Autumn, 1989, on Level Two of the Ministry. This post is written from the point of view of Abby's pentral, a few days before she died.


In the atrium of the Ministry, Iona sized up her nemesis. Tall and wide. Rich and dark. Decked in wood paneling. The lift loomed. 

She edged forward, holding not coffee or her work satchel, but an armful of books. Other Ministry workers eyed her. Was it so unusual? She'd come from the library, which was nestled beyond the lifts and the floos and the gaudy statue, tucked behind grand doors that seemed to intimidate these powerful witches and wizards. But in the Ministry library, she'd grown from the quiet, mousy girl who had hid in the stacks at Hogwarts to a young woman who understood her world. 

After Hogwarts she'd applied as an intern, and when the war ended in 1981, she'd been granted an assistant position. A reward for surviving. Now she was a Librarian with a capital L, thank you, and she was the one who sent assistants to fetch and deliver research while she penned curt memos to department heads.

Iona stepped into the lift as soon as the doors opened, pressed the button for Level Two, and retreated to the wall. Her arms tightened around her books as the lift filled. The stalwart traditionalists, sometimes purists, dressed in drab black and dark navy and wore hats that towered on their heads. The modern, younger sorts stood in neon robes that flashed green to yellow to pink, their hair a tower of wild curls, their jewelry blinding.

Iona stood so short she disappeared in the back. Outwardly, little had changed since Hogwarts. She still parted her auburn hair down the middle, and had braided it to the side. Her freckles stood stark on her bare face. Her eyes, normally a light gray-blue, looked bluer against her deep blue robe. White flowers were embroidered on the collar, a detail that made it slightly less likely for someone to mistake her for a Ravenclaw on a field trip.

Her fingers twisted the engagement ring that she kept on a necklace. A simple thing, her tether to home.

She was visiting Level Two so often, circling them like they circled the flat she shared with Leander, because something hadn't been right at home since Lorelei had arrived.

She put a finger to her mouth, searching for a bit of nail to gnaw at, eyes clouded. When a strange woman had shown up at the door, leaning against the door jamb and asking Leander to let her in, Iona hadn't known then that she was Leander's sister. His sister, in disguise. His sister, spouting a tale about her dead father. Iona hadn't known then what Lorelei might have done. If she'd killed her own father. She'd found out when the Aurors had come around looking for her.

Iona suspected that Lorelei might have killed someone else, too. How else had she gotten a soul into her? Leander wouldn't explain more than that, wouldn't confirm, just spoke in whispers with his sister. He'd reminded her they were getting married before pleading with her to help. Wouldn't she help his dying sister?

It couldn't hurt to do some research, Iona had reasoned, and that's exactly what she'd done in the library until she'd found an answer, of sorts. Unicorn blood. Which wasn't an answer at all. Once she'd told Leander though, off he went searching for it, and while he was away, she was keeping his sister alive. In thanks, Lorelei muttered and mumbled and paced throughout the flat, arguing with a voice in her head.

The lift doors opened, and Iona walked out, her shoes making nary a sound on the floor. She'd taken to walking very quietly.

Ghost-like, she glided to a stop at Solomon Carstairs' cubicle. In his red robes, he looked somehow taller than he'd been in school. A ring glinted on his finger. Happily married, the git, and probably trying to pop out children like everyone else after the war.

Iona broke the quiet by dumping the books on his desk.

"Carstairs. Happy reading."

She gestured at the pile. "Check to see that everything's in order. I won't be coming down here again."

How true that was, she didn't even know.