Chapter VI: Keep The Home Fires Burning

Dear Pansy,

My contacts in the Ministry have turned up a number of downright alarming rumours about this man Grey. He has been linked to the brutal massacre of several Death Eater forays, and there are those who claim he killed Lucius Malfoy himself. One source believes he is an Unspeakable, apparently tasked with doing Scringemour’s dirty work. They are a family I should not care for you to alienate; tread extremely carefully there.

As for the rest, much as it galls me to say this, you are probably choosing the correct path; there is no point fighting the current of popular opinion. But keep your options open. There are those who say the Dark Lord is not as dead as the Prophet would like us to believe.

And I say that your nose gives your face character.

Mother.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Well, isn’t it funny how the only person who agrees with you is all but a complete one-off,” she growled.

“News from home?” Natalie asked.

“Of a sort. Mother deems my choice of friendships politically expedient, which is high praise from her. No word from Father yet, but… No, wait, here it comes.” A red envelope landed by her cereal bowl. “Cover your ears, everyone. This is going to be unpleasant.”

The Howler was nearly ten minutes long. ‘Blood-traitor’ was the most flattering thing her father called her, and there were some words in there that even the seventh years didn’t recognise.

“Well, that went about as well as could be expected,” Pansy said philosophically.

“Consider that an invitation to spend the Christmas holidays at my house,” Natalie replied quietly.

“Headmaster, as much as I would like to deal with this myself…” Severus began.

“I understand. See to your classes, Severus, and have a talk with the girl as soon as you have the time. I shall be having a sharp word with her father myself.”

He strode to his office, straining to contain his fury lest he suffer an attack of accidental magic and sorely embarrass himself; the house-elves had barely finished clearing up after they told him what Crouch Jr and Pettigrew had done. He closed the door and spoke the incantation to deactivate the local apparation wards until he left, then made haste for Frederick Parkinson’s townhouse in Manchester.

The door was opened by a butler, a tall young man with almost disturbingly neat hair and clothes. “Headmaster Dumbledore, welcome. Mrs Parkinson told me to expect you. Come this way, please.”

Mrs Winifred Parkinson was waiting in the breakfast room. “Ah, Professor. I rather anticipated that you’d be here. I’m afraid Frederick had to leave early for London; some crisis or other in the office. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“Thank you, but no; I have just eaten breakfast.”

“Very well. Excuse us, please, Hargrove. We have matters to discuss regarding my daughter.”

“Very good, ma’am.” He glided away.

“Let me guess,” Winifred said wearily. “He took exception to Pan becoming friends with Gryffindors and sent her a Howler, using language fit to shock a stevedore.”

“Precisely,” Albus replied. “I was frankly disgusted at some of the things he said, and not just with regards to who she chooses to associate with. If he uses words like that to her face…”

“It’s all I can do to get him to stop at words,” Winifred replied grimly. “I’ve tried everything short of divorcing the bastard, and after this I’ve a good mind to do that very thing. I’ve held out as long as I can, Albus, and now Pansy’s at Hogwarts I can get out of here without putting her at risk.”

“If you fear that she might be caught up in the acrimony…”

“I’m worried that Frederick will put a blade to her throat to stop me leaving!” she snapped. “He threatened to do that very thing once.”

Albus restrained himself with some difficulty from apparating straight to Frederick Parkinson’s place of work and beating him to death with the nearest available weapon. “I see. You may rest assured, Mrs Parkinson, that no harm shall come to your daughter at Hogwarts whilst I still draw breath.”

“Thank you, Albus. Would you give her this?” She handed him an envelope. “I know for a fact that the house-elves are under strict orders to screen our correspondence by owl post. Hargrove’s the only member of the staff I trust as far as I could throw them.”

“I’ll see it reaches her,” Albus promised. “Godspeed, Mrs Parkinson.”

“He’d better. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Meanwhile, the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years were experiencing their first Potions lesson. “You are here,” Snape said portentously, “to learn the intricate and subtle science of potion-brewing. In most essential respects, this is a totally different discipline from the rest of the school curriculum. You will at no point require a wand in this class, and the only skills that carry over from your other lessons are concentration, the ability to follow instructions to the letter and a steady hand. Master these skills, and I will teach you a breed of magic at which even the Dark Lord himself never truly excelled.”

To the man’s credit, he instantly launched them into a practical lesson, giving them a simple painkiller to brew. Natalie grinned. “Dad makes this on the stove the night before all his Pack meets,” she whispered, jotting the instructions down into a spiral notepad with a biro.

“Miss Grey, if your essays appear in the same hand as that then I shall not be pleased,” Snape warned. “However, you would all do well to follow her example. Many potions have time-critical elements, and if your view of the blackboard is obscured at the wrong moment, the consequences could be unpleasant.”

Natalie took the list with her, and quickly consulted the sheet of parchment tacked to the cupboard door to find out which phials held the acetic acid. “Red stoppers,” she murmured. “Red stoppers, red… Ah, there we are.”

She poured in the glycerine first, up to the 100ml mark on the inside of her expensive titanium cauldron, and set it to boil whilst she crushed the willow bark and ginger root with mortar and pestle. Once it was simmering, she uncorked the phial and prepared to add 25ml of acetic acid.

Severus sniffed, then turned around. That is not acetic acid. In fact… “No, child!” Natalie jumped an inch in the air, dropping the phial. It shattered on the rim of the cauldron. “Get down!” Snape roared.

Natalie vanished with a soft pop.

“What the hell-?”

The mixture exploded, the immensely strong sides of the cauldron forcing the blast upwards and burning a perfect chrysanthemum on the ceiling, as well as hurling Snape across the room. He landed rather heavily, cracking his head on a desk on the way down, and took several moments to regain his senses.

“Is anybody hurt?” he called, looking around. He was pleased to see that nothing had been broken, and it seemed that the students were uninjured. “What happened to Grey?”

“It looked like she disapparated, sir,” Hermione said slowly. “But that shouldn’t be possible, should it?”

“She disapparated? Now that’s what I call accidental magic!” Pansy exclaimed.

“Amazing what the human mind and body are capable of in moments of dire peril, isn’t it?” Severus remarked, examining a scorched red stopper. “Merlin’s teeth, that idiot… Another important lesson for all of you. Learn to differentiate between acids by smell, especially when glycerine or other highly reactive substances are involved. If the apothecary puts the wrong stopper on a phial, as appears to have happened in this case, a spoiled potion can be the least of your worries. Oh, and if I call out a warning when you are about to add an ingredient, please try not to drop it in the cauldron!”

Albus poked his head around the door. “Severus, may I ask what one of your students is doing on the roof?” he asked with an entirely straight face.

“That, Headmaster, is rather a long story.”

As Severus brought Dumbledore up to speed, Nott exchanged looks with Crabbe and Goyle. “How the hell does a mudblood get that powerful?” he wondered aloud.

“That, young man, is one of the great mysteries of life,” Snape replied coldly. “Twenty points from Slytherin and a detention tonight for making racial slurs!”

“This is quite an interesting phenomenon,” Albus said thoughtfully. “Clearly the anti-apparation wards have granted Miss Grey an exemption in view of her special status.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Special status, Headmaster?”

“Forgive me, Severus, but I cannot say more. Suffice it to say that young Natalie’s parents have seen fit to put it under Fidelus.”

Snape considered this, and reached a very startling conclusion. “If Minerva ever retires, I think you might do well to offer that man a job,” he replied.

“I may well do so,” Albus agreed. “I need not ask you to keep this to yourself, Severus.”

“What could I prove?” he replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must make a formal complaint to the apothecary about this incident.”

Said formal complaint was audible throughout most of Hogsmeade.

At lunchtime, the dozen-odd friends took one end of the Gryffindor table to themselves. Contrary to popular belief, there was no actual rule about who sat where; it was merely that students tended to make most of their friends within their own Houses, at least initially. As a result, the little clique drew some suspicious looks from all four tables.

“You’ve been quiet, Pan,” Fran remarked. “Something up?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, at least not here,” she replied. “It’s a bit…”

“Family stuff?” guessed Dudley. “Hah, I’ve been there. Been there, done it, didn’t have enough to buy the t-shirt ‘cause Dad played silly buggers over maintenance.”

“You may take it as read that Vernon Dursley is a very long way off plumbing the same depths of arsehole-dom as my father,” Pansy replied darkly. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Gryffindor and Slytherin were paired all that day, so they saw a great deal of each other and were often paired up. They actually worked extremely well as a team, with the more talented at one particular group encouraging their fellows. Muggle Studies was a case in point. Professor Vector had decided to start with a few tips on negotiating Muggle London, particularly the Underground and bus routes. Pansy, Blaise and Draco had scored as highly on the quiz at the end of the double period as Natalie and Dudley, and Ron had actually beaten Harry by a couple of points with Neville close behind. Nott got the lowest score in the group, his heart evidently not in it.

Wednesday brought flying lessons, which had a mixed reaction from the group. “Dad’s taught me a bit,” Natalie admitted, “but he’s not big on broomsticks. How about you, Harry?”

“I’m okay at it, but I’ve only practiced on a Nimbus Tailwind. Padfoot hasn’t let me try out his Comet yet.”

“I’ve never been near one, except to sweep the patio,” Neville replied. “Gran won’t let me near one. Can’t blame her, really; I’m not brilliant with heights.” He wasn’t the most physically coordinated person in the world either.

Nott immediately commenced bragging about how he’d nearly collided with a helicopter on his first solo broom flight at the age of five. “You’re lucky your dad wasn’t arrested for that,” Rick countered. “Using a broom in controlled airspace is a two thousand Galleon fine.” He turned to the others. “And I bet his dad buys them off the shelf, too.”

“What does your father fly, then, Malone?” Nott demanded.

“Well, it started life as a ‘73 Silver Comet, the racing version of the old 540,” Rick replied conversationally. “He’s really into customising brooms, though, so it’s been souped up like you wouldn’t believe. It needs half the county to turn round at full tilt but by God, it doesn’t half go in a straight line! He’s got a couple of gold medals from the Swedish Broom Race somewhere.”

“Get away!” Harry laughed, expressing the group sentiment.

“Sadly not,” Madame Hooch interjected. “He lapped me twice when I competed a few years back.”

“And two points to me in the Coolest Dad contest,” Rick murmured smugly.

“Very droll. Right, stand by your brooms. When I give the word, reach out your hands and call ‘Up!’ Don’t let them see you’re afraid of them or they’ll play you up, the same as horses, small children and pastry. Right, when you’re ready!”

The results were generally good, though it took Neville two goes. “Good,” she said, impressed. “Now, swing a leg over and pull the shaft back just a little, and you’ll float up to about as high as I’m tall. When you get that high, ease back and you’ll hover.”

“Don’t you wish you were wearing trousers this morning,” Fran quipped.

“Huh! Just because I’ve got nicer legs than you,” Natalie retorted.

Still amiably squabbling, the two girls rose above the grounds to just over six feet, in formation with the rest of the class. Madame Hooch cruised along the line, giving them a few pointers, then realised that Neville was nowhere to be seen. She looked up, and sighed.

“Ease the shaft down a bit, Longbottom!” she called. “But gently! And try not to lean forward or… Oh, bugger.” The broom nosed over into a 60-degree dive. Neville hauled back in panic and shot skywards again, clinging desperately to the old broom with his knees and firmly convinced that his final hour had come. In desperation, he leaned sideways and prepared to dive for the lake, but merely succeeded in performing a barrel roll. A dopplered cry of “O-h-h-h-h-h-h-s-s-s-h-h-h-” compressed into a despairing final syllable as he swerved to avoid the castle wall and barely avoided the rest of the class. At last, he abandoned the broom and dived for the relative safety and comfort of a nearby bush, somehow avoiding any injury more serious than a few bruises.

“Well, lad,” Madame Hooch remarked dryly, “if you ever manage to do all that on purpose you’ve got a career with the Silver Dragons.”

Neville smiled weakly, and staggered to his feet. “Just don’t tell my gran, please,” he said shakily.

“You’ve got to hand it to him, Theo,” Goyle remarked. “He might have made a right cock-up of it, but he did it with style.”

“He’s just lucky he’s well-upholstered enough to bounce,” Nott replied sourly.

“Isn’t he just,” Draco added with a smirk. “You’d have broken a leg!”

Severus negotiated the crowds with an effort, and found himself a corner table. Sinking into a chair, he took a sip of his firewhiskey and soda and lightly closed his eyes, thinking of nothing in particular. It wasn’t a type of meditation endorsed by any formal school, but he’d always found it effective.

There was a polite cough. “May I speak to you for a moment, Severus?”

He opened one eye. Black. Oh, joy… “What do you wish to say?”

“Draco and Harry are becoming firm friends, so I thought it high time we settled our feud once and for all.”

Severus sat up somewhat straighter. “I see. Take a seat.”

Sirius sat. “I know it was James you despised most of all, but I doubt it would have been as bad with me egging him on. I think we all got so good at transfiguration because it was your worst subject, you know?”

“Likewise with potions, I suspect,” Severus replied. “I was always going to despise Potter, mind you. The man’s brain seemed to consist of ego and very little else, though I think his infatuation with Evans finally cured him of that.”

“Probably. It was never James who went in for the really vicious pranks, though.” Sirius snorted with bitter laughter. “If I told you all the ideas he talked me out of… Of course, they had nothing on what he didn’t find out about until it was damn near too late.”

“Ah, yes,” Severus smiled thinly. “The night I found out what you two really did in the Shrieking Shack.”

“Us two?” Sirius looked at him. “Is this to do with that rumour that Remus and I were sleeping together?.”

“Did you think I had the camera so I could catch you drinking firewhiskey and playing poker?” Severus laughed. “No, no, no. Can you imagine how your mother would react to a photograph of the two of you committing an act of sodomy?”

Sirius considered it. “I wish I’d thought of it at the time. It might have killed off the mad old trout a bit sooner!” He began to laugh. “My word, it’s just as well we spent all our time needling each other. If we’d all been on the same side I doubt Hogwarts would still be standing.”

Severus laughed. “Either that or we’d be making Riddle look like a bit-player. It took us both a long time to grow out of being complete and utter bastards, in our own special ways.”

“I’m not rising to that one!” Sirius said wearily. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I never realised how close I came to becoming my father until it was too late.”

“And I am sorry I was young and stupid enough to let myself be provoked.” Snape paused. “Regulus once told me that your persecution of me was the only thing you ever did that pleased your mother.”

“Something that neither of them ever saw fit to tell me, of course, though Merlin knows it’s obvious now. I ought to drive a roofing nail through my foot twice a year for the rest of my life in penance for being so bloody daft as not to realise that Mum liked her sons to be vicious bullies.” Sirius raised his glass. “Oh, the devil with all this. Here’s to the day we can look back on those years and laugh about it.”

“And may it not be too far in coming,” Severus agreed.

The two glasses clinked together.

Pansy read the letter from her mother for the second time, and sighed. “What a bloody mess,” she grumbled.

Dear Pansy, it read,

By now you will have received your father’s response to your letter. I can imagine the content, of course.

Frederick will not find me at home when he returns from London. I am withdrawing money equivalent to half the value of the house and one third of our savings from the joint account, and by the time you read this I will be in a Muggle hotel several hundred miles away, and petitioning for a divorce. I’ve asked for the cottage in France, your horse and one hundred Galleons a month until you complete your education; nothing excessive, just enough to keep us in reasonably comfortable circumstances until I’ve found a job.

I know I’ve often seemed distant to you, but it was expected -nay enforced- by both my upbringing and your father. But I love you, and have always loved you, and once this is all over I shall do everything I can to prove it. My only regret is not doing this sooner, before it got really bad, but even now I fear for our safety. You will be insulated from the worst of it at Hogwarts, I hope. Do not take your father’s threats to heart, for they are but empty words.

This will not be easy for either of us, but we’ll survive somehow.

Stay strong, my flower,

Mother.

“Bad news?” Natalie asked sympathetically.

“Damned if I know. Mother’s just walked out of the house. Father’s going to lose his rag in a big way, and I’m afraid for her.”

“The best person to talk to is Dudley,” Natalie replied. “He’s been through this before. But remember, we’re here for you.” She gave the other girl a big hug.

All was quiet for a few days, which allowed Albus and Severus to have a quiet word with Pansy. “These things are never easy,” Albus admitted. “In their grief, some parents are liable to use any weapon they can against the former partner, and that can include their children. You will be partly insulated from that here, I hope.”

“Thank you, sir. I have received an invitation from one of my housemates to stay with her over the Christmas holidays. Will I be reasonably safe there?”

“If it’s from Miss Grey, you’ll be as safe there as you are here,” Severus replied. “There are more security wards on that house than some vaults in Gringotts, and neither of her parents will suffer the likes of your father gladly.”

Once she had departed, the two men exchanged glances. Entirely without comment, Severus went to the drinks cabinet and poured two stiff brandies, which both men downed in one. “No matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier,” Severus growled.

“Quite so, Severus, quite so. But perhaps it is better not to harden one’s heart against some things.”

Term wore on, disturbed only by a lively incident in which a mountain troll somehow found its way into the dungeons and had to be forcibly ejected by Hagrid with the assistance of Fluffy the Cerebus. Fluffy then had to be corralled back into his regular domain -an anonymous corridor on the third floor, for some unfathomable reason- by most of the rest of the staff.

“Next time this happens, God forbid,” Snape said icily as his wounds were dressed, “just give Edward a firecall and borrow a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. It’d be safer.”

“Can’t do that,” Hagrid replied. “They’re an endangered species, mountain trolls.”

“Not half so bloody well endangered as I was when that hellhound took a dislike to me!” he growled. “I trust nobody got into the trapdoor?”

“No, but someone tried,” McGonagall said grimly. “There were footprints in the dust.” Snape just looked at her. “Severus, do you think I’m stupid? No disrespect, Rubeus, but they were made by someone with considerably smaller feet. Size nine, I think.”

“Well that narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Severus growled. “I don’t suppose you got anything else useful?”

“I sketched the tread pattern. They match a common brand worn by yourself, Quirrel and Argus.”

Severus groaned. “And probably half the students from fourth year upwards. That’s not much to go on, Minerva.”

“It’s bugger-all,” Hagrid replied. “Best to wait until they ‘ave another go, I reckon. An’ if they don’t, so much the better!”

“That bad, is it?” Grey said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and pulling a heavy ring binder off a shelf behind him with one hand, somehow keeping the phone on his ear. The file landed with a thump on his desk, narrowly missing the keyboard of his brand new Apple computer. “Let’s see. Parkinson, Parkinson… Got him. Pretty bare, I must say; reported as an initiate at the last meeting before the Godric’s Hollow incident, so he must have been one of the very last to join. Reported motives include disillusion with Fudge’s leadership and a strong desire to be on the winning side. I can see where he’s coming from on the first one, I must say… Oh? No, I’m out of that game. Peacetime rules of engagement and all that, and that doesn’t change without Fudge’s explicit order. Besides, I doubt it would do much for young Pansy’s mental wellbeing at this stage even if he turned up flinging Unforgivables with gay abandon...” There was a long silence. “Yes, the thought crossed my mind too. Did she leave you any kind of forwarding address? Damn. There’s not much future in doing a computer check; too many hotels and not enough of us, and I’d be hard-pressed to justify going through official channels anyway for something like this. Nah, that’s the first thing her husband would have tried. Has she got any living relatives, parents perhaps? Okay, I’ll pop round there myself. Ask Pansy about it, will you? She might know something… Of course! Right, will do. Bye.” He hung up, drained his coffee mug and pulled what looked like a large table lighter along the desk. It flared green when he pressed the button. “Ministry of Magic, Inland Revenue Office,” he requested, then waited a few moments. “Good morning, this is Mr Grey from the Special Taskforce, DMLE. Can you trace a couple of addresses for me, please?”

It is a truism that even in a society in the most advanced stages of social disorder, economic collapse or all-out war, the very last people to lose anybody’s address will be the tax-gatherers.

Almost impossibly soon, the Christmas holidays were beginning. It was a mostly buoyant little group that filled a compartment on the way home. Ron hadn’t fancied a trip to Romania, and was staying with Harry. Pansy was obviously nervous, but doing her best not to let it show. Mistopheles had picked up on her nerves, and had curled up in her lap.

“I’m dead jealous,” Dudley remarked. “I bet you get a ride in her dad’s Porsche!”

Said Porsche 911 was jokingly referred to as his ‘company car’, and had previously belonged to the Traffic division of the Greater Manchester Police Force. 911s and similar vehicles had been purchased in numbers by several police forces in the early 90s in response to the proliferation of high-performance cars (the so-called ‘hot hatches’) and the ram-raiding fad they fuelled. Most had been sold off after regular pursuit vehicles received engine upgrades, but the Flying Squad hung onto a few for fast response by armed plainclothes officers. Grey’s organisation had managed to lay hold of five of them for the same purpose, and in exchange for paying for 50% of all fuel and maintainence expenses he was allowed to use one of them on his own time.

Natalie gave Pansy’s hand a squeeze. “You’ll be alright,” she promised. “Dad wrote to me to say he’s going to track your mum down and make sure she’s safe. He can’t get to either of you.”

They disembarked and went in search of their parents. To Natalie’s disappointment, her mother was there on her own. “Your dad’s working,” she explained. “Hello, Pansy. I’m Michelle.”

“Hello,” Pansy said nervously.

“Right, seeing as it’s just coming up on lunchtime and they don’t turn the twins loose until half-past three, how about a coffee and some girly chat in this café I know?”

Michelle went to some lengths to put Pansy at her ease. She was wise in the ways of boys and other feminine worries, and had a wicked sense of humour. For the first time in weeks, Pansy felt totally relaxed.

At three-thirty, they picked up eight year-old twins Lauren and Valerie (better known as ‘Lallie’ since infancy) from their primary school. Natalie was instantly mobbed.

“I always wanted a little sister,” Pansy said wistfully.

“I’ll be happy to lend you one!” Natalie replied. “Oof, steady on you two!”

Somehow, all five of them crammed into Michelle’s old Ford Escort and headed for the little red-brick semi in Dulwich that the Greys called home. “I’ve set up the sofa-bed in the study,” Michelle explained to Pansy. “The room’s a bit crowded, but the bed’s okay. Edward’s mates fight over it when they crash here after a night out. You’ll meet some of them on New Year’s Eve; they’re a really nice bunch of lads. Bit raucous sometimes, but their hearts are in the right place.”

“And if your dad does turn up,” Natalie added, “you may rest assured that they can always use another chew-toy.”

The dark green Porsche rolled to a halt outside the big old Georgian manor house, and Grey took a moment to admire the architecture. “Finally, an old family with a little taste,” he remarked. Most of the wealthy purebloods he dealt with on a regular basis lived in places that had been built in a substance-abuse patient’s idea of the English Gothic style, often with undertones of Brutalism and usually a serpent motif of some sort, which is at least as awful as it sounds if not worse. This place, on the other hand, was as elegant as Queen Victoria’s doll’s house.

There was a soft pop beside him, and a young house-elf in a clean, well-pressed towel landed in a crouch. “Good day, sir. May I be of assistance?”

“Greetings, one-who-has-his-mission,” Grey said in accented but passable Elvish, astonishing the elf in question, then switched to English. “I’m looking for Mrs Winifred Parkinson. Is she here?”

“Y-yes, sir. I think she’s out riding at the moment, but she’ll be back in for tea in a few minutes. Would you mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “Did I get the pronunciation right, by the way? I’ve been trying to get the basics down for years.”

“Your accent could use a little work, sir, but frankly you’re the first human I’ve ever met who bothered to make the effort,” the elf replied. “Who shall I tell Mistress Winifred is waiting for her?”

“Edward Grey, the father of one of her daughter’s school-friends,” he replied.

“Very good, sir. Follow me, please.”

The sitting room was so elegant that Grey was genuinely intimidated. He vaguely regretted not changing into something more formal than the battered leather jacket and well-worn jeans that were his usual working attire, or at least dispensing with his designer stubble.

“Ah, Mr Grey. I rather thought you’d find us eventually,” an elderly woman’s voice remarked. “My daughter’s not back yet; Frederick didn’t really approve of riding. Muggles do it, you see.”

“There are several other things that both societies do with equal enthusiasm, and that doesn’t seem to have stopped him,” Grey replied with a lopsided grin. “Mrs Rosier, I presume?”

“Oh, please call me Christabelle,” she replied, indicating the settee.

“Edward, then. I just stopped by to assure you that your granddaughter is being looked after well. In fact, my wife should be meeting her off the train about now.”

She looked stricken. “I understood that Pansy was supposed to be at Hogwarts, where she would be safe from the cad who conned Winnie into marrying her.”

“Mother, are you aware of Mr Grey’s profession?” Winifred laughed, entering the room. She was wearing riding clothes, and carrying her helmet under one arm.

“Not really,” Christabelle said reproachfully.

“If you’d be so good as to enlighten her, then, Mr Grey?”

Edward grinned. “But of course. I run the DMLE’s Special Taskforce.”

Christabelle nodded thoughtfully; she knew quite a bit about the Specials. “Who is protecting Pansy at the moment?”

“Currently, my wife Michelle. She’s not the most experienced officer on strength, but she’s weapons-trained and a fully qualified police driver, and God help Parkinson if he tries anything on the platform. Any one of my officers could take him down one-handed. In fact, would you mind if I assigned you a couple of officers to keep an eye on the place? He’s bound to think of turning up here eventually.”

“That would be helpful, yes, though the wards here are pretty strong.”

“To my mind,” Grey replied, “the very stongest wards are no substitute for men with eyes, ears and weapons. Oh, by the way, you’re both welcome to drop by any time over the holidays. I can probably squeeze you both into the car now, in fact.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a hair appointment,” Christabelle replied. “Winnie?”

“Yes please,” she replied. “Just let me change out of these jodhpurs.”

It was a two-hour drive, which was quite impressive given that they were nearly a hundred and fifty miles from London. Grey was not a reckless driver -he stuck rigidly to posted speed limits in built-up areas- but he wasn’t above putting his foot down on the motorway. Winifred was more than a little unnerved.

They were just negotiating the M25 when the RT set crackled to life. “Urgent call, major incident in Diagon Alley, request immediate response. Suspects believed armed, over.”

Grey swore under his breath. “That doesn’t sound good. Merlin Five currently unavailable, will attend as soon as possible, over.”

He dropped Winifred off outside his house. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said, embarrassed. “It goes with being the guv’nor, I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry; I’d want you to drop everything if it was my house getting burgled.” She stepped out of the car and shut the door. Grey put it in gear and switched on the lights and siren, then gunned the engine and roared off.

“This is a really shitty job for a family man sometimes,” Michelle remarked. “Come on in; Pansy’ll be thrilled to see you.”

The house was untidy, comfortably furnished and redolent of happy domestic uproar. Currently, the older girls were playing a video game, cheered on by the twins. Pansy did something complex and multi-coloured on the screen that seemed to win her the game. “Yes!” she squealed.

“How can you be so good the first time you play?” Natalie grumped.

“Maybe it’s my innate pureblood superiority,” she replied in a creditable impression of her father, making all three Grey children fall about giggling.

“Well, I can see you’re having fun,” Winnie said with a laugh.

“Mummy!” Pansy ran over to her mother and hugged her. “Oh, Mummy, I was so worried!” she gasped. “Theo called me a rude name and Natalie beat him up and I’ve got friends, not just people Father thinks I can use to make me powerful but real, proper friends!”

“Breathe, Pansy!” Winnie suggested, then burst out laughing. “So, which one of you three is which, then?”

Gringotts was cordoned off, grim-faced Aurors standing guard and holding back the curious spectators. “What the hell happened?” Grey demanded.

“Six men, all in full Death Eater regalia. We reckon they made off with sixty thousand quid, all used tens and twenties. Didn’t touch the wizarding currency,” replied the senior plainclothes man on the scene, a blonde Northerner by the name of Danny Maxwell. “They disapparated before the uniforms could get wards set up. But that’s not the worst of it. Christ knows how, but someone broke into Vault 713 whilst they were at it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grey breathed. “A few weeks earlier…”

“Tell me about it. Oh, and three of the security guards were pretty badly hurt; whoever did this wasn’t shy about lobbing Dark hexes around.”

“This just gets better. Tell me you got an apparation trace!”

“Doubles back on itself a dozen times, then goes cold somewhere over the Channel. We’ve sent all the serial numbers we’ve got to the banks, but apart from that we’ve got Sweet Fanny Adams. Sorry, guv’nor.”

“Not your fault, Danny; we’re dealing with real pros here.” He ran a hand through his hair and entered the bank. There wasn’t much damage, and the forensics team was carefully searching for fingerprints.

“This hasn’t been one of our better days, Grey,” remarked Amelia Bones, his immediate superior ever since Scringemour became Deputy Minister. “What are your impressions?”

“From what Danny told me, it sounds like we were dealing with at least some former Death Eaters. I couldn’t tell you if this was politically motivated as yet, but I’d be surprised; I’ve a feeling we’ll be seeing quite a lot more of this kind of thing. Most Death Eaters were only in for the booty anyway, and the masks are a lot more comfy than a stocking over your face.”

“Whoever brought that vault door down was no common thug,” she retorted.

“I never said they were, ma’am, but I’ll still give you betting odds that the main motive here was greed. A real loyalist would have gone for Galleons, no matter what it did to his back! Still, there’s a limited number of known faces who had the skill to break through those wards, so we at least know who to have a quiet word with. Hmph, I wonder if they’ll have this problem in Northern Ireland if the power-sharing comes through?”

“Very probably. Well, I don’t see what else we can do here. Maxwell’s runnings thing alright, and the uniforms have got all the witness statements we’re likely to get. We’ll probably find out some more about this when it starts to smell.”

“Thank you, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I’m going to spend a little time with my kids in between crises.”

“Do you mind doing the press statement before you go?”

Grey sighed. This was what you got when you wrote pulp fiction thrillers -albeit unpublished and not very good ones- in your spare time.

“Ladies and gentlemen, approximately two hours ago Gringotts was robbed by six men in what seemed to be Death Eater uniform. Bank officials have requested that I do not disclose the exact loss at this time, but a significant number of ten and twenty pound notes were taken from the counter.”

“Auror Grey,” someone called, “can you confirm or deny that one of the vaults was also robbed?”

Grey glanced at Amelia, who shrugged. “Someone did indeed break into a Ministry-held vault. Their timing could have been better, though; a day earlier and they would have made off with this month’s wages for the entire DMLE. So well done, you lot,” he said, glancing towards the rather sheepish-looking Aurors standing off to one side. There was a polite laugh from the press. “But before you put that in headlines, I don’t honestly think there was much they could have done. This was a meticulously planned raid, executed flawlessly by some very old hands.”

“Mr Grey, do you believe that this raid was carried out by forces loyal to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” asked another reporter.

“Well, that’s a bit of a tricky question. We’re working on the assumption that the men -and we think one woman- under those robes took the Dark Mark at some point, but we don’t have any clear evidence for motive. We do know that Voldemort didn’t offer much in the way of a pension plan, though.”

There was a chorus of gasps and winces. “Oh, give me patience!” Edward muttered under his breath. “Anyway, my own impression at the present time is that this is more likely to be plain old-fashioned crime rather than anything political. Any more questions? Good. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Good improvisation with the wages,” Amelia remarked in an undertone. “And if anyone complains about your language I’ll tell them where to go.”

Grey laughed, and headed for his car.

Pansy watched in great amusement, tinged with a little melancholy, as the three children mobbed him with ecstatic squeals of “Daddy!” Edward staggered as one twin’s head collided with his testicles.

“Steady on, there!” he wheezed.

“What? I told you I wanted to stop at three!” Michelle laughed.

“Thank you so much, darling,” he laughed. The twins exchanged blank looks as Natalie and Pansy almost wet themselves giggling.

Needless to say, it was something of a relief when a taxi turned up to collect him for a Pack Night, which was a euphemism for an all-night bender with his werewolf pals. Edward introduced Mrs Parkinson to Reynard Brown, who would be one of the officers guarding her mother’s house. “Nice to meet you,” she said, employing five generations of good breeding to refrain from running away.

Ray was a tall, wiry man with recceding hair and a strong East London accent, who’d been bitten in his late teens and never looked back. He also did not like Warren Zevon very much, which of course meant that the Grey children would begin singing Werewolves of London every time he entered the house and carry on until threatened with a thick ear. It was all affectionate, of course; he would usually slip them a couple of quid, and was invariably known as ‘Uncle Ray’.

“Well, I knew that muggles did things differently…” Winifred whispered.

“Don’t be silly, Mum!” Pansy replied. “Muggles don’t know about werewolves!”

Edward snorted with laughter, and Ray merely offered a long-suffering sigh. “Never thought we’d change the world overnight,” he said wearily.

Winifred apparated home an hour or so later, leaving Pansy with strict orders to be good. “Like I need telling after eleven years of putting up with Father,” she laughed.

The rest of the little gang passed the holidays in like fashion. Much to Ron’s embarassment, literally everybody he was friends with acquired Weasley sweaters on Christmas Day. Harry was given his father’s Invisibility Cloak, “as used by Peter Pettigrew to spy on me in the shower,” Aunt Petunia recollected. “I think I married Vernon just for walloping the little vermin.”

“I seem to recall two Gryffindor fifth-years being disciplined for a not-dissimilar offence concerning the women’s changing rooms,” replied Albus, giving Sirius a knowing look.

“I was helping him fill Lily’s locker with roses,” Sirius replied meekly. “We just got our timing wrong, that’s all.”

They were interrupted by an appalling blast of indescribable noise from Harry’s bedroom, where he was testing out his new stereo. “Thank you so much, Edward,” Sirius grumbled. “What kind of bloody idiot buys an eleven year-old boy a Rage Against The Machine album, eh?”

“The sort who still remembers who bought his two year-old twins the Duck Organ,” Aletha replied, recalling an innocent-looking but deafeningly noisy toy that Sirius had thought Lauren and Lallie would find entertaining. He had also sealed the battery compartment, which he claimed would not close properly, with about three feet of Sellotape. The Greys had not yet entirely forgiven him for this.

Natalie and Pansy appeared around lunchtime, both sporting Weasley sweaters (no prizes for guessing the motif on the latter’s) and in Natalie’s case a very smart pair of black leather trousers that made for an interesting contrast. “We have to get a group photo of these!” declared Fran. “I bet Draco, Blaise and Neville have them as well!”

“We can do it at New Year,” Harry replied. “They’re all coming to the big fireworks display at Hogsmeade.”

“Oh, yeah,” Edward said with a frightening grin. “I can introduce Fred and George to some of my mates.”

Ron winced. He hadn’t yet got around to mentioning that to Molly…

“Werewolves,” she said slowly. “My sons are dallying with two girls whose older brother is not merely an Unspeakable, but hangs around with werewolves.”

“That would be a yes,” Michelle replied. “Don’t worry, they’re a nice lot. They all go to the same basement to transform, and Edward keeps them out of trouble. Unruly boozers to a man, but they’ve babysat my kids a few times.”

Molly sighed. “Why do I have a horrible feeling,” she said wearily, “that the only one of my sons to survive to my age will be Percy?”

The fireworks display was being held on the quidditch pitch, and a variety of hotdog stands and other concessions appeared to mark the occasion. Some of them were basically muggle, run by Squibs and relatives of muggleborns, whilst others were plainly magic. Inevitably, Ray and the rest of the Wolf-Pack headed en masse for the beer tent. Edward followed soon after, with Remus and Kelly Granger not far behind.

“I think she likes him,” Aletha remarked.

“I know he likes her,” Sirius replied. Hermione giggled.

“She won’t be so keen if he falls in with that lot,” Petunia forecast.

“Hey, you lot! Over here!” Blaise called.

Soon, a group photograph was being marshalled together. They were easily persuaded to include Meghan, as well as Ginny and her slightly odd friend Luna, and they all stood together to have a picture taken in front of Hogwarts. For some inexplicable reason, Pansy ended up standing right next to Dudley.

In the beer tent, the Wolf-Pack had acquired a table to themselves, and were rapidly approaching the singing stage. Kelly was already half-asleep -she wasn’t a big drinker- and was leaning contentedly against Remus. “Happy new year, Moony,” she murmered as an especially loud burst of fireworks detonated outside.

“You too. Whose shout is it?”

“Mine, I think…”

“Nah, I’ll get this one,” he replied, easing himself out from beneath her. Then froze, transfixed with utter astonishment.

Petunia Dursley was being led to the dance floor. By Reynard.

“Well,” Remus remarked, “they’re certainly going to have something original to say when people ask how the two of them met.”