under tons of forms and parchment rolls, was a direct result of Ruta Lupin’s lack of gratitude and humility. He had done nothing wrong, and the thought that she actually dared to bear him a grudge for his distrust still filled him with a silent, seething anger. He knew that those newspaper harpies usually didn’t give away their sources. The formidable Rita Skeeter was as famous for her discretion as she was for her horrible stories. Vicky Stone’s intentions could be most honorable, after all, and he was probably safe - even if he decided to disobey the iron rules of his profession, only this once.

“Miss Lupin was here indeed, nearly the whole month of September,” he finally said. “She was bitten by a werewolf and held under close supervision until the day of her first change.”

“My goodness.” Vicky Stones pale grey eyes were as big as saucers. “My goodness… poor Ruta.” She swallowed. “Did you care for her all on your own? That must have been a real burden.”

“It was mostly my responsibility to care for her, yes,” he replied, her obvious adoration a balm on his sore soul. “But she was regularly visited by the Healer who had already cared for her during the night of the attack.”

“Oh – really?” Vicky Stone eyed him hopefully. “And who was that?"

“Her name is Lottie Stanhope; she’s a teacher at our Healing Academy,” Pemberthy said, suddenly sobered by his own talkativeness. “But you won’t be able to meet her; she has just left London for her annual winter holiday. And…” He squirmed on his chair. “… I must insist that this won’t get any further. If I should discover any details in your newspaper, the consequences would be rather grave… for both of us.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Vicky Stone retorted with a dazzling smile. “You were a great help, and I won’t give away my informant.”

She rose from her chair and walked towards the door.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Pemberthy,” she said; her eyes were shining with a mixture of satisfaction and a fierce joy he found slightly unsettling. “I am sure Ruta will be most happy to see me again.”

Before he could find the right answer, she had already left the room, and he sat behind his desk, staring down at Phyllis Smith’s application for transfer, still waiting to be signed.

Perhaps he had done Ruta Lupin a severe disservice. Perhaps this pretty woman with her pleasant manners was not a former friend but a future danger.

But even so… Ruta Lupin had demolished his reputation and ruined his career.

And she was only a werewolf, after all.

*****

The early November evening was cold and wet, and in St. Mary Green Ruta Lupin wrapped herself into a warm, woolen cloak, to visit Teddy and read him his usual bedtime story. She left The Tales of Beedle the Bard on the mantelpiece of her bedroom … but Teddy didn’t mind. He was absolutely satisfied with the adventures of Thomas the Tank Engine, and he didn’t let Ruta go before having invited himself to breakfast at her house for the very next morning. He fell asleep with a smug smile on his face, dreaming of Winky’s cocoa and especially of her Danish pastry.

At the same time Vindictia Stone emerged from the shadows of Knockturn Alley, melting with the crowd of pedestrians and entering the Leaky Cauldron with a group of elderly witches, returning from an extended shopping tour. She dodged the bulky shopping bags, closed her ears against the loud, satisfied chatting (“Ten silver sickles for a velvet cloak, Marge – the best bargain I’ve found in weeks!”) and sat down in a silent corner. She waved the young waitress near, ordering a Greek salad and a glass of pumpkin juice; she wouldn’t allow herself alcohol this evening. There was still too much to consider, too many traps to avoid. The fork midair, laden with bell pepper and feta cheese, she went through her plan once more.

Getting the information she needed from William Pemberthy had been almost too easy; she silently congratulated herself that her connections among the staff at St. Mungo’s did still work as well as they had done in earlier times. Pemberthy’s abasement had offered her the perfect weapon on a silver plate; the discovery of Lottie Stanhope was an extra bonus, and now Vicky kept it as the crucial ace up her sleeve. Pemberthy had not been the only one to provide her with important knowledge; Vicky knew everything about Lottie Stanhope’s exact looks and the complaint now, and about the fact that it had been she and not William Pemberthy who supervised Ruta Lupin’s first change. Ruta would likely consider Miss Stanhope an ally and friend, and Vicky could rely on her unsuspecting trust to carry out her intricate plan.

She felt the weight of the small leather bag in the secret pocket of her dark witch robe and withstood the temptation to check its content for the third time in a row. There were two little glass phials, carefully wrapped in pieces of soft cloth and purchased in a small shop in Knockturn Alley. The professional ethics of the owner, a certain Venemus Mountebank, would have made Corminus Slug’s hair stand on end, but Mountebank’s Drugs & Potions was a well-known and enormously helpful address for those in need for certain herbs and draughts, especially if they were at the same time absolutely unwilling to care for the rules against misuse. Vicky vividly remembered her first visit at Mountebank’s Drugs & Potions; it had been she who bought the Veritaserum Rita Skeeter used to simplify the “interview” with Bathilda Bagshot for her biography about Albus Dumbledore. **

Now she had purchased Veritaserum for the second time, and the other phial in her pocket was filled with a good dose of Polyjuice Potion; Mountebank always kept a cauldron of it bubbling in his cellar, for those who were able to pay the exorbitant price. Her biggest treasure, however, was a small, silver box with nothing in it but a fine strand of grey hair; Vicky smiled when she thought about her secret, little trip to the changing room of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, her wand hidden in the folds of her cloak. It had been very easy to gain entry to Lottie Stanhope’s locker. Her robe was washed and freshly ironed, with no fuzz or fiber whatsoever, but just as Vicky had been about to close the door again, her heart burning with disappointment, she had discovered the thin, almost invisible thread, caught in the latch and shining like silver.

She could still barely believe her luck that she was about to catch two birds with one stone… simply with a strand of Lottie Stanhope’s hair.

Vicky Stone leaned back in her corner, emptying her plate with healthy appetite. She took in the refurbished taproom with a complacent eye. Things were definitely taking a turn for the better, even in the Leaky Cauldron. Again she waved the young waitress close.

She deserved a reward for her own finesse; one glass of red wine would certainly not be amiss.

*****

“Oh no,“ Ruta stated firmly. “You won’t eat another one of those pastries.”

Teddy tried to ignore her, mouth still full with the last, crisp artwork of dough, caramelized almonds and cinnamon icing; though it was rather difficult to look starved, stuffed as he was, he certainly did his best.

“But, Miss Ruta,” Winky squeaked, her huge eyes fixed pleadingly at the lady of the house. “Master Teddy’s still growing, isn’t he?”

“If you continue feeding him everything within reach, he will gain enough weight to look like some oversized yeast dumpling,” Stephen Seeker remarked, the laughter carefully hidden behind a serious face but clearly glittering in his black eyes. “And Master Teddy should put into consideration that being too fat will keep him from turning tail in case he’s caught amidst of a prank.”

Ruta smiled. “Do you remember what Uncle Harry told you about his cousin Dudley Dursley?”

Teddy’s hand, reaching out for the last piece of Danish pastry with preserved pears and chocolate, stopped abruptly and was slowly drawn back; Harry’s tales about “Dudders”, his countless dirty tricks and his grotesque corpulence had left a strong impression. Winky took the plate and scurried back into the kitchen, the last sugary temptation vanishing out of sight. The boy unfolded his napkin, wiped his hand and mouth and gingerly took a sip from his apple juice.

“Winky’s baking is even better than Philemon Pistor’s Pastries and Puddings in Diagon Alley,” he said, giving a sated sigh and grinning at Stephen. “Auntie Ruta took me there on my first trip to London, last Christmas. And she bought me a bag of dragon muffins.”

“And another one with chocolate pretzels,” Ruta added. “You emptied both bags that night and had to skip every meal the next day because you felt thoroughly miserable… and your duvet was full of red and orange sugar splatters.”

“Yes,” Teddy admitted, still looking very satisfied, “because the marzipan dragons on top of the muffins spat icing after the very first bite. They were fantastic; once I had begun eating, I simply couldn’t stop.” He eyed Ruta thoughtfully. “Your favorites were their nougat éclairs, weren’t they?”

“Indeed.” Ruta laughed. “I’m glad that I don’t live in London anymore. When I worked in Uncle Corminius’ pharmacy, Pistor’s was a constant temptation to gluttony.”

Teddy fell silent and took another sip of his apple juice.

“After that… after that night, I asked Gran Dromeda to take me to London,” he suddenly said. “She had brought me to The Burrow, and Auntie Molly was really nice, but I wanted to see you. I wanted to go to Pistor’s and buy nougat éclairs for you, as a present, but Gran and Auntie Molly both said that the Healers at St. Mungo’s would never let me in.”

Ruta stared at him, and for a moment the wild image of Teddy, arguing with William Pemberthy, flashed clear and sharp in her mind… and yet another image, this time a real memory: of his pointing finger, his voice, shrill with panic, and the stench of singed fur.

You won’t hurt my aunt!

She held both hands tightly clasped in her lap; she didn’t want him to see how badly they were shaking.

“Dromeda was right,” she said as gently as possible. “When I was brought to St. Mungo’s, the Healers were afraid that I might change without the moon, like Fenrir Greyback changed that night. I was isolated and closely supervised. Harry managed to see me once, but he was the only visitor from the outer world.” She swallowed, the memory of those bleak and frightening weeks running like ice water in her veins; so she tried to find a detail, harmless enough to be shared with the boy.

“There was Lottie Stanhope – a very nice, elderly lady,” she finally continued, “the Healer who came here the morning after Greyback’s death. She helped care for my wounds then, and while I was at St. Mungo’s, she visited me with books… and a chessboard.”

She turned and found Stephen looking at her.

“You played chess at St. Mungo’s?”

“Yes,” she said. “Your lessons were a great help. And Lottie was a good player… very patient.”

His lips twitched. “In contrast to me, I suppose?”

“Oh no.” Ruta smiled. “I enjoyed the challenge… same as you did.”

“I remember that lady,” Teddy piped in. “She was there when Gran allowed me to see you before she brought me to The Burrow. You were not awake then, of course… and there was this lady, with silver hair and lots of wrinkles around her eyes, and she smelled of lavender. She gave me butterscotch from her pocket and promised me that you would be well again.”

“Yes, that sounds very much like Lottie.”

Teddy shot Ruta a cautious gaze; she could literally see the thoughts milling in his head. His face was flushed, and he squirmed nervously on his chair.

“May I ask you something?” he suddenly said.

“You may ask me nearly everything, dear one,” she answered earnestly.

“How does it feel to change into a wolf?” he blurted out. He took a deep, shuddering breath, but he didn’t turn his eyes away. “Does… does it hurt?” He broke off, and then continued, speaking much faster. “I know that my f-father changed to a wolf every month, most of his life… but I can’t ask him anymore, can I?”

“No,” Ruta agreed, her voice soft. “No, you can’t.”

She sat down on the sofa, shaken by the bluntness of his question. No one had ever dared to bring this up before, not Harry, not Ginny… and certainly not Stephen. Stephen, who had once foolishly followed her cousin through the narrow passage beneath the Whomping Willow, mindless in his rage and burning need to discover Remus’ dark secret.

As if the memory had drawn him to her, she suddenly felt his hand on her shoulder.

“It is true that you can’t ask your father,” he quietly said, “but I can tell you what he told me about it.”

Teddy’s head jerked up, his eyes widening. Ruta opened her mouth to protest… this could only be a lie, a fairy tale, spontaneously made up to spare her having to recall the memory, and perhaps even to comfort the child. But then Stephen’s fingers increased their pressure, and she reluctantly decided to be silent.

“Did you really know my father?” the boy asked, his voice breathless with surprise.

“I did,” Stephen said. “And there was a time when I brewed the Wolfsbane Potion for him, too… not very long, though, only a few months. Shortly before he left, he came to me, to express his… erh… gratitude.”

“Where did you meet him, and why did he have to leave?” Teddy wanted to know. “Was he in trouble?”

It took a while for Stephen to answer, and Ruta had to fight not to turn and to look at him. Finally he spoke.

"He was," Stephen said, simply. "The reasons were... complicated, and not of his making. And the story of why and how we met is too long for this morning." For a moment Ruta thought she felt a tremor in the hand on her shoulder. "That last day he came to me, to bid me goodbye, and he thanked me for making the potion. In fact, he gave a little speech."

Another pause, and Ruta could see that Teddy tried to imagine the scene. “What did he say?” the boy finally whispered.

Stephen sighed. “He said: `You’ll probably never fully understand what this has meant for me, but your draught held back the horror for almost a year, and for that fact alone I am in your debt. You will hopefully never experience how it feels when your body responds to the moon, when the fur breaks through your skin and your arms and legs shrink to paws while the bones crackle within your flesh like rotten firewood. Your help kept my spirit from slipping away into madness each month. I won’t forget this.’ And then he turned around and left the room.”

Stephen looked at the boy, his face blank and pale.

“Does that answer your question?”

Teddy nodded solemnly. “Yes… thank you.” He turned to Ruta, and for a short, staggering moment she saw Remus, watching her with love and pity, mirrored in the childlike features of his son. Suddenly she had a very clear idea how the boy would look like as a grown man. “That sounds awfully bad. I’m so sorry, Aunt Ruta.”

“It is bad, believe me,” Ruta agreed. “I couldn’t have described it more accurately.”

Her voice broke, and she struggled for composure. Finally she trusted herself enough to speak again.

“Listen, Teddy… you should go now. Gran Dromeda is waiting for you. I can take you home, if you want.”

“Oh… would you really?” Teddy jumped down from his chair, his usual, bouncy self again. “Ill go ahead and put on my coat.”

“Good idea.” She found that she was actually able to smile at him. “And don’t forget the scarf.”

“I won’t.” He was already at the door, when he hesitated and turned around to Stephen. “Thank you for telling me about my father, Mr. Seeker.”

“Never mind,” Stephen replied, his tone very calm. “Have a good day, Teddy.”

The door closed behind the boy; they were alone in the silent room, and now Ruta looked at the man behind her with a feeling alarmingly close to anger.

“Did you really have to make this up?” she asked. “That was more than reckless – Teddy is smart, and even if he should not care for details now, and see this as nothing more than a romantic tribute to the memory of his father, he will certainly begin to ask questions some day!”

“Maybe,” Stephen retorted, his voice brusque. “But the boy needs answers, and every good memory of his father that he can get." His lips formed a thin line. "And there was no need to make anything up. That is what Remus Lupin said to me the day he gave up his position as a teacher at Hogwarts.”

“He…” For a moment she closed her eyes, as if she could make this unexpected revelation vanish by refusing to see it in his face. But when she looked at him again, it was still there, deeply etched in the tired lines from his nose to the corners of his mouth, petrified in his black, unsparing gaze. “Are you telling me that he found out that he had to leave after your vengeful… indiscretion… and that he came nonetheless, to thank you?”

“Precisely,” Stephen answered, his voice dry and tired. “Believe me, I remember his magnanimous speech word for word.”

Ruta got up from the sofa and stepped over to the window. It was a cold and windy day, and the clouds above frayed out, showing changing patterns of a bright blue. She was glad that the small distance between them gave her the chance to collect herself. Stephen’s surprising story – and Remus’ words – had shocked her deeply, but instead of a fierce grievance she could only find sorrow and compassion in her heart.

They had both failed him.

“Remus’ father died eighteen years ago,” she slowly said, her breath a white mist on the cool windowpane. “I hadn’t seen him for more than five years, but I couldn’t stay away from the funeral. I followed the coffin side by side with my own father, and all the time I secretly watched Remus’ face. He was very quiet and composed, and we didn’t exchange a single word until we had returned to his parents’ house late in the afternoon. The few guests gathered in the kitchen, for a cup of tea and cake, and suddenly I found myself alone with him, in his mother’s small sewing parlor. I had never seen anyone so lonely and sad in my entire life.”

She paused, behind her only silence… but somehow she knew that he was listening.

“And from one moment to the next I couldn’t bear it any longer. The old shame broke down on me like an unstoppable landslide, and I began to weep. I stammered out the story of my miserable misdeed, sobbing and desperate, mostly staring down at my hands because I hardly dared to look at him – while he stood in the middle of the room, as unmoving as a stone.”

She swallowed laboriously.

“When nothing was left of my tale and my tears, I sat there spent and shivering, waiting for my judgment. And then I felt his hand; he stroked my head, as if I were as young as Teddy. ‘Little one,’ he murmured, ‘for heaven's sake, little one, how could you bear this burden all those years?’ Not one word about his own burden, no accusation, not even a hint of anger. I have never been more ashamed. I vaguely remember one of the guests calling him from outside then; he went out of the room with a murmured excuse, and the moment of truth was over."

Her lips twitched as she relived the self-contempt she'd been harboring in her soul for more than twenty years. Sometimes compassion and understanding only deepened the pain instead of healing the wounds.

"During the following years, Remus tried to bring up the matter once or twice. I guess it would have been much better to end that uneasy armistice, to come to a real peace between us. But I never dared take the chance. If I couldn't truly forgive myself, how on earth could he?"

Ruta turned around to Stephen.

“Do you remember what you said about ‘lucky malefactors’, when I first told you about my fake pregnancy?”

“Of course I do.”

“I think we were both lucky.” She spoke softly. “And we should learn to grant our old ghosts the rest they deserve.”

Their eyes met, and she discovered something that looked suspiciously like a small smile.

“That sounds like a reasonable plan,” he said. “But if I were you, I would hurry now, before that incorrigible boy is over the hills and far away.”

“Oh.” Ruta stared at him for a moment, then walked with fast steps towards the door. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be back.”

“Don’t worry.” Stephen gave a slightly mocking bow. “I won’t go anywhere.”

*****

When Ruta stepped out of the house, Teddy beside her, most of the clouds were sailing towards the hills, and the lush, autumnal light of the midday sun gilded the grey walls of the houses along Tulip Close. Teddy blinked up to the sky and smiled.

“I want to go to the turntable tomorrow,” he said. “I haven’t been there for forever, not since… that night. We could have ice cream and lemonade and watch the train.”

“Good idea.” Ruta said, feeling the boy's fingers close around hers. They walked towards the bend of the street, and Teddy didn’t speak for quite a while. She looked at him from the corner of her eye and realized that he was brooding over something. Suddenly he stood still, letting go of her hand.

“Mr. Seeker and my father… were they friends?”

That was sooner than she’d expected.

“Why do you ask?” she answered, trying to play for time. How could she explain the bitter, complicated relationship of those two men to the boy? Should she do so at all or make up a tale… unlike Stephen who had told him at least a part of the truth?

“They must have been friends, I think, if Mr. Seeker brewed him the Wolfsbane Potion,” Teddy mused. “He brews the Wolfsbane Potion for you because he is your friend, doesn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t say that they were exactly friends,” Ruta finally replied carefully. “Mr. Seeker was asked to help your father, and he agreed. But as he said, it's a complicated story. Will you do me a favor, Teddy?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Keep Mr. Seeker’s tale to yourself. He only told you this detail to give you a clearer idea about werewolves… and I’m sure that the day will come when you’ll learn about the rest… as soon as you are a bit older.”

“How old?”

“You’ll receive your letter from Hogwarts as soon as you’re eleven. Wait until then, and I will tell you… if Mr. Seeker agrees, and if he doesn’t want to do it himself.”

“Promise?” Teddy’s face was serious, and once more Ruta saw his father mirrored in the boy’s eyes. She touched his cheek in a small, fleeting caress.

“Promise.”

He gave her a brilliant smile, his quicksilver mind already turning to another interesting possibility. “Fine! Do you know what? I want to meet Miss Stanhope again. She was very friendly, and funny, too. And I bet she knows almost everything about werewolves… after caring for you and working at St. Mungo’s and all.”

“We can visit her together someday, if you want.”

They continued their way around the bend, towards Gardenia Close and Andromeda’s house. At the sight of the blackened stump of the burnt oak they turned their heads away, hands tightly clasped, and walked a little more quickly.

*****

Vicky Stone hastily withdrew into the shadow of a canopy when the tall woman and the child approached the corner of the street. She held her breath, trying to melt with the rough stones of the wall, and she watched them pass her by, their figures sharply drawn in the bright sunlight.

So this is what she looks like now.

Since her last meeting with Fenrir Greyback Vicky had been most eager to see her old nemesis again, had wondered if time had been merciful to her. Heaven knew how much effort it had taken to keep the grace and slenderness of her own body, the smooth surface that led so many of her contemporaries to underestimate the pitiless spirit behind the gentle, harmonious features.

Hm… Ruta hadn’t run to fat, to say the least. Very slender, almost a bit too thin, although her hazelnut hair was marvelous, to give the devil his due. But there were silver streaks, many silver streaks – and with malicious satisfaction Vicky noticed the tired lines in Ruta Lupin’s face. Still, Ruta kept herself very upright, moving with the natural lissomness of someone used to spend their time working outdoors; only her right arm looked odd, hanging down stiff and possibly useless.

“… would like to see Miss Stanhope again. She was very friendly, and funny, too. And I bet she knows almost everything about werewolves… after caring for you and working at St. Mungo’s and all.”

“We can visit her together…”

Voices and steps faded, and Vicky remained where she was, her heart beating wildly. Instinctively she felt for the phials in her pocket.

Suddenly the outline of a new plan appeared in front of her inner eye, glorious and shiny... and much less dangerous. Why try to confront Ruta directly? That would probably mean having to face Severus Snape, too, and Vicky Stone knew too much about him to take such a hazard. But if she turned her attention to the boy instead...

He wanted to see Miss Stanhope? Merlin’s beard, she would love to do him the favor.

And it would be more than thrilling to find out what he was able to tell her.

*****

Ruta was gone less than ten minutes and Seeker had settled in the most comfortable chair with the Daily Prophet, when all of a sudden something banged against the parlor window. He peered outside and discovered a large screech owl, busily fluttering up and down and staring at him with annoyed, yellow eyes. Seeker pushed the window open.

The bird hopped inside, ruffling its feathers with an air of offended grandeur. But it allowed Seeker to pull the small piece of parchment out of the tube on its leg and returned to sit on the windowsill. To his mystification, Seeker found his own name on the outside of the parchment; he unrolled it and read the scribbled message.

Mr. Seeker,
Can you come to Berwick immediately? Someone has done research about Ruta in the Werewolf Registry, and used a false name to sign the visitors' book. There might be danger in delay.
H.P.

He stood without moving for several minutes. A false name in the visitors' book? The Werewolf Registry had always been an easy source for blackmail and denunciation… no wonder that even some of the most benevolent victims of the curse had grown bitter and distrustful, giving more and more credit to Greyback's hateful lies.

Seeker felt a sharp sting of frustration at his own lack of knowledge on the matter. Perhaps the rules had changed under Shacklebolt. Perhaps the Ministry had decided to give werewolves a better protection against the bigotry and abhorrence of the Wizard World. And if that were the case, and if there was an unknown enemy, eager to uncover Ruta’s tragic fate…

“Winky?”

The house-elf appeared in the doorway almost immediately.

“What does Master wish?”

“I told Miss Ruta that I would stay here and wait for her return. But I just received an urgent note and have to leave at once. Please tell Miss Ruta not to worry, I will come back as soon as I can. And, Winky…”

“Yes, Master?”

“Tell her not to leave the house.”

The huge, pale eyes flashed in alarm. “Is Miss in danger?”

“I don’t know yet,” Seeker said slowly. “Perhaps.”

He concentrated on the Potters’ cottage in Berwick, on the red door with the brass knob, shaped like a lion’s head. Very appropriate for the home of two Gryffindors. He felt the magic carry him away, and the last thing he saw was Winky’s concerned frown.

*****

“Harry, sit down, for heaven’s sake!” Hermione Weasley said. “If you keep up like this, you’ll wear a path in the carpet.”

“Sorry.” Harry Potter pulled the curtain aside for the fifth time in five minutes. “But he must have read the message by now. Why isn’t he already here?”

“Oh please,” Hermione sighed. “Socrates is no express owl; give him a bit more time.”

A sharp Bang! came from outside, and she straightened her back, instinctively turning her head to the door. Harry saw that she licked her lips and shoved a strand of hair that had escaped her thick ponytail back behind her ear. He shot her an ironical gaze.

“You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“No, why should I be?” Hermione snapped. “The last time I saw Professor Snape was when you caught his memories in a flask, only seconds before he died… well, before he didn’t. No need to be excited, none at all.”

The brass knob banged against the front door, and she fell silent, breathing deeply. Harry went out into the vestibule and opened the door, and the tall shadow of Stephen Seeker darkened the threshold.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter.”

“Good morning, Mr. Seeker,” Harry replied. “I hope you'll excuse the abrupt summons, but we think we really have a reason to worry.”

“Do we?” Seeker followed him into the living room and caught sight of Hermione, who stared at him with widened eyes. “Good morning, Miss Granger… excuse me, Mrs. Weasley."

“O… of course.” Hermione swallowed. “It really is you! I was terribly curious, you know… but I should have thought that you had some kind of emergency plan up your sleeve, in case the Dark Lord decided to kill you… and the Draught of the Living Dead really was the most appropriate choice, wasn’t it?”

“Well done,” Seeker answered, giving her a small bow. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

He sat down on the sofa opposite to Hermione, who looked decidedly flabbergasted. No wonder, Harry thought, meeting Snape as a teacher had always meant being either insulted or ignored, and now nearly the first thing that the man had said to her came startlingly close to a compliment.

“Hermione works at the Ministry,” Harry explained, “and after Greyback’s attack we decided that she should keep a close eye at the visitor’s book of the Werewolf Registry. The story how of Greyback died is entirely too juicy not to be delicious bait for some ambitious newspaper hack.”

Seeker frowned. “You thought of Rita Skeeter?”

“We thought of anyone able to hold a quill,” Hermione said with a grimace. “But journalists are not permitted to check the entries in the Werewolf Registry, not since Kingsley Shacklebolt came into office… nor anybody else, not without a special permit. When I decided late last evening to check the recent entries, I found a fresh signature… a certain Lottie Stanhope.”

“Lottie Stanhope?” Stephen Seeker shook his head. “That’s… interesting.”

“Yes, it is,” Hermione agreed. "Especially since Lottie Stanhope is the person who put Ruta down in the registry in the first place. As the first expert healer to deal with the wounds, she was responsible for seeing that the entry was made. And there are no newer entries after Ruta, either."

“Good point.”

“Thank you,” Hermione answered, once more eyeing her former teacher with disbelieving consternation. “I got curious and decided to ask Miss Stanhope in person. And do you know what I discovered?”

“I have no idea,” Seeker said, leaning back on the sofa. “But you will tell me at once, I presume.”

“Lottie Stanhope is not in England,” Hermione declared. “She left for her winter holiday two days ago… to Adelboden in Switzerland.”

“Which would of course mean…”

“… that the person signing the visitor’s book can't have been Lottie Stanhope!” Hermione finished the sentence triumphantly. “So I took the… ahm… liberty of making a copy of the page in question. I… erh… left it there and brought the original.”

“I can’t imagine anyone would grant you an extra permit for this.” Seeker’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline, and he surveyed Hermione with a kind of amused respect.

“No.” Hermione had the grace to blush. “But I thought this special situation might require special measures.” She produced a rolled piece of parchment from a leather bag beside her chair. “Here…”

Stephen took the parchment and unfurled it on the table. He found four names in the column for the signatures; he didn’t know the first three, and their visits dated back more than two years. And there was Lottie Stanhope’s name, too, written with clear, round letters and a small, merry flourish at the end of the last “e”. He turned the page and found half a dozen entries on the flipside. There was Lottie Stanhope’s name again, from a visit in 2001. The signature looked exactly the same as the one from last night.

“Well,” he slowly said, following the flourish with a long finger. “If this was not Miss Stanhope, who misused her name to search the register for Ruta’s entry, then?”

“May I?” Hermione leaned over the parchment, pulling her wand out of her loose sleeve. She touched the signature with the tip.

“Nomen verum revelio!”

The letters seemed to dance on the parchment, and when they settled down again, their shape had changed dramatically. They were steep and arrogant, forming the name Vindictia Stone.

“Vindictia Stone?” Harry asked, increasingly confused. “Who for heaven’s sake is Vindictia Stone? And where do you have that spell from?”

“Research, during our holiday in France,” Hermione replied modestly. She pulled a folded newspaper out of her bag. “And Vindictia Stone is a journalist. Look at this: MUGGLES AND THEIR BAD INFLUENCE ON WIZARD SOCIETY. It is an article from January 1998; terrible nonsense, besides, but she scrupulously follows the principles of the Ministry at that time. Rita Skeeter was still persona non grata that year, because of her story about you in the Quibbler."

Stephen Seeker rubbed his chin, face watchful and pensive. “So Miss Stone wrote for the Daily Prophet. And whom does she write for nowadays?”

“I have no idea,” Hermione admitted, actually looking ashamed.

“But I have.” The voice came from behind; it was Ginny Potter, standing behind the sofa and carrying a tea tray. Her eyes shone with excitement; she placed the tray on the table with so much forceful momentum that Seeker only saved the parchment just in time from being soaked with hot Darjeeling.

“Three weeks ago, I went to London, to check my chances of getting a paid internship at the Daily Prophet,” Ginny said. “Kreacher has nearly finished the refurbishment of Grimmauld Place – he returned here yesterday - and if we should move there next year, I might have the chance to gain some journalistic practice.” ***

She smiled at Seeker.

“The Daily Prophet finally needs some decent reporters, I think, and I've always loved writing… though I’m mostly interested in writing about sports,” she continued. “And when I met Barnabas Cuffe for a talk, I also made the acquaintance of Vicky Stone. She is still working for the Prophet, though she doesn't write many articles right now. She is Rita Skeeter’s personal assistant.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I actually found her rather nice; a pretty woman, about Ruta’s age, but she certainly spends more time in front of a mirror.” Ginny saw Seeker’s gaze, turned bright red and bit her lip. “I’m sorry… I didn’t want to say that Ruta…”

“I have a rather clear image of what you wanted to say,” Seeker said, the shadow of a grin curling his lips. “Never mind. So Miss Stone was a nice, pretty woman – what else do you know about her?”

Suddenly Ginny’s eyes turned round, and one of her hands flew up to her mouth in dismay.

“My goodness,” she whispered. “She told me that she was about to finish doing research for Skeeter’s latest book.”

“Sounds very much like Rita,” Harry remarked dryly, “to have someone else for the donkey work. What kind of book is it? Yet another of her horrible biographies?”

“Yes,” Ginny said, staring at Seeker. “A biography of Severus Snape.”
___________________________________________________________

Author’s Notes:

*Augustus Pye was the Healer who tried to cure the snakebite Arthur Weasley received with Muggle medicine. Therefore I thought he might find some extra studies rather useful. ;-)

** I didn’t make that up. Rita Skeeter did use Veritaserum on Bathilda Bagshot (which was certainly not very healthy for a woman of her age).

*** In later years, Ginny Potter started a career as a sports reporter for the Daily Prophet (according to J.K. Rowling).

Oh - and a heartfelt Thank you to all my readers for their faithfulness, their uplifting reviews and their amazing patience. Don't despair - the story is finally FINISHED, having grown to the staggering number of nineteen chapters (after I had originally planned to write only eight...). All I need now is to get it properly betaed. I'll try to continue as fast as possible!