She hadn’t gotten rid of Malfoy’s clothing after all. Even after all those nights, one would have assumed that she kept them out of sentimentality. In reality, she’d forgotten. Once they were washed, she had wrapped them up and just as she was about to open the door to get the family owl, her brother had burst in asking where one of her books had gone - that he needed it for research. So the package had been stuffed under her bed before she went to help her brother, then her mother, and then had to go on a call for work. By the time she returned home, the package lay underneath her bed, all but forgotten.

Until now.

Taking them from underneath her bed, Rowan unwrapped the parcel and stared down at the garments. The silk of the shirt slipped through her fingers soft as a whisper. If possible, the clothes had gotten even finer in the time she had forgotten them. Looking at the shirt only reminded her of the feeling of Malfoy’s hands against her, his fingers tracing a delicate line down her back as she pressed into him.

Swallowing, the witch shook herself of the memory. She’d sworn to herself she would forget it, but how could she forget something that kept cropping up in her dreams every other night? Even more so the thoughts that plagued her when she woke up: Does he dream about me? Unlikely. She’d been a drop in a bucket most likely; nothing more to reflect on, and it made her all the more enraged to think she had let him use her in that way. Stuffing the memories down once more, Rowan gritted her teeth and shoved the clothes back under the bed. At least pulling them out hadn’t been completely useless: they’d gave her an idea.

The sound of her bare feet were muffled by the carpet as she inched to the front of the staircase to listen for the sounds of her family. The tell-tale clatter of the dishes told her that Grayson was still helping clean up after supper, which meant her sister was drawing on the couch as usual. The soft murmur of her family’s voices floated up the stairs and followed after her as she stole down the hallway and into her brother’s room. She had to be quick — he would be back up any moment to do some more research. Thankfully, it only took a few moments before she found what she was looking for. An old pair of her brother’s trousers, a belt, socks, linen shirt, and a cap. Grayson had grown like someone had given him growth serum thank Merlin, so she knew he wouldn’t be missing these.

Hurrying back into her room with her brother’s clothes, Rowan set to work, her heart slowly beating quickly as she stepped out of her skirt and petticoats. It had helped that she had tried on trousers before this. Her chemise could be stuffed into the waistband of them and the linen shirt would cover everything else. Strapping on suspenders, the witch completed the look by taking her hair in high bun and stuffing it under the cap. A matching wool jacket waited for her by the window. Given how dark it had gotten outside, she hoped this would be enough for a disguise; any other person on the street wouldn’t look too closely at someone just passing by.

And she was proven correct. The streets of South Bartonburg were all but empty tonight; a fair sign that Rowan needn’t have smeared so much dirt on her face as an extra precaution. But the disguise did its job and that was what mattered. Rowan stuffed a hand into her pocket - it was weird to not have to fumble around in her skirts as usual - and pulled out the two pieces of paper she’d brought along: a duplicate of Maisie's drawing, and the scrap of paper. The red ink flashed up at her from the page. Perhaps they had known their commands had done the complete opposite.

With a crack, Rowan had vanished from the spot on the street.


The building groaned as if struggling to support itself under its own weight. It had been forgotten long years ago, and it clearly showed; rotting wood threatened to splinter at any moment, and at least half of the roof had been blown to pieces. The roof provided absolutely no shelter whatsoever, but that didn't mean it couldn't hide something. And it was a perfect match for the drawing Masie had done, down to the faded letters on the sign that lay in pieces next to the double doors.

It must have been a coal factory; old rusty pipes lay about, tilted at odd angles as if someone had tried to wrench them from their positions for other purposes. Maybe scrap metal. One metal pillar had its side completely blown apart, but the rust that speckled around the gaping hole told Rowan it would have never made it out in one piece. Though the place was damp and musty, there were signs that she wasn't completely alone. Bread had been tossed in the corner, not yet consumed by mice and insects that it must have been there only a few hours at most. Which mean she was close.

Tugging her cap lower over her forehead, the witch headed up the staircase to her right. One flight up, a bunch of boxes were stacked neatly in a corner - too neatly to suggest that they'd been left there and abandoned. Rowan approached the boxes, reaching out a hand to brush the tops of them when a crack split the air above her and she dove behind the boxes. She clapped a hand over her mouth as if someone could hear her breath - it was cold enough that they could likely see it. Her heart thudded in her chest as the sound of muffled footsteps tapped above her head. There was only one pair of footsteps; good.

Wand in her hand, Rowan gripped the side of the box with her free hand and hauled herself up. Her breath came out slowly as she crept up the stairs. As she approached the top of the stairs, a blue glow illuminated half of the floor. Shadows started to dance against the wall, as if a fire had been cast. And sure enough, as she made it to the top, there was a soft sizzle that hissed quietly in the corner.

He had lit a fire, crackling merrily away in a jar.

He sat there with his back to her. Another snap, then the thick scent of tobacco wafted through the air. The pungent smell of alcohol wasn't far behind. Rowan wrinkled her nose. She would know that scent combination anywhere. So it was him. Then: "You're too late."

Her breath hitched in her throat as she pushed the taste of fear down as far as she could. She clutched her wand as hard as she dared to, so much so that it buzzed in her hand. "A name, Walter."

He wouldn't turn around. She inched closer to him, her wand raising up in front of her. "I've been demoted - I'm not much use to you. He hasn't even erased my memory yet."

Rowan blinked. Memory?

"But I've already said too much."

"I want a name, Walter." She pressed further as sparks danced at the tip of her wand. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck begin to stand up. Something wasn't right.

"They'll come back around to re-do the charm on your sister. She's already remembered too much."

"Stop speaking in ciphers, old man." She snarled as another wave of uneasiness rolled through her: she'd left her family unprotected. One more step and she would be able to prod the wand into his back. Except he started to turn towards her.

"I told you, I've said too much." He faced her now, and she felt her heart stop; the image of the broken, drunkard that she'd always associated him with had evaporated. In its place, a man with sunken eyes, clear as day, surveying her. Only then did she realize the cigarette lay untouched on a metal plate; the scent of alcohol that permeated through the air only seemed to seep through the floorboards. Walter, however, was completely lucid."s'better that I say nothin' more - except...."

There was the smallest change in the way he looked at her, something about the way his eyes moved over her, up and down as if he was drinking the sight of her in. The both of them hadn't moved and yet Rowan had the sinking feeling that the scales had tipped.

"Stay back."

"Can't, love. My time's run out."

And then he lunged at her.

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