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.