There was no ‘headquarters’. After some serious thought about logistics, it dawned on Dumbledore that people, magical and Muggle, dropped like flies left, right, and centre. None of them were safe. The Ministry had at least admitted this much, which only bred fear and panic. It’s not that they were all just plain stupid. Not even the best prepared governments jammed with the top folks could handle something like this without a hitch. He, for one, would rather kick the bucket than take up a position of power because he liked working towards a goal. He had no patience to cut through the red tape of opposition and regulation. No, he’d rather opt to hang upside down by his fingers or commit suicide by drinking a vial of the vilest potion. They, the Powers That Be, had signed off on legislation that altered this game drastically, for it cleared the playing field, but he doubted this tidbit trickled down to the ears of the public.
“Why are you still reading that shit?”
Mad-Eye rolled his eyes and caught his balance. He hadn’t realised that the press occupied his thoughts. For something he cared little about a reliable source, this thing wrapped his brain. He jabbed the sharp end of his umbrella, his walking stick, or so a fat little school boy called it earlier, into the man’s boot. Thatcher was in mid-thirties, although his locks were drained of all hint of colour, pure white. His left hand was wrapped in adhesive medical tape, barely hidden by the sleeve of his black robes. He always looked focused, piercing people with those grey eyes; his skin was etched with a few scars, but, luckily, they had avoided his face. He worked for Auror Department. Though Mad-Eye had raised hell about this originally, Thatcher was adamant to prove society wrong, so he jumped through all the hoops. Not with flying colours, often by the skin of his teeth, but he proved useful. He felt the man didn’t belong with a hundred metres of the Ministry, as the young man knew damn well, but they tolerated each other. Somehow along the way, they forged a friendship.
“You’re late,” Mad-Eye grunted as he pulled the edge of his bowler hat over his eye, nodding to two children who gawked at him. He waved a gnarled hand at them and lifted the tip of his umbrella. “Move along, now.”
“It’s round the corner,” said Thatcher, jogging ahead of him. “Nice hat. I know, I know, I’m still late.”
Mad-Eye peered into the man’s heavy black backpack and sighed, “Library Boy.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Mad-Eye said as they turned the corner and stopped at the fifth house. The garden was a little disorganised. It was a small place, but they didn’t need much as a starting family. Mad-Eye rapped his knuckles on the chipped door. He muttered a Latinate phrase, answering the person who waited behind the door. Chains clicked and someone unlocked the door. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”
The young woman at the door laughed softly. She was a pretty thing. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Instead of robes, she had managed to make it home in time to pull on comfortable clothes. She greeted them with a soft smile, always a smile, which is why he liked her. He hadn’t noticed it before, for he had only glimpsed a photograph in a cubicle, but she had grey eyes: they were a softer shade, large for her angular face and high cheekbones. The small boy disguised it, but he noticed that she had gained weight in a short period of time. A voice called to her, and she looked over her shoulder, but she sighed when the squirming boy kicked her in her side and passed him over to his father.
“Joss,” Thatcher sighed, ruffling the boy’s curly hair and Mad-Eye tapped the locks with his wand. The book bag fell off his shoulder by the armoire. He kissed his wife on the cheek. Mad-Eye now saw that she was big with child. “Meghan, this is Mad-Eye.”
“Hello,” she said, shaking his hand, not at all shocked by his appearance. “He talks about you all the time, so it’s nice to put a face to this stranger.”
“Mrs. Neilson,” Mad-Eye said, pulling his best grimace.
“Meghan, please,” she said. She didn’t offer to take coat or offer him drink. Someone must have warned her. Mad-Eye caught her as she tripped over the bag. “Geoffrey, stop this.”
“Geoffrey, who’s that?” a voice called.
There was a crowd jammed in the tiny sitting room. Mad-Eye saw, as he got a better look, it extended into the adjoined kitchen. Dumbledore had requested a small crowd tonight, as there wasn’t much to cover, but these people often needed a definition laid out when it came to size. Just glimpsing the area, Mad-Eye pointed out James Potter, his wife, Sirius Black, Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore, Peter Pettigrew, the Longbottoms, Marlene McKinnon, and the Prewett brothers. Thankfully, Hagrid had not come along because that would have really created a space issue. The one who had spoken, James, poured another glass of wine.
Mad-Eye jerked his neck in the opposite direction, indicating Thatcher, who had managed to weave through the madness and leaned against his bookshelf, already buried in a dog-eared volume.
“Oh,” James said in an audible whisper, speaking with his friends. “I thought he was ‘Thatcher’.”
“Ah, good.” Dumbledore pulled up a straight-backed chair and clapped his hands for order: the room fell silent at once. “Welcome. Before we get started with official business, I’d like to introduce you all to a couple who have generously opened their home to us with open arms. I believe we’ve all met Meghan.”
“And Joshua,” said Lily, who had somehow ended up with the kid.
“And over there somewhere,” said Dumbledore, gesturing towards the large handsome mahogany bookshelves, “is Geoffrey Neilson, or, as some of us know him, Thatcher.”
“Library Boy,” Mad-Eye roared, pleased the idiot dropped his book. A few people laughed at the stranger. “Join us.”
“Oh, hello.” He waved to the room at large.
“’Hello’, he says,” Mad-Eye said, glaring at Dumbledore. “He’s your problem. Fix him.”
Dumbledore merely smiled.
“Ah, well, at least it speaks. Auror, my buttock,” Mad-Eye sighed, taking out his hip flask.
Thatcher shrugged. He slid onto the floor and listened through the brief meeting without interruption, nodding his head here and there. He looked mildly interested, surprised by the young ones in the group. Usually, new inductees hung onto every word. Not that they had trouble keeping up with things, but they question every little thing. From what he had heard from Dumbledore, and this was never much, he knew ‘both sides of the story’. Dumbledore had saved the man three years ago. He nearly missed it himself; the Thames waters had been so clouded that day, so it was easy to mistake the grey shrouded figure that floated along, facedown and presumably dead. He was hypothermic, cold as ice. There were three broken blades, a box of spent matches and a ruined volume of Shelley in his pocket.
Mad-Eye met the man the day he was ‘saved’ from the waters. He had listened to Dumbledore’s spill, which all in all sounded like a load of dung. The way he understood it, Thatcher had no intention of living, and the old wizard ruined the plan for him. He wasn’t the least bit sympathetic for the coward, especially when he saw a branded mark on his right arm. As much as he hated to admit it, Mad-Eye couldn’t say indefinitely whether the man was a traitor. When it was tilted towards the light at an angle, it was quite clear that the Dark Mark had twisted round his thin arm; it was as if he had indeed pulled out at the last minute. Mad-Eye and Dumbledore were the only ones who knew the truth behind all of this. Thatcher always kept his forearm wrapped, claiming he had charred the skin beyond repair. The wound bled often with the exposed veins; You-Know-Who had not applied it to his skin.
“Alastor,” said Dumbledore, pulling his thoughts back to the surface. He waved his wand over a roll of parchment, and it disappeared into thin air. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
“No.” He shook his head and sniffed a glass of wine. “What say you, Thatch?”
“No, Professor,” said Thatcher. He watched as some of the people gather their things and leave the room after mumbling good-byes. For some reason, he had not taken his eyes off of Peter Pettigrew the entire time Dumbledore spoke. He jumped up when his little one reached up for the man. “I’ve got it. Joss, time for bed!”
He froze. The boy shook his head. “No.”
“Joshua Alexis,” Thatcher snapped, as his wife picked up the boy. “What did you just say?”
“No, sir,” said the little boy, mumbling in his mother’s shoulder.
He waved good-bye to Lily.
“He’s tired, Geoff, it’s late,” said Meghan. Peter handed her a blanket, and she thanked him and kissed her husband on the cheek.
Thatcher ran a hand through his little boy's hair and kissed his wife, holding her close. "I love you."
"I love you, too. Relax." Meghan stroked his face and squeezed his hand before she headed down the corridor.
“He speaks French?” Frank said, wiping his glasses on his t-shirt.
“Oui.” Thatcher waved his wand and cleared the table. “We’re starting Latin soon. You’re surprised?”
“No, I mean, you’re a walking textbook,” said Frank, who figured out a moment too late perhaps he should have phrased that one differently. He spoke to his shoes, grinning from ear to ear. “Not that that’s a bad thing, eh, Thatch?”
“Say that the next time when this textbook saves your arse,” Thatcher said, handing Alice the dishes. “Get a new one, dear, that one’s broken.”
“Saved me? When have you ever saved me?” Frank asked, a little indignant. “And I’m not broken.”
“Barcelona, last February,” said Thatcher. He nodded at Alice as she walked back into the room. “Mind you, I never said where you were broken.”
“Thatcher!” Alice slapped him lightly in the arm as James and Sirius roared with laughter. “Behave. What I want to know, now that we’re on the subject, is how all of you idiots will handle these children. I mean, you’ve got me, Meghan, and Abbot’s wife. ”
“Sheri? She’s a trip,” said Thatch, helping himself to a carrot stick and a few crackers. “Oh, yeah, this? We planned it.”
James and Sirius laughed even laughter when Frank spit wine in their faces and Alice dropped a plate, crying when she laughing so hard. Lily poked her head round the door, confused.
“It’s just Thatch,” said Alice, thanking him for clearing the mess and handing her the plate and utensils. She winked at James.
“Were you in on this as well?”
“You know it,” James said, offering the man a seat and shaking his hand. “I like you, mate.”
“I don’t swing that way,” said Thatcher apologetically, pulling a face. “It’s a shame, though, isn’t it? Cause you’d make a nice trophy on someone’s arm. This is your boyfriend, though, yeah? Does he know about the wife?”
“I’m Sirius,” said the young man. He had stopped chortling long enough for a swallow of Butterbeer and point over his shoulder. “That’s Peter.”
“We’ve met,” said Thatcher. Although he spoke with a dead calm, Mad-Eye didn’t miss his dark look and tightened features. They did not bother with kind words. Peter muttered something under his breath, but Thatcher seemed to not hear him, crushed his fingers with a handshake, and passed over any greeting whatsoever. Mad-Eye wondered about this, but he pretended to scan the bookshelves.
“Library Boy?”
“Yeah?”
“You can’t count.” Mad-Eye strode over and yanked out a volume; it was between twelve and fifteen. He shook the volume, shaking its pages. “No thirteen.”
“Oh, I have it,” said Dumbledore before Thatcher could string an answer together. He looked at the man a little longer than necessary as he walked over to the armoire and took out his travelling cloak. He picked up the bag, judging its weight with his fingers before he slung it over his shoulder. “I needed a second read. Is this all of it?”
Thatcher nodded.
“You’re sure?” Dumbledore asked, looking at him carefully.
“Yes.”
“Professor Dumbledore?”
“Yes?” Dumbledore finally broke eye contact and looked up at Meghan, who tapped him on the shoulder. Mad-Eye might have imagined it, but the professor sounded annoyed.
“You dropped this,” she said, handing him a sealed roll of parchment.
Dumbledore looked at the open bag and zipped it closed, aware all the Order members watched his every move. He took it. “Thank you, Meghan. Geoffrey?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Thatcher assured him, speaking through clenched teeth. “Search the place, if you’d like, be my guest. We all know that’s why you came here.”
“Geoffrey,” Dumbledore said softly.
“Shut up.” Thatcher crossed his arms, forgetting his guests. “What do I have to do to prove myself to you? Just say it. Funny, isn’t it, when I’m not your problem? You don’t trust me worth a damn.”
“I never said that.”
Thatcher glared at his wife and held open his door. “Good night, Professor.”
“You!”
Mad-Eye spotted him heading down to Diagon Alley. He slipped through before the bricks sealed the passageway. The place was less unpopulated during the evening hours. With the threat of the Death Eaters looming around, people just rearranged their lives because they felt safer in broad daylight. He had seen Thatcher in the Leaky Cauldron, and he was rather surprised he had not been accosted on the pub. If it had been him, he probably would have caused a little scene to get their attention; he didn’t resort to that approach often because it really caused unnecessary drama, and there were easier ways to get what he wanted. Thatcher had avoided him like dragon pox these past few weeks like a bout of dragon pox. It wasn’t an easy task, seeing as they were both workaholics. Mad-Eye considered recommending a transfer, passing him off as someone else’s problem, but he went against his better judgement and kept an eye on the fool.
“Leave me alone!”
“No.” Mad-Eye matched his step and took him by the arm. The man reeked of drink and tripped over his feet. “Shouldn’t you be with your wife? She’s expecting that kid any day now. Fine example you are, especially for that boy, eh? What would she think while she’s sitting at home waiting for you?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Thatcher said, his voice echoing off the buildings.
“Where are you headed, lad?”
“Fuck off.”
“All right, you’re an angry drunk,” Mad-Eye mused, finally managing to pull him over to the side. He was glad that this was off the record, for one thing, but he had as off the record, for one thing, but he had to remind himself not slap the idiot all the same. They passed a few shops and a proprietor passed them. “What’s with the book?”
“What book?”
“Number thirteen, Library Boy,” Mad-Eye said, handing for his umbrella. “I’ve known Dumbledore longer than you, haven’t I? He doesn’t just borrow things for no reason. Was it part of a rare collection or something? And, you, don’t you panic when someone touches one of your precious books? You worked at some pub with an upstairs bookshop. Help me out here.”
“Tattered Tavern in Edinburgh,” said Thatcher.
“Yes, so you know the Dewey Decimal System like the back of your hand,” said Mad-Eye. “Drink and books.”
“Perfect combination,” said Thatcher, waving his hand in the air. He had apparently forgotten his anger because he was enthralled in the conversation. “Especially when the manager asked us all to read aloud to groups, yeah, because the crowds just gathered there. You could be reading the worst stuff, complete shit, and they wouldn’t care.”
Mad-Eye nodded.
“Why would a bookkeeper, a nobody, want to be a Death Eater?”
“Quiet,” Mad-Eye hissed in his ear.
“You want to know?” he said, louder with every word.
“No,” Mad-Eye lied.
“A girl,” Thatcher continued without preamble.
He waved away an unspoken objection; Mad-Eye felt quite sure that the man had forgotten his present company, but he was surprised at the tolerance level and how well the man handled himself. They sank onto a black bench; they had stopped outside of Flourish and Blotts. Thatcher, completely at his ease, took a lighter out of his pocket and played with the flame. He veered off a little, discussing the properties of fire: light, death, decay, protection, heat, survival. He hated fire, absolutely hated it, he said, but he was a pyromaniac, so he was amazed by it at the same time. Who wouldn’t be? Thatcher smiled at him, and swam in his thoughts for a while. Under the glare of the lamplight, Mad-Eye noticed the burns that covered the man’s fingers, especially his fingers, for not all of those had healed, which explained his calluses. While he spoke, Thatcher struck a few matches on the side of the box, waiting till the flame licked his fingers before he started another one. He reached in his pocket and withdrew four sharp blades and tapped these on his knee.
“About the girl,” Mad-Eye prompted him, hoping to get him back on track.
“Oh, it wasn’t Meghan, no, she ... she came later.”
“Yeah, Dumbledore introduced you to her, I know.”
“Yeah, he did.” Thatcher nodded, reorganising his thoughts. “Stop interrupting me, will you? I’m a good storyteller, so let me say my shit.”
“All right.” Mad-Eye laughed at his lopsided expression. “Sorry. You were saying? It wasn’t Meghan.”
“Not her, no, though this’ll clear up a few things.” Thatcher edited a few things in his head. He must have decided to just cut to the chase because he said the next part as if they were discussing the weather. “Bellatrix Black.”
“Come again?”
“Yeah, stupid, I know,” said Thatcher, laughing in spite of the quivering fear in his tone. “I just woke up one day, the day of my initiation, and decided, ‘You know what? She’s married and you’re the third wheel. Let her fuck the corpse’.”
“And you ended up in the Thames?” asked Mad-Eye, filling in the holes.
“Damn straight.” He held his face in his hands. “Jesus.”
“That explains quite a lot about you and the Lestranges, actually,” said Mad-Eye, chuckling. “And why you’re so strict with Joss.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m just imagining her and Meghan. You swing off two extremes.”
“Oh, yeah, well, that’s ... yeah.” Thatcher looked his around at his surroundings. “She’s probably still up here. Meghan works here with the manager. I asked Alexander to stay with her during night shifts. Airhead, he is, words go in one ear and out the other. I left Joshua with Lily.”
“You sure she’ll give him back?”
“Yeah, he panics if he doesn’t kiss Meghan good night. He fights sleep. Lily thinks he’s cute now, but the kid’s a monster.”
“And you didn’t warn her?”
“Hell, no. I figured they needed the practice.” Thatcher opened the door. A bell rang above the door, announcing a new customer. The place was empty, and Thatcher had apparently expected this, because he wasn’t bothered that nobody stood behind the counter working the till. He walked up an aisle, flipped through a book, and read through the introduction. Mad-Eye read a display about a new release called the Book of Invisibility wondering idly where the damn things were stocked. “Meghan? It’s me, Thatch!”
“Does she know you by that name?” Mad-Eye asked.
No answer.
“She’s probably on the second floor,” said Thatcher, stepping on the first stair and shaking the rickety banister with a light touch. “Why would she bother going up there? See? This is why I told Alex ...”
“Thatch .”
Mad-Eye silenced him and pointed to the window. He held his lit wand aloft, and light danced around the place. A trail of blood, broken only by Thatcher’s footsteps, led all the way to the shattered window. Mad-Eye stepped round gingerly, trying not to disturb the scene, and examined bloody fingerprints on the windowpane. He backtracked, piecing a scenario in his mind. He shined the light on Thatcher’s soles: blood splattered on the banister. Where was the Dark Mark?
“Don’t move your hand.” Mad-Eye whispered a spell and a silvery mass shot from the end of his wand into the night.
“Why?” Fear crept into Thatcher’s voice; they were on the same page. Thatch shook his head, not wanting to consider it. “No. You always think of the worst case scenario. Not Meghan, she knew better. S-she would have tried to get out.”
“She tried.” Mad-Eye nodded at the window. “She’s not up there. Doesn’t she usually answer you? Think.”
“Meg? Meghan? MEGHAN!” Thatcher ignored him and shouted as he run up the stairs, completely forgetting he was a trained wizard. He threw himself against the door, panicking. “It’s locked!”
“Exactly,” said Mad-Eye calmly, lifting his finger.
They would want to play with her, scare the hell out of her. Isn’t it what he would do with someone at a disadvantage? He knew that Thatcher wasn’t thinking clearly: it couldn’t happen to him. Mad-Eye left the man there, swallowing the fear in his own throat. He had been through endless inspections, countless cases. On the whole, he had thought that he had grown numb to all of it. Nothing, even with the slight differences, surprised him. Many of the Death Eaters enjoyed playing their little games; that was how You-Know-Who picked them out one by one. The man knew that he was sick, and he loved using this to his advantage because it kept them all on pins and needles, guessing the next move. He wrapped himself these pleasures, delighted when they demonstrated their skills and talents.
His servants, and Mad-Eye suspected there were some he kept out of harm’s way, his secret arsenal, so there were some one there they knew nothing about. How long had they known that Thatcher was on their side? Surely, You-Know-Who knew he worked within the Auror Department. Yes, he would have been tipped off the moment Thatcher met a Death Eater. It was probably that night he met Rabastan outside of Hyde Park? Mad-Eye had handed the whole thing over to him, testing his skills ... his loyalty. He hated thinking about it now: he had hoped the fool would fall on his face. Thatcher never asked for a helping hand, like most of them would have done. For all his talk about not being saved, Frank Longbottom could not deny that level of dedication. Library Boy burrowed himself inside those books, but that was how he calmed himself and touched base with reality. Frank handpicked Thatcher when everyone else doubted him: he saw something there.
A corporeal form, a ghostlike phoenix swooped through the door and delivered a calm message: “Five minutes.” It evaporated.
He froze when he saw the hand. She lay in a pool of blood, her hand outstretched. She might have been sleeping, except for the life pouring from the deep slashes in her arms. Mad-Eye listened to heavy footsteps, but he did not turn round to see his face. Her figure was bloated and sweat covered her face. Mad-Eye took a step forward and erased any expression from his face. It was like he knew what was going to happen next. It frightened him, but he needed to be sure. Her black travelling cloak lay in the corner. Mad-Eye chose not to look underneath Meghan’s dress because he doubted whether he could keep himself together. He picked up the small bundle and saw that it was a grey lifeless creature. Wet hair stuck to its scalp. How long had Meghan lain on this wooden floor, pleading, waiting for help?
“Someone helped her,” he said softly. He finally looked over his shoulder. Thatcher knelt by his wife’s side, brushing her arm, as if he was trying to wake her from a deep sleep. He kissed her soft lips before he lost it and dissolved into tears. He kept whispering a dead apology, begging her to come back. Mad-Eye tore his eyes away from them and got to his feet, holding the bundle in his arms. “Thatcher.”
No answer.
“Thatch?” Mad-Eye glanced out the foggy window, knocking over the display. “Thatch “ Thatcher, she’s ... she’s gone.”
“Shut up.”
Mad-Eye suspected they had tortured her within an inch of her life before leaving her for dead. He knew who specialised in that talent. Thatcher pulled a slip of parchment off of her hand and threw it at him.
Mad-Eye read the words and set the message aflame with the tip of his wand. Mad-Eye realised he didn’t want to know the answer:
She’s beautiful. You want to die for her, too, my love?