[center][b]2nd of December, 1999
Albert Aldenberg - The Safehouse[/b][/center]

Aldenberg was not a happy man. They had had the Death Eater in their presence not more than half an hour, and already they were fractured. As McCarthy stormed out, he bristled visibly.

He had been standing behind Cunningham with his cloak’s hood obscuring his face. Showing one’s face to one’s enemies was always a poor move. The awkward silence (as though interrogations required tension injections), punctured only by blood pouring from the captive’s nose, lasted a full three seconds before Aldenberg swept in front of Cunningham’s chair and stooped so they could speak face-to-face, if not eye-to-eye.

“We speak to one another properly. While you are in our custody, it would behoove you to do the same.”

At that point, the door to the adjoining room opened and Ronan hobbled in: “Report?”

Aldenberg pointed at Luther and shook his head to Ronan: [i]not here, not now[/i].

“I am about to see to McCarthy,” he said, as neutrally as possible, “And in my absence, nobody in this room-” he patted Cunningham’s shoulder, “Is breathing a word. Nobody is breathing a word.”

[center]*[/center]

It was cold out. Very cold. The safe house was an unspeakably tiny cottage, a former muggle dwelling, outside some godforsaken hamlet in the Scottish Highlands. It was a far cry from the manor, with all of its three little rooms. McCarthy was leaning against the picket fence around the property that was so rotten and fetid that it could scarcely support his weight. He was stirred by the sound of the closing door, or perhaps the crunch of Aldenberg’s shoes on the lightly-frosted glass, and so looked up, just in time.

“Expelliarmus!”

A red jet crackled from the tip of Aldenberg’s wand, heading straight for McCarthy. McCarthy was faster: with a slash of his own wand, the disarming spell dissipated, swallowed up by an invisible barrier. Aldenberg scowled.

“At least you are not entirely off-guard this evening,” he said, bluntly, joining him by the fence, “But he was right. You are not a child, McCarthy, and so you ought not behave like one. Sooner or later, and quite possibly sooner, you are going to have to face your family, wand in hand. She won’t be defenceless. She will not be bound to a chair. She will be aiming at your throat and if you cannot control yourself, you will not survive. If you behave like this, you [i]will[/i] die. This is not news to you.”

“You don't think i know that?” said Kyle, “I dread that day. You can't seriously believe that I am not prepared for it, though?”

“You treat your family and even their house with a reverential fear, the same grip in which He Who Must Not Be Named has the whole country. Each of us has fears. Each of us has ghosts in their history they have to face. None of them has hit a defenceless man because he didn’t cower from your demons with you. No, you are not prepared.”

"I'm already pissed enough at myself for those actions, Albert,” said Kyle, as evenly as he could, “I do not need you to continue to lecture me on it."

“Anger isn’t the solution, McCarthy. Anger is why you’re standing outside in the cold with a,” he noted the other man squeezing the knuckles of his right hand with his left, “Painful hand. I assume it isn’t broken?”

"It isn't, and I'm not fixing it."

“As you wish,” said Albert, turning back to the cottage. He was wasting his time, “Add it to your collection of scars. But, until you learn to control yourself, you risk us all.”