Scars, Part 16

[geri_chan]

Rating: NC-17 overall

Pairings: Snape/Lupin, Ash/Tsubasa; also a little Theodore/Blaise, Dylan/Hermione, and Aric/Takeshi

Author's note: {} Indicates character's unspoken thoughts; [] indicates song lyrics.

Disclaimer: Based on the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling; song lyrics are from "Scars" by Papa Roach. No money is being made off this story; consider it a little wish fulfillment on my part.

Warning: AU. This story contains a character from Half-Blood Prince, but does not follow the HBP storyline.

Sequel to: Always, Summer Vacation, For Old Time's Sake, Three's a Crowd, Return of the Raven, Phoenix Reborn, Phoenix Rising, Aftermaths, The Revenant, Ash's Story, and Summer Vacation III.

Summary: The Dietrich family throws a party to find a bridegroom for Erika; the trial to determine the true Snape heir begins; and another murder takes place.

Part 15b

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The rush orders that Parvati and Megan had been working on at Gladrags were for a party that the Dietrich family was giving. A number of prominent pureblood families had been invited, and many of them were buying new robes for it; Madam Malkin's and Twillfit and Tatting's were also busy filling custom orders for the party.

The official reason for the party was to celebrate the appointment of the new Dietrich heir, Erika. The unofficial reason--which everyone was well aware of--was for the Dietriches to get a look at prospective grooms for the new heir.

The new heir was not entirely happy about this, but she was resigned to it. Erika hoped that she would be able to love her husband, whomever he might turn out to be, but she was not a romantic who would throw everything away for love the way that her brother had. She was a practical and ambitious young woman, and she would never risk losing her life of wealth and privilege by taking an unsuitable lover like a Mudblood or a werewolf or someone of the same gender. However, as the sole remaining heir, she did have some leverage over her family, and they had agreed to allow her to choose her own husband--so long as he was a pureblood from a good family.

Which was why they were having the party. Still, Erika detested the formal and contrived nature of the husband-hunt, and would much rather have done things more discreetly, by getting to know the young men one by one on an individual basis, rather than playing Prince Charming--or rather, Princess Charming--at the ball.

"I feel like a brood mare at auction, being paraded before all the prospective buyers," Erika grumbled to her mother as they prepared for the party.

"Nonsense," Alison Dietrich said gaily. "It's the young men who are being paraded before you! You're very lucky, to have your pick of the most eligible bachelors in Britain."

"I suppose," Erika muttered doubtfully. Her mother's statement wasn't precisely true, as the most eligible pureblood men were actually the heirs to the oldest and wealthiest pureblood families in Britain, and those heirs would not be willing to give up their names and inheritances to marry into their bride's family. Erika would have to settle for a younger brother or cousin of those heirs, someone with no inheritance of his own, who would be willing to let his children take on the Dietrich name. But she supposed that she was lucky in that she was being allowed some choice in her selection of husband, when most girls of her rank were expected to marry whatever man their parents chose for them, whether they liked him or not.

"The Minister of Magic and his family will be attending the party," Alison told her daughter. "And as much as it pains me to say it, you might consider a match with one of their boys--they certainly have more than enough sons to go around. The eldest is engaged to that French girl, but the second boy, Charlie, is still single, although I hear that he's working in Romania and won't be able to attend. Perhaps we can arrange for you two to meet on another occasion. The next son, Percy, is married of course, and the youngest boy, Ronald, is unofficially betrothed to the Greengrass girl, but the twins are only a couple of years younger than you."

Erika didn't really want to marry one of the Weasley boys, and certainly not one of the twins, who had a reputation for being annoying pranksters, but before she could voice any objections, her grandfather did it for her.

"I don't want my heir marrying any son of that blood traitor Arthur Weasley," Roderick growled as he walked into the room, leaning on a stylish ebony-and-silver cane for support. He had mostly recovered from the stroke that had nearly killed him several months ago. There was more white in his hair than there used to be, and he tired more easily, which was why he was using the cane, but his spirit remained indomitable and he continued to rule the Dietrich family with an iron hand.

"I don't care much for him, either, but he is the Minister of Magic," Alison pointed out diffidently.

"But maybe not for much longer, if these werewolf murders continue," Erika's father Karl said, frowning uncomfortably. Erika suspected that he wasn't so much disturbed by the murders as he was by the reminder that his son was now a werewolf. Ever since Aric had quarreled with their grandfather shortly after being turned, no one in the family would talk about him or even mention his name; it was as if he had never existed. Erika knew that her mother missed Aric and sometimes wept for him in private when Karl and Roderick weren't around, but she obeyed Roderick's orders and did not visit her son or even so much as send him a letter by owl. Erika was the only member of the Dietrich family who still had contact with Aric, and she was careful to keep her visits quiet and discreet so that her grandfather did not find out. Someday, she promised herself, when she became head of the Dietrich family, she would welcome her brother back home--providing that he wanted to come back home to a family that had treated him so badly, which was somewhat doubtful. But at least Aric didn't begrudge her the heirship, and he seemed happy with his mediwizard boyfriend. Fortunately, Roderick didn't know yet that Takeshi Kimura was not just Aric's roommate, but his lover, or he might have had another stroke.

"We shouldn't rule out the possibility of an alliance with the Weasley family," Karl continued. "But it would be wise to wait and see whether Arthur will weather out this latest crisis."

"That seems wise enough," Roderick grudgingly conceded. "Although I still think that Erika can do better than a Weasley."

"The Weasleys do have a couple of things in their favor," Alison said, surprising Erika a little, because her mother was a typically dutiful pureblood wife who never disagreed with her husband or father-in-law. "One, they are purebloods, and two, they are certainly prolific. Many of the pureblood women have trouble conceiving, and we do want Erika to bear a healthy heir for the Dietrich family--and more than one, if possible."

So that explained why her mother was willing to argue with Roderick over the possibility of a Weasley marriage--grandchildren. "I am willing to do my duty and bear an heir for the Dietrich family," Erika said dryly. "But I certainly don't intend to bear seven of them!"

Alison laughed merrily. "I long to hold my hypothetical grandchildren in my arms, but yes, I agree that seven would be a bit much. But two or three would be nice."

"Two sons would be ideal," Roderick agreed. "An heir, and the proverbial spare in case the first heir proves unsuitable for some reason."

{Such as being bitten by a werewolf,} Erika finished silently in her mind, with a touch of bitterness. It was true that in the past, she had resented Aric for being chosen heir over herself just because he was male, but she still loved her brother, and she did not approve of the way that her family had turned their backs on him.

"And a girl," Alison added, almost as an afterthought, oblivious to her daughter's bitter thoughts. "Every mother should have a daughter to dote on."

It wasn't possible for even the most talented witch to choose the gender of her children, but Erika silently vowed to herself that if her first child was a girl, she would have no others. If necessary, she'd secretly use a birth control charm to prevent conceiving any sons who might take the title away from her daughter. She would make her daughter the heir to the Dietrich family, and maybe in time, it would become a matriarchal line like that of the Blackmores or Donners. And that secret hope gave her enough strength and determination to endure her family's unthinking, callous remarks, as well as the party that followed.

Which was just as well, because the party was about as much fun as having one's teeth pulled without a pain-dulling potion. In fact, Erika thought that she would have preferred having her teeth pulled. She had attended many pureblood parties in her lifetime, of course, but never one where she'd been the focus of a matchmaking attempt. The mothers of the prospective grooms looked her over with appraising eyes, as if--as she had joked earlier--she were a prize brood mare or heifer for sale. The fathers looked at her with cold, calculating eyes, weighing the benefits and risks of a marriage alliance in their heads, and the prospective grooms themselves flirted with her and flattered her with varying degrees of charm and complete insincerity.

Except for the Weasley twins, who made no attempt to charm her at all, and made it clear that they would much rather have been in Romania with their brother Charlie than at this party.

"Well, this is rather refreshing," Erika told Fred Weasley in a dry voice as they danced together; he was holding her as gingerly and cautiously as he might have one of his brother's dragons. "You aren't even trying to pretend that you like me."

"No offense, but I don't think that a Gryffindor-Slytherin marriage would work out," he said, smiling at her warily, but with a hint of rakish insolence that was almost charming.

"None taken," Erika replied with a smile. "But I'm not a Slytherin. I went to Durmstrang, not Hogwarts."

Fred relaxed, looking a little more at ease when he saw that she wasn't going to hex him. "But Durmstrang is essentially an entire school full of Slytherin types, isn't it?" he asked.

"I suppose so," Erika replied with a shrug. "But isn't your brother betrothed to a Slytherin?"

"Yeah, I never expected that of little Ronnie," Fred chuckled. "But Daphne seems like a nice girl, for a Slytherin." She gave him an ironic smile, and he added hastily, "Er...which isn't to say that you're not nice, too."

"Oh, I have been called many things, but 'nice' is not one of them," Erika laughed. "Don't worry, Fred Weasley; I don't intend to choose you for my groom. Someone with such blunt honesty would never last a minute among the pureblood elite."

Fred laughed, grinning widely with relief. "I've been called many things, too, and 'honest' usually isn't one of them!"

"Yes, I've heard that you and your brother are quite the pranksters," Erika said. "But you need to be able to tell polite lies with conviction in order to prosper in high society."

"If that means suck up to all these people," Fred said, gesturing at the other partygoers, "then no, I don't think that I can do that. I'm sure that you can find a Prince Charming among all these fine Slytherin men."

"Then let us just enjoy this dance," Erika said, and they did. The Weasley boy actually proved to be entertaining company once he was assured that he would not have to become her bridegroom.

When the song ended, Fred bowed over her hand, kissed it gallantly, and said with a wink, "You're not so bad for a Slytherin."

"And you're not so bad for a Gryffindor," Erika said lightly. From the sidelines, their mothers gave them speculative looks, and she realized that she and Fred might have given them the wrong impression. Well, that was all right. Let her family think that she was working to charm the Minister's son like a dutiful heir.

Her next dance partners were not quite so charming. Marcus Flint kept stepping on her foot; Adrian Pucey talked incessantly about himself; and Phillip Bole gloated about the lawsuit being brought against Professor Snape. His father's firm, it seemed, was handling the case for the alleged illegitimate Snape heir. Either he didn't know that Snape had befriended her brother, or he was too stupid to realize that he might be offending her, or maybe he didn't think that she'd care--her family had disinherited Aric, after all, and were pretending that he didn't exist. But whatever the reason, she was heartily sick of making polite conversation with vain and/or stupid young pureblood men.

Erika and Phillip were dancing near the table where the refreshments were laid out, and she quickly jerked free of her partner and jumped aside as the punch bowl toppled off the table with a loud crash. Phillip was not quite as agile, and he cursed loudly as his robes were splashed with a liberal amount of punch.

"Marcus!" a furious Mrs. Flint hissed at her son, who happened to be standing closest to the punch bowl. "Must you be so clumsy when we're trying to make a good impression on our hosts?!"

"It's not my fault!" Marcus protested. "I didn't touch it, I swear!" A few people snickered quietly, and Alison Dietrich politely assured the Flints that no one blamed Marcus, but it didn't seem like anyone, Alison included, really believed him.

Erika took the opportunity to edge away from the crowd, and she caught sight of a man standing in the corner of the room, stealthily slipping a wand back into the pocket of his robe. No one but Erika seemed to notice.

She glided over to the man, observing that he appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with long blond hair pulled back in a tail, and thick-lensed glasses that gave him an owlish look. He wasn't someone that she was familiar with, and she had to search her memory for a few moments to come up with his name.

"You are quite adept with jinxes, Professor Bletchley," Erika murmured.

He gave her a startled look, then smiled sheepishly. "I beg your pardon, Miss Dietrich," Bletchley replied. "No malice was intended, I assure you. But it seemed to me as though you wished to escape your current dance partner...or to escape the dance floor entirely, perhaps...so I thought I would provide a distraction."

Erika gave him a puzzled look as she tried to determine his motives. The obvious explanation was that he had wanted to humiliate a rival and curry favor with her at the same time, but it seemed like he hadn't intended to reveal that he was the one who had cast the jinx on the punch bowl, because he clearly hadn't expected her to notice. So why would he do her a favor and not take credit for it? That was completely alien to the Slytherin mindset.

Still, he was Slytherin enough to guess what she was thinking. "Merlin only knows that I've wanted to escape many boring parties myself in the past," Bletchley said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Then he looked chagrined as he realized that he had just indirectly insulted his hosts. "Ah...not that this party is boring," he hastily demurred, not very convincingly.

Erika just laughed. "No offense taken," she assured him. "I quite agree with you, and I thank you for rescuing me. I was seriously considering hexing Phillip Bole."

"You're welcome," Bletchley replied with a relieved smile. "I am somewhat lacking in the social graces, as my mother always reminds me, but I am glad to be of service." He glanced over at Marcus, who was still being berated by his mother. "I feel a bit sorry for young Mr. Flint, though."

"I don't," Erika said with a grin. "He stepped on my foot at least five times while we were dancing!"

"Then I shall feel no guilt about leaving Mr. Flint to his fate," Bletchley laughed.

Erika noticed that her mother was still occupied with cleaning up the mess and trying to calm down the Flints--and Bole, who was blaming Marcus for his stained robes--and she saw an opportunity to escape the party for at least a few minutes. "You know," Erika said, pressing a hand to her forehead, "I believe that I'm developing a dreadful headache."

"Perhaps you should get some fresh air," Bletchley said solicitously; Erika noted approvingly that he was quick to pick up on her cue. "Would you do me the honor of showing me your gardens, Miss Dietrich?"

He politely proffered his arm, and Erika laid her hand on it, saying with a smile, "It would be my pleasure, Professor." They quietly slipped out of the house without anyone noticing, and she added, "Please just call me 'Erika,' by the way."

"Then please call me 'Henry,'" Bletchley said. "I'm not really a Professor, anyway."

"Oh? I thought you taught at Durmstrang."

"I do a guest lecture every now and then, but it's more of an honorary title. Most of my time is spent doing research out in the field. Although I'm presently working at the Museum of Wizarding History in London."

"Yes, I heard that you've been researching those Irish artifacts?" Erika asked politely. "My cousin Theodore is apprenticed to a member of the archaeological team. What kinds of artifacts have they found?"

The polite interest in Bletchley's face changed to a look of real enthusiasm as he began describing the artifacts, which mainly seemed to be defensive items that the creator had used to protect his tower from intruders. Erika smiled, nodding or murmuring a brief response every now and then to indicate that she was listening. Her response was not wholly feigned; his work did sound genuinely interesting, but what truly interested her was what Bletchley's rhapsodic lecture told her about himself. It seemed that Henry Bletchley was a true scholar, with little interest in politics and power plays--something that was extremely rare for a member of the Slytherin elite.

"...but the most intriguing item is a stone medallion carved with a number of magical runes," Bletchley continued. "The runes are near-indecipherable; your cousin and his Master are still trying to translate them, but we're certain that it has something to do with lycanthropy. Personally, I think that it's a means by which to control or suppress the transformation. The medallion is chipped, but it radiates a strong magical aura, and I think it might still be functional, if we can decipher the runes and figure out how it works. Of course, we would eventually need a werewolf volunteer to test--" He suddenly broke off in mid-sentence, looking a little embarrassed and dismayed, no doubt just remembering that Erika's brother was a werewolf. "Um...ah...I meant no offense," he apologized awkwardly.

"It's fine, Henry," Erika reassured him with a smile. "Unlike my parents and grandparents, I am not trying to pretend that Aric does not exist, or that he is not a werewolf. He has adapted to his new life, and he even seems quite happy, so I'm not at all offended. In fact, I'd like to hear more about your research if it's something that can benefit werewolves. Wolfsbane Potion makes lycanthropy a manageable disease, of course, but my brother says that the transformation is still very painful." Erika smiled. "And that the potion tastes awful, although that's a lesser consideration."

Bletchley nodded, a serious expression on his face. "Yes, and it's a difficult and expensive potion to make. The Ministry is funding the Wolfsbane Potion Distribution Program for now, but that could change if we have a change of Ministers, and Arthur Weasley's position is a bit tenuous at the moment. But if they could control the transformation with a spell or magical item, werewolves wouldn't need to rely on the potion."

"A good point," Erika conceded, giving Bletchley a quizzical look. "It's unusual for a pureblood to be interested in the welfare of werewolves."

"It was merely an interesting intellectual puzzle to solve at first," Bletchley admitted. "But I worked with your cousin's friend Blaise Zabini at the museum, and he spoke of Professor Lupin as someone he admires and cares about. And of course I've been consulting with Master Tremayne and Theodore about the runes, and Theodore regards Lupin as a parent. Even my cousin Miles speaks fondly of Lupin, and I'm told that the young Slytherin students all like him, and of course, you've told me about your brother. It's a reminder that werewolves are people, and not just research subjects." He shrugged. "Besides, I always thought the opposition to the Distribution Program was pretty shortsighted. Even people who hate werewolves ought to realize that we're a lot safer if they're not running around biting people during the full moon."

They talked more about Bletchley's research, and he even politely inquired about Erika's work at Gringotts, and they were in the middle of an animated discussion about curse-breaking techniques when Erika's mother found them in the garden.

"Ah, there you are, dear!" Alison said. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I had a headache, and the Professor was kind enough to escort me outside to get some fresh air," Erika said sweetly.

"Thank you, Professor," Alison said politely, then turned back to her daughter and sighed. "Goodness knows I was developing a headache myself, dealing with the Flints and young Mr. Bole! But if you're feeling better, dear, you should go back inside. You mustn't neglect your guests, after all."

"Yes, Mother," Erika said obediently, with a faint sigh of resignation.

"I wouldn't want to monopolize Erika's company," Bletchley said with a smile, and politely excused himself and headed back into the house.

Despite her apparent eagerness to get Erika back to the party, Alison lingered behind in the garden to speak to her daughter in private. "Have you taken a fancy to Henry Bletchley?" she asked, looking a little concerned. "He comes from a good family, of course, but he doesn't have much ambition, so I hear, and spends almost all of his time abroad on one scholarly mission or another. His mother was lamenting that he rarely even comes home for the holidays."

"I can't say that I blame him for wanting to stay far away from his family," Erika said dryly. "Didn't his brother once turn him into a toad during a drunken argument?"

"Yes, but still, one has an obligation to one's family, whether one likes them or not," Alison replied, then frowned. "I've heard rumors that he was never quite the same after the hex was removed; it took them a week to find a way to lift it and return him back to normal."

"There is nothing wrong with Professor Bletchley's wits," Erika said firmly. "He is a renowned scholar, after all, and I can confirm that he is able to carry on an intelligent conversation--which is more than I can say for Marcus Flint or Phillip Bole. But just so you don't get the wrong impression, Mother, I don't 'fancy' the Professor. I just took advantage of the opportunity to slip away from the dancing and allow my bruised feet some time to recover. Marcus stepped on them several times."

"Yes, that young man really is quite clumsy," Alison sighed. "And, as you pointed out, not very bright. I think that you can do better than him for a husband."

"I most certainly hope so!" Erika said indignantly, and her mother laughed as they headed back to the house. She still wasn't certain whom she would select as her husband, but at least if she married Bletchley, they would likely have intelligent children, which was a point in his favor. She shuddered at the thought of giving birth to little copies of Marcus Flint, all clumsy and stupid as mountain trolls...
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Meanwhile, Henry was being congratulated by his family. "A romantic walk in the garden with the lovely heiress, eh?" his brother said, with a wink and a leer as he elbowed Henry in the side sharply, hard enough to leave a bruise, although it probably looked like a playful gesture to a casual observer.

Henry gritted his teeth and tried not to wince, not wanting to give his brother the satisfaction. As a child, his brother had taken pleasure in tormenting him whenever possible, which was why Henry had spent as much time as possible away from home since becoming an adult.

"I am glad to see that you are taking your duty seriously," Henry's father said approvingly. "I worried a little when you were playing wallflower instead of taking your turn dancing with Miss Dietrich."

"I am not a good dancer, Father," Henry said matter-of-factly. "I feared that my dancing might not make much of an impression on the lady, or might make the wrong impression--as Mr. Flint did. I made a much better impression by taking her away from the dancing for a few minutes, I think."

"Well, it must have worked, because the lady obviously shows you favor," his father said with a smug and avaricious gleam in his eyes. He patted Henry on the shoulder and said, "Keep up the good work, son!"

Henry briefly considered telling his father not to start planning the wedding yet, then changed his mind. If he admitted that he had only meant to give Erika a little anonymous help and had not intended to attract her attention or win her favor, then he would just get a lecture about doing his duty as a proper pureblood. Of course, his family would probably be disappointed when Erika eventually chose some other bridegroom, one no doubt younger and handsomer, with better political connections, but once he was rejected, he could return to his research project in Egypt and escape his family's complaints.

He hoped that Erika would choose a husband soon, so that he could escape his family obligations...but on the other hand, perhaps not too soon. He would like to finish his work on the Irish artifacts first, and solve the mystery of the werewolf medallion. And he had to admit that "courting" her was not the onerous chore he had imagined it would be. She wasn't spoiled or silly or conceited, as many young women of her rank were, and she was capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation.

But still, he looked forward to returning to his life of bachelor freedom.
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"A full conclave of the Wizengamot?" Snape murmured to Morrigan as they walked into the courtroom on the opening day of the trial. "It seems a bit excessive for a simple matter of inheritance."

Morrigan glanced up at the balcony, where about fifty wizards and witches in plum-colored robes sat. "Not necessarily," she replied. "Not when it's a matter of deciding the inheritance for one of the oldest pureblood families in the wizarding world."

"And not when one of the parties involved is a notorious former Death Eater turned war hero, not to mention the lover of a werewolf," Selima added sharply, reminding her son that he was partially to blame for making himself a vulnerable target to Delauney's lawsuit.

"Everything will be fine," Lupin said reassuringly, patting Snape on the arm, and then went to sit in the spectator stands. Since he was not legally a member of the Snape family, he was not allowed to sit with Snape, Selima, and Morrigan at the defendant's table--another thing that was wrong with the wizarding world, Snape thought to himself sourly. Lupin was part of his family in every way that really mattered, but it didn't fit the Ministry's narrow-minded legal definition.

Sebastien Delauney walked into the courtroom with his lawyer, and Snape got his first look at the man who was challenging him for the right to be head of the Snape family. He was young and handsome, with blond hair and aristocratic features, and was clad in expensive, stylishly cut formal robes. He could very easily pass for a pureblood of high rank, and in fact, looked much more the part of the pureblood heir than Snape himself did.

"This is bad," Selima fretted. "He looks the role, and the purebloods tend to judge things on appearances."

"He'll need more than good looks to win his case," Morrigan assured her, but she looked a little worried, too.

"Maybe that will work against him," the Potions Master said with a small, sardonic smile. "He's far too pretty to be a Snape."

"My sources tell me that he looks very much like his late mother," Morrigan said. "Actually, Philomela also possessed the same sort of general physical build as her daughter-in-law: delicate, slender, and blonde. So Delauney can argue that he takes after his mother and grandmother rather than his alleged grandfather."

At least Delauney lacked the Snape nose; if he'd had the same large, hooked nose that most of the Snape men did, the Wizengamot would probably have awarded him the title, or at least acknowledged him as a Snape, on the spot. However, while Delauney's nose could not be described as "beaky," it was still strong and prominent enough to be called "aquiline". It actually suited his aristocratic features quite well, and one could argue that the distinguishing Snape feature had been softened by his grandmother's and his mother's more delicate looks.

What was worse was that he was charming and articulate as well as handsome. He spoke fluent English with a slight French accent that only seemed to add to his charm--at least as far as most of the female members of the Wizengamot and the spectators were concerned. Snape saw many of them giving Delauney admiring looks, although at least Madam Bones, who was presiding over the case, remained as stern and impartial as always. But even the men seemed to be regarding the alleged heir favorably, or at least with grudging respect. Snape didn't need to use his Legilimency to know that they were thinking, "Well, he carries himself like a proper pureblood."

Meanwhile, Delauney was on the witness stand explaining that while poverty had forced his grandmother into her position at the brothel, she had never given up her pureblood pride. "She always made a point of telling my father that even though he was illegitimate, he still had old and noble blood running through his veins," Delauney said. "She told him that Lord Snape was his father, and she asked him to name me Sebastian after one of the Snape ancestors. Since we were living in France, my parents used the French spelling and pronunciation, 'Sebastien'."

"And your late mother was a pureblood as well, was she not?" Delauney's lawyer Edmund Bole asked.

"Yes, she was a member of the Guiscard clan, an old and respected French pureblood family," Delauney replied.

"But she was disowned by her family, was she not?" Morrigan demanded.

"Yes, she was, for marrying my father, the illegitimate son of a courtesan," Delauney replied in a polite and even voice. "But that does not make her blood any less pure."

"True," Morrigan conceded, changing tactics. "It is your father's blood that is in question. You say that Stefan Snape is your grandfather, but how can you really be sure of that? Philomela Delauney had several other regular clients in addition to Lord Snape, including Orion Black, Abraxas Malfoy, and Pembroke Parkinson."

A startled and excited murmur arose in the spectator section, and Madam Bones had to pound her gavel and call for order in the court. Rita Skeeter, who was sitting among the spectators, remained silent, but her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she scribbled in her notebook with an acid-green quill.

"Impressive work," Selima whispered to her son, who nodded in agreement. They'd had only a short time to prepare for the trial, and the client list of an exclusive brothel like the one Philomela had worked at was a closely-guarded secret, but Morrigan had still managed to obtain crucial information in time for today's trial.

Delauney gave Morrigan an icy smile, but otherwise remained composed. "Yes, that is true, but she spent most of her time in Lord Snape's company. She seemed quite certain that he was the father of her child, taking into account when she was given the defective birth control charm and the time since her last menstrual cycle."

"So you say," Morrigan said skeptically. "But neither your grandmother nor Lord Snape are alive to confirm your testimony. And besides, did she not tell Pembroke Parkinson that the child was his, and convince him to run off to France with her?"

"Yes, she did," Delauney replied. "But she lied, in an act of desperation. She could not ask Lord Snape to acknowledge the child, as he was ill and on his deathbed, and not expected to recover. And she dared not ask Lord Snape's wife and son for compensation, for fear that they might seek to eliminate a rival heir. Mr. Parkinson was enamored of her, so my grandmother told him that the child was his, and persuaded him to take her to France, where she hoped she would be safe, out of reach of the Snape clan."

"Still, infatuated though he was, Mr. Parkinson must have had some reason to think that the child might be his," Morrigan pointed out.

"He shared her bed on occasion, but Lord Snape was the father of her child," Delauney insisted.

"Have you any proof to back up your claims?" Morrigan demanded. "You have none of the distinguishing physical characteristics of the Snape clan, and in fact, you bear a much closer resemblance to the Malfoy or Parkinson families."

"Narcissa won't like that," Snape muttered. "I hope that he doesn't decide to try to take the Malfoy estate away from Draco if this fails."

"He'd look like a fool, claiming first to be a Snape and then a Malfoy," Selima whispered in a dismissive tone. "If he loses this lawsuit, he'll have no hope of winning a second one."

"I hope so," Snape said darkly, "because Narcissa will kill me if she thinks I tried to pawn off my problem onto Draco."

Meanwhile, Delauney was replying to Morrigan, "Physically, I resemble my mother and grandmother, who were both fair and blonde. And the fact that Pembroke eventually left my grandmother seems to indicate that he did not really believe that the child was his."

"All it indicates is that his family cut off his funds and threatened to disown him because they didn't want him to marry a prostitute," Morrigan retorted.

Delauney's face flushed with anger, but his voice remained calm and steady. "Once Lord Snape made it known that my grandmother was his favorite, the other clients visited her only infrequently, ceding preferential rights to him, as Stefan Snape was a high-ranking Lord whose goodwill they wished to keep. Philomela spent most of her time in Lord Snape's company, so logically speaking, it is most likely that he was the father of her child."

"But 'most likely' is not incontrovertible proof, Mr. Delauney," Morrigan said firmly. "It is not good enough reason to ask a legitimate and proven heir to step aside in your favor."

"Lord Snape gave my grandmother many gifts--jewelry and such, most of which she sold to support herself after Mr. Parkinson abandoned her," Delauney replied quietly. "But this, she kept and refused to sell, even when she was close to starvation." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cloak pin emblazoned with the Snape family crest of a serpent rampant, a snake curved into the shape of an "S". The pin was made of gold, and enameled in red and black, the Snape family colors.

A collective gasp arose from the spectator stands, and Snape noticed that his mother had frozen in place, her black eyes riveted on the cloak pin. She no doubt recognized it, as he did also, having seen it in several family portraits of his grandfather, including the enchanted portrait in the attic.

Morrigan was taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovered and said, "That proves only that Lord Snape gave Philomela a piece of jewelry, or perhaps simply misplaced it and left it by accident in her quarters. It doesn't prove that you are his grandson."

"It proves, at the very least, that he held Philomela in high regard," Delauney said with a smile, a triumphant little gleam sparkling in his eyes. "A Lord does not hand over the family crest to a common whore. Perhaps, if he had lived, Lord Snape would have acknowledged Philomela's child as his son, if not necessarily his legal heir."

"Perhaps," Morrigan said scornfully. "And perhaps not. Besides, we have only your word for it that Stefan Snape actually gave it to your grandmother."

"A Lord doesn't simply leave the family crest lying around, either," Delauney retorted. "If he had forgotten it by mistake in my grandmother's rooms, he would have retrieved it later."

"How do we know that the crest is real, and not a fake replica that you had made?" Morrigan asked coolly.

Delauney just smiled and countered, "Can you prove that it isn't genuine?"

She couldn't, of course, at least not right here and now in the courtroom. "You can be sure," Morrigan said icily, "that if I discover you commissioned a fake crest, I will expose you for the fraud that you are."

"Be my guest, Ms. De Lacy," Delauney said with an insolent little bow.

"Madam Bones, I must protest!" Bole cried. "Ms. De Lacy is defaming my client without any evidence!"

"When you have evidence regarding the crest, then you may present it to the court, Ms. De Lacy," Bones said. "Otherwise, please refrain from speculation."

"As if this whole case isn't pure speculation!" Selima whispered to Snape scornfully.

"Yes, Madam Bones," Morrigan said respectfully, and moved on to a different line of questioning.

But Snape knew that even though the cloak pin proved nothing about Delauney's parentage, it had made an impression on the court and the spectators. Appearance mattered more than substance to most of the purebloods, and having the Snape family crest in his possession was a powerful symbol in Delauney's favor.

Morrigan was attempting to tarnish Delauney's princely image by questioning him about his occupation as a guide and procurer to the seamier sorts of entertainment available in Paris, but it wasn't really scandalous enough to completely counter the French wizard's charm and the Snape crest. The purebloods, and especially the Slytherins, tended to be rather jaded, and many of them had probably participated in the kinds of entertainment that Delauney provided, at least in their younger days.

For his part, Delauney readily admitted to working in a less than respectable profession, but said that he was merely doing what he had to in order to survive, and swore that he would uphold the honor of the clan, if and when he was appointed head of the Snape family.

Morrigan grilled Delauney mercilessly, but he continued to maintain his composure and didn't let her bait him into losing his temper. And Bole played up Delauney's charm and charisma to good effect, even though solid evidence in their case was rather scant.

Finally, court adjourned for the day, with the next trial date being set for the following week. Rita Skeeter pounced on them as they left the courtroom, and Snape allowed his mother to field most of the reporter's questions, since she was much better at such things than he was. He would have evaded the press altogether, except that Morrigan had warned him that Delauney would surely take advantage of whatever publicity he could get, and the Snapes had better get their side of the story out there, or the Daily Prophet would only print Delauney's version.

Selima managed to project a convincing air of cool indifference, as if there were no doubt in her mind about the outcome of the trial, and she skillfully fended off questions about Snape's "scandalous" relationship with Lupin by countering with reminders that both Professors were heroes of the war. Mercifully, Selima kept the interview short, and soon the Snapes, Lupin, and Morrigan returned to Snape Manor to discuss the case in private.

"I had no idea!" Lupin exclaimed as soon as they were alone.

"No idea about what, Lupin?" Snape asked.

"That Orion Black was one of Philomela's clients!" Lupin replied. "Wasn't he Sirius's father?"

Snape smiled wryly and said, "I don't know why you're surprised after seeing that portrait of Black's mother at Grimmauld Place. I don't find it at all shocking that Orion would prefer the company of a pretty courtesan to that old harridan."

"Well, but she wouldn't have been old back then," Lupin pointed out.

"No, but she was always a shrew with a sharp tongue, even as a girl, or so I've heard," Selima said impatiently. "Although I can't see what difference it makes to us whether or not Orion Black was cheating on his wife, unless we can persuade the Wizengamot that it was Orion who was Sebastien's grandfather, and not Stefan."

"Unlikely," Morrigan said. "Although it does at least serve to cast doubt as to whether Lord Stefan was really the father of Philomela's son. Sebastien's case is all smoke and mirrors; he has no real evidence that Stefan is his grandfather, the cloak pin notwithstanding, and normally I'd say that he has no chance of winning, except that Severus has so many enemies on the Wizengamot. It's possible that they might vote against him simply out of pure spite."

"But he has powerful allies, too," Lupin said. "The Minister of Magic, for one."

"Whose standing has currently been weakened by the alleged werewolf murders," Morrigan reminded him. "His detractors will feel more inclined to defy him than they would if his position were secure. If the murders continue, it's quite possible that he'll even be forced to step down as Minister."

Lupin sighed unhappily, nodding in reluctant agreement. "And after all he's done for the wizarding world, as a member of the Order!"

"The wizarding world is fickle, Remus," Morrigan said with a cynical smile. "The public remembers one's failures far longer than they remember one's triumphs."

"Should we consider buying him off?" Selima wondered with a thoughtful frown. "With such a weak case, I have the feeling that he may be expecting a bribe rather than a courtroom victory. It would be well worth a few hundred Galleons to send this nuisance packing back to France."

"Not at this point, after just a single day in court," Morrigan said, shaking her head. "It will make us look weak, as if we fear him."

"And besides, I don't think he'll be bought off so easily, if one of my enemies has put him up to this," Snape said, frowning. "If he's already being paid off by one of the pureblood families, our bribe might not be enough to tempt him."

"I agree with Severus," Morrigan said. "At the very least, we shouldn't try to bribe him until we can find out how much he is receiving from his benefactor--assuming that he has one."

"That is true," Selima conceded. "We would need to at least match, and probably exceed whatever his patron is paying him."

"But the next phase of the trial is likely to get ugly," Morrigan cautioned. "Next time it will be your turn on the witness stand, Severus, and they'll question you in detail about your relationship with Lupin, and about your Death Eater activities."

Snape grimaced. "It will be unpleasant, no doubt, but I've faced such questioning before. I never officially stood trial, but I was unofficially grilled several times by Aurors and Order members, and only Dumbledore's testimony kept me out of Azkaban during the first war."

"If the trial continues, Bole will eventually call Theodore to the stand and question him about his relationship with Mr. Zabini," Morrigan said. "I'll try to postpone it as long as possible, but Bole will argue that they have a right to know whether or not the Snape heir will carry on the family line by producing an heir of his own, and the Wizengamot will likely agree."

"I will not subject Theodore to that kind of humiliation!" Snape snarled, clenching his fists in anger, feeling as though he wanted to hit something--preferably Sebastien Delauney's pretty face. He was used to being regarded with scorn and suspicion, was used to having his motives questioned, both figuratively and literally by everyone from his students to the Ministry, but he didn't want Theodore to have to go through that kind of experience.

"You may not have a choice, Severus," Morrigan warned him.

"I'd love to pour some Veritaserum down that French bastard's throat and find out what he's really up to," Snape growled.

"Unfortunately, the court will not allow that," Morrigan said regretfully.

"But if you could get him alone," Selima said with a sly smile, "say to discuss a possible settlement over a drink..."

"And I just happened to discreetly spill a few drops of Truth Potion into his drink?" Snape finished with a grin.

"Well, as your lawyer, of course I cannot condone such a thing," Morrigan said sternly. "However..." She winked at Snape. "...what I don't know won't hurt me."

"If only there were some way to end the trial quickly, by proving that he isn't a Snape," Lupin said fretfully. "Is there no way that we could convince the court to accept the results of the D.N.A. test that Hermione proposed?"

"No, I don't think so, but even if we could, that would be a very bad idea, Remus," Morrigan said gravely. "We know that Lord Stefan really was one of Philomela's clients, so there is a small chance that Sebastien is actually his grandson. In which case, we would have proved his case for him."

"Ah, of course," Lupin said, smiling sheepishly. "I wasn't really thinking."

"Typical, for a Gryffindor," Snape said, but distractedly, more out of habit than anything else. "Besides, I'm less concerned with whether or not he has Snape blood than I am with the identity of whoever put him up to this."

"Especially if his anonymous patron really is behind the murders," Lupin said, in a more serious voice.

"Then it seems to be imperative that we find out who is backing Delauney," Selima said firmly. Lupin smiled at her, and she quickly added, as if to prove that she had only self-interest at heart, "So that the murders can be solved and Arthur Weasley can keep his position as Minister, otherwise I will have wasted my time cultivating Molly's friendship for nothing. And even if Delauney's patron isn't responsible for the murders, we still need to know whom our enemy is, and exactly what he promised Delauney. We might be able to outbid him and pay Delauney off, or perhaps simply proving that Delauney was bought might be enough to persuade the Wizengamot that he is a fraud, depending on the circumstances."

"I will continue my investigation, and try to discover the identity of Delauney's patron," Morrigan promised.

"Very well," Selima said briskly. "You are authorized to use whatever funds you need to buy information, should it prove necessary. And Professor Lupin, I understand that your werewolf friends have some unsavory contacts in Knockturn Alley."

"It's true that Lukas's pack used to be involved in activities of dubious legality, yes," Lupin admitted.

"Then they probably know people who buy and sell information," Selima said. "Tell Cyril to use his contacts and see if he can find out anything useful."

"I will," Lupin replied. "Although he might already have done so and come up empty. He's more motivated to solve the murders than anyone."

"I know that, Professor," Selima said impatiently. "But even if his contacts don't know anything about the murders, they might know something about Delauney. I doubt that it's occurred to anyone else that the two might be related. In any case, it can't hurt to try."

"Yes, Lady Selima," Lupin said, bowing his head respectfully. He had always admired Selima's strength, even when he disagreed with her methods and motives. Truth be told, Snape admired her, too, although he'd never admit it to her face.

"I will never let that little upstart steal the title and estate from us!" Selima said vehemently, her black eyes flashing with determination, and for a moment, Snape almost felt sorry for Sebastien Delauney.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Alden Madley poured a glass of Firewhiskey for himself and downed it one gulp, then leaned back in his armchair and stared broodingly into the flames flickering in the fireplace. He knew that there were two Aurors assigned to guard him; one was outside patrolling the grounds, and the other was somewhere in the house. Where, exactly, Alden wasn't sure, because he had curtly told the man to mind his own business and get out of his sight when the Auror had oh-so-politely suggested that he might be drinking a little too much.

As if seeing one's wife torn apart by a werewolf wasn't enough to drive a man to drink! Alden could still see Rosalind's body, covered with blood and disfigured nearly beyond recognition, every time he closed his eyes. The alcohol helped dull the horror of that memory, but only a little.

He had loved his wife passionately when they had first married, but that passion had quickly turned to hatred when he discovered how much she held him in contempt for his Muggle blood. But over the years, the hate had burned out and died down into indifference, and not long ago, he would have sworn that he felt nothing for Rosalind--neither animosity nor affection.

But when he had come home from a business trip to find his wife lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, he had been overcome by such grief and pain that it had almost felt like his heart was being torn to shreds the same way that Rosalind's body had. He had realized then, as he broke down in tears and gathered her torn, broken body into his arms, that he did still love his wife, after all.

Alden closed his eyes, trying to picture Rosalind as she had been when they had still been courting: young and beautiful, with waves of chestnut hair falling across her shoulders, a little glint of mischief and laughter sparkling in her eyes as she smiled at him coquettishly, under the watchful eye of her sour old great-aunt. A tear trickled down his face as he wondered how their marriage had gone so wrong.

It was too late now to save their marriage, but it wasn't too late to see Rosalind's killer brought to justice. He swore to himself that if those incompetent Aurors couldn't find enough evidence to convict his stepson, then he would track down that misbegotten mongrel and kill Ethan himself.

His eyes flew open as he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned around and snapped, "Damn it, Proudfoot, I told you to get out of my sight..."

Alden's voice trailed off as he realized that it wasn't Proudfoot standing behind him, after all. A big, rangy man with longish gray hair grinned at him with a mouthful of sharp, yellowish teeth. And then, to his horror, Alden realized that Proudfoot was present, in a manner of speaking--the gray-haired man was holding the Auror's body by the arm in one hand, as easily and carelessly as if it were a doll. Proudfoot's head lolled to one side, drooping on his shoulder at an unnatural angle, enhancing the image of a broken doll. The gray-haired stranger flung the Auror's body down on the floor in front of Alden, and Proudfoot's dead, sightless eyes seemed to stare up at him blankly.

Alden scrambled to his feet, reaching frantically for his wand, but the stranger pulled out his own wand and shouted, "Incarcerous!" Black ropes shot out of the gray-haired man's wand and wrapped themselves around Alden, and he fell helplessly to the floor with a thud.

"Oh, pardon me," the man said with a mocking grin. "I haven't introduced myself. Fenrir Greyback, at your service."

"Gr...Greyback?" Alden stammered, trying to recall why that name sounded familiar. And then he remembered...that was the name of a notorious Death Eater who had vanished during the first war. It was presumed that he had angered his master, and that You-Know-Who had killed him, but obviously that assumption was wrong.

"HELP!" Alden shouted desperately, hoping that the Auror patrolling outside would hear him. "SAVAGE, HELP ME!"

"Savage?" Greyback asked casually, looking unperturbed. "Is that the name of the poor git who was patrolling the grounds? Don't expect any help from him; I broke his neck, too." He shook his head. "The Ministry's standards have certainly gone down since my day; he didn't even hear me coming. Then again, perhaps my comrades and I killed off the cream of the crop years ago, and these dregs--" He gestured at Proudfoot's body. "--are all that were left." Greyback smiled in a predatory manner that made Alden's blood run cold with fear, and he said, "I doubt that any of your neighbors are close enough to hear you scream, but just in case..." He waved his wand and uttered the incantation to a silence spell.

That predatory smile reminded Alden of something else he had heard about Greyback. "You...you're a werewolf," he whispered, his throat so constricted with fear that he could barely speak. "Did my stepson send you?"

"No," Greyback replied. "His daddy did--his real daddy, that is."

"Who?" Alden asked in confusion, feeling a flicker of curiosity through the fog of terror that overwhelmed him. He had always wondered about the identity of Ethan's real father, but Rosalind had refused to name her mysterious lover, no matter how much he had berated her about it. He had thought at the time that she was protecting her lover, which had infuriated him, but now Alden realized that it might have been herself that she was protecting.

"So you don't know who he is," Greyback said, looking pleased. "Which means that you haven't shared his identity with anyone. My employers will be glad to hear that."

"If you're trying to protect the identity of Ethan's father, I am no danger to you," Alden said urgently, thinking that there might be a chance to get out of this situation alive, after all. "I can't tell what I don't know. But I am a very wealthy man. Whatever your employer is paying you, I'll double--no, triple it, if you'll just let me go! Enough money to leave the country and start a new life--a very comfortable new life! You can't stay in Britain for long, anyway, without being hunted down as a fugitive!"

"Unfortunately, my employers have the means to kill me if I betray them," Greyback said, not looking particularly regretful. "And besides, to tell the truth, I take more pleasure in blood than I do in gold." He reached out with a finger and ran his long, yellow fingernail down Alden's cheek hard enough to draw blood, and Alden yelped in pain. "I got little pleasure out of those Aurors, since I had to kill them quickly so they wouldn't raise an alarm. So you will entertain me in their place, Mr. Madley." Alden began to whimper, and Greyback exposed his teeth in a hungry, wolfish smile. "But if it makes you feel any better, my employers intend for your stepson to be blamed for your murder, so you'll have your revenge, if posthumously. Of course, it was actually I who killed the fair Rosalind, not Ash Randolf, as I'm sure you've guessed by now. But you hated your son even before you believed that he killed your wife, so perhaps you'll take some comfort in knowing that he'll go to prison and probably be executed for your murder."

Alden whimpered again, and Greyback said, "On the other hand, perhaps not. But don't worry, you'll be joining your beloved wife soon. By the way, did you know that tonight is a full moon?" The werewolf glanced at the clock on the wall. "The moon should be rising soon, but I still have a little time to play with you in my human form before then." Greyback gave him another menacing grin. "And when the wolf comes out to play, well, that's when the real fun begins."

Even though he knew it was futile with the silence spell cast on the room, Alden began to scream.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Alden Madley's body was mangled even more badly than his wife's had been, and large chunks of his flesh were missing, as if a wild animal had been feasting on his body, although Proudfoot's and Savage's bodies were untouched. Just enough of Madley's face had been left intact to allow the Aurors to positively identify him.

Harry had nearly thrown up when he saw the body, and even Kingsley and Dawlish, both Aurors with many years of experience, had looked green around the gills. But they were still in a better state than the poor housekeeper who had found her employer's body. They gathered that she had reported for work that morning and found Madley dead, but they weren't able to get any more information out of her than that, because the woman had suffered a nervous breakdown and was currently lying sedated in a hospital bed at St. Mungo's.

"Get Randolf in here!" Dawlish shouted at Harry, Kingsley, and Tonks once they had transported the bodies to the morgue. "And get our two so-called werewolf experts here to examine the bodies at once!" The Auror's face was flushed red with anger, and he was visibly trembling, as if from the effort of holding himself back from tracking down Ash and killing him personally.

"Proudfoot and Savage were friends of his," Tonks murmured to Harry as they headed to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office to find Ash. "That's why he's so upset. He's a thickheaded, narrow-minded git, but he does have a heart."

"Well, I can't blame him for being upset about his friends, but this will make him even more determined to arrest Ash," Harry said anxiously. "Why can't he consider the possibility that someone else might be the killer?"

"Because he's already made up his mind, and he hates being proven wrong," Tonks replied. "Let's just hope that Ash has a good alibi for last night."

"What is it this time?" Ash asked when they found him, looking tired and worried.

"I'm very sorry, but your stepfather has been killed," Tonks said gently. "Please come with us, Ash."

The werewolf turned pale, but he followed them without protest. When they reached the morgue, Tonks paused outside the door and said, "I have to warn you...it's not a pretty sight."

"Death is never pretty," Ash said with a cynical smile.

"No, but..." Tonks swallowed hard, turning a little pale at the memory of Madley's body. "This is even worse than the previous murders."

"That bad, huh?" Ash asked, looking at Tonks's pale face.

Tonks nodded. "I'd spare you if I could, but..."

"But Dawlish insists that I view the body," Ash finished in a bitter voice. "He hopes that sight of it will cause me to break down and confess, but if I really were a cold-blooded killer, the sight of my victim's body wouldn't bother me."

"I'm sorry," Tonks apologized.

"It's not your fault," Ash replied. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled and said, "All right, let's get this over with."
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

In spite of Tonks's warning, Ash's stomach turned in revulsion at the sight of his stepfather's mutilated body, and he clapped his hand over his mouth as he tried to keep from retching. Images seemed to flash before his eyes, memories of the past: Madley, smiling in a bemused manner at the young "thief" he had found in his apple tree; Madley taking him for rides on his horse, and teaching him the names of the different herbs and plants that grew on the farm; Madley proposing to Rosalind and telling young Ethan (who was not yet Ash) to call him "Father"; Madley reading stories to him; Madley shouting at Rosalind and calling Ethan a "bastard brat," slapping him across the face; the sight of a whiskey bottle smashing into his face and ripping open his cheek; and the face of the werewolf that had turned him, a blur of mad, reddened eyes, rank gray fur, and long, yellowish, razor sharp fangs.

Conflicting emotions--love, hate, anger, sorrow--swept over him like a wave, and he felt his knees buckle beneath him...
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Harry managed to catch Ash as he staggered, although the weight of the taller, heavier man nearly knocked them both over. But Kingsley's hand closed over Harry's shoulder in a firm grasp, and Harry managed to steady himself and help Ash regain his balance, although the werewolf continued to lean on him for support.

"Ash, are you all right?" Tonks asked in concern.

"Please," Ash whispered, still looking pale and as if he were about to faint, "I think I'm going to be sick."

Harry felt sorry for Ash, but he really hoped that the werewolf wasn't going to throw up on him, and began looking around for a basin or something else that Ash could vomit in other than his robes.

"Why don't you take him outside for a bit of fresh air?" Takeshi Kimura suggested kindly as he walked into the room with Healer Smethwyck.

Dawlish glared at the mediwizard, and Smethwyck said placatingly, "Come now, you don't want him throwing up on the evidence, now do you?"

"Fine!" Dawlish snarled. "Get him out of here, but don't let him out of your sight, Potter!"

Harry was more than happy to leave the presence of the irate Auror, not to mention Madley's mangled body. As Harry helped Ash out the door, the mediwizard patted Ash on the arm and murmured, "I'm so sorry, Ash."

Harry heard Dawlish sarcastically asking if the healers would mind getting to work, and then his voice faded away as he and Ash left the morgue.

Ash stumbled along, following meekly as Harry led him out of the Ministry building and into a side alley where hopefully no curious passersby, particularly Muggle ones, would spot them. Harry released Ash, and the werewolf leaned against the wall, gasping and taking in deep breaths as if he wanted to purge the death-scented air of the morgue from his lungs.

"Are you feeling a little better?" Harry asked, when Ash stopped gasping and closed his eyes, breathing quietly as he remained propped up against the wall.

Ash's eyes opened, but they looked a little glazed, and seemed to stare through Harry as if he weren't there. Then he tilted his head back and howled, a sound filled with such pain and grief that it brought tears to Harry's eyes.

And then Ash vanished, with the loud, cracking sound that always accompanied an Apparition, and Harry found himself standing in the alley alone.

"Oh, no," he groaned, wondering how he was going to explain this to Dawlish.

Part 17a