Focus.

Mulciber is in Greece with Amycus and Alecto.

Focus.

Lucius is already one step ahead of us.

Focus.

He can’t get the Horcrux.
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The past week has been one of change. The transition into unemployment has been a challenge. For the first few days, I enjoyed having free reign over my time. I visited Pug who is back to her old self and finished off things that have been left for who knows how long.
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I don’t have a good feeling about this. Something feels off. I can’t place my finger on it, but it’s like something is hovering just below the horizon, just out of sight…waiting to surface. I had a dream last night that Mulciber found us, so perhaps that has been playing in the back of my mind, or it could be because Padma and I haven’t resolved anything since our argument the other day.
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Padma’s exhales quietly and then shifts so that her arm falls across mine. I open my eyes and turn my head to make sure she’s alright. Padma’s face is soft with sleep. The dark crescents of her eyelashes splay across her skin which is almost translucent in the moonlight. Her other arm is flung over her head, fingers twined among the cloud of dark hair that is spread across the pillow. Under the wool blanket, her chest rises and falls as she takes shallow and quick breaths.
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The Heath streches in front of me, charred and blackened from tonight’s battle. Dark tendrils of smoke spread upward, blanketing the full-faced moon staring down at us in a semi-transparent veil of grey. The night is dead quiet except for the crackling of flame and the muffled bursts of far-off spell fire.
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I got about ten minutes of sleep last night. My mind was racing after Mr. Macmillan’s revelation about my birth father. I can barely comprehend that all this time the answer was right in front at me, practically screaming and jumping around waving a red flag. How many times had I been in the Macmillan museum and seen that key? How many hours did I spend with Ernie, Justin, and Padma pouring over Dark books in that hidden room in Hampstead Heath – the very room that was created to hide my father’s work from Voldemort? It just goes to show that sometimes the answers are exactly where you’re not looking – right in front of your nose.
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“I’m fine. Now stop it, or else I’ll have to tell Mum what your deal is,” Pug grabs the glass from my hand and limps over to the kitchen sink. “She’s been driving me around the bend the last few days with all of her fretting.” Pug places her antibiotics in her mouth and chases them with a gulp of water. “She thinks stairs are a problem,” she says placing her glass down and making a face.
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It seems like the last week and a half are just a bad nightmare. Either that, or this is all a dream, I think to myself as I slowly open my eyes and take in the sterile St Mungo’s-standard hospital décor.
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The moon is almost full. I can tell by the intensity of the silver light that is filtering through the grimy glass and stuffing itself past the thick metal bars standing at attention like rigid soldiers across the window.
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I knew I would be late. It’s already quarter past seven and I’m not even out of the Ministry yet. If it weren’t for bloody Auror Headquarters losing my Azkaban crime scene composites, I’d probably be enjoying dinner with Padma at Bewitched right now. Well, maybe enjoying isn’t quite the right word depending on exactly what Padma wanted to talk to me about. But nonetheless, I wouldn’t be here fed up with the dysfunction that has become the DMLE and wondering if Auror Headquarters has suddenly become a portal to another dimension where all of our reports are being deposited because they’re sure as hell not going to the places that they’re supposed to.
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Why is Padma sending me an owl when her front door is about ten feet from mine? I stare down at the neat handwriting marching across the carefully creased parchment in my hands and then drop it onto my rumpled bed before turning and slamming the window shut. Probably because she’s avoiding me.
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The wizarding world is like a runaway top, whirling out of control and teetering closer and closer to the edge of some great and mysterious abyss. All I can do is stand there, seemingly helpless, and watch as it careens wildly around, tracing a path towards the uncertain. At least that's what life seems to have dimished to lately.
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I close the front door to my flat and then lean my forehead against it. My eyes fall shut and the darkness before me sways slightly as I battle the fatigue. I think it would be very possible for me to fall asleep right here leaning against the door. I’m so exhausted that I could probably fall asleep and then fall flat on my face and still be dead to the world.
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Before continuing, read Family Tree Discoveries.

“Decrypting Charms are easily the most underused spells in the Deciphering Charm Sub-Family. This is not a consequence of the effectiveness of Decryption Charms themselves, but is an artifact of the limited nature of the devised classification schemes which do not, by strict definition, wholly encompass the full breath of this extensive Sub-Family.”
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I’ve been sorting through my belongings in preparation for the move. As a result, there is now a towering pile of junk sitting in the middle of my living room in my London flat. I’ve pretty much cleaned out the space and removed most of my furniture. Everything echoes; everything looks bland and has that “unnaturally clean” feeling, reminiscent of a surgical ward. But that is what potential renters want to see, and I’m eager to get this someone to sign the lease so I can get back to wizarding London.
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“Honey, it’s so good to have you back home again. I can’t tell you how much we miss you.” Mum smiles up at me, the edges of her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Plus, we needed someone to clean out the fridge of all the leftovers, among other things.” She winks as she tosses me a dish cloth and motions toward the stack of dishes teetering on the counter. “Help out your old mum, why don’t you.”
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I think that sometimes life purposely turns itself inside out just because it can. Either that or the powers that be seem to have a perverse sense of humor. Based on my reluctance to begin my Anger Management Sessions at the Phoenix House a couple of months ago and the fact that I saw them as punishment, I never would’ve guessed that I’d ever prefer them over work. However, now it seems like I can’t get to the Floo fast enough and escape the frustrations of working for the Ministry.
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I throw down my mechancial pencil, lean back in my chair, and rub my eyes. I’ve been camped out in this chair all day working on Ron and Justin’s case. If I can finish these sketches in the next couple of hours, then I’ll still be able to stop by St Mungo’s before going home and dropping into bed.
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Something smells wonderful. Mmmm, it must be Sunday. Breakfast…in…bed…again… I smile to myself. Being in that hazy, warm state that straddles wakefulness and sleep is one of life’s luxuries, especially when it’s the weekend and it’s not my turn to make Sunday breakfast.
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