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.