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Frank didn't bother to open his eyes. He knew, just from the smell of mildew permeating the air, that he was laying on a cot in one of the subterranean rooms of the Headquarters of the Order. What he didn't know, though, was how he had gotten there.
But he did remember hues of gray-the grays of a night lightened by a full moon. And a werewolf prowling the yard of an orphanage, awaiting transformation; he remembered how the figure collapsed just inside the gate, a wretched thing writhing in a pile of robes, howling with pain as a terror-struck Muggle orphan-the target-looked on. Frank remember how his eyes burned from fatigue, how his muscles were stiff with it, yet he somehow found the strength to dash across the yard, grasp the arm of the partly-transformed creature, take one step and a turn, and will the creature away.
I'm amazed I didn't splinch myself on the way back to the orphanage. The thought swam vaguely through his mind, an afterthought hardly able to take hold. And still… how did I…
"You're probably wondering why you're here," intoned a low voice from his beside, startling Frank so badly that he began reaching for his wand before even thinking about opening his eyes. But then he sagged, relaxed; the voice belonged to Marlene McKinnon, a Hogwarts graduate several years his senior, and it sounded amused.
He cracked his eyes open and grimaced at her wry smile. "Do tell," he said, groggily swinging his legs off of the cot so that he was sitting upright. He steeled himself against a fit of dizziness or nausea brought on by the motion, but, to his relief, it didn't come; he shook his head in an attempt to throw off his lethargy.
"It's simple," Marlene said, looking down at him and holding out a glass of a mottled red potion that he accepted unenthusiastically. "You collapsed from exhaustion while you were doing whatever it was you were doing. Moody knew, somehow, and he brought you here. You've been sleeping for several hours, but this tonic is to help you regain your strength."
Frank choked on his tonic, unable to decide whether the cause was the taste of the tonic or her words. He took a moment to control his spasming throat before croaking, "Moody?"
Marlene shrugged helplessly. "Would you rather that no one found you?"
Frank grunted noncommittally before easing himself off of the cot and settling himself on his feet. "Well, thank you for that foul-tasting concoction, Marlene, but I think I should probably get back to the Ministry and start on my report."
"But it's the bloody weekend," she said incredulously, crossing her arms with disapproval. "Don't push it or you'll land yourself right back in this cot, drinking more of my wonderful remedy."
Frank snorted. "Do you think Moody cares?"
"That's debatable-"
Frank cut her words short with a bark-like laugh, and she glared at him before she finished her statement. "-but I know someone who does."
Ignoring his questioning stare, Marlene snatched the glass from his hands and turned away, negotiating her way between several neatly made cots and exiting the small room. Frank followed her as she led him along the drab basement hallway, the wooden floorboards under the threadbare carpet creaking under their feet. As they climbed a narrow wooden stairway, Frank noticed that the building's age was magnified by the peeling wallpaper, yellowed with age, that graced the walls; as they reached the first floor, Frank peered into the large, nearly-empty rooms where only dusty Muggle mannequins stood, posing in moth-eaten clothes, positioned to peer out onto the London streets through large windows that had been covered by dark drapes.
Frank shivered as they made their way to the second-floor flat. "Why a run-down department store? This place gives me the creeps."
"Well, it's temporary," said Marlene, hitching up her robes with one hand as the stairway became steeper. "Once he finds someplace better, I'm sure Dumbledore will relocate us. Besides, the flat isn't so bad-anymore."
The stairway opened up directly into a small kitchen, where an old man with half-moon spectacles, wise eyes, and long, graying hair was sitting at a small table, sipping on a glass of brandy as he read the untidy scrawl covering a ream of parchment.
"Frank," Dumbledore said in greeting, pleasantly smiling as he tapped his wand against the parchment. It disappeared as he glanced at Marlene, who flicked her wand to start a kettle of tea and then disappeared back into the stairway, before he turned his attention back to Frank. "Do have a seat. Brandy?"
Frank shook his head and took the seat directly across from Dumbledore. "Thank you, no, Professor." He paused, and then, "Sir, if I may ask, what brings you away from the school?"
Dumbledore tapped two fingers soundly against the table before leaning leisurely back in his chair. "You. Your memory."
"My memory seems to be a little hazy, Professor," said Frank with a grin, glancing momentarily past the Headmaster to take in the kitchen. Marlene had expanded the cabinets and kept the counters tidy, just as she had transformed the former two-bedroom, one-bathroom Muggle flat, and department store below, into a serviceable place for the Order to meet and for members to lay low; he himself had lived at Headquarters for the majority of the summer, playing it safe until he found a relatively secure flat across the city. With a swish of his wand, he summoned a mug from a cabinet and filled it with tea from the kettle, grateful to wash the taste of the tonic from his mouth.
"It seems to be clear enough," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as he leaned forward intently. "Now, tell me: what do you remember from last night? I know you've been shadowing Fenrir Greyback; did you notice anything peculiar about him?"
Frank nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Everything about him is peculiar. He seems to relish attacking humans-he put himself in a position to attack an orphan, and I just…" he trailed off, pausing to unclench his teeth and loosen his grip on the mug. He sighed. "I couldn't stand by and watch him do it. So… I grabbed him while he was still somewhat vulnerable and Side-Along Disapparated with him to the countryside, leaving him in an isolated bit of woods. I must have collapsed after I Apparated back into London to check on the boy."
Dumbledore nodded in approval, and Frank felt suddenly heartened, more willing to discuss his suspicions.
"Sir, when I grabbed Greyback to Disapparate, I noticed something odd. His coloration as a wolf is a light gray, yet one small patch of fur on the inside of his front left foreleg was pitch black." He peered searchingly at Dumbledore, looking for any sign in the man's wizened face that could confirm Frank's analysis.
Dumbledore's face remained passive, though he sat thoughtfully back in his seat. "It is as I suspected," he said cryptically, murmuring to himself. "If Fenrir is a Death Eater, he is probably recruiting Werewolves for Voldemort."
Frank shivered, but didn't respond-There's nothing I can say, no conclusions I can draw, that he hasn't thought of anyway-and the silence lingered as both men mulled over the enemy's potential strategy. Sensing that the interview was over, Frank drank the last droughts of his now-cool tea and prepared to leave.
Frank stood, slowly, wondering if he should break Dumbledore's train of thought in order to satisfy a curiosity. Quietly, he crossed the kitchen and set the teacup gently into the sink before turning to look indecisively at his old Headmaster. With a jolt of embarrassment he realized that he was hovering; blood rushed unbidden to his face as he finally asked, "Sir, how did Moody find me? How did he know I needed… assistance?"
Dumbledore lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at him, piercing him with a stare that was softened by a knowing half-smile. "Do you believe that he doesn't take precautions regarding the security of his Aurors-in-Training? Which reminds me…" Dumbledore pulled a wrapped package from the inside of his robes and slid it across the table. "Alastor's spare invisibility cloak," he explained as Frank eyed the brown paper packaging curiously. "He thought you might still need it."
Nodding, a blush still tingling on his cheeks, Frank tucked the package under his arm. He bid Dumbledore goodbye and turned to leave, Dumbledore's words rattling around inside his head. He was halfway out of the door when Dumbledore spoke again.
"Oh, and one last thing, Frank."
Frank paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder with one hand on the jamb. "Yes, Sir?"
"No Ministry report will be necessary."
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