It was not supposed to be this warm on a January night, but this was the least of the things that weren't supposed to be happening.

There was an impeccably-dressed man in Neville's sitting room. He was not supposed to be there; in fact, he defied all rules of probability by being there. They were not supposed to be having this conversation, and Neville was not supposed to be wearing down or considering what the man was offering.

But then the man placed a wand on the table between them, a wand that was no longer supposed to exist, and Neville stopped breathing for a moment. His hand twitched towards it involuntarily.

"I've had it appraised, of course," the man said in a smug tone. "Eleven and a quarter inches, elm and phoenix tail feather. You no doubt recognise it."

Neville gaped openly, forgetting himself. This particular wand had been listed as "missing" for well over twenty-five years now. He'd gone over the case file extensively, almost obsessively, in the time he'd spent with the Aurors. As the Lestranges and Crouch Junior had been apprehended immediately following the crimes against his parents, it was presumed that there had been a fifth Death Eater present - one who had stolen the wand and managed to escape justice. It was a cold case now, and had been closed for more than ten years. Neville licked his lips and looked up to meet the man's eyes. "I'd like to know how you came by my mother's wand."

"I'm sure you would," the man said affably. "And you'll have that, and the wand, if you agree to cooperate."

Neville hesitated for the barest of moments before feeling ashamed and shaking his head vigorously. It was a stick. He wasn't going to give up the little integrity he had left to him for a stick, no matter who it had once belonged to.

The man had seen the momentary crack in his mettle, however, and he continued ruthlessly. "He's still alive, you know. The man who evaded punishment for his crimes. He's done worse since then. No one suspects him - he was never a Death Eater, you see. He still walks free."

"Get out of my house, Lancaster." The note of authority in Neville's voice was rusty; he'd not used it in some time.

Lancaster smiled blandly. "You're currently hiring a new research assistant, aren't you?"

The non sequitur threw Neville off. "I'm sorry?"

"Your laboratory has become too large for one man to handle," Lancaster replied. "And you've asked for permission to hire an assistant. It's been granted." His mouth quirked just slightly. "It must be so difficult, not knowing if any of the applicants will be a peer you can... trust... with the type of research you're doing."

Neville's mouth went dry. Lancaster's eyebrows flicked upwards in a triumphant expression as the implications of what he'd just said sunk in, and he took a sip of his tea. Neville did the same, if only to work some moisture back onto his tongue.

It was very plain that, whether Neville cooperated or not, Lancaster would get what he wanted in the end. That was how it always worked when the Brotherhood of the Sphinx wanted something. And whether Neville was the one who passed on the information or not, there was no doubt that the blame for any fallout would land squarely on his shoulders - and he was in no position to be able to deflect it without help. That help was unlikely to be forthcoming from any entity except the one sitting directly in front of him.

They could not have caught him in more compromising circumstances than if he had been trussed, tied with a bow, and delivered to Lancaster's doorstep.

Neville took a breath. "Pretend for a moment I've said yes," he said, a part of his soul dying a bit as he did so. "What, precisely, would I need to do?"

"You're cultivating Merrybud to be less addictive for use in pain potions," Lancaster said immediately. He raised an eyebrow at the look of distaste on Neville's face. "Problem, Mr Longbottom?"

"Don't marginalise it," Neville said despite himself. "Merrybud makes it sound harmless and whimsical, and it's anything but. Call it by its herbological name: Euphorico fatalis." He stressed the Latin of the last word. "Or you could call it by one of its other more accurate nicknames. Death Knell is a good one. So is Red Death."

Lancaster looked amused. "Very well. One would assume, since you've had recent breakthroughs, that you've isolated what makes Euphorico fatalis so terribly addictive." He emphasised the name mockingly. Neville bobbed a single nod, his stomach sinking as he anticipated what was coming next. "Which means that, in theory, you could cultivate a variety that is even more addictive than its natural counterpart."

"Don't know why I would." Neville swallowed. "It already kills people who can't get enough of it without any help from me."

"Of course. But you could, with the correct... impetus."

There was a long stretch of silence. "I could," Neville conceded reluctantly.

"And that's all we want," Lancaster said magnanimously.

"I'm sure. And you'll want enough of it to distribute, I'd imagine." Neville felt ill.

"Not precisely. We'll be using this for a more... targeted audience, rather than widespread distribution." Lancaster chuckled at the look of incredulity that Neville was unable to hide. "It's hardly good business if we kill our most faithful customers, now is it?"

Neville shook his head. "I don't know why I'm even considering this."

"Then stop considering. We both know what your answer will be." Lancaster sat back and steepled his fingers, watching Neville expectantly.

Neville licked his lips, his eyes dropping to the wand on the table again. When it came down to it, the appearance that he had a choice was sheer fiction. He had as much of a choice as a dragonfly in a hurricane. Either he accepted now, and things would go smoothly, or he tried to turn it down, and life would become even more difficult than it already was. In the first option, he would simply be disgusted with himself forever. Well, that wasn't exactly new territory; he could simply add it to the list of various things he'd done in his personal gallery of self-loathing. If he chose the second option, he may very well feel good about himself for the month or so before he ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.

He tried to summon even the tiniest flicker of anger that he was in this situation to begin with, but he simply didn't have the energy. Feeling numb and more defeated than he had in years, he nodded, not looking up to meet Lancaster's eyes.

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Lovely." Lancaster rose from his chair; Neville did not watch. "I'll be sending an associate to take care of all the pesky details tomorrow. If you don't mind, I'll show myself out." Neville gave no indication that he'd heard; a low hum of disbelief had filled his head and thrummed through his chest.

He'd just struck a deal with one of the most dangerous organised crime rings in Europe.

And he felt nothing.

"Oh, and before I forget," Lancaster said jovially from the doorway, "I would like to personally extend to you my trust that you'll keep quiet about this little bit of business."

Neville gave a single curt nod, not lifting his eyes.

The curse hit him square in the chest; his breath burned in his lungs as the air was driven from them in an agonizing wheeze. He doubled over in his chair, hands clutching his throat, and as suddenly as it had come over him, it was gone.

Neville looked up with a glare, anger easier to feel than fear, and opened his mouth to demand an explanation - to find he could not draw a breath to speak.

"Personal trust is one thing," Lancaster continued as though nothing had happened. "The trust of the Brotherhood is something you will need to earn. Do stop that; you'll suffocate if you keep trying." With a swirl of his cloak, he left.

Neville tried for a shaky breath and found he was able to draw one; panting, he straightened and tried to slow his breathing, his heart pounding in his ears. Still blinking in shock, he took a careful inventory. Nothing felt strange or different. Feeling slightly foolish, he tried an experimental mutter to himself.

His breath once again froze in his chest, his lungs refusing to draw more and his tongue cramping in his mouth. He could not even force out a grunt of pain. It wasn't until his intent to speak had faded that everything relaxed.

Hand shaking, he reached up to cover his mouth in a futile effort to quell the terror licking at his heart.

They didn't even need to buy his silence. They could just impose it.

And he had let them.

The sharp knock at Neville's door startled him badly enough that he banged his knee on the low table. Out of habit, he tried to stifle the exclamation of pain and ended up choking on his own tongue. The anger he'd had trouble summoning earlier was boiling just below the surface now, with no outlet he could ascertain.

He wrenched open the door. He assumed that it was his dour expression that made Harry take a step backwards with a sharp intake of breath before he peered more closely.

"Bugger. We didn't think they'd come after you this quickly. I'm sorry." Neville raised an eyebrow at this, stepping aside to let Harry into the house.

Harry looked around, obviously uncomfortable. "How long ago did he leave?"

Neville shrugged and gestured at his throat. Harry looked confused for a moment before comprehension dawned on his face.

"Oh, God. He's got you Stifled, hasn't he?"

Neville nodded, ignoring the stiffness that built in his neck as he did so. He gestured to a chair in the sitting room, and Harry took a seat reluctantly. Neville sat across from him and arranged his expression into something that he seriously hoped said "Explain."

Harry cleared his throat. "The Ministry has finally given the all-clear to go after the Brotherhood, in full force. But... you know how the Brotherhood is. They're not just Bryce Lancaster; they're his hundreds of lackeys and underlings. We can't just arrest the head on a trumped-up charge; he wouldn't spend five minutes in a holding cell before a solicitor got him out."

Neville made a Yes, I know this; hurry along gesture, and his hand twinged slightly. Harry took a breath. "Right. We need somebody on the inside. We've been planting seeds for six months, trying to coax him into taking in one of our people - of course, he's too suspicious for that. But one of our sources let me know not half an hour ago that he seemed to have latched on to you, because of your..." He cleared his throat. "Your history. With the Aurors. And your current research. And probably a dozen other things he ferreted out." His green eyes were particularly piercing. "I'm going to assume that I just missed him, and that we're probably being watched."

Neville nodded, and then his hand flew to the back of his neck as it cramped warningly.

"Don't - don't answer anything," Harry said, the calm register of his voice rising slightly in concern. "Trying to communicate in any way will just eventually paralyze you." He shook his head. "I'm terribly sorry, Neville. We should have realised that he'd spring at the first opportunity. We should have had men posted the moment we heard." The breath he drew sounded shaky. "It's a damn good thing I'm not in uniform; I hope whoever is watching thinks this is a social call."

The conversation lapsed as Neville set his jaw. He hadn't had a social call in months, not since he'd begun his research for St Mungo's. Harry had no doubt made things worse by bursting in with no backup - anyone with half a brain knew that he was being groomed as next Head Auror, and he was instantly recognizable whether was wearing a uniform or not. There were a lot of pointed things he wanted to say right now, and his throat clenched dangerously as each one flew through his brain.

Harry sighed. "Okay. Only give any indication if what I'm saying is dead wrong. Lancaster has... commissioned you. You will, essentially, be working for him. The Brotherhood will be keeping a close eye on you." His brows pinched as though what he was about to say pained him. "It's been a few years, but you're not so long out of active duty that you've forgotten how to work undercover."

Neville's eyebrows flew up in surprise. Harry held up a hand.

"I know. I don't want to ask it of you. I know you're not an Auror anymore. I know. But you're all we have to work with." Harry wiped his mouth unnecessarily. "We only got the authorization to go after them because they've been very quiet lately. Intelligence indicates that they're planning something big. Very big. And very disruptive. We need to know what is going down, and time is not on our side."

Neville sighed heavily through his nose, jaws still clamped together tightly enough that his temples were beginning to throb. What he really wanted to do was be sick. What he actually did, trying not to think of what it meant, was extend his hand for a handshake.

Harry didn't take it. "I wouldn't do this to you if we had any other option."

Neville offered his hand again. Harry took it this time.

"It's not going to be easy, especially if they have you Stifled. But maybe... with some Occlumency, you might be able to report something. Maybe in writing? Can you write? No, of course you can't, that's communication too." Harry shook his head again. "Damn. I don't know as much about Stifling as I should. I'll have one of my team work on it. There has to be a way to get around it."

Neville did not have high hopes for that. He suppressed a shrug.

Harry rose from the chair, and Neville mirrored him. "There's no point in briefing you right now. The entire situation has changed if he's already made contact. I'm going to head back to the office and work something out. Meet one of my men at the old rendezvous at nine tomorrow morning - he'll be plainclothes. We should have a plan ready for you by then."

There seemed to be no point in responding. Harry awkwardly reached out and gripped Neville's upper arm for a moment. "If it makes you feel any better... if you hadn't resigned, you'd be my first choice to send in there. Despite everything." He swallowed, but his eyes didn't leave Neville's. "You were the most competent man we had. Nobody regrets your resignation more than I do. Not even you."

Neville's throat thickened with something that had nothing to do with the curse. Harry took a deep breath and patted Neville once on the shoulder.

"Right. Tomorrow, nine o'clock. We'll take care of you, Neville. I promise you won't be going in there alone. If they contact you again tonight, cooperate with them for now. Try to earn their trust - we're going to need it. I'll have some people watching the house."

Neville watched the door close behind Harry before staggering to the bathroom, where, sweating with anxiety, he was violently - and silently - ill.

He was just a herbologist. Whatever he'd once been, that was what he was now. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning his back against the wall and trembling. He couldn't do any of this; he couldn't bear the weight of all the nooses that had been looped round his neck in the past few hours. His back clenched and his breath began to come in the short bursts that he recognised immediately as an impending panic attack, one that would likely render him near catatonic for hours if he let it get a grip.

He was fairly certain that he had a Calming Draught in the kitchen. Through sheer force of will, he hoisted himself to his feet and half-walked, half-stumbled his way there. So intent was he on getting to the frosted glass flask in the cupboard that he did not register the man sitting at the table until his hand had closed around the neck of the flask. He froze, his stomach giving another sickening lurch as he spun to face the table.

"It's bad form to go behind our backs with the Aurors," the man at the table said amiably. "Were we a different sort of people, that may have made things very uncomfortable for you."

Neville swallowed, the taste of bile scalding the back of his throat. His eyes watered, his eyelids open so wide he did not think he could blink. The man stood and walked menacingly over to Neville, stopping in front of him.

"However, it is my pleasure to inform you that you will be enjoying the hospitality of the Lancasters tonight. These little social visits are no doubt distracting in a time when you need your concentration." The man held out an arm, and unable to think properly, Neville took it.

The flask fell to the floor and shattered as the crack of Disapparition echoed off the tiles of the empty kitchen.

Neville could not ignore the sunbeam on his face any longer. It was burning through his eyelids, treating him to a vista of red rivers on orange fields that made continued sleep impossible.

Still, he could pretend. He burrowed into the silk bed sheets with a contented little sigh. It had been so long since he'd had a deep sleep like this. He normally was in the laboratory at half six, which had destroyed his ability to lie in on weekends, and he was such a light sleeper that the slightest thing woke him anyway -

He was supposed to be somewhere at nine. What time was it now?

His lashes fluttered, and he reluctantly opened one eye to peek at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

It was not there.

And he did not own silk bed sheets.

He was very suddenly and sickeningly awake, sitting bolt upright with adrenaline coursing through his veins like icy water. His eyes had not had time to focus before a hand was on his shoulder, and through his gasping, he could hear a maddeningly calm female voice repeating, "Steady there. Calm down. You've been very distressed, but everything is fine."

Slowly, he began to take control of himself again, and he gulped great breaths as he looked to his right at the owner of the voice, seated in a chair by the bedside. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes as her father, the same prominent nose and pale complexion. Just in time, he stopped himself from trying to say her name.

She introduced herself anyway. "I'm Gloria Lancaster. It's good you're finally awake; there's a lot to do." She gestured at a narrow door on the other side of the small room. "There's a bathroom through there. The drawers hold the clothes you'll be wearing during your stay. In one hour, a house-elf will be here with your breakfast. An hour after that, you will be led to your laboratory. You'll find that we've relocated all your samples and equipment as well as your research materials. Your meals will be brought to you. If you require anything else, tell my father tonight when he summons you. You are not to leave your laboratory until then." She did not bother to ask if he understood; she simply rose and left the room.

The bathroom was the same stark white with black accents that his room had been. Neville turned the tap in the shower to as hot as he could stand, and then he let the water run over his shoulders and back while he tried very hard not to think. It was pointless, of course; his mind raced as the useless adrenaline went sour and left him feeling shaken and weak. He felt no cleaner as he toweledtowelled himself dry and brushed his teeth.

The clothes were the barest of necessities: white cotton pants, trousers, and undershirt, with white laboratory work robes over the lot. Atop the chest of drawers was his wand, and he was immediately shamed by the wave of gratitude he felt toward his captors for allowing him to keep it. He chided himself. That was the first step to a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome, and if he was supposed to be undercover...

Except he wasn't undercover. To be undercover, he had to have some sort of control over the situation. He possessed absolutely no control - none, not even a speck.

He clasped his hands together to stop their trembling and gave himself a mental shake. This was no different than years ago at Hogwarts. In fact, he was in a better situation now: the Lancasters did not want to kill him, and he no longer had any family left alive for them to use as coercion. He had something they wanted, and only he could give it to them. While that held true, he did have control.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to get him through breakfast without gagging, and it was with a straight back that he followed the nameless Brotherhood lackey through the winding halls of the Lancaster Estate to the greenhouse in one of the inner courtyard gardens.

 

 

"I can't do anything unless you allow me to write," was the first thing Neville said that evening when Lancaster lifted the Stifling Curse.

"I'm afraid not," Lancaster said, gesturing for the house-elf to pour him a brandy.

"Then you'll get nothing of quality. I need to make notations. I can't keep track of four hundred seedlings in my head, not with all the variables I have to monitor, and if you want me to deliver, you have to give me the tools I need." Neville's stomach quailed - making demands of Lancaster was akin to suicide. His voice remained surprisingly steady.

"Might I suggest you use smaller sample sizes, then?" Lancaster replied laconically. He took a sip of his brandy. "You abused my trust two nights ago, Mr Longbottom. I have to assume that, if I give you the slightest leeway, you will abuse it again. Neither you nor I can afford that."

Two nights ago? So he'd been out cold for a whole day and two nights. Surely Harry and the rest of the Auror department - along with everyone else in Magical Law Enforcement that Harry had sway over - were trying to figure out a way to extract him. "You have a guard watching my every move," Neville pressed, forcing his stomach to lie still. "I have no doubt the greenhouse is warded, too. I can't sneeze without you knowing it, and you'll know in about three seconds if anyone else lifts the Stifling." He took a deep breath. "I can't do what you're asking without proper notes. Be reasonable."

Lancaster studied him with chilling, emotionless blue eyes until Neville had to look away. "Very well. I will consider your request." He took a long, slow sip of his brandy. "And are the facilities up to your requirements?"

"Mostly." If he was honest with himself, he'd once have sold his soul to work in a laboratory of this calibre. Now that he actually had sold his soul for it, he was keenly aware that it had not been worth it. Neville hesitated for a moment before adding, "But the greenhouse is freezing. There's only so much I can do if it's too cold for seeds to germinate."

Lancaster nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have the heating charm refreshed on it tomorrow. It's been years since we've used that greenhouse for anything but storage." He set his brandy snifter down delicately and clasped his hands together. "Do you understand what it is you'll be doing for us?"

"Not... not exactly, no." Neville licked his lips. "You asked me to propagate a variety of Euphorico fatalis that's even more dangerously addictive than it already is. But I'm afraid we never got down to the specifics."

"Specifics." Lancaster sounded amused. "Those will be granted on a 'need to know' basis, Neville." The hairs on the back of Neville's neck prickled as Lancaster used his given name. It somehow reminded him of rough hands catching on silk. "For now, what you need to know is this: we require a compound that will hook its user after a single encounter. We must be able to distribute this compound without the intended user being aware of it, and we shall need enough for seventy-seven initial doses, after which point, a more... traditional means of distribution will be required."

"Impossible." Neville fought the urge to clap his hand over his mouth. Lancaster's face remained impassive, but the nearly imperceptible twitch of a single eyebrow spoke volumes. "Do you know the logistics of refining narcotics? I can get maybe half a dose from a dozen plants, and it takes weeks. You can't use duplicating spells, because it won't duplicate the ley matrices that make the compound a magical narcotic in the first place. I'd need -" he did some quick calculations, nearly forgetting where he was for the moment - "eighteen hundred plants, give or take, and that's assuming they all produce viable seed pods, so bump it to two thousand. And that's assuming..." He trailed off as Lancaster held up a hand.

"How it has to happen does not interest me in the slightest," the man said calmly. "Just see that it does."

"I'm saying I can't." A flutter of panic licked at the bottom of Neville's ribs. "It isn't logistically possible."

The blue eyes bored into Neville's, and he could not look away. "You will make it possible." Lancaster looked down to cut the end off a cigar. "You will be furnished with whatever tools you require to do so. If it is manpower you need, I can provide you with house-elves that will do exactly as they are told. But you will have seventy-seven doses of the compound I require ready for me to use by the Spring Equinox."

"By the..." Neville pressed his palms to his eyes before dropping his hands incredulously. "That's nine bloody weeks! I won't even have proper specimens for grafting by then! I don't know how you got wind of me, but somebody vastly overestimated my capabilities!"

The expression on Lancaster's face did not change. "These are the terms of our agreement. Seventy-seven doses by the Spring Equinox."

"And if I can't deliver?" His breath was coming more quickly now, to match the tattoo of his heartbeat.

"You don't want to learn the answer to that question. If I were you, I'd dismiss that question entirely and put all your mental energies towards your current project."

"I'm - I'm not some Herbology genius!" Neville insisted, voice breaking on the last syllable. He swallowed hard and continued desperately. He had to make Lancaster understand. "I'm just a bloke who's good with plants! I can't do what you're asking of me!"

"Do you know what your problem is, Neville?" Neville nearly winced as Lancaster spoke his name again. "You get overexcited far too easily. I think you need a solid night's rest."

Before Neville could speak another word, the Stifling Curse had hit him again - the bastard must have cast it from beneath his desk. Still doubled over with the force of it, he felt a firm hand on his arm begin to tug him out of the room.

He allowed himself to be lead to his quarters, numb with disbelief. The click of the deadbolt on the door registered somewhere, and he knew he was alone in the dark room, without a lamp or candle. The small window let in a little light, which illuminated a flask on the bedside table. Neville immediately recognised the effervescent pale turquoise of a Calming Draught. Without a single thought for his safety, he popped the cork out of the neck and tossed the entire flask back in a single swallow.

Tendrils of warm well-being curled within his torso, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

He could handle this. It would take a few days of frenzied grafting, but he could potentially have the specimen he needed in three weeks, now that he knew which variables needed manipulating. From there, it was a matter of volume. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, threading his fingers together to cease their trembling as he let the potion work its way through his system.

He'd handle this. He'd make it work.

He didn't really have any other options.

 

 

It was two days before he walked into the greenhouse in front of his guard to find three eagle-feather quills in a neat row on the desk. His heart leapt at the sight, and he hurriedly took one up and experimentally scribbled his name on a scrap of paper. The relief at his hand remaining free of the debilitating cramps was profound to the point of moving him nearly to tears; he blinked hard before forcing himself to lay the quill back down on the desk for the time being. Now was not the proper time.

Nor was it the proper time as the house-elf removed the lunch tray a few minutes past noon. Anxiety was beginning to fray at Neville's nerves, made all the worse by his inability to let it show. He calmly went through the motions of grafting seedling after seedling, the movements automatic and requiring little thought. He instead bent his entire mind towards what would happen a few hours hence, should the occasion arise.

Twilight had begun to darken the edges of the sky when he took a steadying breath and began tidying the potting bench of his clippings. Heart in his mouth, he strode over to the cages of test subjects that lined one wall of the laboratory, scanning until he found the one that held a single fat brown rat.

Rat in hand, Neville sat at the desk and pulled one of his numerous notebooks toward him before depositing the rat on the desktop, bending his head over a page.

Test subject 1A currently showing no signs of withdrawal.

This wasn't test subject 1A. Neville had named this rat long before he realised how egregious that error was; when he had found that he couldn't bring himself to actually test dangerous narcotics on the chubby and feisty rodent, he'd reassigned Rascal to be the mascot of his laboratory instead. It was likely Neville's imagination, but Rascal seemed much cleverer than the placid white and black rats that occupied the other cages.

Well, here was the chance to test that.

After a few more minutes of writing a completely false report in the notebook, Neville stole a glance at the guard slumped on a stool in the corner. The timing was perfect; the guard was more interested in watching for the house-elf that would bring the dinner tray for them than watching his charge. Neville turned back to the notebook, and on the bottom corner of the page, he wrote two words.

Neville did not dare turn around again to check if the guard was watching; that would look far too suspicious. Instead, very carefully, he tore the corner of the paper away, rolling it between his fingers into a miniscule scroll.

Now was the tricky part. Rascal had sat on his haunches, watching this all progress with what Neville decided to believe was patient interest. Almost holding his breath, Neville drew his wand.

He wasn't certain this would work. He'd never had the opportunity to cast the Imperius Curse before, and he wasn't altogether confident it could even be cast nonverbally. He didn't even know if the Stifling would allow him to give direction once he'd cast it. But, unless Harry saw fit to smuggle him an owl, this was the only option Neville could come up with.

He pointed his wand at Rascal, who sniffed the tip curiously. Imperio.

Rascal grew very still, his eyes glassy.

Take this. He offered the tiny rolled-up paper in his open palm; Rascal grasped it in its forepaws and stuffed it into its mouth. When it gets dark, leave this place. Give that to the human that smells and looks like this. He tried to impart the image of Harry as he would be seen by a six-inch-tall creature, along with the scent of his aftershave.

"What are you doing?"

Neville nearly jumped out of his skin. The guard had risen from his stool and was slowly walking over to the desk. Mind racing, Neville grabbed a quill. Diagnostic spells, he scrawled on a blank page, heart pounding.

The guard gave him a considering look, and then he turned to go back to his seat. Neville only barely held back the sigh of relief as he rose and returned Rascal to his cage, carefully leaving the door unfastened.

There were a lot of things that could go terribly wrong. Neville tried not to think about them as the house-elf appeared with the dinner tray, but his mind refused to obey. Rascal may not be able to find a way out of the greenhouse, let alone the estate. Despite the indelible ink, the paper might grow too soggy for the message to be read. Rascal might offer the message to the first black-robed, Silk Noir-scented wizard he came across.

But, if everything worked exactly right, then sometime tonight, Harry would be reading two very important words, and he would hopefully understand what they meant.

The first wasn't really a word; it was Neville's badge number from years ago. He hoped Harry would remember that, and - paired with his handwriting - know that Neville was at least safe enough to send a message.

The second word was what sent chills up Neville's spine whenever he thought of it. Because, of course, seventy-seven doses by the Spring Equinox could only be intended for one group of people, and he suspected that Lancaster knew Neville would work it out. Hopefully, Lancaster didn't know that Neville would also work out a way to tell the Aurors who the Brotherhood's plot was targeting.

Neville chewed a bite of chicken that tasted like ashes. In his mind, he could still see the two words in the bottom corner of his notebook, in tiny precise lettering:

300780NAL
Wizengamot

Rascal had not returned by the next morning. Neville chose to consider this a good sign - mostly because he did not wish to contemplate the alternative. But the cage remained empty for the entire day, and the next. Neville's spirits fell every time he glanced over at the cage, and by the end of the fifth day, he was forced to conclude that his attempt had failed.

Well, there was nothing for it, he thought. He'd just have to do what he'd been brought here to do, that was all. If only that did not grate so painfully against his conscience.

Just how much it grated was made sickeningly obvious one evening as Neville stood before Lancaster's desk, attempting to appear contrite. The Stifling Curse had not yet been lifted; it was a private game, now, for Lancaster to force Neville to stand silently and wait. Neville resisted the impulse to chew on the inside of his cheek in frustration.

Lancaster appeared to be in a good mood tonight, though; he only took a few draws on his cigar before waving his wand negligently and lifting the curse.

"It has been a few days. I trust you are doing well?"

"Reasonably. There isn't much to do while I wait for this generation to mature." Neville did not mention that it had been four days since he had last been summoned, and that the enforced silence had been driving him mad. He refused to give Lancaster the satisfaction.

"I'm sure you're putting your time to good use." Lancaster took a long, slow sip of his brandy. Neville had not been invited to sit, so he stood, like a child being chastised.

"Actually, yes. I believe I've thought of a mechanism of delivery." Neville knew he sounded pompous, but he couldn't help it - the urbane and polished surroundings and the insufferable false nobility that Lancaster affected brought out the worst in him.

Lancaster looked blandly at him over the lip of his brandy snifter. "Oh?"

Holding up his left hand, Neville nodded. He had not bothered to wash it when the summons had come, and it was splotched with dark azure. "Yes. Ink." Lancaster's face remained impassive, but he set his snifter down. Neville could tell he had the man's full attention, and he suppressed the urge to lick his lips and swallow.

Instead, Neville continued. "Even with the best quills, ink inevitably gets everywhere. It's how you could always tell which of the Aurors had spent all day doing paperwork, and who had been out in the field. It's easy to smuggle in, and completely innocuous. The refined compound is water soluble, so it will blend perfectly with ink, but the magic in it seeks out nervous tissue. No matter how fast a drop of it on skin is wiped off, the compound has already penetrated and is doing damage."

"And a drop will be enough for the intended effect, you think." The expression Lancaster pinned him with was dubious.

Neville shook his head. "Something of that concentration would be damn near caustic. But over an entire day or week of slow exposure... yes, I think it would work. And then you avoid the sudden inexplicable euphoria, but you get the same withdrawal symptoms." He paused. "It... is the withdrawal symptoms you're going for, right? You're trying to get them hopelessly addicted to something only you can supply?"

"Something along those lines." Those cold blue eyes studied Neville intently. "I would not have considered ink. You have a mind for this sort of thing, Neville."

Trying not to show how deeply that statement wounded him, Neville swallowed. "I suppose so. You'll need to lay some groundwork. Otherwise, the Wizengamot won't have used enough of the ink by the time they sit on the equinox."

If Lancaster was surprised, he did not show it. He took a steady draw on his cigar, his eyes closed. "I never told you the Wizengamot was our target."

A twinge in Neville's lower back warned him that he was treading into dangerous territory. He ignored it for now. "There are seventy-seven active members of the magisterial branch of the Wizengamot. They traditionally sit to pass new laws and repeal old ones beginning on the Spring Equinox." He shrugged. "I assumed you were going to try and subvert them, since laws require a unanimous Wizengamot ruling if they're to be kept from a general population vote - and I assume any legislation you'd want introduced wouldn't survive a general vote."

Lancaster's chuckle was chilling. "You do have the knack for this kind of business." He sipped at his brandy, keeping an amused eye on Neville. "Not quite. You'll recall that there are also seventy-seven members on the judiciary council of the Wizengamot, which also requires a unanimous ruling to release a convicted criminal. There is an associate of mine whose appeal will be heard after the magisterial branch is adjourned for the day on the equinox." He tapped a finger on the side of his snifter. "But I like your idea better."

The hairs on the back of Neville's neck stood up, and he could feel cold sweat bead on his back. "That - I wasn't intending to -"

"That will be all for the evening, Neville. I'd like to reflect upon the opportunity you have introduced."

Neville could hardly differentiate the curse settling into his bones from the clenching of his back. He grew so dizzy from hyperventilation that he had to lean against a wall for support halfway up the stairs, prompting an exasperated sound from the guard leading him to his room. He had barely slammed the door before grabbing for the flask that was somehow always there when he needed it - perhaps one of the house-elves charged with his well-being knew what signs to look for.

Even after draining the Calming Draught and sitting on the edge of the bed, the dread that tingled at his fingertips did not dissipate. Panic attack fended off for now, he slowly lowered his face into his hands, and he would have groaned if he could.

He'd managed to turn a simple case of playing the court system into a full Ministry takeover with a single sentence, and he'd given Lancaster the highly efficient means to do so.

It was another lively day of literally watching plants grow. The spell that made the plants mature, bloom, and generate a seed pod before his very eyes could not progress too quickly, or the plant would not get the required nutrients from the soil, and the seed pod would be worse than useless for his purposes.

His purposes. Neville felt like sneering at himself. They were Lancaster's purposes, not his - and yet they had to be his purposes, too, if he wanted to continue breathing. And much as he hated to admit it, he did not know if he was willing to die to prevent Lancaster gaining power over the Ministry.

He spent the morning glaring moodily at the bright lavender blossoms and enumerating the various ways in which he was a failure at being a decent human being. Lunch had come and gone, and he was about to get down to some quality self-loathing when the door to the greenhouse opened again and admitted, inexplicably, Gloria Lancaster.

Neville had not seen her even once since he had awoken in his new living arrangement for the first time several weeks ago. Lancaster had not made any reference to his daughter, and Neville had not asked. Seeing as how he spent the hours of his days in either the greenhouse laboratory or his tiny bedroom, it did not surprise him that he had not seen her. Her sudden appearance, however, was greatly puzzling.

"You may go," she was saying curtly to the guard, who had been staring into space until Gloria had entered. He started to protest, but Gloria levelled a cool look at him that could rival her father's. The guard sputtered a moment more before stepping out of the greenhouse.

Gloria stared at Neville's bemused expression evenly for a moment before pulling up a stool of her own next to his and perching upon it, legs crossed at the knees. "Mr Longbottom."

Neville raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Folding her hands in her lap, she said, "I know you're Stifled, but you can write, yes? That will be more than sufficient for your responses." She picked up a quill and notepad from the desk and placed them firmly in his hands. "Now. You have something of mine. You are also in a situation you'd rather not be in. We seem to be in positions to help one another."

Neville stared blankly for a moment, and then he gripped the quill. I don't have anything of yours.

"Yes you do. My father gave it to you after he took it from me." She leaned forward, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. "My wand."

It took a moment for the words to sink in before his stomach dropped. The quill in his fingers trembled. That wand belonged to my mother. It's mine by inheritance.

"I know who it belonged to," Gloria snapped. "I can get a wand appraised as well as my father can. But it's not yours. It's mine by Rights of Use, which I'm sure you know supersedes rights of inheritance."

Neville gritted his teeth and forced his fingers to relax to avoid snapping the quill in half. She was right. If the wand had allegiance to her, she was the legal owner. And how did you happen to get this wand?

"My father gave it to me when I turned eleven." There was the tiniest note of defensiveness in the statement.

And where did he get it?

"He said he won it in a duel." Her unwavering gaze was vastly unsettling. "I think he lied. I think we both know where he got the wand, even if we haven't got a shred of evidence."

Neville sat perfectly still for a very long time. Something ugly was building in his chest, some force of frustration at the fact that everyone seemed to think they could use him as a piece in their incomprehensible game. But then, that's what he'd always been. Always so good at doing what he'd been told, doing what was required of him because no one else would. He unclenched his jaw and set the quill to the paper again. He formed each letter carefully and slowly, knowing what he was conceding with every word. So what do you want me to do? I don't exactly have it on me.

"Without a wand, my father can effectively keep me a prisoner. Much as he is keeping you." She leaned forward again until her mouth was nearly next to Neville's ear. "I have much more reliable ways of communicating with the outside world than anything you could cobble together. If I can get you out..."

You could let me out right now.

Gloria threw back her head and laughed. "With the wards he's set on this greenhouse? Can't you feel them, Longbottom? You'd be struck mad trying to step out of that door without his permission, and I don't have a wand to lift them. And don't even suggest using yours; don't think he hasn't taken measures against that."

You got in here.

"These wards aren't for me. Those are around the perimeter of the house." She sounded bitter. "But don't feel left out; you have plenty of wards tuned to you around the perimeter as well."

And why is he keeping you prisoner?

Gloria's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not, exactly. I'm just not allowed to leave." She gave every indication that she was not going to continue, but Neville did not look away. Gloria matched him stare for stare before letting out a tiny frustrated sigh. "He thinks I disapprove of what I stand to inherit."

You disapprove? Neville was intrigued despite himself. It was entirely possible he'd found himself an ally.

"I don't want to inherit a castle built on sand," Gloria retorted, "which is what the Brotherhood has become. It has fallen from a position of power and invisible menace to a farcical collection of aimless petty criminals. We are a joke, largely operating on the recognition of what we once were." She paused to take a breath, grounding herself. "My father is the largest obstacle to returning to a force that demands and deserves respect. He is too impressed with visible power and its pretty wrappings. If he can be... removed from the picture..."

Neville wanted nothing more than to bang his forehead against the desk. This was mad. Just how many directions was he going to be pulled before he went well and truly insane?

He set the quill to the parchment once more, but before he had a chance to write anything, the greenhouse door slammed against the wall forcefully as it opened. Lancaster's bulky frame filled the doorway, his face that same unnerving impassive mask, but behind his eyes boiled a fury that made Neville swallow.

"Good afternoon, Father," Gloria said calmly. Her tone was slightly ruined by a quaver to the vowel sounds. "I was just visiting Mr Longbottom. It seems we have a great deal in common."

Lancaster narrowed his eyes, and with a wordless twitch of his wand, the parchment flew from Neville's fingers and into his hand. Lancaster scanned it for a moment, expression unchanging, and then he pointed his wand directly at Gloria.

"Petrificus totalus," he said flatly.

Gloria stiffened immediately, beginning to fall to the side from her stool, until Neville reached out to catch her without thinking.

"Unhand her," Lancaster commanded. Neville jerked his hand back as though he had been burned, and Gloria toppled to the floor.

The room was silent. Neville held his breath as he looked between the woman on the floor and Lancaster in the doorway, whose wand was now trained firmly on Neville.

When Lancaster cleared his throat to break the silence, Neville nearly jumped out of his skin. "You have lost your writing privileges, I'm afraid," Lancaster said. From his pocket, he drew a small brown furry object, and Neville's heart leapt into his mouth. "And if you cannot keep proper control of your test subjects, then you will have no choice but to use human subjects. Unwilling ones. I will not have vermin given the run of my household. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Rascal squeaked pitifully in Lancaster's tight grip. With an exasperated sigh and a deft movement, Lancaster dashed the rat against the doorframe of the greenhouse with a sickening thunk.

"No!"

Perhaps it was because he hadn't even thought about saying it, but the word was past his lips before the curse began to punish him. Doubled over the desk, Neville fought desperately for air while Lancaster silently levitated his prone and paralyzed daughter out of the greenhouse, the door closing behind him with a decisive-sounding click.

The guard did not re-enter the greenhouse. After several terrifying minutes, in which every breath was agony, Neville finally straightened and hastened over to the brown lump of fur on the ground by the door.

He knew he was being ridiculous, cradling the lifeless rat to him like a child. Rascal had not been a beloved pet or a familiar, or anything that he could justify having any sort of bond with. But he had been the closest thing Neville had had to a friend in here, and Neville had ruthlessly used him. And now...

His breath caught as he spied the black stripe near the base of the naked pink tail. Glancing around first, he brought it closer to see letters tattooed on the skin, letters that looked very much like the cataloguing system he used on his other test subjects.

AYW DNR

His brain immediately translated the Auror shorthand. As You Were. Do Not Respond.

Neville stared numbly at the letters. As You Were. Do Not Respond.

He slowly rose to his feet, carefully placing Rascal's remains on a workbench before grasping a pair of pruning shears and throwing them as hard as he could at the wall of the greenhouse. The shears were followed in quick succession by an empty ink bottle and a book, the latter of which broke one of the glass panels up near the roof, raining sharp shards down upon him. He didn't care.

As You Were. It was essentially an order to sit tight, to do as he was told, and someone else would clean up the mess he would have to make in order to stay alive. The last time he'd been sent an As You Were while undercover, he'd been forced to kill someone. He'd have been killed if he hadn't, but at the mission's end, Neville had threatened to resign if that order was ever sent again. Harry knew that. Of course, Neville actually had resigned a year later over something entirely unrelated, so he supposed Harry could send him any orders he pleased now, and Neville couldn't threaten a single thing.

And Do Not Respond. It meant more than just an order to not send a reply - not that he could now anyway - it meant that he could not react in any way to betray he'd received a message at all. He couldn't act any differently to how he had been. The order chafed horribly. It stank of the typical operating procedures of the Ministry, which usually involved making whatever sacrifices were necessary in order to achieve an end. Some rational part of his brain pointed out that with the Wizengamot at stake, someone other than Harry was probably calling the shots, but it made little difference.

As You Were. Do Not Respond. Together, the orders meant "You're on your own." And that meant there would be no backup, no one to extract him from the situation in which he was hopelessly mired, at least not until the Aurors had nothing better to do.

It was looking more and more like Neville was going to be instrumental in overthrowing the Ministry.

He tried to find somewhere inside him that cared enough to resist, but either it had been extinguished by this final act of abandonment, or it was buried so deep that he could not delve it up.

Straightening, he brushed the litter of glass shards from the workbench, and he plucked a seed pod from one of the mature plants. He had a job to do.

Lancaster did not summon Neville again. Recalling the fury on Lancaster's face as he had read Neville's scrawl and detained his daughter, Neville was not surprised and more relieved than he cared to admit.

That did not mean Neville wasn't keenly aware of Lancaster's hand in everything that surrounded him from that point forward. The wards, which Neville had barely noticed before, felt oppressive. They buzzed about him like a finger which was a hair's breadth from touching his cheek, following him everywhere he went. It made his skin crawl if he focused on them too closely, so he put his entire concentration to bear on whatever task he had before him.

The job in front of him wasn't much better if he spent too much time thinking about its implications. He couldn't use magic to harvest the resin from the seed pods without removing the magical properties of the drug, so the resin had to be extracted from each seed pod by hand. He had to be excruciatingly careful not to let the raw resin contact his skin - even in its unrefined form, it had been known to kill the unwary herbologist who tried to handle a seed pod without gloves. The meticulous nature of these activities helped to distract him from their true purpose for nearly two weeks.

But one morning, upon being escorted into the greenhouse by a silent guard, Neville froze mid-step as he saw the cases of ink stacked neatly on one of the workbenches, the Ministry seal stamped on the sides of the crates. The sight of them brought forth unbidden memories of ducking into supply cupboards at the Ministry and seeing those same crates, occasionally opening one to take a bottle of ink back to his desk for a long day of paperwork. And if he went through with what he had been bidden, others would be opening these cases in a few days' time, grabbing a bottle of ink, and succumbing to a terrible and potentially fatal addiction that he had engineered. A dim feeling of nausea washed over him as the reality of what he was doing crashed into place.

He considered Vanishing the whole lot, lying and claiming that he'd added the compound just as he'd been told. They'd discover the truth soon enough, of course, and there was no telling what they'd do to him when they found out, but maybe, by then, the Ministry would have pulled their thumbs from their arseholes and rescued him from this hellish assignment.

Right. That seemed likely. He wasn't even sure they considered him "on assignment" anymore, what with Neville not actually working for the Ministry, and considering the only communication they'd bothered to get to him had equated to "you won't be getting any help from us".

The guard leaned against the door frame of the greenhouse and coughed. Neville jumped. "You going to stand around all day? You've got work to do."

Ten years ago, Neville would have refused. He wouldn't have even got this far; he would have stood up immediately and said he wasn't going to do it and would take whatever consequences came his way. He would have done the right thing.

Ten years ago, he hadn't been near paralysed by panic attacks that sprung upon him with little warning. He hadn't been able to say he'd killed a man because someone had told him it was his duty. He had known that there was good and evil as plain as black and white and that he was irrevocably good.

Ten years ago, he'd been a child convinced of the immortality of youth. Even surrounded by death, he could not grasp the notion that he might truly die. He could survive a little pain, a little punishment, because he truly believed that someone would save him.

This was not ten years ago. This was now, and if he did not do exactly as he was told, he was absolutely sure that his captor would find ways to make him wish he had. He was also absolutely sure that if the Ministry deemed it necessary, there would be no one to save him.

And Neville no longer knew if there was such a thing as good and evil. If there was, he was not sure on which side of the continuum he fell, and which shade of grey he had acquired during the last several years - hell, during the last several weeks - at the Ministry's behest.

A splinter dug into his thumb as he pried open the first crate of ink bottles.

The bottles were lined up on the main workbench, the counterfeit sealing wax cooling over the stoppers to give the impression that the ink had not been tampered with. Neville stared at the row of shining bottles, disgusted by the distant feeling of pride that he felt in having completed a task to the best of his ability. Pride was the last thing he should be feeling right now.

Very carefully, he peeled off his dragon hide gloves and placed them in the centre of the workbench, taking heed not to touch even part of the outer surface of the glove. He was fairly certain he had not got any of the compound on there, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He swallowed hard as he looked again at the neat row of midnight blue ink bottles. He had done it; he had really and truly done it, and he didn't know whether to be sick or pass out. A pang in his spine warned him that he may not have a choice in the matter; he'd not had a Calming Draught in days, and he had only staved off a panic attack through sheer concentration on the repetitive task at hand.

Shaking, he lowered himself onto a stool and was about to close his eyes against the early spring sunlight when a sparrow flew in through the broken panel of the greenhouse roof. He watched, bemused, as it fluttered about before flying directly into an open supply cabinet.

A second later, an arm appeared, ending in a hand with a beckoning finger.

Neville stared at it for several long moments. No. That was impossible.

The finger beckoned again. Neville shot a terrified glance at the silhouette of the guard outside the greenhouse door, and then he walked to the supply cabinet as casually as he could.

"The cover is blown," a maddeningly familiar female voice whispered. "Potter's been taken hostage, and most of the surveillance team as well." She leaned out of the shadows of the cabinet long enough to Neville to recognise her - she was Tracie Knox, one of the desk clerks for the Auror department. What the devil was she doing here? "I'm the only one with an Animagus form appropriate for infiltrating this place, and I wasn't to do it until it was time to deliver this order," she said by way of explanation, obviously responding to the quizzical expression on his face.

She took another breath, but before she could speak, the greenhouse door crashed open. The breath froze in Neville's chest as Lancaster stepped in.

"It would appear you have another visitor, Neville," he purred in a voice like brambles on satin. "I thought I made it clear you weren't to have visitors."

Tracie swallowed, and she drew herself up. "Your orders are to cause as much collateral damage as you possibly can. You will have a full pardon," she whispered urgently before starting a strange little hop out of the cabinet, transforming back into the bird and taking frantically to the air.

By the door, Lancaster raised his wand. "Accio sparrow," he said, almost lazily.

And as Tracie's tiny form streaked out of the air into Lancaster's waiting hand, he gave the tiniest wrench of the sparrow's neck, dropping the limp feathered body to the floor before Neville could even process what had happened.

"Was your little rat friend an Animagus, too?" The sneer was apparent in Lancaster's voice, and it even touched his eyes. "Neville, Neville, Neville." With each slow repetition of his name, Lancaster stepped closer. Neville felt frozen to the spot, his entire body twitching with panic spasms and his breath coming in short, painful gasps. "You seem to delight in betraying my trust." A cold smile played on Lancaster's lips as he brought his wand up to point directly at Neville's forehead. Neville had been at the wrong end of enough wands to recognise, instinctively, the expression of a man working up the will for an Unforgivable Curse. "You won't be making that mistake again."

Without warning, the Neville from ten years ago stole away all control.

Before he had time to think about what he was doing, Neville reached to the side. He did not have to grope for an ink bottle; his fingers closed around one easily, and he dashed it forcefully against the surface of the workbench, shattering it. Heedless of the shards of glass, he dragged his bare hand through the pool of ink and brought his hand up to smear it in Lancaster's face, fingers digging into Lancaster's eyes as he did so.

Lancaster bellowed an oath, reflexively dropping his wand and bringing both hands to his eyes, stumbling backwards. He upset a stool and fell back heavily, still shouting, and then he went oddly still and quiet before emitting a low, mindless chuckle.

Neville took a deep, ragged breath, stepping backwards himself until he came up against the wall. He leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, and stared at his ink-stained hand as he waited for the deadly rapture to drag him into its depths as well.

Except it didn't.

He sat for several long moments, taking great, shaky breaths, before it occurred to him that, while Lancaster was well in thrall of the euphoria for which the plant was named, Neville himself was completely lucid.

That was impossible. The dose in that ink had been intended to be dispensed over several days; administered all at once, it should have rendered him just as incoherent as Lancaster currently was. And yet, all he felt was a distant sensation of tingling in his fingertips, a calming wash of warmth around his shoulders. It felt like...

It slammed into place in his mind like an iron gate shutting. It felt like a Calming Draught.

His shoulders began to quake in silent laughter that the Stifling curse would not let out. He'd been having Calming Draughts how frequently? Every week for several years? Every other night for the past few weeks? It wasn't panic attacks he was fending off; it was withdrawal. He wasn't affected by the narcotic compounds in Euphorico fatalis, because he was already addicted to something entirely different that nevertheless affected the same area of his brain - and, given his increasing cravings, was probably not working as well as it once had. Rather than inducing euphoria, the dose of narcotic he'd just administered to himself had returned him to normal operating levels.

Tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet, still laughing without a sound. A moment's consideration told him that the oppressive wards that had been hounding him had dropped - probably the instant Lancaster had ceased having the mental capacity to concentrate on them.

But there was something he had to do first.

There was the strangest pang as he non-verbally Vanished the glistening row of ink bottles, the ink from the broken bottle staining the wood of the workbench. The glass phial at the end of the table, containing the last of the purified compound, he tucked carefully into his pocket. He guessed that there were about ten more doses in the phial; more than enough for his purposes.

The non-verbal Incarcerous was more difficult than he had anticipated, but once he had bound Lancaster from the waist down, he pulled up a stool and sat, studying the man who had, until only a few minutes ago, held Neville's life in his hands.

Collateral damage. Neville felt like laughing again, and he was willing to admit that perhaps it was edged with a tiny bit of euphoria flavoured heavily with hysteria. He wasn't much one for collateral damage. He preferred more precision than that.

The cowed and humiliated Lancaster did not need much coercion to lift the Stifling, once he had descended from his high hours later. He was particularly cooperative when Neville pantomimed shattering the phial of all that remained of the compound. It was with a numb and distant satisfaction that Neville had ordered him to release the captured Aurors and encourage his household to submit to arrest. Most of them had, of course, resisted, but it did not take long before most of the upper echelons of the Brotherhood were in Ministry custody. Once the wards surrounding the estate had been dispersed, a nameless Auror had taken Neville very firmly by the upper arm and led him to a Disillusioned tent some few hundred yards away from the estate.

Inside the tent, bruised and dishevelled but still emanating that aura of authority that made people want to do what he told them, Harry stood talking quietly with another Auror who Neville did not know.

Neville did not even have to consider it. He shrugged off the Auror still holding his shoulder, strode purposefully over to Harry, and wound back his arm. Harry's eyes widened and his jaw dropped just before Neville's fist connected firmly with Harry's cheekbone.

"Eight weeks! Eight weeks I was in there, and I get nothing but a bloody As You Were?" Neville growled, shaking out his hand. The two Aurors were holding him roughly now, but Harry held up a hand to dismiss them.

"No, stand down. I deserved that." He rubbed his cheek, wincing. "You've got a good arm."

"Don't be flippant." Neville crossed his arms and glared. "Eight weeks, Harry. What, were you sitting on your hands the entire time? I could have told you exactly what Lancaster was planning if you'd just, I don't know, got me out of there, rather than sending an unqualified desk clerk on a suicide mission!"

"I didn't have any other options," Harry said defensively. "My authority was stripped as soon as the higher-ups got wind that it was you the Brotherhood had kidnapped. They decided that I was 'too close' to the case. I wasn't allowed to order an extraction. I couldn't do much more than sit in here and stare at the house and try to piece together exactly what was going to happen to the Wizengamot." He rubbed his temples. "Meanwhile, the Ministry was requisitioning Aurors to heighten security at the Ministry before the Wizengamot sits, and that made everyone annoyed because nothing seemed to be happening."

"No," Neville spat, "that's because I was doing it all in there." He pointed in the direction of the house for emphasis. "Alone. Until you decided to send me a desk clerk and let me know it was all right to - what was the phrase? 'Start causing collateral damage'?" He laughed bitterly. "Good thing, too, because otherwise, the entire judiciary and magisterial forces of the Ministry would be in shambles by this time tomorrow if I had held to that asinine As You Were." He thrust his hand into his pocket and held up the phial of resin. "This was about twelve hours away from being in every ink bottle in the Ministry."

Harry's brows knitted together in confusion. "What is it?"

"My finest work," Neville replied derisively. "You could say it's a custom narcotic, dangerously addictive. I gave Lancaster a face full of it earlier. I think he's already going through withdrawal, which is the entire reason he let you lot arrest him and his cronies in the first place."

Harry's jaw fell. "You... drugged him?"

Neville shrugged. "I didn't have any other options," he said, consciously mirroring Harry's words from earlier. He closed his eyes for a moment against the light in the tent that was suddenly slightly too bright for comfort.

"Neville, that's... that's not how we do things," Harry sputtered. "We have standards."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not an Auror," Neville replied harshly. "He was there, Harry. Lancaster was there when my parents were tortured, and when he was done, he stole my mother's wand. He coerced me into making this - this poison for him, and then he held me captive to make sure I did it. He killed a girl hardly out of school in front of me because she had the terrible luck of having the best Animagus form to get to me." He shook his head. "I can't say I'm terribly fussed about what I did." A headache began to throb behind one eye and he lifted a hand to rub it, ignoring the blue ink stains on his fingers. "He'll need to spend some time in a Detoxification unit at St Mungo's for a while before you can cart him off to Azkaban, or he'll probably keel over dead by noon tomorrow." And, Neville reflected, he should get to St Mungo's himself, if this headache was any indication.

Harry licked his lips. "It sounds like we need to do a thorough debriefing."

"Later," Neville said tersely, ignoring the phrase that had once been a double entendre that set them both to sniggering. He thrust the phial into Harry's hand. "Get rid of that. Or use it as evidence. Pour the whole lot into Lancaster's brandy for all I care. I don't want anything to do with it anymore." Both hands free, he rubbed at his temples. "And make sure you get a firm grip on Gloria Lancaster. With her father gone, she's the one most likely to fill the void if you don't do something about her."

"About that," Harry said, scratching the back of his head. "We... can't actually arrest her."

Neville stared blankly, his hands falling. "You're not serious."

"She hasn't done anything. She can't be traced to the pettiest misdemeanour. Her record is absolutely pristine. The only thing we can possibly pin on her is embezzling money from the Brotherhood to send to her estranged brother, and the evidence is shaky at best. I have more cause to arrest you." Harry shrugged. "She's untouchable."

"You can't just let her go," Neville protested, the pounding behind his eye becoming more insistent. "I spoke with her. Or, rather, she spoke with me. At me. Whatever. She has plans, Harry, and she's clever enough to pull them off if she can get her hands on a power base to back her."

"Neville, I can't do anything," Harry said, spreading his hands helplessly. "And besides... she's gone."

"Gone," Neville repeated, bringing his hands back up to press his fingers against his eyes. The throbbing was getting worse. "I should punch you again."

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, concern creeping into his tone. "And why is your hand blue?"

"It's ink, I'm coming down off a high I didn't even get to enjoy, and I think I'd like to go to the hospital now, if you can manage to do one competent thing today," Neville snapped, peeking through his fingers.

Harry's face went flat as he pressed his lips together. "That was uncalled for. I did the best I could."

"I know. I'm sorry." There was a high buzz in Neville's left ear, and he shook his head. The room began to spin. "Can I sit down? Do you have chairs?" He didn't want to take his hands away from his eyes to look around.

"Akers," Harry barked, "get him a chair. Or, better, a camp bed. Solomon, get authorisation for a Portkey to St Mungo's." Neville could feel someone take firm hold of his shoulder. "All you had to say was that you needed the hospital."

"Seem to recall I did," Neville said. The hand pressed him down gently and he lowered himself onto the camp bed that had been dragged behind him.

"Get some rest, Neville." Harry sounded oddly protective. "We've got it from here."

"You'd better have," Neville mumbled. "Wrapped it up in a neat little package for you, I did."

Someone drew a blanket over him, and despite the tentative warmth of the spring day, Neville was grateful. The camp bed was not nearly as comfortable as the bed he'd dubiously enjoyed for the past several weeks, and as he slipped into the wavering unconsciousness of sleep, he wondered at the way he couldn't decide which situation he'd liked less.

As Neville fished out his key, he steeled himself against the two months of neglect that he was going to have to face. He knew he hadn't emptied the rubbish bin, and he was not looking forward to the thin layer of dust he was sure would coat everything, nor to the forest of dead plants he was likely to find.

As the door swung open and he stepped inside, his jaw dropped.

Pristine. It was as though he'd stepped out an hour ago. He sniffed the air, and he could not detect any hint of garbage gone rancid, or of spoiled food.

Bemused, he wondered if Harry had stepped in to take care of things - despite Neville's insistence, Harry had never returned his key - when he spied the cornflower blue parchment on the coffee table.

Mr Longbottom,

I trust this letter will find you well. I have it on the highest authority that you are recovering from your ordeal spectacularly, and I expect it shall be but a scant few days before you read these words. I took the liberty of providing a more fitting homecoming for you; you'll find tea under a Stasis charm in the kitchen, and it is unlikely you will need to make a trip to the shops for food anytime soon.

You did me a great favour; it will not be one that I will soon forget. That is two Lancasters that owe you a debt related to our father, in case you had lost track - my brother has not forgotten the good you did him during the unpleasantness with the Malfoy heir. I have spoken with Harrison, and he has agreed that it would be best if I relocated the Brotherhood's base of operations to somewhere else in Europe. Among our lot, this is called "Respect of Territory," though it is more complex with you involved, of course, as the usual courtesies would normally not be extended. Do know, however, that the Brotherhood shall not trouble you and yours again so long as I draw breath.

I am sorry I was unable to hold up my end of our bargain, but as it turned out, you did not need it. Nevertheless, I feel the imbalance quite keenly, so I shall extend to you this amendment: the landlady of the Leaky Cauldron - a young woman I dearly admire for her discretion as well as her wit - will have in her safekeeping a certain wand once I have procured a new one. She will contact you when she has it in her possession, and then I will formally bequeath it to you as the new legal owner via right of inheritance.

Should you ever require my assistance in matters, you can contact me through Ms Abbott, the aforementioned landlady. I believe you would find me a useful and resourceful ally, and I am confident I would consider you the same. Otherwise, I bid you a pleasant and uneventful life.

Sincerely,

Gloria Lancaster

Neville scanned over the words again disbelievingly as his feet took him to the kitchen. Sure enough, under the iridescent dome of a Stasis charm, a teapot sat on the kitchen table along with a plate of ginger biscuits.

"That is one very dangerous woman," he said to no one.

A knock at his door made him turn. He had left the door ajar to let in the spring breeze, and he could see Harry leaning in to look around the flat. "Harry. Come in." He casually folded the blue parchment and slipped it into his pocket.

Uneasily glancing about, Harry stepped into the flat. "All right, Neville? How did they treat you at the hospital?"

"Fair enough." Neville shrugged. "It's no easy thing, breaking an addiction. But I'm clean now."

"Glad to hear it." Harry looked as though he wanted to say something, but he knew that whatever words he chose would be wrong.

Sighing, Neville squared his shoulders to face Harry. "None of it was your fault. I'm not coming back to the force. And as for the other thing… I think the past should stay in the past."

Harry blinked. "Right. Looks like you know my mind better than I do."

"Whenever you get that look, it's always the same things," Neville said with a sad smile. "And it's always going to be the same answers. I'm done with that part of my life. So are you. Let's get on with things, shall we?" He cleared his throat as his voice threatened to thicken. "How are the kids?"

Harry nodded slowly. "They're good. Terrors, the lot of them."

The conversation lapsed. Neville shifted, and then he gestured towards the kitchen. "I've got tea. Would you care for a cuppa?"

"Yeah, all right." Harry licked his lips. "I am sorry I made a mess of things."

Neville shrugged. "So am I. We'll call it even, and we're friends again." He gestured towards the kitchen again. "I reckon single-handedly preventing the collapse of the Ministry and significantly bolstering your arrest count makes up for any of my previous shortcomings."

Chuckling uneasily, Harry stepped toward the kitchen. "I suppose it does. There's talk of promotion for me, despite how ham-fisted the whole thing was."

"Good. Though I should note that I'm not even in the force anymore and I still have more arrests under my belt than you. You should get on that." Neville offered a lopsided smile.

"So what will you do now?" Harry asked some time later, breaking the not-quite-awkward silence of two friends who have only recently forgiven one another for past hurts.

"No idea. The entire field of Herbology is more or less barred to me now. They don't tend to take kindly to addicts working with addictive compounds, and that's where the research is right now." Neville sipped at his tea. "I'll find something to do with myself."

The smile on Harry's face was small, but it was there. "I expect you will. You've always done a good job looking after yourself."

Neville snorted. "Hardly. But I'll survive, at least." His mind wandered to the paper in his pocket. "Do you have any leads on Gloria Lancaster?"

The faint smile on Harry's face dropped abruptly. "Not a hint," he said darkly. "She disappeared, along with the others of the Brotherhood who we weren't able to hit with charges that stuck. I don't like it."

"I don't think she's going to be causing any problems for the foreseeable future," Neville said carefully.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's a rather drastic change of tune."

"Seems that way, doesn't it?" The flash of irritation that made Harry's eyes gleam for a moment made Neville stifle a laugh. "She's something her father wasn't; something I didn't expect. She's… honourable. I have a feeling we won't be bothered by the Brotherhood again."

It was Harry's turn to snort. "I doubt that. The Brotherhood has been a fixture in London for nearly thirty years."

"Call it a hunch," Neville insisted. "You always trusted my hunches before. I have a very strong hunch that you won't be seeing much of the Brotherhood at all from now on."

Neville let his gaze wander to the window while Harry chewed on that. Outside, the bright green leaves of spring rustled in a breeze. He smiled faintly. Springtime had always been his favourite season.

Ms Lancaster,

Thank you for your letter earlier this year. I will admit I was surprised to come across it.

Having spent a considerably hot summer living one, I've determined that a quiet and uneventful life doesn't really appeal to me. I'm not surprised to find that employment is difficult to come by after my time in the company of, to use your words, "your lot". It appears that an official Ministry pardon only clears the way to employment within the Ministry, and it doesn't do much at all to remove the tarnish with employers I'd find more appealing.

Ms Abbott has assured me that you may be able to help me in this regard. I think I should add that she and I get on fairly well, and I can clearly see why you hold her in such high esteem.

I look forward to your reply.

Cheers,

Neville Longbottom

- finite -