There was no time to point out all the ways the job had worked out and all the ways it hadn’t. Mundungus was simply glad that Branwen had made their choice and that was to get the Hel out of there. “This way,” he said, pointing in the direction he wanted her to go. Meanwhile, he picked something from the pocket of his jacket, there underneath the Ministry robes he was wearing, and tossed it into the brazier.
Pink smoke started to rose from it, hiding their escape and filling the room with the smell of roses and fried pork cutlet. The wix who had been looking their way, gave out a grown of annoyance.
“How many times do I have to remind you: the braziers are not the rubbish bin!”
“That was a quick denial…”
“What about you? So ready to turn on others, like that fart yesterday!”
And in the small chaos that arose, Mundungus and Branwen managed to make it back to the secret passageway. They made it just in time to meet with Grigor again and were escorted out with a clear look of disapproval from the goblin, who was all too happy to see them leave the Ministry and made sure to tell them to never come back again. “Forget my name,” he told them a second before shutting the door in the two wix’s faces.
“That’s goodbye to Grigor, but I guess our not it’s not over yet,” Mundungus said, really wishing for a cigarette at the moment, but instead riding the adrenaline wave all the way to their new destination as their investigation continued.
Once there, he had to say something to shake off the fear and thrill of almost getting caught, as well as the grim thought that someone had been killing even more Muggles and Muggleborns. “Ya never said anything about hopping around half the island,” he said, combing his hair back after it had started to fall in front of his face, curling at the ends. “What now, anyway? What to talk to the family…?”
Bran frowned deeply at Fletcher’s next bullshittery, but caught on when the little exchange ensued and stomped ahead, not looking back to give her face away. She didn’t even really make halt at the goblin, and was glad they weren’t once again stalling for double-tongued devil’s talk, only coming to a halt when they were through the Chimney at the address the brazier had spat out for them.
“Shut up, I’m thinking,” she said, and what she really meant with that was: I have no idea what we’re doing next. She wasn’t someone who planned. Wasn’t someone who could even see plans fully to the end. She just saw the next step and took it, and when there was no next step, she found herself incapable of moving. Eventually, having looked at the paper for quite some time, she cleared her throat. “If they’re really family of the young dead Witch,” Witch, not Muggleborn for once, “then they’ll recognise us for who we are.” Muggles had the most amazing talent at not noticing anything Wix related. They could walk through a whole crowd of Wizards in the street, and forget about it the next second. But if those people really knew who Catherine Miller had been, what she had been, they would remember. Would recognise Bran and Fletcher’s clothes, the wands in their hands, as something familiar.
Whatever that meant, was left to be found out. That was two steps ahead, and Bran didn’t wait to figure it out. She just marched ahead, down the street, stopping at each of those old timbered sea-side houses to find the name Miller. The search lasted an hour, almost two, during which Bran ignored Fletcher almost entirely and cursed that the one piece of evidence which could’ve made Miller’s energies show up had been burnt to even get here. Until they got to a river, and suddenly Bran had an epiphany. “Bloody horseshite,” she hissed, and with new-found determination, she stomped ahead faster.
Her instinct proved her right, though. A water mill was nestled into an arm of the river, and less than ten minutes later she found the name pranking on the house next door. It seemed odd to her, the idea that even Muggles had their traditions and heritages that shone in their names, but she didn’t pause to think about what that meant. She knocked. Hard. There was light inside, someone had to be home. She knocked again. And again. And finally, the door opened.
“Just a moment,” a woman’s voice called from inside, unlocking the door. “I’m sorry to let you wait, is the doorb-...” The woman, perhaps in her forties or fifties, recoiled when she laid eyes on Bran. “No!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking into a whisper, and she slammed the door back shut in their face. “John!” she screamed and steps were to be heard, fast, away, and Bran didn’t wait. She pointed her wand at the door to unlock it, then pushed herself through, just in time to see the woman and, presumably her husband, presumably John, trying to run upstairs. “John!” she screamed again, giving the man a push to walk faster, but he was old, much older than her, and each step seemed to strain his whole body, causing it to tremble. He wasn’t even looking back, just so focussed on getting upstairs, and still he was slow, so slow, and so the woman turned around, arms spread out, like an animal trying to make itself look bigger, or perhaps to block Bran to pass her. “Get out of my house!” she screamed, with her full voice this time, and Bran? Bran stood still. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Shocked. And… Tears were welling up in her eyes.
