Fic: Bright unconquered suns (Alice, Frank, baby Neville)
Title: Bright unconquered suns
Character: Alice Longbottom, other Longbottoms, various other cameos. Liberal helping of Frank/Alice, although the story probably qualifies as gen.
Rating: R for one very understated sex scene.
Summary: As the dust settles after Hallowe'en 1981, Alice and Frank return to work, where they are given an unpleasant mission. Meanwhile, Alice is haunted by the fates of Lily, James and Harry.
Word count: Just under 5,000 words.
Notes: Written for krabapple as part of reversathon 2007. No Deathly Hallows spoilers, but nor, as far as I can remember, is it particularly jossed by DH. ETA: It occurs to me that the previous comment, combined with one detail from this story, adds up to a pretty hefty DH spoiler; therefore please only proceed if you've read DH or don't mind being spoiled. Thanks muchly to such_heights and snowandsunshine for beta-reading.
Constructive criticism is always welcome.
You're sorting through your bedside cupboard, looking for something, although you've forgotten what. It doesn't matter; you'll recognise it when you see it.
"Time for lunch, Alice," one of the Healers calls as she passes your cubicle. You don't look round. People often talk to you, but what they have to say is rarely important. That's why it's nice here: life is simple.
You return to your task, and after a few more moments of rifling through your papers, you find it. Clutching the crumpled parchment to your dressing gown, you sit down on the side of the bed and begin reading.
"Dear Mum..."
Alice was feeding Neville while Frank buttered toast at the other end of the table when they heard the knock. Although the front door was all the way down at the other end of the hall, the noise sounded especially loud because no one except Emmeline Vance had knocked on that door for weeks, and even if she'd knocked according to their code she wasn't due for another two days. Alice pulled Neville into her arms as she and Frank stared at one another. Was this it? Had they been found? She felt for her wand, watched Frank do likewise, and edged silently behind him into the hallway.
Emmeline's voice called, "Shit. Sorry," and they both jumped. This time her knock followed the agreed pattern. Alice and Frank shared a relieved glance, but they weren't safe yet. What if someone had forced Emmy to lead them here and the uncharacteristic knock had been her way of warning them?
Frank opened the door halfway. Alice cuddled Neville into her neck, ready to bolt for the back door if necessary.
Emmeline Vance stood alone on the doorstep, her free hand twirling a strand of black hair into a corkscrew. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and there was something odd about the way she was holding herself, as if she was braced for a blow.
"Everything all right, Emmy?" Frank asked.
She nodded vehemently. "Yes. Yeah, sorry I'm here on the wrong day, and sorry about the knock. I - I forgot. Ask me my question."
"What was your favourite meal when you were ten?" asked Frank without missing a beat.
"Liver and sprouts, followed by chocolate ice cream."
He stepped back to let her inside. "You had us going there for a minute."
Emmeline wavered on the doorstep for a moment longer, then flung herself forward and hugged Frank, before pushing past him to peck Neville on the top of his curly head and Alice on the cheek. "You're all right," she sighed tearfully into Alice's shoulder. "You're all all right."
"We're fine," said Alice. "In fact, we were just having breakfast. D'you want some toast?"
"No, but don't let me stop you." Emmeline followed her through to the kitchen. "I'll have a cup of tea if there's one in the pot; I've been up for hours - but listen, turn on your radio." She paused and Alice answered obligingly.
"You know we can't. They can trace that kind of thing. Why, what's-"
"It's over," said Emmeline breathlessly. "He's gone, the bastard's gone, and you don't have to hide away any longer. It's over."
Frank froze in the act of pouring tea. Alice pressed her lips to Neville's soft cheek and waited for more. Just like that, everything they'd gone through during the past few years, and particularly the past few months, was over? It didn't seem possible; it was too sudden.
"But how?" Frank asked Emmeline, handing her a cup of tea. "What happened?"
"Nobody's sure yet," Emmeline replied. "Thanks, Frank - I've been dying for a cuppa." She held her hands over the cup one after the other, as if to warm them.
Neville was watching her speculatively; Alice was never sure whether he recognised their visitor from one week to the next.
Emmeline looked up (now Alice thought about it, her eyes were rather red, weren't they?) and pulled a face at Neville. "Hi, beautiful." She smiled until his solemn features broke into a grin and he gazed delightedly from her to his mother and back again. But when he began chuckling, Emmeline's answering giggle was almost a sob.
Alice sat Neville in his high chair, wriggled into the seat beside him and began shovelling food into him. When she'd got him into a rhythm, she laid her free hand on Emmeline's arm.
"What's really happened, Emmy? Is there something - someone else who's ... as well as Voldemort?"
Emmeline rested her head in her hands and began to cry.
There's an old lady who comes in to see you and the man next door. She's always talking about the past, about how clever and brave you both were. She never notices the beautiful crayoned drawings that the man clips to his curtains, or the pressed flowers you've strewn about your cubicle. Sometimes she brings a young man with her; she doesn't seem to notice his cleverness, either, or the way his stumpy fingers caress the petals of the pretty flowers he brings you, or how sweet he looks when he smiles at you. But you know that these things are important, too.
You feel sorry for the old lady, who cannot see the beauty in her present.
The next morning, they went into work for the first time in a month. Alastor Moody greeted them with an unceremonious nod and a heartfelt handshake. "Good to see you back," he said grimly. "There's a meeting in the boardroom at nine-thirty. Be there."
In the boardroom, Moody handed out blank parchments, and then tapped his own with his wand. A long list of names appeared on Alice's parchment, inked in untidy calligraphy.
"We've got Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle," said Moody. "They're pleading the Imperius curse, which I don't believe for a moment, but we'll let the Wizengamot sort that out. Swinton Nott-" He consulted his parchment. "Scrimgeour and Paisley, I'd like you to bring him in for questioning. He's been implicated in a few things, but nobody seems to want to talk about him. Bring his wife along, too, just to be on the safe side, eh?"
He stabbed his parchment with a finger. "The Lestranges. Nasty pieces of work, both of 'em, but we've got nothing on them. I want you two," he nodded at Alice and Frank, "to see what you can dig up. I've got their records here, not that they'll tell you much." He passed the folders over, and Frank immediately began leafing through the top one. Alice eyed the second folder, which was fronted with a black and white photograph of a dark-haired woman who was smoking a cigarette and gesticulating to someone off-camera. She knew Bellatrix Lestrange of old.
"All the same," Frank said over dinner when she voiced her reluctance to go anywhere near her old school nemesis, "it'd be great to get them, don't you think? I mean, they must've been mixed up in it. Half of their old cronies are in Azkaban already, and I don't suppose their views have changed much since school."
Alice gave herself a little shake. "You're right, of course. She just gives me the creeps. Whenever I see her, she gets this look on her face as if she knew something that would make my toes curl and was waiting for the right moment to use it against me."
Frank patted her arm. "All the more reason to get her straight into Azkaban - if she's guilty, anyway."
A loud wail filled the kitchen and they both jumped. Alice did not glance at its source (the megaphone by the toaster which was set up to amplify any sounds in the nursery), but hurried straight upstairs. Neville was sitting up in his cot; when he saw her coming, his bawls took on an indignant tone.
"You scamp," she said, scooping him up. "You're supposed to be asleep." She checked his gums; sure enough, another tooth was threatening to break through. Jiggling him gently, she reached for Cornelia's Magical Soothing Balm and spread it over the tender area.
Neville hiccuped quietly and snuggled against her, and she wondered how it was possible to be so dependent on the whims of a sixteen-month-old child. When he cried, she felt grief overwhelm her. When he laughed, her heart ached with joy.
By the time she had lulled him back to sleep, Alice felt better. Really, she thought as she descended the stairs, it was hard to worry about Bellatrix Lestrange when there was Neville to keep her entertained.
There's a photograph that an old man left with you once. In it, a group of people of varying ages are crowded together in a dingy room. They shove one another out of the way, elbowing and teasing and jostling for the front spots. You like it because they all look so happy. You know, because one of the Healers pointed it out, that you and the man next door are in the photo, and you wonder who all those other people were and where they are now.
You used to have it up on your bedside table, but it made all your visitors look sad. Now it's in a little album that you leaf through by the early morning light. You look at the woman who used to be you, at the smile transforming her worried features, and you wonder how it felt to be her.
Alice and Frank sat close together and watched the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix file into the room. It was difficult to ignore how pitifully few they were. In the past week, four of their number had been taken away: James and Lily - and poor Peter, of course. And Sirius... Alice was having difficulty reconciling herself to the idea of impetuous, fun-loving Sirius Black as a cold-hearted spy and traitor. He fitted the profile to a certain extent, she supposed, but in most ways it made no sense. And yet he hadn’t denied it. She was as sceptical as the next person of the Prophet's reporting, but she didn’t see how it was possible for Sirius to be innocent, even reading between the lines of the news reports.
She thought of Remus Lupin then, bereft of so many friends, and scanned the room until she found him in a corner. She could see the shadows under his eyes from where she sat, but when he caught her eye he managed a small smile and a wave.
Frank was chatting in an undertone to Dedalus Diggle, whose baggy eyes and shaky hands betrayed his enthusiastic celebrations over the past few days. The room was full of people who were speaking quietly; it was like a funeral, Alice thought. But then, it was something of a funeral, wasn't it? The Order had lost its purpose with Voldemort's disappearance, and now all they had to do was mourn.
The door thudded shut, and Alice looked around. Albus Dumbledore was making his way towards the chair at the front. His brother Aberforth was leaning against the door, looking as surly as ever.
The noise crescendoed and then diminuendoed as people watched Albus expectantly. He stopped to greet people here and there - including Remus, Alice noticed - and so it was several moments before he reached the front of the room. When he did, the silence was instant.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, looking around over his half-moon glasses, "I must thank you once more for giving me your time. I’m sure we have all been very busy over the past day or two." His smile alighted on one or two people who looked the worse for wear, then his expression grew serious. "And what a strange few days they have been. We have all lost friends." Alice determinedly did not look at Remus, and caught Emmeline's gaze instead. They exchanged tight smiles. "We have lost too many friends," Albus continued, "and we must cherish their memories." He didn't allude to Sirius Black, but what was there to say about him? This time, Alice couldn’t help glancing in Remus’s direction, but his expression was unreadable.
"I shall not keep you long," Albus said, "except to implore you to ensure that the deaths, the disappearances, the suffering, the sacrifices, did not happen in vain. Voldemort is gone, at least for now, but his legacy is not. We must remain vigilant. There is still work to be done."
The next photo is of a toddler with wavy brown hair and peaches and cream skin. He crawls in and out of the frame at impossible speeds, and if you catch him in the right mood, he plays peekaboo with you for hours at a time.
This is your favourite photograph, although sometimes you wonder what happened to the little boy. Did he ever grow up?
Alice gazed down at Neville, marvelling at the sleepy trust in his eyes as he sucked at her breast. Her responsibility to him terrified her at times. It seemed so incongruous that she could literally hold a life in her arms, and yet, there he was.
James had been found near the front door of the house where the Potters had been hiding; Lily close by Harry. Nobody knew exactly what had happened that night, but it was clear to Alice that Lily, and probably James as well, had died trying to protect Harry to the last.
Would she be brave enough to do likewise, if it came to it?
Her breast was starting to ache; she shifted Neville around, and he latched onto the other nipple with barely a blink of protest. Well, I certainly couldn't have breastfed two babies! she thought wryly, remembering the conversation she and Frank had had with Albus after last week's meeting.
"Harry is being cared for by his aunt and uncle," Albus had said. "Lily had a sister, if you recall."
"I certainly do. Not exactly her favourite person in the world, was she?" Alice had looked at Frank, unsure where to start. "We were thinking - perhaps we could look after Harry? I feel so-" She had shivered. "It could have been us; we were just lucky. We were so lucky. If we looked after Harry, treated him like our own son, perhaps it would make up for..."
"Alice," Albus had said kindly, "what has happened is nobody's fault except Voldemort's, and you are certainly not responsible for it. As for your offer, it is exceedingly thoughtful of you both, but the only provision that James and Lily made in regard to Harry's care in the event of their deaths was for Sirius to take care of him. In the event," - he sighed - "that has not been possible. His closest relative is his Aunt Petunia."
"And you think Lily and James would like that, do you?" Frank had asked. "You think they'll care for Harry well? According to James, Lily's sister hadn't spoken to her since before she left school."
"Petunia has a son who is almost the same age as Harry and Neville," Albus had said. "I believe it is in Harry's best interests to be brought up outside the magical community, at least for the present. Apart from anything else, it’s possible that Voldemort's supporters will seek him out, to wreak revenge or find out where their master has gone."
"But why will he be safer there than with us?" Alice had asked, frustrated. "We're Aurors! Surely we're better placed to protect him than a couple of Muggles who know nothing about our world."
Albus had patted her arm in that infuriating way of his, and talked of blood and protection, and of his own security measures. Alice wondered, pressing a kiss to Neville's forehead, how her own baby would have fared if she and Frank had been murdered instead of James and Lily. They had agreed that Frank's parents must care for him if the worst happened. Alice liked and admired Augusta Longbottom, and she had a very soft spot for shy Rory, whose favourite entertainment was playing peekaboo with Neville, but she hated the idea of her son being brought up by anyone except her and Frank. The world was a terrifying enough place without being powerless to protect your son from its harshness.
The man in the next cubicle has grey hair and a tired smile which he rarely lets outsiders see. You often spend your quiet evenings together: drawing, flipping through photographs, pressing flower petals or merely sitting in silence.
These are good times. You feel safe with the man in the next cubicle.
At Auror Headquarters, Alice and Frank worked through lists of people associated with the Lestranges. There were plenty of connections to known Death Eaters, but this could be said of anyone who had been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts. They exhausted themselves Apparating from house to house to establish who had been where on nights when atrocities had been committed; who had spoken to whom; which of the Death Eaters who were currently in custody had been close to Bellatrix and her husband. Everything added up, but the totals, frustratingly, produced no proof.
Meanwhile, the heavy wheels of wizarding justice continued to turn. On their fourth wedding anniversary, Frank gave evidence at the trial of Lucius Malfoy and returned home tetchy and disappointed.
"Either he bribed half the Wizengamot or they simply can't believe he's capable of the crimes he was accused of. It was sickening afterwards, watching him work his way around the room like a king."
"Malfoy's got a little boy," Alice remarked, thinking of Neville, who had been left with his grandparents so that his parents could enjoy a few hours alone. "Perhaps some of them were thinking of the family."
"He was caught red-handed," said Frank. "He's just a good actor with a lot of money. At school he was one of those sly bullies you could never quite catch - but he left a lot of terrorised younger students in his wake."
"I remember." Alice nodded. "You could never be certain, but you'd see the way the kids looked at him and you just knew."
"The girls all fancied him at school, too," Frank said bitterly. "You should've seen some of the women today, fawning over him." His arm shook on the kitchen counter. "You'd think everyone had forgotten what happened over the past few years."
Alice put her arms around him and kissed his neck. "If it's any consolation," she said dreamily, "he makes my skin crawl."
Frank hmphed a laugh. "Consolation indeed," he said. "What makes you so wonderfully sensible compared to all those other women?"
"Ah, well," said Alice, smiling up at him, "I have a thing for men who are tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy dark hair. And I really have a thing for men who are impeccably honourable. Especially when they're kind and thoughtful and do their best to please their mothers on Sundays and their wives the rest of the week. There's something very sexy," she murmured, pressing her hips against his, "about a man who's utterly dependable in that way."
"You're pretty damn sexy yourself," muttered Frank. He leaned down to kiss her, his fingers fluttering down the arch of her back and coming to rest on her thighs. "Even," he added breathlessly as Alice unbuttoned his robes and began kissing a path down his chest and belly, "if you do make me sound awfully boring."
"Mmm...no..." she said absently, fingers ghosting over his erection as she pulled him across to the sofa, "I don't think that's the word I'd use."
Your only regular visitors are the old lady and the nice young man. There used to be someone else, a man with a large white moustache who smoked a large pipe and rarely spoke. You liked him, especially because the young man, who'd been a boy then, always stayed close to him. But one day he stopped coming, and the old lady never mentioned him again, although her eyes and nose were red for a long time afterwards.
Alice returned home early on Christmas Eve to find her mother-in-law singing 'I'm a little teapot' in a breathy alto and teaching Neville the actions. Neville was gurgling joyfully as he threw his arm out in an approximation of a teapot handle, and when he flopped onto the carpet to simulate pouring, Alice laughed in delight.
Augusta jumped. "I - was teaching him to sing," she said stiffly. Alice laughed again, and moved forward to cuddle Neville, whose tomato face had broken into a smile at her arrival.
"He loves that song - I think it's brilliant that you sing it to him. Thanks for babysitting again."
"Yes, well." Augusta still looked self-conscious. "Looking after him is always our pleasure, dear."
Alice waved her wand at the kettle, which began steaming. "Did you have a nice day, darling?" she asked Neville. "Did you keep Grandma and Grandpa out of mischief?" He gazed at her with solemn eyes, then smiled when she planted a kiss on his nose. "Where's Rory?" she asked Augusta. "Will he want a cup of tea?"
"Yes, make him one." Augusta's exasperated tone didn't quite mask her pride. "He's in your shed again, being very secretive. I think his surprise is nearly ready, whatever it is."
At that moment, the back door opened, and a rangy man with a shock of white hair and an equally white moustache popped his head through the gap. Neville shouted something unintelligible and held out his arms to his grandfather, who came forward eagerly.
"Hello, wee thing," he said, taking him from Alice and bouncing him gently. "We've had a good day, Neville and I and Augusta - haven't we, darlin'?" He curled a finger into Neville's hand, and Neville chuckled.
"And now your old grandpa's got a wee present for you," Rory continued, sharing a shy smile with Alice. He freed his left hand and fumbled in his robes, located a pocket and brought out a small wooden figurine. "I know I should hae waited for tomorrow, but he'll have lots of presents then," he added apologetically.
Alice forgot about the tea, and craned forward. "Did you make that?" It was a tiny Quidditch player, its robes painted crudely in the blue and white of the Celtic Stars. As the old man opened his palm, the figure took off and zoomed around the kitchen on a tiny broomstick before coming to rest once more in his hand. Neville, who had been watching its progress with fascination, grabbed at it when it came back into range; it took off instantly, circling him but always keeping just out of reach. Alice noted with admiration that the cloak seemed to move along with the figure.
"Rory, that's wonderful! I didn't know you could carve wood, never mind enchant it."
"Ah, well, I have'na done it for years. I thought it would go nicely over his cot; it'll stop in a minute so the bairn can get some sleep. Get him started with the right Quidditch team, too." His eyes twinkled, and she hugged him impulsively.
"You realise he'll be demanding an entire team in a couple of years?"
He grinned. "I'll get working on it."
You often have nightmares, but you never remember what they are about. Sometimes even when you're awake, you glimpse a dark-eyed woman and a baby boy crawling on a blood-soaked carpet. And you scream and scream and scream.
Bellatrix looked overwrought during her interview, but she managed to be as unpleasant as Alice remembered from school. Her answers were littered with insinuations about her interviewers, and the conversation turned into a battle of wits between her and Alice, with Frank unwillingly caught in the middle.
"Where were you on the night of the thirty-first of October?" asked Alice, long after she had tired of the games.
"At home with my husband," Bellatrix replied promptly.
Alice sighed. "Did anyone see you? Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?"
Bellatrix eyed her under heavy lids. "My brother-in-law dropped in for a while. We drank sherry."
"Really?" asked Frank sarcastically. "Perhaps you can produce the bottle for us?"
She smiled. "I fear we finished the bottle; no doubt our house-elf threw it out. Perhaps you'd like to search the local rubbish dump for it?"
"Did you have any idea that the Potters were going to be attacked?" interrupted Alice.
Bellatrix shrugged. "Potter was a foolhardy blood-traitor and his wife was a Muggleborn who never knew when to keep her head down. They were obvious targets, if you ask me."
"When did you first hear of the Potters' murder?"
"In the morning, when we switched on the wireless, like everyone else." Bellatrix smiled viciously. "Such a tragedy. Both so young and talented. Were they friends of yours?"
"Did you think they deserved to die?" asked Alice wearily.
Bellatrix smiled again. "As I said, such a tragedy." She examined her fingernails for a moment and added, "And strange, don't you think? Why them? Why that night? What did He Who Must Not Be Named think to gain by pitting himself against two of his most adept enemies?"
She watched Alice and Frank avidly as she spoke, and Alice's back prickled.
"No one knows," said Frank shortly, "unless you know more than we do."
"Oh, no," said Bellatrix, still staring at him, "I don't understand it at all."
Alice and Frank exchanged glances. Frank nodded.
"I think that'll do for now," said Alice. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Lestrange. We may be back in touch shortly."
Bellatrix wrapped her fur-lined cloak around her and glided across the room. With her dark beauty, she looked like a fairy queen.
"I forgot," she said as she laid a hand on the doorknob. "We had another visitor that night. Barty Crouch."
"Crouch?" For a moment, Alice wondered whether Bellatrix was making a point about the influence she wielded at the Ministry of Magic. Then she remembered. "Which Barty Crouch?"
"The son." Bellatrix smiled sweetly. "He's a good friend of Rabastan's. He also had some of our sherry, in case you feel like going in search of it."
Crouch had already been on Alice and Frank's list, but they moved him up to the top after their unsettling interview with Bellatrix Lestrange. Nevertheless, a chat with him yielded little information beyond the titbits Bellatrix had handed them: he was a friend of Rabastan Lestrange: they had grown up near one another in Kent, and had remained friends despite being Sorted into different houses at Hogwarts. Yes, he knew Bellatrix and Rodolphus, of course he did, and yes, he thought in fact that he and Rabastan had spent some time at their house on the evening of the Potters' murders. No, of course he had never met Voldemort, nor been approached by anyone purporting to be a supporter of his, and he did not think that the Lestranges had, either.
In the meeting with Moody on the following day, they were forced to admit that there was no evidence, solid or circumstantial, to link the Lestranges with Voldemort or James and Lily's deaths. Rodolphus Lestrange had corroborated his wife's story, if with rather less panache, and nobody else they'd spoken to had implicated husband or wife even obliquely.
Moody frowned over their lists for a while, and then sighed. "Put them on the back burner for a couple of weeks," he said. "Let them think we've given up. Come and see me first thing in the morning - I've got another job I'd like to put you on to."
"They're guilty as sin," said Frank.
"Aye," agreed Moody, "I'm sure they are. We'll get them, don't you worry." He looked at them sternly, his scars more pronounced than ever. "You two go home and have a nice relaxing evening. You've had a hard few weeks."
When you wake, you can't imagine what the noise is about. Your first instinct is to stay in bed and hide; perhaps no one will notice you. But you gather your courage and poke your head around the curtains. The Healers are hugging one another; one of them turns towards you, and you see that she is crying.
She hurries over. "It's all right, Alice," she says shakily, and pulls you into a warm cuddle. "He's gone; it's over. It's all over." Unexpectedly, she buries her face in your shoulder, weeping in earnest now. "I'm so sorry," she gasps, "so sorry. I wish we could undo it all. I wish he'd been dead first time around. I wish-"
You pat her shoulder, comforting her the way she's comforted you so many times over the years.
When they reached home, the first snowdrops were out, scattered through the dark flowerbed like stars in the twilight. It's going to be all right, Alice thought.
They ate shepherd's pie by the fire, listening to the wizarding wireless network and talking nonsense to Neville. When Alice came downstairs after putting Neville down for the night, Frank held out a glass of red wine.
"To better times," he said.
She smiled, accepted the glass, and drank.
"To better times."
He's back, the young man with the round face and the kind eyes. He looks serious, and so tired - too young to be so tired - but his face lights up when he sees you.
"Hi Mum," he says and kisses your cheek.
His lips are warm against your skin, and for an instant, you feel like you're twenty-one again.
Character: Alice Longbottom, other Longbottoms, various other cameos. Liberal helping of Frank/Alice, although the story probably qualifies as gen.
Rating: R for one very understated sex scene.
Summary: As the dust settles after Hallowe'en 1981, Alice and Frank return to work, where they are given an unpleasant mission. Meanwhile, Alice is haunted by the fates of Lily, James and Harry.
Word count: Just under 5,000 words.
Notes: Written for krabapple as part of reversathon 2007. No Deathly Hallows spoilers, but nor, as far as I can remember, is it particularly jossed by DH. ETA: It occurs to me that the previous comment, combined with one detail from this story, adds up to a pretty hefty DH spoiler; therefore please only proceed if you've read DH or don't mind being spoiled. Thanks muchly to such_heights and snowandsunshine for beta-reading.
Constructive criticism is always welcome.
You're sorting through your bedside cupboard, looking for something, although you've forgotten what. It doesn't matter; you'll recognise it when you see it.
"Time for lunch, Alice," one of the Healers calls as she passes your cubicle. You don't look round. People often talk to you, but what they have to say is rarely important. That's why it's nice here: life is simple.
You return to your task, and after a few more moments of rifling through your papers, you find it. Clutching the crumpled parchment to your dressing gown, you sit down on the side of the bed and begin reading.
"Dear Mum..."
Alice was feeding Neville while Frank buttered toast at the other end of the table when they heard the knock. Although the front door was all the way down at the other end of the hall, the noise sounded especially loud because no one except Emmeline Vance had knocked on that door for weeks, and even if she'd knocked according to their code she wasn't due for another two days. Alice pulled Neville into her arms as she and Frank stared at one another. Was this it? Had they been found? She felt for her wand, watched Frank do likewise, and edged silently behind him into the hallway.
Emmeline's voice called, "Shit. Sorry," and they both jumped. This time her knock followed the agreed pattern. Alice and Frank shared a relieved glance, but they weren't safe yet. What if someone had forced Emmy to lead them here and the uncharacteristic knock had been her way of warning them?
Frank opened the door halfway. Alice cuddled Neville into her neck, ready to bolt for the back door if necessary.
Emmeline Vance stood alone on the doorstep, her free hand twirling a strand of black hair into a corkscrew. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and there was something odd about the way she was holding herself, as if she was braced for a blow.
"Everything all right, Emmy?" Frank asked.
She nodded vehemently. "Yes. Yeah, sorry I'm here on the wrong day, and sorry about the knock. I - I forgot. Ask me my question."
"What was your favourite meal when you were ten?" asked Frank without missing a beat.
"Liver and sprouts, followed by chocolate ice cream."
He stepped back to let her inside. "You had us going there for a minute."
Emmeline wavered on the doorstep for a moment longer, then flung herself forward and hugged Frank, before pushing past him to peck Neville on the top of his curly head and Alice on the cheek. "You're all right," she sighed tearfully into Alice's shoulder. "You're all all right."
"We're fine," said Alice. "In fact, we were just having breakfast. D'you want some toast?"
"No, but don't let me stop you." Emmeline followed her through to the kitchen. "I'll have a cup of tea if there's one in the pot; I've been up for hours - but listen, turn on your radio." She paused and Alice answered obligingly.
"You know we can't. They can trace that kind of thing. Why, what's-"
"It's over," said Emmeline breathlessly. "He's gone, the bastard's gone, and you don't have to hide away any longer. It's over."
Frank froze in the act of pouring tea. Alice pressed her lips to Neville's soft cheek and waited for more. Just like that, everything they'd gone through during the past few years, and particularly the past few months, was over? It didn't seem possible; it was too sudden.
"But how?" Frank asked Emmeline, handing her a cup of tea. "What happened?"
"Nobody's sure yet," Emmeline replied. "Thanks, Frank - I've been dying for a cuppa." She held her hands over the cup one after the other, as if to warm them.
Neville was watching her speculatively; Alice was never sure whether he recognised their visitor from one week to the next.
Emmeline looked up (now Alice thought about it, her eyes were rather red, weren't they?) and pulled a face at Neville. "Hi, beautiful." She smiled until his solemn features broke into a grin and he gazed delightedly from her to his mother and back again. But when he began chuckling, Emmeline's answering giggle was almost a sob.
Alice sat Neville in his high chair, wriggled into the seat beside him and began shovelling food into him. When she'd got him into a rhythm, she laid her free hand on Emmeline's arm.
"What's really happened, Emmy? Is there something - someone else who's ... as well as Voldemort?"
Emmeline rested her head in her hands and began to cry.
There's an old lady who comes in to see you and the man next door. She's always talking about the past, about how clever and brave you both were. She never notices the beautiful crayoned drawings that the man clips to his curtains, or the pressed flowers you've strewn about your cubicle. Sometimes she brings a young man with her; she doesn't seem to notice his cleverness, either, or the way his stumpy fingers caress the petals of the pretty flowers he brings you, or how sweet he looks when he smiles at you. But you know that these things are important, too.
You feel sorry for the old lady, who cannot see the beauty in her present.
The next morning, they went into work for the first time in a month. Alastor Moody greeted them with an unceremonious nod and a heartfelt handshake. "Good to see you back," he said grimly. "There's a meeting in the boardroom at nine-thirty. Be there."
In the boardroom, Moody handed out blank parchments, and then tapped his own with his wand. A long list of names appeared on Alice's parchment, inked in untidy calligraphy.
"We've got Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle," said Moody. "They're pleading the Imperius curse, which I don't believe for a moment, but we'll let the Wizengamot sort that out. Swinton Nott-" He consulted his parchment. "Scrimgeour and Paisley, I'd like you to bring him in for questioning. He's been implicated in a few things, but nobody seems to want to talk about him. Bring his wife along, too, just to be on the safe side, eh?"
He stabbed his parchment with a finger. "The Lestranges. Nasty pieces of work, both of 'em, but we've got nothing on them. I want you two," he nodded at Alice and Frank, "to see what you can dig up. I've got their records here, not that they'll tell you much." He passed the folders over, and Frank immediately began leafing through the top one. Alice eyed the second folder, which was fronted with a black and white photograph of a dark-haired woman who was smoking a cigarette and gesticulating to someone off-camera. She knew Bellatrix Lestrange of old.
"All the same," Frank said over dinner when she voiced her reluctance to go anywhere near her old school nemesis, "it'd be great to get them, don't you think? I mean, they must've been mixed up in it. Half of their old cronies are in Azkaban already, and I don't suppose their views have changed much since school."
Alice gave herself a little shake. "You're right, of course. She just gives me the creeps. Whenever I see her, she gets this look on her face as if she knew something that would make my toes curl and was waiting for the right moment to use it against me."
Frank patted her arm. "All the more reason to get her straight into Azkaban - if she's guilty, anyway."
A loud wail filled the kitchen and they both jumped. Alice did not glance at its source (the megaphone by the toaster which was set up to amplify any sounds in the nursery), but hurried straight upstairs. Neville was sitting up in his cot; when he saw her coming, his bawls took on an indignant tone.
"You scamp," she said, scooping him up. "You're supposed to be asleep." She checked his gums; sure enough, another tooth was threatening to break through. Jiggling him gently, she reached for Cornelia's Magical Soothing Balm and spread it over the tender area.
Neville hiccuped quietly and snuggled against her, and she wondered how it was possible to be so dependent on the whims of a sixteen-month-old child. When he cried, she felt grief overwhelm her. When he laughed, her heart ached with joy.
By the time she had lulled him back to sleep, Alice felt better. Really, she thought as she descended the stairs, it was hard to worry about Bellatrix Lestrange when there was Neville to keep her entertained.
There's a photograph that an old man left with you once. In it, a group of people of varying ages are crowded together in a dingy room. They shove one another out of the way, elbowing and teasing and jostling for the front spots. You like it because they all look so happy. You know, because one of the Healers pointed it out, that you and the man next door are in the photo, and you wonder who all those other people were and where they are now.
You used to have it up on your bedside table, but it made all your visitors look sad. Now it's in a little album that you leaf through by the early morning light. You look at the woman who used to be you, at the smile transforming her worried features, and you wonder how it felt to be her.
Alice and Frank sat close together and watched the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix file into the room. It was difficult to ignore how pitifully few they were. In the past week, four of their number had been taken away: James and Lily - and poor Peter, of course. And Sirius... Alice was having difficulty reconciling herself to the idea of impetuous, fun-loving Sirius Black as a cold-hearted spy and traitor. He fitted the profile to a certain extent, she supposed, but in most ways it made no sense. And yet he hadn’t denied it. She was as sceptical as the next person of the Prophet's reporting, but she didn’t see how it was possible for Sirius to be innocent, even reading between the lines of the news reports.
She thought of Remus Lupin then, bereft of so many friends, and scanned the room until she found him in a corner. She could see the shadows under his eyes from where she sat, but when he caught her eye he managed a small smile and a wave.
Frank was chatting in an undertone to Dedalus Diggle, whose baggy eyes and shaky hands betrayed his enthusiastic celebrations over the past few days. The room was full of people who were speaking quietly; it was like a funeral, Alice thought. But then, it was something of a funeral, wasn't it? The Order had lost its purpose with Voldemort's disappearance, and now all they had to do was mourn.
The door thudded shut, and Alice looked around. Albus Dumbledore was making his way towards the chair at the front. His brother Aberforth was leaning against the door, looking as surly as ever.
The noise crescendoed and then diminuendoed as people watched Albus expectantly. He stopped to greet people here and there - including Remus, Alice noticed - and so it was several moments before he reached the front of the room. When he did, the silence was instant.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, looking around over his half-moon glasses, "I must thank you once more for giving me your time. I’m sure we have all been very busy over the past day or two." His smile alighted on one or two people who looked the worse for wear, then his expression grew serious. "And what a strange few days they have been. We have all lost friends." Alice determinedly did not look at Remus, and caught Emmeline's gaze instead. They exchanged tight smiles. "We have lost too many friends," Albus continued, "and we must cherish their memories." He didn't allude to Sirius Black, but what was there to say about him? This time, Alice couldn’t help glancing in Remus’s direction, but his expression was unreadable.
"I shall not keep you long," Albus said, "except to implore you to ensure that the deaths, the disappearances, the suffering, the sacrifices, did not happen in vain. Voldemort is gone, at least for now, but his legacy is not. We must remain vigilant. There is still work to be done."
The next photo is of a toddler with wavy brown hair and peaches and cream skin. He crawls in and out of the frame at impossible speeds, and if you catch him in the right mood, he plays peekaboo with you for hours at a time.
This is your favourite photograph, although sometimes you wonder what happened to the little boy. Did he ever grow up?
Alice gazed down at Neville, marvelling at the sleepy trust in his eyes as he sucked at her breast. Her responsibility to him terrified her at times. It seemed so incongruous that she could literally hold a life in her arms, and yet, there he was.
James had been found near the front door of the house where the Potters had been hiding; Lily close by Harry. Nobody knew exactly what had happened that night, but it was clear to Alice that Lily, and probably James as well, had died trying to protect Harry to the last.
Would she be brave enough to do likewise, if it came to it?
Her breast was starting to ache; she shifted Neville around, and he latched onto the other nipple with barely a blink of protest. Well, I certainly couldn't have breastfed two babies! she thought wryly, remembering the conversation she and Frank had had with Albus after last week's meeting.
"Harry is being cared for by his aunt and uncle," Albus had said. "Lily had a sister, if you recall."
"I certainly do. Not exactly her favourite person in the world, was she?" Alice had looked at Frank, unsure where to start. "We were thinking - perhaps we could look after Harry? I feel so-" She had shivered. "It could have been us; we were just lucky. We were so lucky. If we looked after Harry, treated him like our own son, perhaps it would make up for..."
"Alice," Albus had said kindly, "what has happened is nobody's fault except Voldemort's, and you are certainly not responsible for it. As for your offer, it is exceedingly thoughtful of you both, but the only provision that James and Lily made in regard to Harry's care in the event of their deaths was for Sirius to take care of him. In the event," - he sighed - "that has not been possible. His closest relative is his Aunt Petunia."
"And you think Lily and James would like that, do you?" Frank had asked. "You think they'll care for Harry well? According to James, Lily's sister hadn't spoken to her since before she left school."
"Petunia has a son who is almost the same age as Harry and Neville," Albus had said. "I believe it is in Harry's best interests to be brought up outside the magical community, at least for the present. Apart from anything else, it’s possible that Voldemort's supporters will seek him out, to wreak revenge or find out where their master has gone."
"But why will he be safer there than with us?" Alice had asked, frustrated. "We're Aurors! Surely we're better placed to protect him than a couple of Muggles who know nothing about our world."
Albus had patted her arm in that infuriating way of his, and talked of blood and protection, and of his own security measures. Alice wondered, pressing a kiss to Neville's forehead, how her own baby would have fared if she and Frank had been murdered instead of James and Lily. They had agreed that Frank's parents must care for him if the worst happened. Alice liked and admired Augusta Longbottom, and she had a very soft spot for shy Rory, whose favourite entertainment was playing peekaboo with Neville, but she hated the idea of her son being brought up by anyone except her and Frank. The world was a terrifying enough place without being powerless to protect your son from its harshness.
The man in the next cubicle has grey hair and a tired smile which he rarely lets outsiders see. You often spend your quiet evenings together: drawing, flipping through photographs, pressing flower petals or merely sitting in silence.
These are good times. You feel safe with the man in the next cubicle.
At Auror Headquarters, Alice and Frank worked through lists of people associated with the Lestranges. There were plenty of connections to known Death Eaters, but this could be said of anyone who had been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts. They exhausted themselves Apparating from house to house to establish who had been where on nights when atrocities had been committed; who had spoken to whom; which of the Death Eaters who were currently in custody had been close to Bellatrix and her husband. Everything added up, but the totals, frustratingly, produced no proof.
Meanwhile, the heavy wheels of wizarding justice continued to turn. On their fourth wedding anniversary, Frank gave evidence at the trial of Lucius Malfoy and returned home tetchy and disappointed.
"Either he bribed half the Wizengamot or they simply can't believe he's capable of the crimes he was accused of. It was sickening afterwards, watching him work his way around the room like a king."
"Malfoy's got a little boy," Alice remarked, thinking of Neville, who had been left with his grandparents so that his parents could enjoy a few hours alone. "Perhaps some of them were thinking of the family."
"He was caught red-handed," said Frank. "He's just a good actor with a lot of money. At school he was one of those sly bullies you could never quite catch - but he left a lot of terrorised younger students in his wake."
"I remember." Alice nodded. "You could never be certain, but you'd see the way the kids looked at him and you just knew."
"The girls all fancied him at school, too," Frank said bitterly. "You should've seen some of the women today, fawning over him." His arm shook on the kitchen counter. "You'd think everyone had forgotten what happened over the past few years."
Alice put her arms around him and kissed his neck. "If it's any consolation," she said dreamily, "he makes my skin crawl."
Frank hmphed a laugh. "Consolation indeed," he said. "What makes you so wonderfully sensible compared to all those other women?"
"Ah, well," said Alice, smiling up at him, "I have a thing for men who are tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy dark hair. And I really have a thing for men who are impeccably honourable. Especially when they're kind and thoughtful and do their best to please their mothers on Sundays and their wives the rest of the week. There's something very sexy," she murmured, pressing her hips against his, "about a man who's utterly dependable in that way."
"You're pretty damn sexy yourself," muttered Frank. He leaned down to kiss her, his fingers fluttering down the arch of her back and coming to rest on her thighs. "Even," he added breathlessly as Alice unbuttoned his robes and began kissing a path down his chest and belly, "if you do make me sound awfully boring."
"Mmm...no..." she said absently, fingers ghosting over his erection as she pulled him across to the sofa, "I don't think that's the word I'd use."
Your only regular visitors are the old lady and the nice young man. There used to be someone else, a man with a large white moustache who smoked a large pipe and rarely spoke. You liked him, especially because the young man, who'd been a boy then, always stayed close to him. But one day he stopped coming, and the old lady never mentioned him again, although her eyes and nose were red for a long time afterwards.
Alice returned home early on Christmas Eve to find her mother-in-law singing 'I'm a little teapot' in a breathy alto and teaching Neville the actions. Neville was gurgling joyfully as he threw his arm out in an approximation of a teapot handle, and when he flopped onto the carpet to simulate pouring, Alice laughed in delight.
Augusta jumped. "I - was teaching him to sing," she said stiffly. Alice laughed again, and moved forward to cuddle Neville, whose tomato face had broken into a smile at her arrival.
"He loves that song - I think it's brilliant that you sing it to him. Thanks for babysitting again."
"Yes, well." Augusta still looked self-conscious. "Looking after him is always our pleasure, dear."
Alice waved her wand at the kettle, which began steaming. "Did you have a nice day, darling?" she asked Neville. "Did you keep Grandma and Grandpa out of mischief?" He gazed at her with solemn eyes, then smiled when she planted a kiss on his nose. "Where's Rory?" she asked Augusta. "Will he want a cup of tea?"
"Yes, make him one." Augusta's exasperated tone didn't quite mask her pride. "He's in your shed again, being very secretive. I think his surprise is nearly ready, whatever it is."
At that moment, the back door opened, and a rangy man with a shock of white hair and an equally white moustache popped his head through the gap. Neville shouted something unintelligible and held out his arms to his grandfather, who came forward eagerly.
"Hello, wee thing," he said, taking him from Alice and bouncing him gently. "We've had a good day, Neville and I and Augusta - haven't we, darlin'?" He curled a finger into Neville's hand, and Neville chuckled.
"And now your old grandpa's got a wee present for you," Rory continued, sharing a shy smile with Alice. He freed his left hand and fumbled in his robes, located a pocket and brought out a small wooden figurine. "I know I should hae waited for tomorrow, but he'll have lots of presents then," he added apologetically.
Alice forgot about the tea, and craned forward. "Did you make that?" It was a tiny Quidditch player, its robes painted crudely in the blue and white of the Celtic Stars. As the old man opened his palm, the figure took off and zoomed around the kitchen on a tiny broomstick before coming to rest once more in his hand. Neville, who had been watching its progress with fascination, grabbed at it when it came back into range; it took off instantly, circling him but always keeping just out of reach. Alice noted with admiration that the cloak seemed to move along with the figure.
"Rory, that's wonderful! I didn't know you could carve wood, never mind enchant it."
"Ah, well, I have'na done it for years. I thought it would go nicely over his cot; it'll stop in a minute so the bairn can get some sleep. Get him started with the right Quidditch team, too." His eyes twinkled, and she hugged him impulsively.
"You realise he'll be demanding an entire team in a couple of years?"
He grinned. "I'll get working on it."
You often have nightmares, but you never remember what they are about. Sometimes even when you're awake, you glimpse a dark-eyed woman and a baby boy crawling on a blood-soaked carpet. And you scream and scream and scream.
Bellatrix looked overwrought during her interview, but she managed to be as unpleasant as Alice remembered from school. Her answers were littered with insinuations about her interviewers, and the conversation turned into a battle of wits between her and Alice, with Frank unwillingly caught in the middle.
"Where were you on the night of the thirty-first of October?" asked Alice, long after she had tired of the games.
"At home with my husband," Bellatrix replied promptly.
Alice sighed. "Did anyone see you? Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?"
Bellatrix eyed her under heavy lids. "My brother-in-law dropped in for a while. We drank sherry."
"Really?" asked Frank sarcastically. "Perhaps you can produce the bottle for us?"
She smiled. "I fear we finished the bottle; no doubt our house-elf threw it out. Perhaps you'd like to search the local rubbish dump for it?"
"Did you have any idea that the Potters were going to be attacked?" interrupted Alice.
Bellatrix shrugged. "Potter was a foolhardy blood-traitor and his wife was a Muggleborn who never knew when to keep her head down. They were obvious targets, if you ask me."
"When did you first hear of the Potters' murder?"
"In the morning, when we switched on the wireless, like everyone else." Bellatrix smiled viciously. "Such a tragedy. Both so young and talented. Were they friends of yours?"
"Did you think they deserved to die?" asked Alice wearily.
Bellatrix smiled again. "As I said, such a tragedy." She examined her fingernails for a moment and added, "And strange, don't you think? Why them? Why that night? What did He Who Must Not Be Named think to gain by pitting himself against two of his most adept enemies?"
She watched Alice and Frank avidly as she spoke, and Alice's back prickled.
"No one knows," said Frank shortly, "unless you know more than we do."
"Oh, no," said Bellatrix, still staring at him, "I don't understand it at all."
Alice and Frank exchanged glances. Frank nodded.
"I think that'll do for now," said Alice. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Lestrange. We may be back in touch shortly."
Bellatrix wrapped her fur-lined cloak around her and glided across the room. With her dark beauty, she looked like a fairy queen.
"I forgot," she said as she laid a hand on the doorknob. "We had another visitor that night. Barty Crouch."
"Crouch?" For a moment, Alice wondered whether Bellatrix was making a point about the influence she wielded at the Ministry of Magic. Then she remembered. "Which Barty Crouch?"
"The son." Bellatrix smiled sweetly. "He's a good friend of Rabastan's. He also had some of our sherry, in case you feel like going in search of it."
Crouch had already been on Alice and Frank's list, but they moved him up to the top after their unsettling interview with Bellatrix Lestrange. Nevertheless, a chat with him yielded little information beyond the titbits Bellatrix had handed them: he was a friend of Rabastan Lestrange: they had grown up near one another in Kent, and had remained friends despite being Sorted into different houses at Hogwarts. Yes, he knew Bellatrix and Rodolphus, of course he did, and yes, he thought in fact that he and Rabastan had spent some time at their house on the evening of the Potters' murders. No, of course he had never met Voldemort, nor been approached by anyone purporting to be a supporter of his, and he did not think that the Lestranges had, either.
In the meeting with Moody on the following day, they were forced to admit that there was no evidence, solid or circumstantial, to link the Lestranges with Voldemort or James and Lily's deaths. Rodolphus Lestrange had corroborated his wife's story, if with rather less panache, and nobody else they'd spoken to had implicated husband or wife even obliquely.
Moody frowned over their lists for a while, and then sighed. "Put them on the back burner for a couple of weeks," he said. "Let them think we've given up. Come and see me first thing in the morning - I've got another job I'd like to put you on to."
"They're guilty as sin," said Frank.
"Aye," agreed Moody, "I'm sure they are. We'll get them, don't you worry." He looked at them sternly, his scars more pronounced than ever. "You two go home and have a nice relaxing evening. You've had a hard few weeks."
When you wake, you can't imagine what the noise is about. Your first instinct is to stay in bed and hide; perhaps no one will notice you. But you gather your courage and poke your head around the curtains. The Healers are hugging one another; one of them turns towards you, and you see that she is crying.
She hurries over. "It's all right, Alice," she says shakily, and pulls you into a warm cuddle. "He's gone; it's over. It's all over." Unexpectedly, she buries her face in your shoulder, weeping in earnest now. "I'm so sorry," she gasps, "so sorry. I wish we could undo it all. I wish he'd been dead first time around. I wish-"
You pat her shoulder, comforting her the way she's comforted you so many times over the years.
When they reached home, the first snowdrops were out, scattered through the dark flowerbed like stars in the twilight. It's going to be all right, Alice thought.
They ate shepherd's pie by the fire, listening to the wizarding wireless network and talking nonsense to Neville. When Alice came downstairs after putting Neville down for the night, Frank held out a glass of red wine.
"To better times," he said.
She smiled, accepted the glass, and drank.
"To better times."
He's back, the young man with the round face and the kind eyes. He looks serious, and so tired - too young to be so tired - but his face lights up when he sees you.
"Hi Mum," he says and kisses your cheek.
His lips are warm against your skin, and for an instant, you feel like you're twenty-one again.