And so, we finally come to the third epilogue and last chapter of Weasley Girl: Secrets of the Past.

It's been quite a ride, hasn't it? Especially with the insane schedule slips; between writer's block, and several other projects that took up my time, this story took a lot longer to tell than I'd thought. But then, it's also a lot longer than I thought it'd be — around 170 000 words, slightly longer than Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. And that's if we only count the story itself and don't include all my lengthy author's notes into the word count.

Speaking of which — I'll see you all in the author's notes at the end! Let's get this last epilogue started!

WEASLEY GIRL: SECRETS OF THE PAST

Based on the Harry Potter stories by J. K. Rowling

EPILOGUE THREE:
Prisoner Freed

On a small and desolate island somewhere in the North Sea, stands a large and ancient fortress known as Azkaban.

Its history is long and unpleasant; legend has it that it was originally the home of the Dark sorcerer Ekrizdiz, who is said to have lured, tortured and killed hundreds of Muggle sailors just for the fun of it. After his death, shortly after the Statute of Secrecy was established in the late fifteenth century, the fortress fell into the ownership of the recently-established Ministry for Magic, whose employees had been so terrified and disgusted by its contents that they had declared the place "evil" and would have destroyed the entire building — that is, if they hadn't feared the vengeance of the Dark magic and the even Darker creatures that made their home there.

Azkaban might have been left alone to wither on its secluded island, and maybe been reduced to a footnote in the magical history books, if it hadn't been for Damocles Rowle, the second-ever Minister for Magic.

Rowle, noted as a ruthless and uncompromising man, had been presented with the Ministry's plans to build a high-security magical prison on a small Hebridean island, and decreed it a waste of time and resources. Better, and cheaper, to just send wizard criminals to Azkaban — the fortress was already built, and the Dementors who lived there would be better than any human guards.

Thanks to a long line of Ministers after Rowle who were likewise pro-Azkaban, especially after it became clear just how impossible it was for any criminal to escape from the dreadful place, the prison became known generally as a "necessary evil."

One of Albus Dumbledore's greatest failures — and he would be the first to tell you that they were numerous — was that in his years as the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot he had never been able to convince the Ministry of Magic to close Azkaban down as a prison and instead move prisoners to another, more humane place. Somewhere Dementors didn't constantly hover over them and suck out any happiness and light in their hearts and minds.

Even Dumbledore felt it as he and his two companions approached the fortress. He had never actually set foot on the island before, but it was exactly as he had imagined it: Dark, bleary and cold, cloaked Dementors gliding around soundlessly like shadows. This was a place where the sun never shone, where warmth and joy were forbidden guests.

"You didn't actually have to come with us, Dumbledore," said Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, his face already growing pale. "You could have met him on the mainland."

"Cornelius, an innocent man has suffered this place for eleven years," said Dumbledore. "I will not be so arrogant as to say it was all my fault, but I must bear part of the blame. Had I not been too blind to see what was in front of my nose, Sirius Black would have been a free man. I owe this to him."

"Well, yes, of course, long as you don't say I didn't warn you," Fudge stammered. "This isn't going to be a picnic."

"Hope you stocked up on chocolate, at least." Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke with his usual calm demeanour.

"I am seldom without a sizeable supply," said Dumbledore.

The three men walked the short distance up to the looming fortress. The air turned colder the closer they got to the building, and to the silent guards gliding around it.

A few Dementors took an interest as they approached and began gliding closer to them. As they did, the cold grew more intense, bone-chilling and relentless.

Kingsley held up his wand. Dementors were blind, and yet they seemed to have some way of telling Aurors apart from other wizards — at least they stopped at a respectable distance when Kingsley said: "Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. This is Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, and Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. We're here for Sirius Black."

The Dementors remained where they were, their cloaks moving ominously in the wind. If they'd had eyes they would probably have glared at him.

"You've had him for eleven years." Kingsley still spoke calmly, but he couldn't quite keep out the tension in his voice. "Time to let him go."

Reluctantly, the Dementors parted to let the two men pass. They stayed at a distance as Kingsley waved his wand at the heavy iron doors, which slowly swung open with a loud creak.

Entering the fortress felt a lot like stepping into a world of ice and intense misery. A large hallway loomed in front of them, dark and silent with cold, barren stone walls that somehow seemed to be steeped in pain and gloom.

"Come on," said Kingsley. "Let get this over with. Black's on the fifth floor."

The only real sound was their footsteps as they echoed down the corridors of the large fortress, navigating the twisty hallways and staircases of Azkaban. All the way they could feel the icy cold seep into them; thick fur cloaks and warm clothes counting for nothing.

They passed several closed doors; some of them had barred windows through which could be spotted pale and sunken faces; prisoners who had heard the footsteps and who still had the energy and will to move in order to find out who was arriving. None of them looked good; they were hollow-cheeked and pale, and almost all of them looked broken.

Dumbledore couldn't help but thinking back to his father Percival, who had been sentenced to this very prison and had died here. Almost morbidly, he caught himself wondering which of the cells his father had been in and whether he'd looked as awful. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but pleasant thoughts never lived a long life in Azkaban. Terrible memories were welling up. Ariana…. Gellert…

"I hope you're not expecting too much, Dumbledore" said Fudge, proving a thankful distraction from Dumbledore's sombre thoughts. "I've met Black. Saw him on my last inspection here. He's not like the other prisoners… cool as you please, converses quite normally… seems more bored than anything. No sane wizard would react to this place in that way."

"We shall see," said Dumbledore, though he feared that Fudge may be right.

"And," Fudge went on, "I hope you don't think that just because I have agreed that Peter Pettigrew is alive and Black is innocent, that I'm willing to accept that ridiculous story of You-Know-Who returning."

"Pettigrew did confirm it. Under Veritaserum, no less."

"Pettigrew is obviously out of his mind. Well, who wouldn't have gone a little funny in the head, after spending eleven years as a rat? Wishful thinking and delusions, Dumbledore! All those ludicrous statements he made… He might believe that every word he's saying is true, but anyone with half a brain —"

"I have nine students who can confirm speaking to the teenage revenant of Tom Riddle."

"A trick!" Fudge really did look very pale. "I accept that they probably saw something, but it can't have been — it can't. A hallucination, or a minor spectre. The children wouldn't know the difference, they would be much too young to ever have met the real You-Know-Who…"

Dumbledore looked at him. "And the basilisk? The one that I can confirm was located in the Chamber of Secrets, and that Petrified one student, one teacher and nearly all the ghosts of Hogwarts? Would that too be unable to tell the difference between a minor spectre and the Heir of Slytherin?"

"I…" Fudge stumbled and had to stop. He was heaving for his breath, and it probably wasn't only the effect of the Dementors.

"Minister?" Kingsley's voice was still admirably calm.

"I'm fine, Kingsley, I'm fine…" Fudge made an earnest effort to pull himself together before looking right at Dumbledore. "Listen here, Dumbledore… I have the greatest respect for you as a wizard and as a teacher, and I've been grateful for all the advice you have provided in my time as Minister, but you have been making these doomsday predictions of yours about You-Know-Who returning for a decade! There has never been any proof! Isn't it time to accept that he's gone?"

"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. "The day you, Cornelius, can freely say his name instead of calling him 'You-Know-Who,' that is the day when I will consider the possibility that he is not coming back."

"Er, well, yes." Fudge visibly shivered. "N-no real point in me saying his name, is there? He's gone and he's not coming back. Let dead Dark wizards lie, I say. There's already too much to be done… releasing Black, arranging a trial for Pettigrew — er, dealing with the basilisk…"

"I have already taken care of that last one," said Dumbledore. "But since you mention the basilisk, there is another thing to be done in that connection."

"O-oh?"

"Rubeus Hagrid." Dumbledore felt slightly guilty for putting this much pressure on the poor Minister, especially under these circumstances, but sometimes needs must. "If you will not believe me about the return of Tom Riddle, then at least accept that it's been proven that Hagrid had nothing to do with the death of Myrtle Warren fifty years ago."

"Well, yes…" Fudge stammered. "But he did have that giant monstrous spider, didn't he?"

"If he did, it never killed anyone," said Dumbledore. "While he did escape Azkaban due to his young age, and even the Minister at the time believing Myrtle's death had been an accident… surely you must agree that it was a gross miscarriage of justice that Hagrid was expelled while the person who framed him not only got away with it, but even went on to become Head Boy."

"Yes, yes!" Fudge waved his hands frantically. "I'll look into it first chance I get! Now, please, let us just get Black and get out of here! I don't mind telling you, I'd rather not spend any more time in this place than I need to!"

"His cell's right over here," said Kingsley, leading the way down the corridor and stopping at the far-end door.

The face looking at them through the bars of the cell door was just as pale and hollow-cheeked as the rest of them, but to Dumbledore's relief the eyes held more life and spark than any of the other prisoners.

"Dumbledore," he said.

"Hello, Sirius," said Dumbledore.

It appeared that Fudge had been right: Sirius Black was not affected by Azkaban the way everyone else was. At the very least he appeared cognisant enough; though his voice was rusty from lack of use he spoke calmly. "And Fudge, too. Wasn't expecting visitors today. It's not that long since the last inspection," he said. "Finally accepted the post as Minister for Magic, eh Dumbledore?"

"Hang on there —!" Fudge exclaimed, clearly not liking the word 'finally.'

Sirius ignored him and instead looked at Kingsley. "And you're…" He paused. "Sorry, I forget your name."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. We've met, but it's been a while."

"If you say so. New to the Aurors, are you?"

"If you count five years' service as 'new,' then yes," said Kingsley.

"Five years…" Sirius's face didn't change at all, nor did his voice get any less calm. "I think my sense of time isn't what it once was."

"Could we perhaps get this over with?" said Fudge, rather impatiently. "Kingsley, if you would…?"

Kingsley pulled out his wand and lightly tapped the cell door, which creaked horribly as it swung open.

Sirius was standing in the doorframe, and now Dumbledore got a good look at him. He was thin and haggard-looking, dressed in well-worn, slightly tattered grey clothes, his hair had not been washed in ages and his beard was scruffy — and yet, he stood steady enough and his eyes were clear as they took on a slightly suspicious gleam. "What's going on?"

"I have good news, Black," said Fudge, trying to look big and important despite being pale and shivering. "You're being released."

"Yeah, right," said Sirius, his expression not changing one bit.

"It's true. I only regret this did not happen sooner," said Dumbledore. "But we know about the switched Secret-Keepers. Peter Pettigrew has been discovered — alive."

For the first time, Sirius's eyes widened in shock, and then he began shaking his head. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "No, it couldn't be, not after all these years… He's dead, I saw him blow himself up…" Then he snapped back, practically leaping out of his cell to grab the front of Dumbledore's robe. "Where is he?" he demanded, his eyes fierce. "Is he here?!"

"Steady now, Black!" said Fudge feebly. "Pettigrew's awaiting trial —"

"Trial?!" Sirius roared, letting go of Dumbledore to turn towards the Minister. "That bastard doesn't deserve a trial!"

"Now, now, everyone deserves a trial —" said Fudge nervously.

"I never got a trial!" Sirius growled. "You just threw me in here!"

"I-I can't take responsibility for that." Despite the cold, Fudge looked like he was sweating. "That happened long before I became Minister… Barty Crouch wasn't one to grant trials, you know how fanatical he was about catching and punishing Dark wizards. He barely gave his own son a trial! Besides — I read the reports from the scene, you were ranting about how you had killed James and Lily Potter… what was anyone to think?"

Sirius drew his breath as if to snap at Fudge… but then he seemed to deflate. "It might as well have been me who killed them," he said softly. "It was all my idea. Every single night, I remember that it was all my idea. I thought I had the most brilliant plan ever… the perfect ruse. I thought that if I made Peter the Secret-Keeper, and made sure that everyone believed that I was the Secret-Keeper, Voldemort would come after me… but he wouldn't get anything out of me. Peter would be safe, and so would James and Lily. I never thought… I never dreamed that Peter would be the traitor!" His voice raised to a savage snarl. "I'm going to kill him!"

"That would be an understandable action, but alas, under the circumstances not an advisable one," said Dumbledore.

"I don't care!" Sirius hissed. "I've spent years in this hellhole for murdering that bloody rat, and I'm bloody well going to do it!"

"Nevertheless, it is a bad idea to announce your intention to murder in the presence of the Auror who has come to release you…"

"I didn't hear a thing," said Kingsley.

"…not to mention the Minister for Magic who has issued your release." Dumbledore gave Fudge a meaningful look.

"Well…" Fudge said nervously. "Obviously, considering the circumstances, some lenience must be allowed… er… nevertheless, it's probably not a good idea to let the two within sight of each other. Now, can we please get out of here?"

Kingsley nodded and motioned for them all to follow him.

The four men set out to walk back down the long and twisty corridor, past the cell doors and past the various faces that for the most part seemed too far gone to be interested in the fact that Sirius was being set free. Well… there were a couple of exceptions. From one cell, a dark-haired woman was watching under heavy eyelids.

Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, had once been a beautiful woman. But after eleven years in Azkaban, there wasn't much of her beauty left. She was as pale and thin and hollow-cheeked as Sirius, her hair was a tangled, grimy mess and she had dark rings under her eyes. However, she didn't seem quite as apathetic as the other prisoners, and as they passed her cell she watched them with something that almost seemed like interest.

"Leaving so soon, cousin?" she rasped. There was a definite hint of instability in her voice, as if she couldn't quite decide whether to whisper or scream.

"Shut up, Bella," Sirius growled.

Bellatrix didn't dignify that with a response. "Please tell me you're sentencing him to be Kissed by the Dementors, Fudge," she said hoarsely. "It's always so cold in here… the thought of dear Sirius having his soul sucked out of him would keep me warm for the next five years."

"You just be quiet in there!" Fudge snapped, doing what under the circumstances was a pretty impressive job of keeping his voice straight. "Come along, everyone — we're leaving, follow Kingsley."

They followed Kingsley, back out towards the exit.

"Mad as a loon, that one," Sirius muttered. "Never liked her, even when we were children…" he paused, as if a thought had struck him. "How long have I been in here?"

"Sirius," said Dumbledore. "You have been in here for eleven years. I am frankly amazed you are still sane."

There was a long pause, and they walked along in silence, Finally, when they had reached the first floor, Sirius muttered: "Not so certain I am. Sane, I mean. Do you know what I've missed most of all, being in here? It's stupid. You'll never guess."

Despite himself, Dumbledore felt a tinge of curiosity. Only a short while in here and already he was starting to have problems remembering the good things from outside. Any positive memory that had survived in here for over a decade had to be either exceptionally strong, or so trivial that it barely counted as a positive memory…

"I miss doing the bloody crossword in the Daily Prophet," said Sirius.

Dumbledore blinked. Whatever he'd imagined that Sirius would say, that hadn't been it.

"Told you it was stupid," said Sirius joylessly. "I can't remember what the sun looks like, or what it feels like to eat something I actually like the taste of… but I do remember that the Daily Prophet had some good crosswords. Is that rag still in print, by the way?"

"Indeed it is," said Dumbledore. "I shall personally see to it that you get a copy of today's edition, with the crossword unsolved."

Sirius didn't smile; not after eleven years in Azkaban. Yet there was a faint gleam in his eyes that suggested that he would have smiled, if he'd been any shape to do it.

"And there are people outside who are anxious to see you again," Dumbledore went on.

The gleam in Sirius's eyes vanished. All of a sudden, he looked mortified. "Moony!" he exclaimed. "I mean — Remus. I can't face him! Not after — not after all that happened. Not after…" He took a deep breath. "I thought he was the traitor. That was why I never told him that we'd swapped Secret-Keepers. I thought it was him! How could I have! I was supposed to be his friend… and I suspected him and I trusted that rat Peter!"

"Whatever your sins were, Sirius, you have more than paid for them," said Dumbledore. "Remus does not blame you. Indeed, as wretched as you are feeling for suspecting him, he is feeling as bad — or nearly as bad, given that he has stayed clear of Dementors — for thinking you were the traitor. He would very much like to see you. Also there's Harry…"

Sirius blinked. "Harry?" he said uncertainly.

For a moment, Dumbledore was concerned. If happy thoughts and memories really couldn't survive in Azkaban, perhaps Sirius had forgotten Harry. But then, to his relief, realisation dawned in the man's eyes.

"Harry!" Sirius repeated. "My God, he must be old enough to have started Hogwarts now! How is he? Where is he?"

"For the last question, he is currently staying with the Weasleys. You will see him soon enough," Dumbledore promised.

"Weasleys," said Sirius. "I'm not sure I know the name…"

"Perhaps you never met them, but I think you will like them," said Dumbledore. "They are taking good care of Harry. As for how he is… Well, under the circumstances, he is doing well. I will tell you everything when we're back at the mainland and you have had the chance to recover a little. I trust that is acceptable, Cornelius?"

"What? Oh, yes," said Fudge. "Of course, whatever you say. Now let's get out of here."

"Hold on." As he was about to exit through the heavy iron doors, Sirius suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. "There is something I have to do first."

Fudge grimaced. "Surely it can wait until we've left this place?"

"No. I have to do it now. Don't worry, it'll only take a moment. Excuse me." Sirius looked at the Minister and then calmly walked back into the cold darkness. He stopped a few feet in and stood still, swaying slightly back and forth as if he was about to faint. Then, all of a sudden he screamed: "I'M GOING TO TRASH THIS FUCKING HELLHOLE! I'LL TEAR IT DOWN, BRICK BY BRICK! THERE WON'T BE A STONE LEFT WHEN I'M FINISHED WITH IT!"

Kingsley grabbed Sirius by his collar and hauled him out of the building.

Fudge shivered and turned to Dumbledore with a pained expression. "Are you certain we're doing the right thing by releasing him? There are a lot of voters who won't like this…"

"Cornelius," said Dumbledore. "Some things are more important than voters. Let us get back to the mainland."

Peter Pettigrew nervously paced the small holding cell.

He had no wand, no escape. He couldn't even turn into a rat and escape, because now everyone knew he was an illegal Animagus, and they had him under various spells that made it impossible to change shape at all. And even if he had been up to the task of Apparating away, there were Anti-Apparating jinxes on the cell.

They'd told him that he was only going to be here for a very short time, before he was transferred over to Azkaban. Oh, there was supposed to be a trial in between, but at this point the trial was just a formality, and no matter what happened he would be looking at a life-sentence.

In one way, it was almost (almost!) a relief. For eleven years he had been on the run, staying in rat form, never daring to take on his true shape. Now that everything was out, there was nothing more to do.

And yet…. Azkaban. The name alone struck fear into his heart. A place where Dementors prowled, where he'd be caught in a never-ending spiral of nightmares and terrible memories until he gave up and went crazy… or until he gave up and died, like Barty Crouch Junior had done.

And getting any help from the returning Dark Lord wasn't very likely. Yes, Peter had helped bring him back to life, but he'd also abandoned him there in the Chamber of Secrets. After that, he'd be lucky if all the Dark Lord did was decide to leave him to rot in Azkaban.

Peter flopped down onto the small bed he had been provided. How long would he last? A decade? A year? A month? It was all that damn cat's fault — the cat and Lucius Malfoy. Life as Scabbers hadn't been too bad, really; he could have stayed as a Weasley pet for years still… If Ronnie hadn't decided to get that cat, and if Lucius hadn't stupidly decided to give Ronnie the diary.

Oh, if he'd had either of them here right now…! Oh, wouldn't he just —!

"I did hear rumours that there was a rat here in the holding cell." The voice came from outside the cell, shaking Peter out of his thoughts.

He looked up and there, through the small hatch in the solid wooden door, he saw the face of Lucius Malfoy.

Immediately, Peter was on his feet. "Lucius!" he said, trying as hard as he could to turn on the charm. It wasn't easy, because even Peter had to admit that charm wasn't one of his major qualities… but he did his best, trying to smile at the man. "My friend! It's been such a long time…"

"Not long enough," said Lucius coolly. "I must congratulate you, Pettigrew. Everyone truly thought you were dead. No-one ever dreamed that you were such a coward that you would rather spend eleven years as a rat than face the consequences of your actions like a man."

Unlike Ronnie, Peter wasn't stupid or impulsive enough to needlessly provoke someone like Lucius. And so, he refrained from pointing out that pretending you had been under the Imperius to get out of Azkaban, like Lucius and his family had done, did not really seem like 'facing the consequences of your actions like a man.'

"Listen," he said. "This is all just a terrible misunderstanding! You know all about terrible misunderstandings, don't you, Lucius? These people seem to think I've confessed to murder, but it was really all —"

"I did not come here to listen to your inane prattle!" Lucius snapped. "I merely wished to see whether or not it truly was you. I wanted to know for certain who I had to thank for me no longer being on the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

"Oh, er, I really don't know what you're talking about," said Peter — which was almost true. He didn't know, but he had a pretty good guess. "I didn't even know you were on the Board of Governors, much less that you had been fired from it."

"I wasn't fired," said Lucius. "I stepped down on my own accord." He lowered his voice to a threatening whisper. "Apparently, investigations are going on tied to your recent activities at Hogwarts, and the fact that my name came up in several of your statements to the Ministry."

"What?" Peter tried to look shocked. "They must have misunderstood something I said! We were friends back in the old days, Lucius! Both of us Imperiused and controlled by the Dark Lord —"

"Luckily," Lucius interrupted him, "the Minister for Magic was very understanding, pointing out what a model citizen I have always been, and that these accusations were obviously fabricated. But I did agree to — at least temporarily — step down as the Head of the Board of Governors. There are certain headaches I do not need in my life right now."

"I'm terribly sorry, but it really wasn't my fault!" said Peter, though even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded.

"Hmm." Lucius game him an icy stare, and then pulled away from the hatch. "We're done here. I would say 'have fun in Azkaban,' but we both know you're not going to."

"Wait, Lucius!" Peter cried, rushing up to the door. "You can't just leave me here! You know what it's like to be innocently accused of being a Death Eater, you have to… Lucius? LUCIUS!"

"All right, Pettigrew, calm down!" came the voice of the guard. "And Mr. Malfoy, if you're satisfied that it truly is him, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Strictly speaking, it was stretching the rules to allow you here in the first place."

"Rules are wonderful things, of course," said Lucius smoothly, "but I'm glad that our Ministry is wise enough to realise that there are times when it pays to be a little flexible with its rules. By the say, Shingleton, how is your wife?"

"Oh, er, much better, thank you very much!" The guard's tone changed to one of relieved gratitude. "They say she can come home next week!"

"Glad to hear it," said Lucius. "It does my heart good to know that my donations to St. Mungo's are put to good use…"

Peter sank down onto the floor as Lucius's footsteps vanished down the corridor outside.

He didn't know how long he sat there. The thing about spending any amount of time in a holding cell with no windows and no connection to the outside world apart from one guard (and one brief visit from an old acquaintance who apparently just stopped by to sneer at you), is that time quickly becomes hard to keep track of. Especially if you are on the verge of despair and you know that sometime in the near future, someone is going to come and fetch you to bring you to the place of your worst nightmares, and you have no hope of escaping. And now, time was stretching out like an impossibly wide ocean in front of him; an ocean where he couldn't even see the shore — but didn't even know if he wanted to see the shore because that shore would inevitably be Azkaban island.

So it might have been an hour, or several hours, or even half a day for all he knew, when there was a sudden noise from right in front of him.

Startled, Peter looked up to stare straight at the ugly, long-nosed face of a house-elf.

"What —" he began.

"Shh!" The elf quickly placed a large hand over Peter's mouth, silencing him. "Mister Pettygrow must be quiet!"

Peter had seen plenty of house-elves in his life, of course — happy days of his youth when he, along with James, Sirius and Remus, would sneak into the Hogwarts kitchens to beg extra treats from the kitchen elves — but where the Hogwarts elves were healthy-looking, dressed in pure white tea-towels, and were beaming and eager servitude, this one looked anxious, haggard and unhealthily skinny. He — yes, it probably was a he, although who could tell with house-elves? —was wearing only a dirty pillowcase and a number of even dirtier bandages (no doubt the result of eager self-punishment), and he looked like he would rather be anywhere else than here.

"Dobby will remove his hand if Mister Pettygrow promises not to scream," he whispered.

Peter nodded, helplessly.

The elf, whose name was apparently Dobby, removed his hand. "Dobby is sorry," he said. "But the guard mustn't hear us."

"Who are you?" Peter managed to keep his voice quiet. "What are you doing here?"

"Dobby, sir, Dobby the house-elf." Dobby took a huge breath. "Dobby's master has sent him to fetch you, Mister Pettygrow."

"Fetch me?!" A strange mix of hope and terror arose in Peter's heart.

"Dobby obeys his master. Dobby must always obey his master, no matter what. And Master says, go fetch Mister Pettygrow, I want to have a word with him. Make sure the guard does not know you are there. So Dobby must obey," said Dobby, and looked none too pleased about the fact.

"Oh, really?" said Peter. He tried to sound flippant about it, as if he'd expected for something like this to happen. "Well, fancy that. And who might your master be?"

"You will see if you comes with Dobby, sir."

Peter looked at the elf's outstretched hand. "But how?" he protested. "There are all sorts of jinxes and spells on this cell —"

"Means nothing to a house-elf, Mister Pettygrow," said Dobby. "Take Dobby's hand, and we is off before the guard knows."

Peter looked at Dobby's hand again. Then, steeling himself, he decided that he didn't really have any alternative. He reached out and grabbed the bandaged hand.

And vanished.

THE END! (For now….)

Author's Notes: And that was that! This is officially the last chapter of Secrets of the Past. Twenty chapters, two epilogues, and more than 160 000 words excluding author's notes, this is the longest story I've ever written.

Except we're not done, of course. Much of the point of all three epilogues was to set up some of the things for the next story in the series, War of the Prophecy. Where we'll see more of Fudge, more of Sirius, more of Bellatrix, more of Lucius, Dobby and Wormtail… and more of Rita Skeeter, who definitely isn't done creating trouble for our protagonists. She was actually supposed to have a brief appearance in the second epilogue, but I just couldn't fit her in, so her scene has been moved to the beginning of War of the Prophecy instead.

It'll be the final story in the series, it'll be the first one to be told from multiple POVs, and it'll probably be the longest. (Like JKR, I already know what the final word in the story will be. We'll see if, unlike JKR, I'll be able to keep that word the final one, or not.)

Before that, though, there'll be the interquel Moaning Myrtle's Party, which will tie up a couple of loose ends from this story before the next main one can fully begin. Like The Leapling, it won't be essential reading in order to understand the main series, but it'll explore some things a little more closely and hopefully be entertaining in its own right.

And there's also that one novella-length story that I'm plotting out, though I'm not yet sure where in the continuity it'll happen.

This entry in the series is, however, at an end. Thanks for reading, and here's to hoping we'll see each other again for further adventures of Potter's Gang!