Chapter III: Kingsley Shacklebolt Investigates

Bringing Alexis instead of his faithful Deputy Headmistress had seemed like a good idea at the time; he knew the Dursleys socially, and might have been helpful in outlining the situation to them. Looking at the mutinous expression on his face, however, Albus was rapidly beginning to regret it.

“I don’t like this, Albus. I don’t like this one damn bit. Have you even met these people?”

“We have no choice, Alexander. The boy’s best protection against the remaining Death Eaters is the blood-magic ties to his aunt.”

“Knowing those two as I do,” Alex replied bitterly, “I’d say the Death Eaters are going to be the least of his bloody problems. He’d be better off with Black even if he is guilty, which incidentally I sincerely doubt!”

“When we get to the bottom of that debacle, we will hopefully be in a position to reconsider,” Albus replied. “Until then, custody defaults to Harry’s last living relatives.”

“Alright. But if they turn you down…”

The two men strode towards Number Four Privet Drive.

“Look, I understand the situation, but I can’t accept him. I know nothing about magic and I don’t especially want to. I couldn’t raise him the way Lily wanted. I’m sorry.”

“But who else would you suggest?” Alex pointed out reasonably. “James Potter was an only child, and his parents are both dead. You’re the only candidate, Petunia.” And you needn’t think you were our first choice, he added mentally.

“I honestly don’t care,” Vernon interjected. “I’m sure there are plenty of your sort who wouldn’t mind.”

“Now, see here…” Albus began.

“No, you see here!” Vernon retorted. “We don’t want to have anything to do with you weirdoes, let alone raise one of you. The answer is and always will be no.”

“You are putting me in a very difficult position, Mr Dursley.”

“See if I care!”

Alex stood up. “I’ve heard enough. Come on, Albus, let’s get out of here. I’ll take the boy myself.”

“That is a very generous offer, Alexander, but…”

“It’s not an offer, it’s a statement of intent. You’ll leave Harry in these people’s so-called care over my dead body.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said grimly. “I shall need to seek counsel on the legal questions in these circumstances. We will be discussing this further at a later date,” he added, with an icy glare towards Mr Dursley. With that, they walked out.

“One begins to understand Lily’s position,” growled Alex. “That large pink object that’s apparently their son isn’t going to turn out magic, is he?”

“One can only hope not,” Albus replied. “It might actually place his life at serious risk. Your misgivings have proven well-founded. I had held out some hopes for reaching Petunia, but with Vernon in the house it would be impossible.”

Meanwhile, Remus Lupin was making haste for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, heedless of instructions from the Healers that he take another day’s bed rest. He exited the Floo, wincing as he put weight on flash-burnt skin, and hurried to the desk officer’s position.

“I’d like to give a witness statement regarding the Sirius Black case,” he said urgently.

“Sorry, sir; it’s been wrapped up. He’s already in Azkaban.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘wrapped up’? There hasn’t been time for a trial!”

“It was deemed unnecessary,” the Auror replied darkly. “Orders from on-high.”

“But that’s outrageous!” Remus yelled.

“Don’t I know it, sir. Mr Crouch, however, seems to disagree. Frankly, I think Auror Shacklebolt will be pleased to hear from someone who might be able to shed some light on the whole bloody mess.”

“So you were with Black when the explosion occurred?” Kingsley said carefully.

“Yes. And it was Peter who set off that explosion, not Sirius. I don’t know what to believe about the Secret-Keeper part, but I think someone ought to get his side of the story.”

“Right. Get your jacket, Remus; we’re going to Crouch’s office.” And I’ll deal with whoever forgot to tell me there was another witness later, he snarled in the privacy of his own head.

“It certainly casts doubt on the official version of events, sir. At the very least, it would be worth questioning him under verisateum.”

“To which werewolves are resistant. However, I commend you for bringing to my attention the fact that Lupin was present. Escort him to the holding cells and charge him with Accessory to Murder.”

“Sir, with respect-”

“That is an order, Auror Shacklebolt. The matter will be fully investigated. Thank you for your time.” Seeing no other option, Kingsley handcuffed Remus and escorted him towards the door.

“This,” Remus muttered, “is several orders of magnitude beyond suspicious.”

“It’s a crock of shit!” Kingsley snarled. “He’s protecting someone, and I’m going to find out who and why. You just hang in there, Remus. I’m going to see you give sworn testimony before the Wizengamot by the end of the week, come hell or high water!”

Kingsley stalked out of the Ministry in nothing less than a rage. Not trusting himself to apparate, he hailed a taxi.

“Auror Shacklebolt?” said a voice from inside it. “I think we need to talk.”

“What the-? Who are you?”

“Call me Grey. I’m one of a small group of… concerned citizens, shall we say? I have some information that casts some very serious doubt on Sirius Black’s guilt.” The man scowled under his balaclava. “Amongst other things.”

Kingsley gave the man a very suspicious look. “Alright, Mr Grey, I’m listening.”

“Better hop in. There are anti-scrying wards on the taxi, and right now I trust Crouch as far as I can throw him.”

“You can take that mask off first,” Kingsley suggested.

He rolled his eyes behind the balaclava. “You immune to verisateum, or just not listening? Someone wants the facts buried, and I’m putting my arse on the line as it is. Now are you going to get in or do I have to drag you?”

Kingsley gave up, and got in. The cab moved off. “I think I’ve heard of you lot,” he said grimly. “You’re the ones who go around kneecapping Death Eaters, aren’t you?”

“Voldemort set the rules,” ‘Grey’ replied. “We’re just playing to them. This war needs its Malcolm Xs as well as its Martin Luther Kings, if you’ll pardon the metaphor.”

“I probably shouldn’t. Get to the point,” Kingsley snapped.

“Remember those rumours about Crouch’s kid taking the Mark? They’re true. Here.” Kingsley was handed a muggle photograph, evidently taken with a telephoto lens. “We got this from the meeting just after the Godric’s Hollow hit. We were lucky to get this; our inside man had about an hour’s notice of the meet. Notice Barty Crouch the Younger standing between Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy.”

“Fucking hell,” Kingsley concluded. “Can I keep this?”

“Go ahead; we’ve got the negatives under lock and key. Your guess is as good as mine about what Crouch Sr’s motives are; for all I know he’s just being pig-headed, to tell the truth. But I know one thing. He’ll go to a great deal of trouble to keep this little revelation buried.”

“You want me to blackmail him?” Kingsley wondered.

“I’d honestly prefer you find conclusive evidence that he’s taking orders from Voldemort and take it to someone to whom people will listen -Alastor Moody would be my recommendation- but if you have to, be my guest. Know how to use a telephone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Here’s my number. If you find anything useful, use it. Get a line put in at home if you haven’t already, and an answering machine; we’ll be beating the bushes as well. Oh, and don’t bank on finding Lupin where you left him.”

“I wasn’t. Thanks for your help, Grey.”

After they’d dropped him off, Edward Grey (his real name, which Kingsley would have found surprising) dragged off his mask and ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell,” he grumbled. “Give me a good honest fight to the death any day. This is going to get political, and that always ends badly.”

“We could’ve sorted it out the easy way, you know,” his driver replied.

“What easy way? There’s going to be a shitstorm no matter what we do. I’ll be pretty pleased if all that happens is Crouch goes down; we’re one cock-up from bringing down the whole government.”

“Someone deserves the sack for this fiasco anyway,” the other man countered.

“Maybe so, but not in the middle of mopping up the Death Eaters. I mean, Malfoy’s been angling for the top spot for months, and if that happens we’ll be worse off than we were with fucking Voldemort!”

As soon as he got home, Kingsley borrowed his next-door neighbour’s typewriter and knocked out a letter to British Telecom, then locked the photograph in the safe where he kept his wand at night. “Hang in there, Black,” he muttered. “I’m getting to the bottom of this, one way or another.”

Somehow, he knew even before he walked into the holding area the next day that Remus would be gone. “Transferred last night,” the custody officer explained. “Same deal as with Black. Not surprised really; I mean, he was a werewolf.”

Kingsley swore foully and stalked off towards the lift.

Rufus Scringemour was considered one of the best Aurors in the DMLE for the very good reason that he was. Mentored by Alastor Moody, his skills had tended more towards the investigative side of police work than making arrests and all the other macho stuff, and he’d made his reputation as a scene-of-crime officer before a transfer to the Criminal Investigation Division and eventually the Counter-Terrorist squad. His promotion to Head of Department had come at the relatively tender age of forty-three, but few disputed that he’d earned it.

And even before Kingsley had come to him with a photograph and transcript of Remus Lupin’s statement, Rufus Scringemour’s finely-honed copper’s radar had been going bleep-bleep about this case for quite some time.

“Well, this is hard to argue with,” Scringemour concluded. “The photo’s no use in the Wizengamot, not if those vigilantes have been within a mile of it; Malfoy and his cronies would scream tainted evidence, and they’d probably be right. And unless we can get hold of Pettigrew we’ll never even get Black properly cross-examined…” He thought hard for a few moments, then shrugged; Crouch could hardly sack him for wanting to be certain, could he? “I want you to shadow Crouch Jr. See who he associates with, and where. Get some more pictures, something we can use in court. If we can get him or Pettigrew into custody, verisateum will do the rest.”

“What about Crouch Sr, sir?” Kingsley asked.

“Leave him to me. And give me Grey’s number; if he’s got a man on the inside, I want to know about it.”

Changing into ordinary muggle clothing in his office, he sought out a telephone box and hastily dialled the number, making a mental note to have it traced later.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice said a few rings later.

“Mr Grey? This is Rufus Scringemour.” Let’s see. Midlands accent with a hint of something North American, fairly educated, somewhere just short of thirty I think… Not much to go on, is it?

“Ah, good to hear from you; I figured it’d be either you or Moody. You’ve seen the photo, I presume?”

“Yes. I should very much like to know how you came to be in a position to take it.”

“Meaning you want to talk to my inside man direct. I can’t help you with that myself, but I’ll tell you who can.”

“He’s not one of yours? I’m surprised.”

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised about whose they are. It’s common knowledge that Dumbledore’s been working behind the scenes to take Voldemort down pretty much since he started getting active, of course. Well, get this; one of Voldemort’s inner circle -to whose identity I am not privy and wouldn’t tell you if I was- reports directly to Albus, and any information he provides reaches my organisation to use as we see fit.”

“Including names?”

Grey chuckled nastily. “There is a list. Depending on how enthusiastic your political masters are at dealing with the names on it, said list may well get a lot shorter. That’s as far as I’m going on that issue.”

“Between you and me, I don’t find the thought terribly distressing. Keep in touch, Grey.”

“If anything develops, you’ll know as soon as I do.” The line went dead.

He wasn’t really surprised to find that the number was ex-directory, but someone whose rank is equivalent to Chief Constable need not rely on the Yellow Pages. A computer check by BT located the telephone number at an address in Acocks Green, Birmingham. After much consideration, Scringemour decided that he would take no further action. Even if our Mr Grey is foolhardy enough to let me catch sight of him there, which I doubt, he mused, I’d only hinder his operation. And frankly, I wish him the very best of luck in it!

“Auror Scringemour, greetings. To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” Albus enquired politely. “Some refreshment?”

“Thank you no. Now I shan’t waste your time with small talk, Headmaster. I have been in contact with a man named Grey about a man named Black, if you catch my drift.”

“I see,” Albus said thoughtfully. “What are your conclusions?”

“That Sirius Black was set up, Crouch is covering for someone and we’ve all been played for a bunch of bloody fools. Oh, and Crouch’s son is a Death Eater.”

“Bold conclusions, for which I assume you have evidence.”

“I do indeed, courtesy of the concerned citizens on your inside man’s mailing list. I don’t need or want a name, though I can take a pretty educated guess, but I do need to hear anything that Grey’s getting.”

“My source might be somewhat reluctant,” Albus warned.

“I rather thought he might. Tell him that firstly, I’m keeping this totally off the books until I’ve got something watertight and secondly, that he’ll be able to needle Black about this til they go to their graves.” He might bear more than a passing resemblance to Godric Gryffindor, but one could certainly tell that Rufus Scringemour had been a Slytherin.

Oblivious to these machinations, one year-old Harry Potter gurgled happily in his crib, watching the little mobile spinning above him. “Sleep well, kid,” Alex whispered. “You might as well, even if nobody else can.”

Sirius Black was deeply, comprehensively pissed off. He was also in a cramped cell in Azkaban. “I’m going to get out of here, Wormtail!” He yelled. “And I’m going to find you, and I’m going to do you harm! Do you hear me, you snivelling little rat bastard? I’ll do you harm!”

The bolts on his cell door drew back. Sirius stood up, gripping the tin mug he’d been issued. It might do for a weapon if he swung it hard and fast enough…

Remus was pushed through the door, landing heavily on the pallet of straw. “Enjoy your stay, you two!” someone laughed nastily.

“Call it a hunch, Padfoot,” Remus remarked sourly, “but I think someone at the Ministry doesn’t want to get to the bottom of this mess.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I told Kingsley what I saw. When we tried to talk some sense into him, Crouch had me thrown in here as an accessory.”

“Dear God,” Sirius exclaimed.

“My thoughts exactly. Now since we’re here, why don’t you tell me just what the bloody buggering hell happened?”

“Short version? We underestimated Peter.”

Kingsley was also pretty fed up, though to a lesser degree and for a slightly different reason. He was currently hiding in a bush in the grounds of Malfoy Manor, cold and wet, and clutching a muggle camera he was less than totally certain he knew how to use. This was just one of the many aspects of the job that the man from the Ministry neglected to mention during the careers lecture back in Hogwarts.

“Well, hello there…” he murmured. The lady of the house had just stepped outside in a dressing gown that left very little to the imagination. This isn’t all bad, then… Son of a bitch!

She was sporting a black eye. Kingsley took a quick snapshot. You’ll get yours, Lucky-boy. You just see if you don’t! Before all other considerations, Kingsley Shacklebolt was a cop, and domestic violence is a subject upon which most policemen hold Views. He lowered the camera and switched to his binoculars for a wider view.

“Well, look who we have here!” Bartemius Crouch Jr appeared from the stables with a spirited-looking palomino, dressed in riding clothes. Lucius was just behind, leading an enormous black stallion. Narcissa rather pointedly ignored them both. “Someone has a very poor taste in friends. But are you up to anything you shouldn’t be, I wonder?” This was beginning to look like a complete waste of three days. So far, all he knew for sure was that Crouch the Second was friendly with Lucius Malfoy, who might or might not have taken a swing for his wife some time the previous evening and had certainly been a fairly senior Death Eater. Good copy for the Prophet, he was sure, but about as watertight and useful as a fishnet condom as far as a court case was concerned. Perhaps there’s even an innocent explanation for the eye, Kingsley reflected, watching the stallion toss his head...

“Bloody hell!” Kingsley snatched up the camera and rattled off a dozen frames as Peter Pettigrew ambled out of the back door, lighting a cigarette. Narcissa greeted him with a good morning kiss that was just the right side of chaste. Lucius scowled, but made no move to object. Whatever else he might be, Kingsley mused, the man was no hypocrite; he could put it about with the best of them, and evidently Narcissa was retaliating in kind. She’d probably bedded Pettigrew out of sheer spite; he certainly didn’t have very much going for him as far as sex appeal went.

Kingsley finished the roll of film and eased himself out of his hiding place, then headed for the nearby main road and his car. The Ford Granada was brand-new, purchased to avoid leaving disapparation traces, and he’d been wondering why he hadn’t bought a car years ago ever since. He revved the engine and sped off towards London, mind still boggling at what he’d seen. Pettigrew definitely faked his death; that much I already half-suspected, and now I can prove it in court. But how the bloody hell could he have set Voldemort on the Potters? Sirius was the Secret-Keeper, everyone knows that…

“Fuck me sideways!” he exclaimed, nearly going off the road as the simplicity of James and Lily’s ruse hit him. I can’t believe nobody saw it! Black was such a bloody obvious candidate that they used him as a decoy, and who’d think of Pettigrew for the job? That’d be strictly need-to-know, so they never even told Dumbledore or Lupin. And the Death Eaters must have Crouch over a barrel to stop anyone asking awkward questions...

Not bad, Pettigrew. Not bad at all. But you're not as smart or lucky as you think you are!

Kingsley changed up a gear and put his foot down.

“I tell you what, Lucius,” Crouch Jr remarked, testing his weight on a stirrup. “If it’s retaliation you’re interested in, try bedding Dolores.”

“Ugh!” Lucius shuddered. “There are times, dear boy, when the price of vengeance is a sight too high.”

“Tell Narcy that,” he replied, swinging himself into the saddle. “On the other hand, for all I know he compensates for his other deficiencies by being unbelievably well hung.”

“I wouldn’t know, and I don’t care to find out.”

* * *

“Bloody well done, Shacklebolt!” Scringemour declared. “You still have the negatives?”

“They’re in a safe-deposit box in the vault at Lloyds, sir, and Grey has the other key. There’s a set of prints in my Gringotts vault as well.”

“Good. And if Crouch won’t give me a warrant after this, we’ll go to the damn press!”

“This is pretty well incontrovertible, sir. I’ve no reason to believe your son is involved in any wrongdoing, mind you,” Scringemour lied. “I’m sure Pettigrew claims to be hiding out from Voldemort’s remaining supporters. It might even turn out to be true, though heaven knows why he’d pick Malfoy’s house for that. But doesn’t it strike you as odd that he hasn’t even taken an interest in the welfare of the Potter boy?”

“It may turn out that he’s in contact with Dumbledore and they’ve chosen to keep it quiet,” Crouch replied thoughtfully. “Still, if you can find him, bring him in here and try and get his side of the story. I’ll grant you a search warrant, but only use force if you have no other option. And do try and keep my boy out of the Prophet, Rufus; I have enough problems right now.”

“I’ll have a couple of Aurors go over there first thing in the morning,” Scringemour lied once again. He had half a dozen officers already in position, and was going there directly with the search warrant. Kingsley, meanwhile, was waiting at the Floo exchange to monitor Crouch’s outgoing calls. He left the building quickly, and made his way to a phonebox.

“Grey? We’ve found them. Get to Malfoy Manor in ten minutes if you can.”

“We’ll be there.” Grey hung up.

“You’re going to get us both sacked for this,” complained the Floo operator.

“This is a DMLE Internal Affairs investigation,” Kingsley replied. “If anyone’s going to get shown the door... Now!”

“Scringemour’s tumbled to you. You’ve got twelve hours to get Pettigrew out of there.”

“You bloody fool!” raged Crouch Jr. “Put a stop to it. Now!”

“It’s too late. He has photographs. There was nothing I could do.”

“Kill Scringemour, and that nigger who was on Black’s case too. They both know too much. And have Black and Lupin Kissed while you’re at it!”

“You can’t be seriously proposing-”

“Get squeamish on me now, and there’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide. My friends have deep pockets and long memories. Now get on with it!”

The connection cut. “Still worried about getting the sack?” Kingsley said with a mirthless laugh, then drew his wand and began to run.

“Stupid old faggot,” Crouch Jr growled. “Pettigrew, get packed. You’re switching safe houses tonight!”

“Bollocks. I was getting to like this place,” he said mildly. “Can I bring a guest?”

“Narcissa is not coming with us. The only reason she’d touch you with a bargepole is to piss off Lucius anyway. Besides, we can always pick up something in Phuket.”

“I’ll go and pack!”

Before he could even reach the stairs, the front door blew in. “DMLE! Halt!” Scringemour bellowed, leading the charge.

“Will I buggery!” Peter sprinted up the stairs, dodging a Stunner. “Lucius! Narcissa! We’re being raided! Get out, now!” He seized a bookshelf and hauled it over, turning it into a crude barricade, and fired a blasting hex down the stairs, gouging a crater in the floor and sending the Aurors diving for cover.

“Try and keep the property damage to a minimum, will you?” Lucius bellowed. “That rug cost me seven hundred Galleons!”

“You’d rather swap spit with a Dementor? Avada Kedavara! Hah, got the bastard!” An Auror went down, dead before he hit the floor. “Not so tough now, are you?” he laughed. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

The existing apparation wards around Malfoy Manor permitted point-to-point travel inside the boundaries, and covered the whole of the grounds. The sheer size of the place meant that erecting anti-apparation barriers of their own around the mansion alone would have taken more time and manpower than Scringemour had available, and the whole operation might well have ended in disaster if not for the highly irregular arrangements he’d made with Grey.

Pettigrew saw them first, three dark-clothed figures carrying guns. “Look out!” he yelled, diving forwards and assuming his animagus form in mid-air. Lucius reacted half a second slower, and was still bringing his wand to bear when all three weapons fired at once. Two Armalites and an Uzi spat roaring death, pitching him to the ground with a dozen bullets through his head and upper body. Pettigrew vanished into the hedgerow, a veritable tornado of lead nipping at his haunches.

“Shit!” Grey raged. “We should have brought a couple of bloody hawks! Come on, after him!” But it was too late. Wormtail disapparated with a snap.

“Where’s Pettigrew?” Scringemour demanded, apparating in himself.

“Lost him; the little bastard’s a rat-animagus. You might get a disapparation trace.”

“Damn it all to hell, that’s Crouch Jr and Pettigrew! The other one had a Portkey to Christ knows where. They’ll be on the Costa by the weekend!”

“Fuck them both,” one of Grey’s colleagues replied. “We’ve got enough to free Black and Lupin now, and if those two have a brain cell between them they’ll stay lost for a good long while.”

Crouch Sr was filling out official death warrants for the two men when Kingsley burst into his office. “I heard the firecall,” he said simply. “We thought they must have something on you. Malfoy Manor’s being raided as we speak. It’s over, Mr Crouch. They can’t threaten you any longer.”

“Voldemort’s acolytes do not forgive or forget,” he said wearily. “I’m a dead man walking, Kingsley. My own son swore to kill me if I didn’t bury the truth. My own son.”

“We can arrange DMLE bodyguards,” Kingsley replied.

“Thank you for the thought, but it’s far too late for that now. I’ll keep a bodyguard as long as I keep my job, and I’ll be lucky to last the week when this gets out. No, Kingsley, I’ve had it.” He took out his wand and placed it under his chin. “Tell Black and Lupin I’m terribly sorry about all this, will you?” he requested wearily. And then, with as much dignity as he had left, Bartemius Crouch Sr performed the Killing Curse upon himself.

* * *

The emergency powers Crouch had used to falsely imprison Black and Lupin were employed to keep the full story out of the papers. The investigation was placed under the Official Secrets Act, and was not to be released for fifty years. There was the inevitable leak, but the Prophet received a strongly-worded memorandum to the effect that going against the official Ministry line would mean prison time, adding that certain people of influence had been looking for an excuse to lock up certain correspondents -who remained nameless, of course- for several years. And so as far as the world was concerned, Crouch had taken his own life after discovering that his son was a Death Eater, wracked with guilt at his own perceived failings as a father. The general feeling among the public was that those aforementioned failings were very real indeed, but for the most part, Bartemius Crouch was buried with his good name intact.

Lucius Malfoy’s death was reported as being the result of a blasting hex fired by a pursuing Auror, all mention of Grey’s organisation being carefully omitted even from the internal reports. The photograph of Crouch Jr was described, more or less truthfully, as an anonymous tip-off.

Regarding the two fugitives, nothing more was heard save for two or three sightings in various nations in south-east Asia. Warrants for their arrest issued by Interpol’s Department M are still active, with a substantial reward offered by the British Ministry of Magic, but Crouch Jr and Pettigrew seem to have dropped off the radar for the time being.

Aside from them, the sole remaining loose end is the whereabouts of the Crouch family’s house-elf, who could not be located when the house was searched by the DMLE. Crouch Sr’s death made it unnecessary to interview her, so the question has been allowed to drop.

As for the Boy Who Lived…

“Lucius Malfoy’s brother,” Sirius groaned. “You entrusted my godson to Lucius Malfoy’s brother.”

Albus chuckled. “Fear not, Sirius; Alexis is to the Malfoys what you are the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.” The words ‘Most Noble’ were delivered with a degree of sarcasm that even Severus might have admired.

Sirius perked up. “I like him already.”

Remus nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, yeah, I know who you mean. Ravenclaw, wasn’t he? I remember hearing Alex and his father had something of an argy-bargy when he decided to marry a muggleborn. You remember Kitty O’Donnell, don’t you? Year above us in Gryffindor, temper like I don’t know what?”

“And a Scouse accent thick as Mersey fog,” Sirius agreed. “I bet that went down well.”

“I believe it led to a deep schism between Alex and not merely his father and brother, but purebloods in general,” Albus replied. “You may find his appearance somewhat startling.”

A virtual carbon copy of Lucius putting up a trellis with a Black and Decker and listening to The Archers, Sirius thought to himself. ‘Startling’ isn’t the bloody half of it! “Alexis Malfoy?”

“Nope. Alexander Malone. Close, though.” He put down the drill. “I take it you’re here to collect your godson.”

“Yes. I hope he hasn’t been any trouble.”

“No more than the two we’ve already got. Come on in, it’s just about lunchtime.”

A few minutes later, Sirius was trying to fit all three children on his lap. “I think they like you,” Katherine remarked.

“They certainly seem to like each other. I’m going to have to look for a house nearby,” he replied. “I’d hate to break up a winning team like this!”

Aletha Freeman was waiting with studied casualness when they arrived outside her house. “You, Sirius, are a complete and total bloody idiot,” she remarked. “Did you really think I was the spy?”

“We were afraid that if you were captured, then they’d drag it out of you somehow. It… it wasn’t my decision, Letha. James and Lily insisted. They wouldn’t even tell Albus.”

Sirius put down the carry-cot, and sagged visibly. “I could have saved them, Letha. I let that traitorous bastard talk me into swapping roles. I was supposed to act as a decoy. Hah! I most certainly fulfilled that role, didn’t I?”

He sank slowly to his knees, body shaking with harsh, wracking sobs. Aletha pulled him gently to his feet and embraced him, then stooped to pick up Harry’s cot and gently guided Sirius inside.

A little of the pain subsided after a few hours, and he was able to take a shower and put some clean clothes on. “Remus went home,” he told her. “Said he wanted some time to grieve alone.”

“We’ll call him in the morning. Come on, you need some sleep.”

Remus carefully locked and bolted the cupboard door and stretched out on the old mattress, waiting for the moon to lift over the horizon. He looked up at the pencil sketch he’d mounted on the ceiling, too high up for the wolf to reach. It had been an artist’s impression of the Marauders in their animagus forms, with Padfoot and himself flanking Prongs and Wormtail sitting on the stag’s shoulder. Lily had drawn it a few weeks after being told about how her boyfriend and his partners in crime had acquired their nicknames.

Moony closed his eyes against the tableau and all it represented, and waited for the madness to take him again. Tonight, it would be a relief.

Meanwhile, Petunia Dursley was trying to get her son into his cot. Dudley had other ideas, and was doing his level best to wriggle out of her arms. “Now stop it!” she snapped, slapping him firmly on the wrist.

About a third of a second passed before he began to grizzle, and then the light bulb exploded. Petunia blinked, then groaned. She knew what this meant alright.

“Oh, oh… Oh, shit!” she wailed. “Vernon is going to go spare!”