I love the Underground. It’s a fact I generally keep to myself for fear that people will think me mad, but there are so many things about it I enjoy. I love the speed with which my ticket is eaten and spat out, the gentle chug of the barrier as it permits me entrance to the platform. I love the undulating escalators and the gleaming tiles that line the walls. I love the station names; not merely a list, an intoxicating incantation.

The carriage doors that bid you enter, the comforting beep that warns you of their closure, the satisfaction at getting a seat or the pleasure of swaying along with the beast if you must stand. And then her voice, the electronic goddess telling you where you are going.

“This is a District Line Service to Upminster calling at Putney Bridge, Parsons Green, Fulham Broadway, West Brompton, Earls Court…�

And I am distracted by the headline sported by a fellow passenger’s newspaper. Fog isolates continent. How can a continent be isolated? But I understand the significance, for we have once again been smothered by a thick haze of gloom that we all know will not lift for days. That’s another reason for enjoying the Underground; no matter what is happening above, all remains cushioned from the outside world below. Oh, they talk of attacks and security is high, but he has not yet ventured into the bowels of London.

A young woman is reading, oblivious to her surroundings, while the man next to her examines her cleavage at length. Down the carriage two children are driving their mother to distraction. The train slides below ground, resurfaces and then dives once more for the cover of the earth. I prefer it when we leave the sky behind. I like to see the warp of the tunnel match the warp of the train, perfect partners in this subterranean adventure. If I cock my head just so I can feel part of this conspiracy of curvature.

I wonder what my fellow commuters see in me. Do they see a young woman travelling to another day at the office, their offices? Do they see a Muggle or a witch? If they see a witch then I am in trouble, for my efforts to blend in have failed. My office is much like theirs – no, not much. Perhaps there are similarities in the outdated mismanagement, the jobs for the boys, the stupidity of those at the head of the organisation. Perhaps, like our Minister, their Minister is a woolly-minded fool with only his own prospects at heart. But their Minister is new, fresh, while ours is desperate, jaded. There are rumours at work, the heart of the organisation feels intimidated. We do not know who spies and who does not, but there are always rumours, always threats.

Earls Court, and I dive suddenly from the hive of the train into the metropolis of the underworld, where patience and impatience mingle, collide like unruly atoms. I go down, deeper, seeking a connecting train. I feel the swift wind as I stand on the platform, the gentle press of the crowd as we jostle for the doors. It is of no matter, for we will all cram our bodies into the metal tube and sway together, our odours and dreams intermingling.

“This is a Piccadilly Line Service to Cockfosters calling at Gloucester Road, South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner, Green Park, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square…�

I will alight at Leicester Square and walk the remainder of the way to the Ministry. This journey enables me to stop off and have breakfast at one of the many street cafes, so open, so honest. There are no spies here, no devils to be avoided. I’ll walk up Charing Cross Road and find myself on Frith Street. There is a café there that asks no questions and delivers strong coffee.

The man clinging to the pole by the door is looking at me with a distant smile and I avert my eyes. The darkness dazzles as we run headlong against it. All human life is here, crammed up against itself, fighting for recognition. I never feel more alive than when I am confronted by the Muggles and their simple preoccupations; flirting, living, innocence of the world beyond theirs. It is inappropriate for me to seek their company, but they are intoxicating in their beauty.

At Hyde Park Corner a whole flock of tourists flood the train with their bewilderment. They check maps, listen carefully to the voice of the goddess as she intones the familiar litany, and confer in a strange language that I do not understand. Their eyes are filled with travel’s twin companions; trepidation and delight. I allow my own knowing eyes to range over them, and my heart constricts. There is one there that does not belong. In dark clothes and even darker thoughts, his face turns towards me and I am undone.

I cannot be here. It is not the Muggles I should fear but this man, this servant.My heart backs away, its constriction loosened enough to allow escape.

The running train slows and pauses at Hyde Park Corner and in that instant I leap from the carriage, but he has seen. He knows. For a fleeting moment I look at the track and see deliverance. If I stand here, if I wait, another train will pass through this tunnel and would obliterate me in seconds. I can see, if a try hard enough, the shocked face of the driver, the excitement of the tourists, the frustration of my fellow commuters. Death on the Underground is a rare and divisive thing.

It is too late, in any event, for my black-clad inquisitor has also left the train, anticipating my escape. I am undone, and in my undoing I must guard my secrets. The Order lives and must not be betrayed, especially not by one who professes loyalty to the Dark Lord and to them. He is walking towards me, jaw set in judgement. He draws close, his face a mask that cloaks the devilment within. I feel his words before they are spoken.

“You forget yourself, Eleanor.�

The accusation is a whisper, a caress that does not delight. He has a face born to malicious intent for it is cold and unforgiving, accusatory without words. I am his sister and I loathe him, but cannot disown him.

“You forget yourself, Lucius.�

His hand grips my wrist and I feel his fingers tighten around my sinew.

“Do you know what it would do to me if you were discovered here, with these people? Do you understand your responsibilities?�

“And what are you doing here?�

“I seek.�

And he had found. I did not care to ask if it was me he sought.

My brother is handsome in a cruel way; there is something undeniably attractive about a man possessing the heady combination of looks, power, money, and breeding of the sort that makes certain people take note. He is looking me directly in the eye with that cold gaze that brooks no enlightenment. I do not know what he is thinking, never have. As children we were presented together as the future of the Malfoy name, perfect in every way, but we shared little beyond common ancestry and our parents’ ambition. Our eyes are level, two blonde heads locked in a minor battle for understanding. A scruffy young man approaches, grubby fingers in grubby gloves playing together in desperate anticipation of something to fill them, be it money or food.

“Spare some change?� he asks, coughing to punctuate his sentence. Lucius looks down at him with such a blank expression that I feel even distaste would be an improvement. My hand is released and the beggar given my brother’s full attention.

“Go away.� The words are smooth, blind to any feeling.

“S’all right, mate, no need to look like that.� The beggar shrugs and shuffles away. How he got beyond the entry barriers is beyond me; presumably beggars and thieves have ways and means. Looking at Lucius I wonder what the bedraggled boy saw when I only see emptiness.

“Why,� he hisses, “do you insist on associating with such disgusting Muggle scum?�

“Why do you insist on associating with Wizarding scum? I have nothing to fear from a beggar, but you should know that you have much to fear if your friends take a dislike to you.�

His laughter is forced and hard. “And why would they do that? Are you going to harm my prospects by continuing to mix with the likes of that?� He nods in the direction of the beggar, who has successfully extracted some money from a careworn middle-aged woman. “You are a constant barb in my side, sister, and you become more so as time passes.�

“May I remind you, Lucius, that it was you and not I who chose to have this confrontation. I left the train; you need not have followed me.� It was not hurtful to be spoken to in such a way. In normal circumstances a sister might have expected protection from her brother, not disapproval, but this was not the way between us. “Why are you using the Underground? It is hardly the place for you; surely you have not managed to break the Floo network?�

“Do not mock. I told you; I am seeking.�

“What are you seeking; a better life below ground where you and that idiotic wife of yours belongs? Or are you merely hounding someone to their death? I rather suspect it is the latter.�

I could see his fists clench very slowly, controlled but threatening. He could clench as much as he liked for he would not dare strike me or exhibit any aggression; Lucius has an odd sense of honour, one which he has honed over the years. His exhibitions of violence are all a pretence done for the sake of an audience that would believe in his absolute power. If he were to cause a person damage it would be indirectly and with as little blood tainting his hands as possible. Perhaps I should inform him of Lady Macbeth’s fate, but I do not think he would think it much of a story and would certainly not see himself in the scheming murderess.

And yet, for all his posturing and preening, he does not have absolute power, not with the odious Dark Lord on the loose again. Lucius is once more an underling and this does not sit well upon his face.

“You look tired,� he says, allowing his hands to fall lazily by his side. “Are the Ministry working you too hard, or is it perhaps some other activity?�

Commuters swarm forwards as the rush of another train arrives. There is a sardonic smile on his face now as he waits to see if I will rise to his bait.

“I am only tired of the fact that my brother despises me for merely being who I was meant to be.� The words sound pompous, even to my ears.

He looks at me, his face a question, and then takes my arm. This is not a rough action, rather one meant to remove me from the danger of boarding the train. I pull away and make to step aboard but he grabs my arm again and this time there is real force behind his intentions.

“Let us get above ground.� There is a change, a resolve, about him as he almost drags me away from the carriage. The doors close and relief clouds around his head.

“You wish to be seen in public with your Muggle-loving sister? Really, Lucius, you go too far!�

“On the contrary, Eleanor, you go too far; you always have.� I flinch from him as I see a small hint of some feeling behind his frost-ridden façade. “You could not have done something dramatic and wilful, something that would have made Father lock you up and despatch the key for ever, that would have been too easy for my sister. You had to play by our parents’ rules and subvert them by being who they thought you should be. You have a respectable job at the Ministry, you live quietly, you bring no attention to yourself, but they don’t know about your constant desire to be with Muggles and Mudbloods, do they? I know about your associates. Do not think that just because I have distanced myself from you publicly that I have distanced myself from everything that you do in private. There is a place in London that you go to, is there not? I believe it is a place that you wish to keep secret. I know where it is, Eleanor, and I know why you go there. Now, shall we go above ground or would you prefer to continue on your original journey?�

It does not seem as if I have a choice so we head for the escalators, his hand still clutching my arm in a possessive manner that does not sit well with me. I wonder how much Narcissa knows about him, really knows about him. His activities must keep him away from home for periods of time that she must question. He is a virile man, one who attracts women as bright-coloured flowers attract bees. Like bees, I rather suspect that Lucius’ life contains a mighty sting somewhere. He negotiates the escalator well for one so unused to Muggle contraptions and we stand to the side to form an orderly line of human traffic as it rises to the surface.

Diving into the hubbub that is the station proper, he slides his ticket into the slot and glides out to the freedom of the exit. I follow him, my wonderment at Lucius having something as mundane as a Tube ticket unchecked. He takes my hand and we could be lovers escaping the humdrum for an illicit tryst. Unasked, he has already drawn the attention of several women and it is hard not to feel some pride in his darkly demanding presence.

His hand feels strange in mine and I am flung backwards to find myself land in a memory. I am six and he has just marked his ninth birthday. Our parents have taken us to visit our grandparents at the house that Lucius now owns. Malfoy Manor is imposing in a detached style. It is a house built to impress and I wished my childhood had not been quite so attached to it. There is a river running through the estate, a dominant, fast-flowing river that is a fair reflection of the way the Malfoys have run their affairs down the years; forcefully and caring little for those that they erode on their path to better things. I am clinging to a branch, my coltish legs kicking against the rapid flow of water that is sucking at me, trying to claim me. I hear a crack as the branch shudders and breaks, flinging me out into the water. I am crying, arms flailing against my fate. Tears mingle with freshwater as I sink and bob, feeling river life brush against my dying limbs.

Something lifts me, an unseen force that wrenches me free of the water and flings me breathless onto the steep bank. My lungs struggle to gain mastery over the water that has lodged there and I cough violently, looking around me with bewilderment. My eyes come to rest on my brother’s tall figure, his new broomstick propped idly by his side.

“You should be more careful.� He sneers just a little, far less than is normal. “The water is no place for a weakling like you. I always said you should learn to swim.�

The tears return and then the memory restores me to the present. The feeling of his hand in mine as he led me from the river back to the house is replaced by reality. It was probably the only time my brother showed any real care for me.

We step out into the onslaught of London waking up. People are moving around with purpose, their heads down as they make their way to their offices. Lucius turns me in the opposite direction from that which I would ordinarily have taken and I hesitate.

“Where are we going?�

“We are going away from here.� His answer is less than satisfactory.

“Why? What is there to escape?�

He takes a moment to think about this before inclining his head slightly. When he does answer it is with tight lips and extra steel in his eyes.

“Your intuition is always unerringly accurate. You will not be going to work today, Sister. Come.� He clasped my hand a little harder and pulled us towards a doorway.

“Lucius, you are disturbing me. Your behaviour has always been less than clear, but this is something else.�

“We are going Disapparate and will arrive at Malfoy Manor where we have been all morning and all night. Do you understand?�

“Not at all.�

There was a low rumble in the distance, threatening as thunder but far more ominous. I must have looked startled because he shook his head.

“Do not let it trouble you.�

“But, Lucius—�

As the tug of Apparation overtook me I thought I heard a scream and the shrill shriek of several car alarms, but by then we were gone and around me the luxurious impracticality of Malfoy Manor was solidifying.

He seems more at home once we arrive, a little of the danger has gone from his eyes now that he has his own four walls around him. Four walls is obviously a figure of speech. Malfoy Manor has a great many more walls than that, and all of them exquisitely decorated. We are in the drawing room, the rich purple walls rising about us and punctuated at intervals by our achingly dull ancestors. I leave his side and walk towards the marble fireplace, atop which is the hugely extravagant mirror that some Malfoy or other stole from a European aristocrat in the Middle Ages. My face looks startled by events, as well it might, and I run my fingers through my unruly hair to try and restore some semblance of order.

“You have looked better, Sister,� he says, moving past the huge table that now dominates the room. “You will perhaps want to refresh yourself. Your room is ready, as always.�

“This is new,� I say, indicating the table. “And why is all the furniture thrown against the walls like that? It looks like a makeshift board room.�

“It is, of sorts.� A flicker of something flashes across his face, discomfort, perhaps, or something more akin to fear. Lucius, frightened, I shudder to myself at the notion. “I am expecting some important meetings to take place in the coming months. I needed a large table.�

“Well, you’ve certainly got one.� I glance towards the window, from where some of the gardens can be glimpsed. They stretch, immaculate in design and upkeep, to the sides of the house and backwards. “Why did we have to leave like that?�

“I require you to send an owl to your employer and tell them that you cannot make it into work today.� He is right by my side now, so close I can hear the gentle flutter of his breath as passes my ear. “Tell them that you are unwell, but that you are at your brother’s house and that he is taking care of you. You must make that bit very clear, that I am taking care of you and have been since yesterday.�

“You would have me lie for you, brother?�

“It would not be the first time.�

I pull away from his immediate vicinity, finding a new position below the portrait of Aunt Perpetua. She is a miserable looking old bag, with a nose as long as an oar and teeth to match. A by-blow of a bad marriage, so the story goes, and it makes me wonder if Lucius and I will be considered the same way by descendants many years from now. There is dust on the frame; not much, but enough to show that either Narcissa is not here or is neglecting her duties as mistress of the house.

“Is my nephew at school?� I ask, turning from the portrait to the living Malfoy before me.

“Naturally, as it is term time. His mother is visiting her family in London. We are quite alone.�

“Except for the servants.�

“They have been sent away.� He turns from me, quick enough to hide any expression that has formed on his features. “Please do as I ask, Eleanor, just this once.�

“What is it, Lucius? What have you done?� The house feels uneasy, I realise that now, tuning in my thoughts to the sounds, or lack of them, that would mean things are as they should be. There was no distant hum of servants, no clatter as the gardener passed by the windows with his tools, no odour of beeswax filling the nostrils.

“It is what I cannot have done that brings you here. What I must not be connected to, but what I had to ensure happened.� He catches up with me again and it feels like we are playing some bizarre game of cat and mouse around the drawing room. His hand is stroking my hair before I even realise he has moved. “Eleanor: my own blood, my only blood in the world.�

“You have Draco,� I respond pointedly.

“Sometimes he is not enough.� He lets his hand drop. “Just swear that I was not there today, to anyone who asks.�

“What happened?� The echo of the car alarms is in my ears, the rumbling roll of noise that was coming towards us. “What did we leave behind?�

“Something that was necessary. Death is everywhere, Sister, and today you escaped it, so the very least you can do is stop them from knowing that I was there.� His eyes lock with mine and I can almost feel the understanding flow between us. He has murdered today. I know this as surely as I know my own name. He has murdered Muggles, but he could not stand to leave me there. It would be ungracious to allow a pure blood to die like that, amongst Muggles, classed as a Muggle, perhaps buried as a Muggle.

“Who will ask, Lucius? Who will want to know? You do realise, don’t you, that they have CCTV at these places now.�

“CCTV?� He shakes his head at the acronym and then a light is flicked on in his head. “You mean the recording devices that the Muggles use. They were made useless before the attack.�

“If this is Voldemort’s order then why do you need an alibi?� I do not want him to confirm what I already know. I want him to deny it. I want him to go back to being a vicious little man with a pure blood dream, and not be following a path that will surely lead to his destruction. I do not want him to be as evil as I believe him to be. “Lucius?�

“The Ministry will suspect, and they must do something to appease their opposites in the world of Muggles. My influence only stretches so far and Voldemort cannot protect all of his followers.� He winces at the name. Poor Lucius, I think, so desirous of magnitude and so disappointed that Voldemort reached it before him.

“What of the people you killed?� I ask, wondering when the Order would try to contact me.

“What of them?� He looks nonplussed.

“They are dead, Lucius, simply because you dislike them.�

“Don’t be naïve, Eleanor. They did not die simply because I disliked them. I have no interest in them as long as they keep to their own world and do not try to infiltrate mine. It is when they attempt to sully the bloodlines of the pure, when they attempt magic, when they infringe on my life that I take exception. No, they died because a point had to be made. Their Minister needs his attention drawing to what his people are doing to ours. Look at the weakening of the great families, to the point where there are almost no great families left.� He levels a look at me, one that tells me he knows about my Muggle boyfriends, one that does not shield his disgust with my behaviour. A look that tells me the only reason none of them died was because none of them proposed marriage. I can read a lot in my brother’s eyes, and most of it is ill. “Perhaps, after all, I was fated to find you today, to rescue from the Muggles.� The laugh that follows this is dry, hoarse with mockery.

“I think I will go to my room,� I say, wanting to remove myself from his presence. My wand is in my pocket. One simple curse and all will be done. This stain on the world would be removed. This evil thought of a man would be gone in an instant and I was never here. I was killed on the Underground by persons unknown. I could slip the bonds of my life and go somewhere else, be someone else. No concerns but those of a woman living happily in a cottage somewhere, with roses climbing the door frames and perhaps a Muggle to marry and have children with. All I had to do was take out my wand when his back was turned and my debt to mankind would be paid in full, in one fell swoop.

But he was my brother, my twin soul on this earth, He had absorbed all the evil there had been in our mother’s womb and I had been blessed with the good. What could I do? What would you have done? He was my own blood, my only blood in the world.

“I will bring you tea, on a tray, with flowers.� He laughs and I know that he has won for now. He is secure in having me there, understands as well as I do our bond and its unbreakable nature, in this life or the next.

“Do not bother,� I retort. “I would likely choke on it.�

“Now, now, no need for that. We are one, you and I; let us see how far that takes us.� With a hand on my shoulder he steers me from the room. “We need each other more than you care to admit. I keep your secrets and you will keep mine.�

He smells of rosemary and lemon, fresh and clean as if no taint can touch him. His hair brushes my face and I can smell lavender, feathers of calm in an ocean of disquiet. It is like a pomander of scents blended to cover the real aroma of the man, to mask the heart of darkness that lurks beneath. I feel no threat, but I do feel trapped by obligation.

“You will come down later, perhaps, for a light luncheon. I thought we could go for a ride this afternoon through the parkland.� He brightens suddenly at his new-formed plans for the day, at the notion that he could play the part he liked best, that of the gentleman, with all the power and land his to command.

“On brooms?� I struggle with his conversational style, wondering how he can just forget the destruction he has caused today.

“Horses, my dear sister. When did we ever ride brooms for pleasure?�

“A long time ago, we did ride brooms for pleasure, Lucius. When things where different.�

“As children?� He pauses to recollect, and does so with a false veil over the memories. “We rode across the fields together. I have not forgotten.�

“Perhaps you have forgotten that most of the time you were chasing me, chastising me.�

He grows cold for a moment, not wishing to have his version of events challenged. “I think you exaggerate, Sister.� And with that he turns and is gone. To do what, I cannot guess. Perhaps the owls will start to fly and a sudden, sickening thought grips my bowels.

What if Voldemort decides to pay his faithful servant a visit? What can I possibly say to this creature, this monster? And I know I must send communications of my own, no matter what the risk. I need the Order now. I need them more than I have ever needed them before.