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.