A hawthorn wand
5 memory phials

Not off to Azkaban, was the news. His next move from the holding cell on Level 2 had once again changed. The first time the dementors had derailed his impending trip to the North Sea while his case awaited trial. Misslethorpe’s ruling that Lawrence was too unwell to go had been suspicious enough to the criminal at the time, but now it made entire sense. The healer had stalled the date for Azkaban and Blake, who held her trainee status close to her heart like training wheels on a bike, had come to ask some interesting questions about pentrals.

Off to St Mungo’s. Andy Carter wanted to study him. Which meant she either wanted to make his life more of a living hell, he was useful to her, or both. He had a decision, St Mungo’s or Azkaban, and either way, he’d end up in Azkaban eventually once the wizengamot had calculated the life sentences. Of the two places to be held until his trial, St Mungo’s would be both more intriguing, and provide more potential to make an escape if it came to it. It would also be easier to bargain his usefulness.

But one stipulation stood between him and St Mungo’s, and he suspected, between him and Azkaban too. Orders from the top. An obliviation of certain memories with sensitive information. Lawrence had known at once what those memories were, and there was no time to lose.

So he had engaged Misslethorpe and Carter’s tactic and stalled. Asked to sleep on it, not that sleep happened. He requested Harper source what they needed, knowing what they were doing could get her into trouble if Fenny, the hitwizard stationed outside the cell door, discovered. No wands could enter Lawrence’s cell apart from when he was moved, or in emergencies. One could be used to help him escape, or hurt someone, and he was never, ever to be allowed to touch a wand. He couldn’t be trusted, even though he’d told them secrets, and Ira Almasy was dead.

“Minister Glass has ordered the obliviation,” he told Harper the previous day, “There are memories we must copy and you must keep safe. They can be used at the right time. He has let me keep them longer than I expected, because by coming here, I protected myself.” She knew that for everything he had told her and Pratt, and the line of other aurors who had talked to him, he had still held back. “Insurance,” he had told her with sober sincerity, “If anything happens to me, to you...”

He would forget, of course. Glass would be sure to wipe those memories clean. It would be down to Harper to keep the copies safe and use them to destroy Edwin if it came to it. He might not even remember the Minister had anything to do with the dementors to ask Graves. But she was the only person he could trust, and the only person he could meet alone.

Outside the cell door, Fendrel turned to a new chapter in Twilight, another simple read about muggles and vampires, and the familiar sound of flat shoes and four paws approached in the distance.

Harper, who never kept her Field Spaniel on a leash, shuffled through the papers in her folder as she strode down the corridor past other cells on level two. George happily ran ahead as he had done many times before on visits to her client, Lawrence Musgrave. A strange wizard. Likeable? Yes. Capable and culpable of grievous acts of inhumanity? Also yes. People were complex and criminals often moreso than people liked to believe. The public did not like to associate good characteristics with morally ambiguous men, at least not outside of bad boy fantasies. And Lawrence wasn’t exactly bad boy material. People liked to hate him. Most of level two hated him.

So why was she about to break the law for this wizard?

            “Miss Graves.” Fendrel glanced up from his book, clearly keen on getting back to it.

“Fenny. Riveting read, what is i--” George cut in with a bark, suddenly clambering up on to the Auror’s lap, panting. “George!! Stop that!” Harper scolded as she feigned trying to get a hold of the squirming dog. Fenny tried to do the same in earnest, juggling his book in one hand.

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s usually so keen on seeing Musgrave!” she explained in a puzzled tone, all the while thinking: I’m breaking the law, I’m breaking the law, I’m breaking the law.

George continued in his affections for the romance reading hitwizard, undeterred. Harper shook her head in light-hearted resignation and reached into her jacket pocket, “Nevermind. I’m going in... here’s my wand, okay?” she drew it out and left it on the intended table next to him. “Won’t be long. He’s off to St.Mungo’s soon enough.”

Distracted by the overly friendly George, Fendrel barely bothered to check the wand before he let her into Lawrence’s cell. The witch smiled at him, shooting her dog a cautioning “Behave!” before going in to meet her client for what might be their final private consultation in this particular room. The next time they met would be at his transfer to the hospital: a prospect that worried her. She wasn't keen on delivering him to someone he'd previously targeted.

The door closed shut and she threw her folder on his bed, next to where he was sitting. She was breaking the law for this wizard because she trusted him - or she trusted his fear. Harper reached into her pocket and placed a set of vials next to the folder.

“Sorry George couldn’t come see you today,” she began conversationally before procuring a second wand from the inside of her jacket. It was old, hawthorn. Belonged to late grandma Graves in the states, and reasonably difficult to trace. “He’s suddenly developed a liking for Stump.” Good boy.

Harper handed the heirloom to Lawrence, meeting him in the eye. Yes. She trusted him.

Lawrence sat poised on the bed, where he saw a glimpse of George, pink tongue out, greeting the hitwizard with doggy enthusiasm. The sight brought a tense smile to his face, preoccupied with what they had to do. Good dog, he thought towards the spaniel as the door swung shut.

Harper had come good. Lawrence’s hazel eyes widened as he saw the beautiful old wand. He wanted to kiss the witch, but he had to focus.
“It’s alright,” Lawrence replied with a genuine smile breaking on his features, “he doesn’t judge your character.”

Thank you, he mouthed, and clasped her arm briefly in an attempt to convey how much this meant to him.

The antique hawthorn wand was light, lovingly worn at the handle but tended to in its earlier life. The wood was a little dryer now but as he weighed it in his hand and sensed its potential. The only wands in his life which had ever served him well were hawthorn, known to wandmakers[1] for suiting bearers with conflicted natures, and he trusted nothing but the wood for this job. He was a case study of conflicted nature.

“So I’ve had a think,” Lawrence spoke aloud, and cast a tentative lumos, the tip of the wand glowing like an ember in the space between them, “I would like to read the documents once more before I sign.” Beyond the door Fenny was fussing George, playing. He had definitely grown complacent in his familiarity with his duties.

Rather than reaching for the documents, Lawrence used his fingertips to place one of the vials in Harper’s hand, and issued a look to hold it for him before pointing to the door and his eyes, instructing her to watch the door. All they needed now was for someone else to visit.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the tip to his temple and closed his eyes. Lawrence brought the first memory to the forefront of his mind as he had been practicing. Bright, clear, Edwin’s dining room table revealed itself[2] in his mind eye, along with the three wizards sat with him. He brought the room around forwards, and Willy’s dragon patronus, huge, the smell of the coffee Edwin had made, the surprise Mortimer had given him on appearing as if from nowhere, and the unexpected humour in Shufflebottom’s vacuum cleaner mime.

“Effingo Memoria,” he uttered as quietly, but firmly as he could, worried a wordless spell on first attempt might not work. These memories had to copy well. He had to commit and reach for every ounce of confidence he had left and focus.

As he drew the wand away, silvery threads came with it like cobwebs, and as he opened his eyes a crack to see them, he let out a breath of relief, and brought them safely to the neck of the vial in Harper’s grasp. The threads kept coming, and coming, thickening and thinning as they found their way across with the spell, before petering out. The glass in Harper’s hand glowed silver, the threads curling in like a knitted nest. Waiting for their purpose.

He nodded, and glanced to the door, willing George to  be as affectionate to Stump as he had been to Lawrence when they’d first met. One down, four to go.

1.	Wand Wood
2.	2nd January 2011, Through Gray Mist Creeping

Harper shuffled through her papers as she held out each consecutive vial for Lawrence with her other hand, all the while keeping a wary eye on the door. Every time they stoppered a memory, she was sure to make small talk - pretending to explain a particular line or condition in the documents that her client would eventually need to sign. Her ears were pricked for any sounds from George, who she knew would let loose an irritating howl if Fenny made a move that might jeopardise their arrangement.

“You don’t have to sign that one, it’s for Healer Storm and Morgenthau, to guarantee your rights.” Harper wrapped the fourth and penultimate vial in a handkerchief before slipping it into her pocket. “Let me know if there are any amendments I need to make.”

Hitwizard Stump had grown quiet, hopefully deep into his book with a cuddly George on his lap. She held out the final container in preparation for its next silvery consignment, glancing at the wizard’s tense expression. What were in these memories? What have you seen, Lawrence Musgrave? What have you done?

Hard, clicking footsteps. Harper wondered at her instinctive ability to recognise their Head of Department by that alone - oh, Carstairs, why did he have to be such a meddler! Why couldn't he just stay in his office all day long! That's what department heads were supposed to do. The witch stared anxiously at the entrance, then at Loz, then at the entrance. He was getting closer.

“Hurry hurry,” she hissed, just as George emitted his warning noise and Fendrel hopped to his feet to greet Solomon outside the cell.

The fourth slipped into the glass with a little teasing. More than four months again without a wand showed, however much he’d used a quill or pencil to try and keep his hand in during the past few weeks. Harper did marvellously, keeping up a one-sided conversation with enough regularity to provide cover.

There was one last memory to pull, which wasn’t anything to do with Glass, but rather more to do with St Mungo’s. Lawrence had been in two minds, since it would not be one Edwin would even know to remove. However, it pertained to Sandy, and being moved to St Mungo’s might cause the memory to arise at an unwanted time, and if his Slytherin classmate was bold enough, he might want to erase everything to do with his stay at Oulton Broad, if he got to Lawrence.

As he focused on the night Misslethorpe had summoned the Head Healer to the house, Harper suddenly hissed at him to hurry. Lawrence cursed beneath his breath, grasping at the memory as best he could in the time, as he had already begun to draw it out. The silvery cobwebs were tatty this time, not as clean as the four before, and Lawrence shoved it into the neck of the vial with more haste, his heart climbing this throat. He doubted the quality of the fifth memory would be as clean as the others, but it might still help if anything happened to him. The most important ones were there, and Harper just had to get them out and keep them safe.

George let out a bark in recognition of an approaching party, being the most excellent accomplice, hopefully delaying the second visitor by his mere presence in the corridor. Lawrence smoothly held the antique wand close to Harper, out of view of the door, his eyes fixed on it with a grim expression as his heart raced. He wanted her to take it calmly, hide it back where it had been in her jacket, so he could seize the quill beside the papers. His left arm reached across to fumble at opening the paperwork which genuinely did require reading and signing.

Solomon Carstairs leaned over to pet the darling Field Spaniel, by now a fond and familiar presence on level two. A furry celebrity alongside other pets who made the odd appearance. If only its owner was always so friendly! He gave George a smile as he straightened and glanced at Stump with a slightly less winning countenance. His purpose here was not a cheerful one, pleased as he was to know that Musgrave would soon be well away from their cells. If anything happened at St.Mungo’s, it wouldn’t be hard to pin most of the blame on Healer Storm.

“I see she’s here to read him his last rites,” the department head noted the wand on the table and handed his own over to Fendrel. “If I didn’t know better, I might think Graves is going to miss having the bastard on this floor.”

The door swung open, just in time to catch sight of the defence attorney in question levelling an impressive glare at him after having clearly overheard his remarks. Solomon simply smiled at her and entered the cell, glancing around as he usually did. Perhaps Musgrave himself would be glad to leave this prison in favour of a less foreboding hospital room, regardless of having to suffer Miranda.

He turned his attention to the man himself, wielding a quill and messily brooding over Graves’ carefully worded documents. It felt cleansing to get rid of this spectre from wars past and present.

“Are you ready to sell your soul?” Solomon raised his eyebrows at the ex-Auror. “Or are we getting cold feet now?”

“Solomon,” Lawrence greeted flatly, “surprised you haven’t sold it already.”

His eyes didn’t leave the page, studying the terms, which he trusted Harper had already been through with a fine-tooth comb. She had been through everything with an eagle eye, and there would never be an adequate way to repay her. The sweat prickled cooly on the back of Lawrence’s neck from the haste of extracting the last memory. He rested his hand on the paperwork to hide the fact it was unsteady. There would be no tells of their actions just before Carstairs arrived.

To think the Department Head was only a few years older than him. Lawrence could remember Carstairs as a newly qualified auror when Lawrence was still a trainee. He’d been a smart-arse then, just as he was now. Carstairs had achieved everything Lawrence had ever wanted - seniority, marriage and children. But he was still a massive dick. Maybe they weren’t as different.
He lifted the quill and scratched his rights away.

End