The Man Who Killed

Chapter Text

Mrs. Marsden, of Long Harbour Road, was one of the most cheerful individuals in town. She wasn't one to dwell in worries or foolish gossiping, for they were mindless ways of losing one's life. She found fictional giants and other fables to be more worthy of her time than any kind of harmful nonsense.

The young woman owned a small flower stand down the street, which she had cheekily named A Poshy of Tulips. It had her undivided attention for the better part of the day, as she was passionate about creating the perfect arrangements for each person. Mrs. Marsden was lanky and freckled as a summer stargazer, still, her hair had the deep auburn tones of the fall. By any means did she consider herself to be as stunning as her flowers, and would happily complain of her tad-too-big ears to anyone who would listen. Despite it, she had a free spirit and an unparalleled liveliness, which had dazzled Mr. Marsden when he had first met her, what seemed like ages ago.

It was no secret that Mr. Marsden had been gone for over two years now, after a wearing battle against an illness no doctor was able to understand. His young widow would rather not go on about it, choosing to remember her late husband as the man he was before the accident. Jacob Marsden had been a sworn enemy of routine, a young lad with an uncanny thirst for adventure and who — to his wife's constant dismay — never planned anything ahead of time. The man couldn't lie for the life of him, not even for politeness' sake. Nevertheless, he had the magical power of getting a laugh out of people just when it was needed the most. Most importantly of all, he had been set on providing his wife with lovely moments she would remember for a lifetime. That was the man whom Mrs. Marsden had fallen in love with; she didn't like to dwell on the disease that had made an empty shell out of him. It was a disservice and the last thing he would've wanted.

So, when Katherine Marsden woke up on that fateful morning, she put away all the sorrowful thoughts. She opened her wardrobe, which was painfully empty, and picked a polka dot sundress and went on with her day.

It was a four-block walk to her flower stand, a calm path flanked by red brick houses and red brick shops. The ample roads were clean, as usual, and the soft breeze made Mrs. Marsden remember the nearby sea. Contrary to its name, Long Harbour Road was many blocks away from the actual harbour, something Mrs. Marsden was thankful for. Even when she enjoyed the occasional trip to the sea market, she was better off without having to deal every day with the clutter of people and memories from the docks.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Marsden knew she had to pay Charlie and the old gang a visit one of these days. With the closure of the docks, it would be good to know if there was anything she could do to help.

A few steps later the usual hustle and bustle welcomed Mrs. Marsden to the commercial zone. Mercifully, this time there were no signs of dodgy men lurking on the corners. She had noticed them a few days ago, gandering aimlessly, unnerving her with their ever-watchful eyes. Their mere presence was enough to make her hair curl, for she had seen them before, the days following her husband's accident.

"Good morning, dear. Is everything alright?" asked a bright voice, making the young woman veer at once.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Warwick, a marvellous day. How's your day going so far?"

The woman glanced curiously at Mrs. Marsden, she was a keen observer and hardly missed a thing. "Nothing overly dreadful as of right now, but you know madness awaits me today. There's so much left to do and not enough time to get half of it done."

"I can imagine. If it helps, I have your flowers sorted out and ready to be picked up at two o'clock, as promised. One more thing to check off your list."

"Delightful. I already warned this son of mine, he better hold on to this woman for I am not planning another wedding in this lifetime."

Mrs. Marsden gave her an easy smile. "I reckon he picked a good one, don't you worry."

"One can only hope," Mrs. Warwick said. "I have to get going, dear, but I'll be looking for you tonight. There are people I would like you to meet."

"Looking forward to it."

After a rushed goodbye, Mrs. Warwick took her leave, heading for the next pressing item on her to-do list. The older woman had just gone inside the pastry shop when Mrs. Marsden reached her flower stand.

A Poshy of Tulips was located at one of the busiest corners in Long Harbour Road. The modest wooden stand was neatly painted in olive-green and garnished with sober decorations. It was Mrs. Marsden's sanctuary of sorts; every little thing there sparked a much-needed joy in her life. The florist looked chuffed with herself as she put her green work apron on, briskly pulling her auburn hair back in a ponytail, as she had done hundreds of times before. Then it was time to write the uplifting quote of the day on her chalkboard.

Mrs. Marsden thought of the wedding Mrs. Warwick was organizing. The woman wanted to introduce her to a potential suitor, most certainly, still, she wasn't sure how to feel about it just yet. It had taken time and sage counsel to stop opposing the idea of a new relationship, but it still felt foreign to even think of it. Mrs. Marsden wanted to believe that when or if love ever came back into her life, she would be able to recognize it.

Let life surprise you, she wrote on her chalkboard, then she went on to pick up her flowers.

Mr. Reed, the owner of the market next door, had a large fresh room for his vegetables and was always kind enough to shelter her flowers for the night.

"Any word from the docks, Mr. Reed? Are they letting the boats out yet?" Mrs. Marsden asked as the beefy man helped her carry the buckets of flowers outside.

"It was an open sea accident, likely caused by one of those ruddy oil ships," the man answered casually. "There was talk of explosions and an odd fog, if Ol' Pete is to be believed."

Mrs. Marsden stopped dead in her tracks, almost stumbling over a bucket of her flowers. "A fog? What kind of fog?" she croaked.

"Of that, I know nothing, lass." Mr. Reed said, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. "Although, there are no reports of injured sailors."

Mrs. Marsden let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "That's good to know."

The scent of the morning bread was coming from the bakery across the street, yet Mrs. Marsden was too far away to care. Four years ago her husband's boat had been caught by a fog of spilled chemical fumes, returning him to her paralyzed and empty. Mrs. Marsden had complained to the government then and to every oil company in the country, but it had been all useless. She couldn't find anyone to answer for the tragedy. Her husband never recovered, no matter how hard Mrs. Marsden had prayed the following years, no matter how much effort she had put in the care of his most basic needs, no matter how many stories she had read to his motionless body. The man she had loved kept breathing dutifully, but his very soul didn't seem to be there anymore.

Over those two years, Mrs. Marsden had been a mess more often than not. Countless times she had pleaded to her husband's body to give them a sign he was listening, and each time she had hoped in vain. In their room, she could stare at him in absolute silence for hours, waiting. But out of that door, the knot in her throat could get so unsustainable that she would sometimes lash out at friends and bystanders for the most unfair of reasons. Some days, she had wished for a better situation for herself, only for the guilt to punish her afterwards. Some nights, she had cried herself to sleep because surely she wasn't doing enough.

"I'm sorry, Kate," Mr. Reed said once all the flowers were out, taking her out of her musings. "I should've known this would bring back memories. Jack was a good lad. He's missed."

Mrs. Marsden swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice straight.

"Don't be, Mr. Reed. It could be a different thing altogether, and I've decided nothing will upset me today. Let's just rejoice no harm came to anyone this time," she answered with the warmest smile she could muster.

It was so that Mrs. Marsden got on with her day, glancing at the corner occasionally. She was still thinking about the accident and those mysterious men. Were they related? Was this new accident the reason for their return?

Something was seriously off with them. They seemed to belong to some queer government agency, and the way most of them dressed was just too mismatched to ignore. No one else had paid attention to it, all those years ago, but they had talked to Mr. Marsden's friends shortly after the accident. Charlie and some of the other sailors had told the men about the unnatural cold brought by that weird fog. However, once those mysterious men left, all the details faded from the sailors' memories, as if they had forgotten. How could one forget something like that? A part of her had wanted to unravel the mystery. She was positive those men were to blame, and she desperately wanted answers. Still, she couldn't bring herself to press Charlie and the rest. They had already been feeling guilty for not being able to help.

There had been no point in causing distress then, just as it was of no use to dwell on regrets now. That was in the past, and the day was just too beautiful to taint it with sour memories. It was not too claggy, which was saying something with summer rains being the norm so far east of the country. Mrs. Marsden was not about to gripe on the matter however; she loved sunny days, and they were good for business as well.

As it turned out, A Poshy of Tulips was the most popular flower shop around. It had its fair share of regulars, but on special occasions, it burst with new people as well. Despite the name on the sign, Mrs. Marsden had more than one type of flower to offer. There were elegant white tulips certainly, but she also had the reddest roses and loveliest pink lilies one could find. The woman was also fond of less popular varieties, which she often recommended to her customers, such as bright yellow pansies and proud petunias.

"There's a flower for every occasion," she usually said. "The most eye-catching and the one you need are rarely the same."

Mrs. Marsden was a remarkable person, and yet a woman of habits, never as off-the-cut as her husband had been. Leaving the city to marry him had been the one and biggest unpredictable thing she had ever done, something she had never regretted.

It had taken Jacob Marsden only one day to convince her that the city was not for her, a lovely afternoon at New North Pier, the best place by Roker's shore. She knew then, as the waves crashed against the breakwater, that there was no turning back for her. More importantly, Katherine Marsden knew, without the slightest hint of hesitation, that she would do it all over again just to relive those moments. Sometimes a minute of utter happiness is worth a lifetime of hardships.

A nephew of Mrs. Warwick came to pick the wedding flowers, and soon after, the sun began to wane. The rest of her flowers were soon stored again under Mr. Reed's protection. The plump store owner had left early, as most of the shop owners did on weekends. Mrs. Marsden had to leave as well if she wanted to make it to the wedding on time. The woman had only stayed behind to arrange the flowers she was to take to the graveyard the next day. She wanted them to be perfect, as always. Once she was satisfied, she put away her apron and picked up her purse, then turned around carelessly. To her surprise, she was thrown to the floor when someone crashed against her.

"Oh, excuse me, I'm very sorry," a young man hurried as he tried to help her up. "I was distracted. It's all my fault."

Mrs. Marsden raised her eyes, still trying to smooth her sundress after the fall. The man before her had a hair of a brown so dark that it was almost black and a square face that could be easily read. He looked truly embarrassed. The woman saw her belongings scattered all around, her flowers were mostly untouched, to her relief.

"None of it, I turned without looking. I ought to remind myself the street is not all mine to prance about," said Mrs. Marsden, who had suffered the consequences of distraction before.

The young man had an elegant grey outfit matched by a posh-looking brown hat, definitely not from around town. Mrs. Marsden was wary for a tic, wondering if he might be one of those mysterious men. He couldn't be though; he seemed too nervy and his trousers matched his jacket perfectly. The only odd thing in him seemed to be how afraid he looked.

"I should've been more careful. Please, allow me," the man said, leaving his costly hat on the flower stand and helping her pick up her belongings.

Soon everything was right as it was before the fall, even the loose strand of red hair which Mrs. Marsden had properly put back in place behind her left ear. Then her attention shifted back to the sober man before her. The man's dark eyes were set on her flowers, there were anguish and longing in them.

"Can I do something for you?" she asked, is no stranger to helping random people.

"I'm afraid not, I need to keep going. Once again, sorry about this."

Mrs. Marsden didn't like meddling, however, there was something in his sad look that she couldn't just ignore, "What's her name?"

The young man was startled at first, but eventually, he answered, "Maisie."

"It's a shame. I already put away most of my flowers. We could've fixed something up quickly."

"In my situation, flowers are of no help but thank you for the gesture."

Mrs. Marsden was torn, this man looked truly abashed, ashamed even. Could he have done something so bad? Should she be helping him? What if he had done something that really couldn't be fixed or forgiven?

That's when she remembered, only death was unrepairable. Everything else seemed simpler by comparison.

"We all make mistakes. Flowers might not solve your problem but they can certainly help. Trust me," she crooned. "Do you love her?"

It took him only a moment to nod gravely. "Sometimes it's not enough."

"You're a ray of sunshine, aren't you?" Mrs. Marsden didn't like that way of thinking. "Sometimes love is all we have. It's easy to give up when it doesn't seem like you make a difference. Let me tell you, Mr. Posh-Suit, love does make a difference."

For a brief moment, the man was speechless, staring at the girl. "Somehow you sound an awful lot like my sister," he finally announced.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Mrs. Marsden said, smiling. "Sorry for narking you, it's just that I don't like people giving up. Forget about me, you just have to do what feels right, even if it's not easy. You owe it to Maisie and yourself."

The woman turned around, thinking about how to help him. She would have gladly given her flowers to this young man, they would be more useful to him. Jack wouldn't mind. However, she knew these meant something that was not what the young man needed. Every flower had a meaning.

The arrangement for Mr. Marsden was mostly white and cream coloured, but it had a few tiny blue flowers to give it more body. She took one of them away and gave it to the man she had just met.

"This one is inexpensive and I have plenty. It is called an iris. It means hope, and you know what? You can find it almost anywhere. Keep it with you."

The man managed a weak smile as he put the flower inside his jacket. "Thank you."

Once he made his leave, Mrs. Marsden turned her attention back to her flowers, ready to fix anything that had been put out of perfect shape. Still, she did follow him with a look, wishing him luck.

The young man carried on for a few more blocks. Aside from the flower stand he left behind, the street around him was deserted. He inched to his right, straight into an empty alley, where the waning light of the sun couldn't reach him. His heartbeat hurried. He knew what was coming.

The man's hand moved to his jacket and found the little blueish flower inside. Hope can be found anywhere, that's what the florist had meant. It was a bright saying that one, however, waiting for the best would only take you so far. He needed his wits now.

The man pulled a wooden stick out of his pocket, gripping it dearly. This was no ordinary man, his name was Adrian Pucey, and he was a wizard.

As unbelievable as it might sound, it was the truth. The wooden stick clutched in his hand was his magic wand and, if he wanted to, he could use it as a weapon, throwing all kinds of curses out of it.

Adrian Pucey was a pureblood wizard. Growing up, he didn't have any meaningful experience with muggles, which was the wizarding world for non-magical people. He wasn't that unfamiliar with them anymore, but he was still taken aback by gubbins such as the one displayed in the shop across the alley. It was a sign for drill offers, the first Adrian had seen in his life. The wizarding community had no need for drills, an owl shop would have been a more familiar sight to Adrian. Compared to owls, drills were a much strange and mysterious thing to see.

Regardless, the young man had been learning plenty of muggle culture lately. His girlfriend, Maisie Howard, had made it her personal mission. Adrian was surprised by how much he had enjoyed it, even preferring muggle-made garments now. His parents, who despite not being bad people, had a certain disdain for muggles, would topple over if they only knew he had muggles making wizarding-style clothing now. This to his girlfriend's amusement and the muggle tailors' puzzled looks.

In spite of it, Maisie's bright giggles felt miles away now.

Making an effort to stay focused, Adrian made his way toward the end of the alley. It was a solid wall, no doors or windows whatsoever. There, he tapped his wand to an old brick, thrice, and an amazing thing happened. A whole chunk of the wall slid into the black shadows of the building as if it was the most normal door in the world. The wizard didn't give any sign of astonishment, only taking a tentative step forward.

The next moment Adrian was startled, for he was pulled from his muggle-made jacket rather forcibly. The surprise turned to annoyance once he recognized the voices.

"Go on, traitor," a muscular man barked.

"Told ya the prick was scared," a shorter one added, smirking.

The muscular man with the rasping voice was Marcus Flint, an old classmate of Adrian's. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was the school where British wizards and witches went to receive their magical education. It was divided into four houses honouring its founders. Marcus and Adrian had both been in Slytherin, the house of the cunning they called it.

Bilgi was the surname of the other man, short and pesky. His hair was salt and pepper, with a messy mustache under his nose. Like most of the other men, he was from abroad. Adrian couldn't remember the man's first name for the life of him.

By instinct, he cast a sideways glance at Marcus. Adrian had played Quidditch with him at Hogwarts, the most enjoyable and popular wizarding sport. Of course, the war happened and now he shared nothing more with his former mate.

The lights were dim at the end of the aisle, and yet, the room didn't seem dark. There was a large table up front and a curious variety of wooden furniture, cypress if Adrian had to guess, the same wood as Adrian's wand. The atmosphere was not much different from that of the Leaky Cauldron, or any other pub for that matter. Nevertheless, Adrian felt uncomfortable, even the silver shields and green tapestries gave him mixed feelings now.

He turned to the large table where only three people were seated, trying to keep his attention away from the door behind them. The men were having a lively conversation he couldn't understand. The thin man on the left had a scar on his face that had been recently treated and his cheeks were somewhat red, surely from drinking. The one on the right didn't seem to have a single scratch on him and was more restrained. Adrian's interest was set on the one in the middle.

"You're late, boy," The man said, despite not looking like he cared about the delay.

The man was in his forties, he had dark short hair and a strong jawline. The relaxed and approachable image he gave was evident in his barely visible stubble and the loose shirt under his jacket. However, the distinctive feature in him was his mismatched eyes, black and grey. The man was tough but silver-tongued as well, he used a coarse accent when talking to his foreign partners, and yet his English couldn't be more American. All of Adrian's visits had been directed at him, still, he didn't even know his name. Marcus just referred to him as the foreigner.

Adrian knew very little about that man, only piecing together details he overheard. He appeared to have been involved in both wars, escaping capture. Now he seemed to be the head of this new group that not even the Ministry of Magic knew about.

They called themselves The Dark Company.

Adrian swallowed, gathering an act of courage he didn't have. He felt the presence of all the enchanted objects in the room. There was a staring glass eye and, not far away from it, a green snake-patterned hourglass. Among the moving portraits was a silver-rimmed mirror, black as the night. Adrian had seen it showing the outside of the alley or some other places farther away. There was also a pair of spinning brass rings, which had detected Adrian's lies before. He took a deep breath, considering his words before speaking.

"It was unwise to meet here. Aurors have been around ever since..." Adrian said, trying to hold a steady voice. He took two long breaths. "I'm sure you're aware."

The foreigner set his mismatched eyes on Adrian, studying him. "Our location is not something you can decide."

Adrian nodded in defeat. He hadn't expected a different outcome.

Marcus and Bilgi sat not far away from him. Unlike them, Adrian could tell the men at the foreigner's sides were part of his innermost circle. The thin man had shoulder-long, straight hair, black as his mustache, and there was a mischievous grin on him. Adrian recognized him from the reports. He was the arsonist, Garvan Ferrara. The man on the other side of the foreigner was a mystery, blond and not as prone to laughs. There was something different to him; he appeared to be sly and more dangerous.

They were his lieutenants of sorts. Adrian had seen two more in previous meetings and heard of others as well, and there was at least one woman among them. Adrian paid attention to all their words, even trivial exchanges. Any information might be of use at some point.

Adrian took off his jacket and noticed his hat was missing, he must've left it at the flower stand. For some reason, he kept thinking back to that muggle florist. She was a common woman, a stranger to him, still there was something about her. She looked nothing like Maisie, and yet shared her uncommon kindness for strangers. Moreover, the way the florist had tried to help him without mucking around the corners reminded Adrian of his sister, Leanne. What would she think of him now?

Leanne wouldn't be entirely against the florist's words, she had always believed in hope. However, she also thought it was of little help without wits and a good plan.

"When everything else fails, we still have our wits," his sister usually said.

Adrian turned to the foreigner, "You're freeing Maisie. That's why I'm here."

"Not yet."

Maise should be free by now, that was the deal. There was something more to this meeting, at least that much was obvious. Adrian had to keep a cool head though, he was no reckless Gryffindor to lash out at the worst possible moment.

"Is she hurt?" he asked.

"Of course not, who do you take me for?" the foreigner protested as if offended.

"Can I see her then?"

"Perhaps, after we talk business."

"What more do you want? I gave you enough already. I did my part. You haven't done yours."

The blond man at the table spoke coldly then, in flawless English, despite being plain it was not his mother-tongue. "It's not enough. Not until everything goes back to its rightful order."

On the other side, Garvan Ferrara leaned forward, his accent was as American as the foreigner's, "This asshole thinks he's better than us."

"Yanko, Garvan, gentlemen, please. I'm sure Adrian is not implying such a thing." The foreigner paused. "You aren't, right?"

Adrian shook his head.

"I guessed as much," the man said, getting a sip from his glass. "Before we go any further, I must thank you, Adrian. Azkaban was a success."

Adrian's solid facade fell and he rambled, "Azkaban? That wasn't me! I didn't know. I-I- wouldn't have-"

Azkaban was the British wizarding prison, not far from the shores of this little town. It was initially guarded by the dementors, nasty and repulsive creatures that could suck the very soul out of any living thing, but after the war, they have vanished away and Aurors were the only ones guarding the cells now. The Auror Office was in charge of keeping the law among the wizarding community; Adrian had a boring desk job there, nothing that could put him or anybody else in danger. At least, until now.

"Adrian, very dangerous men were freed last week. People died. Yes, a couple of inmates and a few loyal fellows from the Company, but some Aurors too. Good honest Aurors, Adrian. Aurors with families. You did that."

Adrian was deadly pale. His legs had almost given out the morning he received the news, the guilt had been too much to bear ever since.

"Useless, the pack of them." the blond man cut in. "Some didn't even throw a single curse."

"Don't be unfair now, Yanko," said the foreigner, slightly amused. "Garvan here blew a whole chunk of the prison over them. Explosions like that don't give much time to react."

The laughs came. Adrian was gutted.

"They were good people. I didn't want any of this to happen."

"Where were you then, boy? Where were you when they were dying?" Yanko asked pointedly.

"Probably wagging about, with his arse on that comfortable chair of his," smirked Bilgi.

Adrian had tried to hide the guilt, blame it all on them. After all, they had forced him, right? They had taken Maisie. They had threatened to harm his parents and Leanne. He couldn't have done anything more. He was no hero, he was just a bloke who wanted to live a regular life. He didn't even care that much about his career ambitions anymore.

However, thinking about it, he reckoned they were right. He had been on his chair while they died, he had pretended to be surprised as others mourned. Was that being innocent?

The foreigner brought him out of his daze. "Listen, Adrian, this is it. There are plenty of Aurors out there. St Mungo's, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, you name them. And yet, there is one place where they're not expecting anybody." The foreigner put his hands on the table. "Let me get to the point. We want you to tell us which night Harry Potter will be standing guard at the Ministry of Magic."

"What? But- No! I mean, it's Harry Potter!"

"I knew you were on his side!"

"That's rubbish and you know it, Marcus! I'm just trying to live my life. Higgs, Malfoy, and many others are doing the same thing."

"We don't care about your fellow traitors, you dozy pillock!" Marcus bellowed.

It all felt wrong. The smell of the furniture, the green and silver tapestries, he even felt his lungs getting less air. They wanted Harry Potter. Adrian was not very close to him, but Potter had always been friendly enough at the office. The young man couldn't stop but wonder what Harry Potter would do in his place if he were given this choice.

There was a ghostly glint on the foreigner's grey eye.

"You'll do as you're bid. You'll help us with their protections and to set up a distraction. You're not our only man inside, we'll know if you lie."

It was not only about Potter, after all, but they also wanted Adrian to give them the Ministry. If he gave them the Aurors' protections he would be signing their death sentences. They would wipe them all out, including Potter. Adrian wasn't sure about the rumours that said Potter couldn't be killed, but he doubted he could survive against so many at once.

He didn't see a way out. Was Adrian willing to risk Maisie and his family for those Aurors? Maisie and Leanne would be against this, he knew it.

"You can't take over the Ministry. You don't have the numbers," Adrian ventured.

Garvan laughed. "We don't want your stupid Ministry. We're just picking something, we'll open this old relic and be done with it," he said, turning to the black mirror at Adrian's back.

"A mirror?" Adrian asked, turning between the mirror and Garvan.

The following hard look the foreigner gave to Garvan, and the thin man's guilty reaction let Adrian know he had said too much. Marcus and Bilgi looked confused, but Yanko huffed unpleasantly. Was there another mirror at the Ministry? Why would they go to such trouble to get it? How did you even open a mirror?

"We need an answer, Adrian," the foreigner broke the uneasy silence. "The Ministry. Harry Potter. Now."

Before Adrian could open his mouth, the very mirror Garvan had stared at whizzed, showing the alley. Surprisingly, the muggle florist was there, with Adrian's hat in one hand and her flowers in the other, looking in all directions.

"Hello? Mr. Posh-Suit? Did you come this way?" her voice echoed, other-worldly.

Yanko frowned, the look on his eyes was clear.

"No! Let her go! She won't be able to come inside," Adrian pleaded, staring at the confused woman. Her deep auburn hair muted in the reflection.

"A smarter man would've placed wards. This is on you," the foreigner said, showing no emotion.

Adrian paled as the woman kept calling for him, "She'll go! Just give it some time. I reckon she'll go when she doesn't find a door."

"Yanko here is not a patient man."

Adrian was running out of options, and the florist was looking around curiously at the entrance wall. It didn't look as if she was leaving just yet. "Obliviate her instead. There's no need for this!"

That caught the foreigner's attention, who frowned. "I find that solution unsuitable."

Why did it matter so much to Adrian? The muggle was almost a stranger, as Potter was, as most of those Aurors who had died at Azkaban were. He couldn't risk those who mattered to him for them. He needed to pick his battles wisely to save Maisie. Could he do this for them? Just once more?

At that moment though, he imagined Maisie's look of disappointment. She wanted him to be better than prejudice, she would want him to be better than this. He turned to the florist, who had tried to help him, and saw Maisie instead.

"No!" Adrian cried as he stood up, "You've taken so much already, and I won't let you-"

One word echoed from the distance and Adrian froze.

"Crucio!"

It came from the other end of the room, the yells that followed were the most horrible Adrian had ever heard. They were the yells of a girl.

"You bastards!"

Adrian aimed his wand, thinking for a moment that he could take them all by himself. He did manage to throw Marcus away but an orange light passed by his eyes and he was thrown back, hitting the floor hard, flat on his back. Yanko had been ever so fast.

"He's fast, isn't he?" the foreigner said of Yanko. "A gifted duelist, who has studied and mastered the best magic in both sides of the Volga."

"You said— y-you promised—" Adrian muttered, holding back tears of rage.

"It wasn't me. This was out of my control," the foreigner said, the corner of his mouth forming the shade of a smile.

The door opened and an old man with a twisted face came inside. He had some black mingled in his grey hair and the unequivocal signs of having passed through hard days. Adrian had seen him before in many pictures, always younger, except for the last few days when one picture showed him to look exactly as he did now.

Antonin Dolohov approached the table, leaving the door ajar.

"I don't know how you keep up with this scum," He addressed the foreigner, raking his long, scraggly hair aside. "The Imperious curse is faster and you have a legilimens in that group of yours."

The foreigner turned to the older man. "Imperius raises suspicions. Eldrick is available, still, legilimency wouldn't guarantee his cooperation. I trust Adrian will be helpful, father."

Adrian Pucey was shocked. He couldn't move a finger.

Dolohov walked towards him, making the young man shiver with every step. The aged man bent until his face was merely inches away from Adrian's. Cold drops of sweat were sliding down the young man's face.

"I don't have time for this. You'll do as you're told or I'll personally take over," said Dolohov with a low growl. "And if I do... I'll kill you, but not before using a few curses on that girl. I promise you'll watch every bit of it."

The former Death Eater returned to his place, taking a sip directly from the bottle. "Slytherins should be better than this prick."

The terror Adrian felt then was something he hadn't experienced before. The young man nodded as he stood up, then headed to the table. Adrian told them everything they wanted to know, and even more.

The spinning brass rings that would screech if he had lied didn't make a single sound.

"Do something about that," Dolohov said annoyed, looking at the mirror where the florist could still be seen, mumbling about being late to some party.

The foreigner shook his head when he saw Yanko moving. He met Garvan's now serious look. "You know what to do. Be discreet."

Garvan nodded and stood up, obscuring the mirror's contents from them. Adrian was paralyzed. That woman was truly innocent, unlike him. This was on Adrian too, if he hadn't left that hat behind... if he had only placed wards in the alley...

Even so, when Garvan passed by him, Adrian didn't try to stop him.

"Are you sure we need to do this with Potter there?" asked Bilgi with caution.

"I heard he can't be beaten," Marcus added, just getting back on his chair, throwing knives with a look at Adrian.

Dolohov didn't seem pleased.

"Potter was a frightened boy then and he's still one now! I don't know what kind of trick he used against the Dark Lord, some rubbish with his wand. I faced him once, he's nothing alone. I will beat him, and then, I'll bring the Dark Lord back."

The words echoed in the room, sombre and final. Adrian Pucey was petrified. He was a person without a choice now, he didn't have the guts to oppose them. Did he?

Was the florist dead already?

Suddenly, Adrian became very aware of the blue flower in his pocket. He wished to be able to do something, to be that man, to take the disappointed looks of Leanne and Maisie away from his head. What had he done?

Adrian Pucey was a traitor, after all, a traitor to the Aurors and even to that kind florist, not better than a murderer. Even if the world never knew about it, Adrian Pucey was going to be the man who killed them all.