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Chapter Text

Dull footsteps fell onto the narrow, stony path. The half-moon hanging in the sky stopped the gloomy night from becoming a true contender to Severus’ dark mood. An hour stuck in a stiff, peeling train seat surrounded by cigarette-smoke scented companions and one wailing brat with a pair of lungs too large for his tiny frame would do that to a man. And it would because lord forbid Lucius Malfoy and his counterparts ever set a shiny shoe on the ground of Cokeworth. It might just be the thing to kill them.

It was ridiculous and it was entirely his fault for not living closer. Lucius had offered on more than one occasion a place at the Manor. It was less tempting than ever now. So Severus traveled alone from the train station, past the tiny cafe that sold one type of sandwich, until he found somewhere to hide himself and disappear.

He had even less desire than usual to make the trip again tonight, especially if that child coincidentally happened to be taking a late-night trip and returned home in the early hours of the morning to lament his lost sleep. Lucius should have no problem with letting him stay the night, but if the Dark Lord intended to do the same, he would take Marion Crane. As it was, he didn't think he would get much sleeping done tonight.

He stepped toward the house, the poncy manor that made him feel like a tramp looking for something to eat or sell. It loomed over him, shadowing even the darkness and staring judgmentally through golden-lit windows at his shabby overcoat and flared trousers. Of course, he wore his robes now, having learned that the sniffiest, purebloodiest high hats weren't fond of people who matched the appearance of their inferiors.

Severus had walked this lane so many times before, but no number of years could lift the dead weight that laid on his chest as he approached the Manor. No amount of familiarity could make him like this place. The people in it were what made it home, the rest was only an eerie edifice that housed them. Even without the Dark Lord’s presence, it was a chilling place to call yours.

The lane was bordered by low-cut bramble bushes, small red and black berries ripe for picking waiting among the thorns. When Draco was younger, they used to take him out for strolls down this lane. Once, when he was a toddler, he'd stuck his hand into a bush, eager to retrieve its sweet fruits only to come back with bloodied fingers.

Severus dressed his wounds and Narcissa gave him a lesson in cautiousness and discernment. One could not simply stick their hand through a net of thorns and expect to come out unscathed, even if you did pull your treasure out with you. Draco had managed to catch a brambleberry, but all he ended up with was a hand smeared with red and tear-filled eyes.

Robes billowing around them, Severus and Yaxley, who had arrived at the same time, slipped through the gate and up the long pathway that ended at the imposing arched doorway. Something rustled the hedges, making Yaxley jump for his wand, but Severus knew what it was even before the pristine white feathers of Lucius’ peacock came into sight.

Yaxley snorted something about Lucius’ pompous choice of pets. Severus used to do that, too. Lucius favored his bird for precisely that reason. The ostentatious display of luxury and grandeur one set up by having the vibrant birds roam their grounds was why he kept them. So that if you looked at Lucius Malfoy, you would see a man of many wonders. Though to some it only put on display a man who valued little that was genuinely substantial and profound. Depends on who you were to ask.

Lucius stood at the door, his shoulders shrouded in an obnoxious amount of fur trimming and his face embedded with deep lines of worry. Who wore furs in the summer besides a man who valued nothing greater than his ostentatious displays? He looked ridiculous, and still, as Yaxley headed inside after receiving an annoyed look, Severus’ hand came to rest on his arm.

It had been many years since Severus had come here for these sorts of late-night gatherings. So long since he had been warned to not sound too much like a muggle and stared at like he'd accidentally tracked inferiority onto the rug. There was not a part of him that wished to be a sixteen-year-old boy minding his manners for his effete friend and his intriguing circle. Not much that wanted to be a jaded man with his part-time partner either.

“How was your journey?” Lucius asked.

“As unpleasant as ever.” Severus guided Lucius inside. “We mustn't keep him waiting.”

The lighting in the hall was dim, shadows from the flickering candles crawling up the vast walls. Cold Malfoy eyes from all around followed them as they strode through the hallway. The Malfoy clan were all as fair-faced, stone-eyed, and blonde as Lucius was. It was like walking through a house of mirrors all reflecting each other’s contempt. And somehow, even in their silence, they sounded so very similar to a loud-mouthed boy telling him he did not belong here.

He tried not to let the nervous heat radiating off of Lucius affect him. The Dark Lord may have yet to find a way to see through him, but he could sense fear like it was second nature. And he loved to know that you were afraid.

The room where their meetings were held was lit only by the fire that crackled in the ornately carved marble fireplace. Even with the fire burning there was a chill that permeated the air, biting at Severus’ spine and making Lucius send a secretive look at him, nervous and partly pleading. Pleading for what, Severus couldn't know. Maybe to grab his hand and run from all this, just as he asked him to do in jest when they were teenagers and their biggest worry was how long it would take to grow up.

The chair positioned at the head of the table was turned against the fireplace so that no light shone on its occupant. The darkness of his cloak made it appear that there was nothing more than an opaque cloud taking up the space. Nothing save for the burning red eyes that glowed through the darkness.

A deep silence blanketed the group that sat around the table. They sat in bone-deep tension like they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for something. Unable to not catch attention, Severus’ eyes were drawn up to the scene above the table. An unconscious woman levitated over the quiet onlookers. In her current state, beaten and bruised enough to say she was close to being disfigured, Severus almost didn't realize who it was.

Almost. He wished he hadn't. He wished he'd kept walking, taken his seat, and kept his eyes down like everyone else was doing. It was Charity. Severus, ever trained in the art of apathy, kept his face impassive, but his eyes stayed glued to the limp form. Her grey-streaked blonde hair hung down from her tipped head, looking like it had spent several days uncared for. Crusted blood covered her nose and top lip and fingerprint bruises littered the skin of her thighs as far as Severus could see up her skirts.

Severus wondered how long she’d been kept. He wasn't made aware of her capture, but he had no need to know everyone the Dark Lord held captive. Why had he not thought of some way to get her out before? How had he let her safety slip his mind? Surely he could have come up with something inconspicuous enough to have her gone from Hogwarts before everything went down. Forcefully, he stilled his mind. It was best not to have his thoughts running out of control.

The only other person who could stand to stare at Charity’s unfortunate form was Draco. He couldn't resist the urge to stare up at her, even though he glanced away immediately every time. He felt bad for thinking her brutalized body looked disgusting. It wasn’t as if it were her fault. But it was revolting, sending waves of nausea rolling through Draco’s stomach.

Draco didn't know who this woman was. Some muggle-born who the Death Eaters had caught. His more prevalent question was why was she in his house, hanging above his table like an ugly chandelier. If the Dark Lord was going to kill her, why did Draco have to see it? Couldn't he keep that to himself? Did he enjoy a show complete with a full, cheering audience?

Draco knew it was selfish, he knew it was disgusting, and it made him just as vile as the people sitting across from him, but if this woman had to die, he'd rather not have to be a witness. Watching her being beaten, killed, or whatever other sick things they were about to do, would affect him far more than just the knowledge she'd been killed. And he'd rather like to live without that.

“Do have a seat,” Voldemort said, his words slithering off his tongue. His spindly fingers clasping beneath his chin and the heat of his eyes boring ferociously into him.

Severus sat at the Dark Lord’s side. He received the usual looks of politely disgusted detestation, having died down only slightly over the years. Occupying the fleeting position of favorite had, like all coveted things, its perks and its downsides. He was no longer made uneasy by the way they stared, like he had picked up the wrong fork at dinner, and he'd gotten much better at copying their mannerisms.

Now, there was only one thing to worry about. Severus couldn't lie to himself and say he wasn't nervous around the Dark Lord but if nerves of steel could be applied to anyone, it was him. He balanced on a shaky bridge, keeping himself incredibly calm and keeping the stone walls of his mind firmly put up.

Severus informed him of the Order’s plan, the one Dumbledore had mapped out months ago for them. Unless they decided to swap all of their plans for new ones in a frantic attempt to avoid this very thing, they should meet tonight. Severus could not say he cared much either way, but if the Dark Lord felt like taking his wrath out by any means besides swift death, he would have hoped to be correct.

Interest grew, both from Master and servants. Voldemort’s mouth curled into a sickening smile. The satisfaction he got from this, the sick thrill that filled him at the thought of striking down the boy, was fascinating in every sense. His detestation and the trust he had in Severus to fulfill his desires were equally as laughable as they were horrifying.

Severus hoped he would not have to partake in the chase. He had no desire to harm the boy. On the contrary, despite whatever Dumbledore thought best, Severus wouldn't let anything hurt Potter if he could help it. Guilty conscious, some semblance of morals, call it what you want, but he wouldn't have that on his shoulders.

Yaxley protested the plan, going back and forth with Severus in a game of who can win more affection. At least, that’s what Yaxley was playing at. The idiot might actually believe himself better informed than Severus, but no one else did. His work inside the Ministry was efficient, and his plans were dependable, but not yet solid enough for Voldemort to fully rely on.

Somewhere in the middle of Yaxley’s rambling, having settled on Severus’ side, Voldemort stopped listening. His eyes rose to the body hovering above the polished table. He imagined what it may look like to have her entrails painting it. He bet Lucius would squirm. Him and his pathetic little fledgling.

His mood was rather pleasant tonight. Finally, he would lay his hands on the boy. This may be the only way he could manage to take Potter, catching him as he moved through the open. Would it be by broom? Or perhaps he would consider a lower-profile car ride. Maybe he took the train like Severus, thinking he could hide in the sea of unremarkable muggles.

“I shall deal with Potter myself.”

He had already let the brat slip through his fingers too many times. To think, 𝘩𝘦 had been bested by a mere child. Killing him was the only and ultimate way to reclaim the fear and respect his name was due. It was not only his world dangling on the line Potter held above his head, it was his own honor. It was high time he snatched it back.

Potter lived due to his own folly rather than the boy’s power. Careless, letting luck and chance save him. An endless amount of luck and chance, the aggressors that snipped away at even the most neatly woven plans, had stopped him too many times. A humiliating thing to admit, debilitating in its shame, but one he would rectify soon enough. By next Saturday, it would be Potter’s body decorating his table, the most beautiful centerpiece at his celebratory feast.

From below them, down in the Malfoys’ wine cellar that now housed their victims, a drawn-out, simply miserable wail sounded. Voldemort had grown well accustomed to and fond of such sounds. Just another sweetly simple reminder of who truly held the most power.

“Wormtail,” he hummed, still entranced in his own thoughts.

He never called him by his real name. That betrayed far too much familiarity. Calling him his nickname, what some may say was even more personal, gave the sense that he didn't care enough to remember and use a real name while also differentiating their special relationship. If anything, Voldemort wanted his own truth to be muddled and ambiguous.

“What have I said about keeping our guests quiet?”

That fool never did his job. It was a wonder he kept him around. But Voldemort had taken a liking to Peter, a special sort of partiality that he didn't extend to just anyone. It wasn't about being the best or most competent, he had about a hundred other people he could think of for that before Peter. No, it was a different sort of hunger that Peter helped sate. A different sort of longing and want.

With a quivering acknowledgment of the command, Peter scurried out of the room to tend to the prisoners.

Peter’s own pleasure came in the form of a crawling cold that slipped past his skin, down to his bones, when his Master spoke to him. Even now, even with second thoughts and regrets. Even after his Master’s rebirth that had left him looking no more alive than before, any remnant of beauty, human or otherwise, had been snuffed out. And still, his hisses slipped out smooth and seductive as amortentia, his eyes sending shocks of charmed temptation through any lucky enough to fall beneath his gaze.

Voldemort rose from his seat. He could feel the tension in the room, could see the deep fear pervading his followers. That was perfect. This was how he liked them. At a purposefully slow pace, he crept around the table, the hem of his robe sweeping the floor.

“If I am to kill Potter,” he paused for effect, briefly eyeing Dolohov across from him with an unfittingly calm stare. “I will need a wand.”

Not a word, just the thick haze of fear. Stupid as they were, they didn't understand what he wanted. By the looks of it, they were so utterly surprised at the statement itself that they couldn't make any sense of it.

“No volunteers then? I see.”

He stopped by Lucius, bringing a hand to rest atop his head. “What about you, Lucius?”

His fingers, pressing into his scalp, dragged down the back of his uncharacteristically grimy hair. Unkempt wasn't like him, something he was inclined every now and then to remind him of.

Lucius turned his head up to look at him, his dark-circled eyes wide in confusion and terror alike.

“My Lord?”

Voldemort hummed, pleased with the feeling of fear that sat as soothing as a lullaby in his chest. He was less pleased with the hesitation.

“Your wand.”

Still, Lucius hesitated. Was he expected to go without a wand? He couldn't simply get a new one. The thought of anyone touching his wand, holding something that he considered almost an extension of himself in their unfamiliar fingers, was deeply disturbing. The discomfort settled itself in Lucius’ gut and weighed heavy in the hands that stayed put in his lap.

Narcissa squeezed his wrist, trying to keep all her pleading in the gesture rather than on her face. They both knew that keeping the Dark Lord waiting was as good as defying him. Narcissa slipped her own wand from her sleeve, concealing her hand beneath the table and handing it over to Lucius.

He would need his wand more than she did. Should the occasion arise, she would rather he had a wand he was comfortable with to defend them. Lucius gave her a brief look of question, but she only nudged his hand, prompting him forward. He handed it over to Voldemort, fear etched into the motion.

Voldemort inspected the wand closely, one slender finger gliding over the length. He swirled his thumb over the tip, eyeing Lucius. He pulled out his own wand, holding both up to compare the difference in size. Lucius’ real wand was a good deal larger than Voldemort’s, but Narcissa’s was smaller by two or three inches. If Voldemort knew of the trickery, he didn't say a word.

Voldemort traced his finger along Lucius’ jaw, glossing over his cheek as he stepped behind his chair. “Now, now, why the long face, Lucius? You do seem so unhappy lately. I haven't done something to offend you, have I?”

There was an awful hiss to Voldemort’s voice, a venomous cruelty that twisted with delighted mockery.

“No, no, my Lord,” Lucius stammered. “Never.”

“My presence is troubling you?”

Severus glanced over at Lucius, sharing a brief look before returning to his forward-facing stare.

Voldemort sat back down, folding his hands atop the table. A hiss sounded at their feet, feet drawing back from the snake that came slithering out from under the table. Nagini curled around Voldemort’s chair, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. She hissed at the tense onlookers.

“And I thought you wanted me back. Was that not true?”

“Of course it was true, my Lord,” Lucius professed.

Narcissa nodded stiffly, her eyes averted from Voldemort and his snake. She commended Lucius for his bravery. A coward in the eyes of many, he was still better than her. She could hardly look in the direction of the Dark Lord. In his presence, her throat was tight, her hands very near trembling, and her eyes never even met his face. She couldn't bear it.

“It is our greatest pleasure, my Lord,” Bellatrix said, hands pressed flat on the table as she leaned forward.

“Your greatest pleasure, Bella?” Voldemort asked, a sly and greatly disturbing smirk on his face.

Her cheeks flushed red, curls bobbing as she nodded. “The greatest, my Lord.”

Narcissa’s stomach roiled and if it weren't empty she was sure she would vomit right now. She suspected every time her sister said “My Lord” she internally replaced the words with “My Love.”

“Greater even than the exciting news your family has received just this week?”

“I’m sure I don't know what you mean, my Lord?” Bellatrix said with a glance at Narcissa.

“Your niece, of course.”

Bellatrix looked at her sister again, looking as though she didn't realize she had a niece. Truth be told, it took her the greater part of a second to realize who he spoke of. Her deplorable sister and that mudblood husband of hers had a child, a woman now and an all-around detestable thing.

“She’s married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. A shame you missed the ceremony, isn't it?”

The table roared with laughter. This was a very common part of Death Eater meetings. Voldemort zeroed in on one person or family and went about humiliating them. The role of the punchline tended to fall on whoever had recently displeased him the most, but anyone was susceptible to it at any time.

Bellatrix vehemently denied any chosen association with those traitors, practically climbing the table as if that would get her words across better. Draco looked at his screaming aunt, her vicious voice being drowned out in the laughter. He looked at his parents, his mum with her gaze trained steadily on the wall opposite to her and his dad with his eyes on his lap.

“What about you, Draco?” Voldemort’s address startled him. “Will you babysit the cubs?”

His mum gave a barely perceptible shake of her head which he knew meant he didn't have to answer. The room bubbled with laughter. Draco chanced a look at Nagini who was hissing in anger.

Draco wondered, in the worst sort of way, at the odd scene. A room full of people who fought for the Dark Lord’s attention like children over toys all laughing at Draco’s family. The Dark Lord himself was egging them on, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 the Malfoy’s. And that lady was still hanging above them. Why did nobody think that was strange? What was wrong with these people?

“Enough,” Voldemort said, and the room immediately fell silent. It was eerie, the control he had over them. “Their filth always finds a way to spread, diseasing even the purest and most noble or our families, such as yourself.”

Bellatrix nodded, breathless though she was only sitting.

“There are often those who disgrace their name,” he spoke thoughtfully as if he were talking to himself. “They make things worse for all of us and leave behind their filthy, muggle-tainted offspring. Why the world would need more of those vile little creatures, left to never be properly valued, is a true mystery, isn't it?”

There was murmured agreement, none of them sure if he was actually looking for an answer. He flicked his new wand up at the hanging woman, bringing her closer to him. He woke her, a sharp gasp cutting through the room. She struggled against her invisible binds, the terrified grunts she gave making Draco sink back in his seat. He was no longer interested in staring at her.

“You are familiar with our guest, aren't you, Severus?” Voldemort said.

“Severus!” Charity cried. Her eyes filled with tears that fell down her temples and trickled off her forehead. “Severus, please. Help me.”

Her voice was hoarse, like she had already spent a great deal of time yelling. Her pleas reached into the cavern of his heart, tugging on whatever it could grab hold of. He glanced at her briefly but kept his eyes mostly focused on the Dark Lord. He couldn't stand to see her like this and he didn't trust himself enough to be able to keep a steady head if he kept his eyes on her for too long.

“I am,” he said.

“And you, Draco? Don’t you recognize her?”

Frantically, Draco shook his head. Why would he know her? He had never seen this woman in his life. Was he supposed to know who she was?

“Ah, no, I suppose you wouldn't,” Voldemort said. “Our guest is Miss Charity Burbage, a former Hogwarts professor. She taught a rather interesting class. She taught our dear wizard children that muggles are not so different from us. That we should respect them.”

There was jeering laughter. Somebody spat on the floor. Draco understood now why he didn't know her. He would never dare set foot inside the Muggle Studies classroom. He must have seen her walking through the halls or at dinner at some point, but he wasn't the best at memorizing and recognizing faces. He thought he remembered hearing her name before.

“Severus!” She writhed against her binds. Her voice came out broken, words choked with sobs. “Please.”

“Silence!” Voldemort bellowed. With a wave of his wand, Charity fell silent, kept quiet by an invisible gag.

“Her desire is to corrupt the precious minds of wizarding children, to demolish our most sacred and ancient customs by polluting our spaces with people who know nothing about our ways. Thieves of our knowledge, our culture, and our magic.”

Voldemort spoke with venomous derision. “She wants us purebloods to die out. That would be her preference. She would have us mate with muggles… and werewolves.”

Nobody dared laugh this time.

Once again, Charity tried, silently this time, to plead with Severus. Severus locked eyes with her, his cold stillness as frightening to her as her tears were to him. The woman he'd admired, who he had known since he was a sniveling fifteen-year-old she found crying in a classroom and became acquainted with again as an adult, who he'd joined in both immature and intellectual conversation, was about to die in front of him.

As he averted his eyes, he could only hope that she had felt his friendship for what it was. If her last moments had to be like this, ones of confusing betrayal and unanswered questions, he hoped at least she felt back then the appreciation he had for her.

Voldemort lifted his wand and with a flash of shocking green light, she dropped dead. There was a sick crunching as her body slammed against the table.

“Have your way with her,” Voldemort said. “But don't be too long. My darling Nagini likes them fresh.”

Draco backed away from the table, almost tripping over his chair. He straightened his robes, frightened eyes searching the hungry gazes around him. What were they going to do to the poor lady now? The Dark Lord left the room, while his snake remained curled up on his chair, waiting for her turn to strike. He saw Severus leave too, and noticed the sickened look on his mother’s face.

Each of his parents hooked an arm around one of Draco’s, dragging him out of the room. Bellatrix followed, as did the few other female Death Eaters. When Draco chanced a glance backward as he was swept out the door, he saw why.

One of the men had climbed atop the table, lifting Charity’s skirts to expose her lower body. That was what the Dark Lord had meant when he said they could have their way with her. Draco had felt it throughout the entirety of that meeting, but he thought he might actually be ill.

He thought of his mother, even his aunt who he despised, being treated with such casual brutality after death. For their lifeless bodies to be treated with such indecency. And then, what he'd been holding back for hours, Draco vomited all over the floor and the front of his robes.

Narcissa rubbed his back and Bellatrix muttered something about him being weak, but she said nothing more taunting. There were hardly any words needed or any that could begin to explain, excuse, or comfort from what he'd seen.

***

“That should have worked!” Bellatrix screeched.

She kicked a cup off the table she‘d jumped onto. The plush carpeting saved them from having to clean up glass shards. They weren't so lucky when she picked up a glass and chucked it across the room, shattering it against the wall.

Suddenly, with full force, Bellatrix was swept by an invisible wind off the table, landing on her back with a thud. She whipped her head up, glaring at Lucius as she saw him pocket his wand.

“It seems we didn't account for the cleverness of Potter’s clan,” Narcissa said.

Gathering her skirts, Bellatrix scurried up. “Because no one here comes up with any actual thought out plans. We all just do whatever 𝑆𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑢𝑠 says.”

“By all means, Bella,” Lucius said. “Please, show us the depth of your wit.”

“I would have killed that little bitch!” She stomped her foot against the floor. “If I had some more backup to deal with the others. But you would rather sit on your arse because you're too afraid to get your hands dirty!”

She was yelling at Lucius, jabbing an accusing finger at him, but she was addressing both of them.

“If you needed help you could have simply started with that.”

Bellatrix seized him by his collar, giving him a shake as she tugged him down to her level. “You useless-”

“Bella!” Narcissa shouted. “Lucius serves his purpose, as we all do. He wouldn't be kept around otherwise.”

Bellatrix let him go and Lucius wiped her spit off his cheek, making an effort to show her how disgusted he was. More Death Eaters shuffled inside the house, either arguing the same as Bellatrix and Lucius or looking like they wished the floor would swallow them up before a worse fate came.

“Even Andy would be less useless than you,” Bella said to Lucius. “She was weak, too, but at least she was skilled enough to land a hit if she needed to. I blame you for her leaving.”

“Me?” Lucius said, hand pressed to his chest.

“She couldn't stand the idea of having you as a brother-in-law.”

“I’m sure you as a sister wasn't a preferable struggle.”

Bella’s eyes flickered around the room, her hands searching the pockets of her skirts. “If I knew where I'd left my wand, you'd be getting it right now.”

“And somehow I’m the incompetent one.”

“Draco!” Bellatrix screamed. “Draco!”

Draco peeked his head inside the room, eyes anxious and searching. “Yes?”

“Do you know where Auntie’s wand is?”

Upon entering the house, she’d tossed it to the floor in a fit of anger. Draco pointed somewhere out in the hall that Bellatrix couldn't see.

“Fetch it,” she said like she was commanding a dog. He obeyed, bringing her wand to her.

“I saw your little friend,” she grinned at him. “The weasel.”

“Oh. Did you hurt him?” He tried not to sound overly concerned about Ron’s well-being. And he wasn't, not really, but something that kept tugging at his chest wanted him to check.

Judging by Bellatrix’s anger, the collective disappointment, and each Death Eaters’ scramble to pin the blame on anyone besides themselves, Harry was still alive. Not that it mattered much to Draco, but he couldn't stand the way the Death Eaters bragged about their kill counts, each life taken a trophy on their mantle.

“Unfortunately no. I didn't get that nasty bitch either. I wonder who taught her to fight like that?”

“She’s an Auror, you idiot,” Lucius said.

“What nasty bitch?”

Bellatrix laughed. “Do you want to hear a funny story?”

“No,” Narcissa said. Her harsh tone was one foreign to Draco, only very recently coming out. He didn't imagine he would easily get used to it.

“Come on, Cissy, he should know. You want to know, don't you?”

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear a story from her. It was probably disturbing. She didn't get to tell it, because Severus entered the room and the air went cold. He gave Draco a shove toward the staircase and Draco didn't waste time asking what was happening. He made it to the top of the stairs when he heard a door slam and a loud crash followed by a pained scream.

He shut himself in his room, shutting his eyes as if it could block out the screams. He heard the shouts of curses, the slam of bodies against the floor. And then he heard his dad. Draco clutched his arms, wrapping around himself in a hug none too comforting. He slid down the wall, tears rolling down his cheeks.

The inchoate fear the Dark Lord set about inside him rose into a flame of true terror. The whole house trembled in terror with him. His ragged cries didn't drown out the noise, only mingled with it like a mixture of all the most dangerously potent potion ingredients. The state of his panic did help to blur it out, the loss of feeling in his limbs a better distraction.

His hands tugged at his hair, spit dripping over his lips as he sobbed. Everything became a rush of sound, of feeling, of pain. His heart raced, every erratic beat loud in his ears. He struggled to catch his breath, taking in shaky gulps of air. He tipped his head back, knocking it against the wall.

He curled inward on himself, trying to disappear. Trying to make it stop. He felt like someone was choking him, bony fingers curling around his throat, suffocating him. He cried until there wasn't anything left to let out, until his uneven breathing made him dizzy, and his head ached.

He wasn't sure how it came down, but the haze dropped, and his surroundings came into focus again. He pressed his palms against his eyes, sucking in deep breaths. He couldn't hear screaming anymore. He couldn't hear anything.

Draco was exhausted. He wished he could will himself to sleep. He kicked off his boots and crawled beneath his bed covers, tugging them around his head. Why was this his life? Was this his justice? His payback for all the first years he'd picked on? Was this what he got for going out of his way to make Potter’s life miserable for the last six years? Were all his bad deeds finally catching up to him?

He didn't think any of that stuff was this bad. If this was the hand of justice tipping the scales in the opposite direction then it was being completely unfair. He would rather be pushed around at school a little bit (okay, a lot) than have to deal with this. If he never saw the grimy, sneering face of another Death Eater again, it would be too soon.

Draco absolutely despised everyone and everything. He hated the Dark Lord. He hated the Death Eaters. He hated Bellatrix and the way she upset his parents. He hated his mum and dad for going along with this. He hated Potter and his stupid friends. He hated that he was still awake right now.

He uncovered himself from his blanket comfort only to reach for his wand, locking the door and shutting the blinds. He wrapped himself up and pressed his face against his fluffy pillow. As he shut his eyes and tried to calm himself down, he hoped half-heartedly that he might just not wake up.

Chapter Text

Hermione could hear her mum’s loud laughter floating upstairs. Her parents were watching a movie, some old film she’d never seen but they loved. She turned down watching it every time they'd ever asked. It sounded boring. She had things like studying, reading, and writing to her friends to do instead. She wished she’d watched it.

She shoved the last of her necessities into her purple, beaded bag, and stuffed the most precious of her treasures into a cardboard box. She wasn't sure what would become of her room after she left, so she kept what she would miss most. Photos, her most sentimental pieces of jewelry, the heart shaped sunglasses she begged her mum for when she was thirteen, and the toy fairy wand she kept stuck in a vase of flowers. She felt a bit silly about the last one, but it was irreplaceable, and she knew she would regret it if she never got it back.

Bottles of perfume, photographs of her and her parents, her pink digital camera, and the rest of the sunnies she kept hanging on a line of bunting stayed in their places. Paintings and posters remained on the floral walls, books neatly lined the shelf her dad had put together, and the desk and bed were tidied to perfection. As if no one had ever been here at all.

She threw out most of her makeup, packing only a small case of what she would wear for the wedding. It wouldn't make sense to keep any of that. Most of her clothes were still folded and tucked away, shoes colored-coded as always. Everything was in its proper place, making the room look like a page out of a magazine. Things like snacks, tissues, newer editions of magazines, and anything from after January of this year was either thrown out or hastily stuffed in her bag.

She was wearing the same jeans and grey camisole from yesterday, making sure all of her laundry was done and out of the hamper. She stacked CDs and cassettes on top of the turquoise nightstand or tucked in its drawers. She smoothed her hands one more time over the butterfly-printed throw blanket folded along the bottom of her bed and drew the drapes closed.

She wasn't sure she was ready to leave yet. She moved about the room, straightening things and prolonging her departure. She wished she could take everything with her. She wished she didn't have to leave it behind at all. She kept picking things up and rearranging them. The pink telephone she wanted so badly even though she had no one to call. The nursery lamp with bunnies on it that she had never replaced with something more mature. A tiny heart-shaped compact mirror. A jar of hairbrushes. A window ledge of empty Coca Cola bottles.

She grabbed a bottle of purple nail polish to match her dress for the wedding, leaving the rest in the color-smudged case. She hung last year’s easter dress on the closet door, just to add to the memorial aesthetic. She glanced around the room several more times, and, accepting there was nothing else for her to take or change, she grabbed her stuffed monkey and closed the box.

She coaxed a grumpy Crookshanks from his bed, and, box in one arm and trainers in the other, headed downstairs. She set her things down at the bottom of the steps and let Crookshanks curl up on her pink hoodie. Not without a guilty glance, she slipped past her parents into the kitchen. She poured herself a bowl of cheese and onion crisps, and shoved digestive biscuits, pretzel twists, and strawberry pop tarts. She debated taking peanuts or cheese crisps, then stuffed them both in her bag.

She ate in what felt like an awful silence even with her parents’ laughter and occasional comments. She washed her dish, setting it on the drying rack. She laced up her trainers, moved Crookshanks off her hoodie and into his cat carrier backpack, and tied up her hair.

Last weekend, she took her mum out to get their hair done and roam through shops where they admired many things but didn't buy a single one. For what might have been the last time, she had gone to the museum with her dad, the same one they'd explored countless times already. This might be the last time she was ever here.

How long would it be before she was allowed to return to Chipping Norton? That random Cotswolds town that had given her nothing but grey-sky walks and rowdy school kids. She spent her summer days reading through the library that seemed significantly less impressive after seeing Hogwarts, and sitting inside eating takeaway while awaiting a letter from the only kids who ever talked to her.

If she went back there, would it ever be the same? Would she find her parents and be able to restore their memories? Would she ever again walk down to the markets in the morning with her dad, picking out the least bruised apples for breakfast? Would her mum walk her through the brown autumn leaves for a special trip to the theatre?

What if she couldn't find them? What if something went wrong? What if, in her efforts to protect them, to do what was necessary, she ruined her entire life? What would she do without them? She wasn't even entirely convinced she was doing the right thing. What if altering their memories was a mistake?

But she didn't have much of a choice. Keeping them away from the war, from her, Ron, and Harry, they would be safer from Voldemort’s harm. At least, she hoped for that much. She couldn't be certain, but it was the most she could do. Sending them away, making them forget her, was the only thing she could think to do.

They wouldn't forget her entirely. Altering seventeen years' worth of memories was far too complicated a task, even for her. Not to mention having to rid their home of all physical evidence of her existence which would have looked extremely suspicious. No, she didn't get rid of herself entirely. Monica and Wendall Wilkins, as her parents would now know themselves to be, had memories of a daughter who had passed away in a skiing accident last January. She hoped the fake aspect of this sad event would keep them from too much pain, but she wasn't sure how that bit worked.

Hermione stepped into the living room, staring blankly at the television. Her dad patted the spot beside him, welcoming her to join. She drew her wand, focusing her mind. Their memories changed, drifted away like bottled messages lost in the sea, never to find another. When she stepped outside the front door, the bubble burst. She was gone.

With her single bag and her cardboard box, she walked toward the bus stop. She sat on the red bench, her foot tapping against the pavement, and her head turned upward at the grey sky. She wasn't ready for this town to become something she missed. She never thought it would be this hard, never thought she would care about the rain soaked streets, the seasons of leaf raking and snow shoveling, or the quiet people of this place.

But she had grown up here. A bit of herself lived in the ripples of every puddle. Something inside her flicked on and off in time with the street’s porch lights. The words she occasionally let slip that sounded so much less proper than her boarding school peers had been picked up here. She'd learned how to ride a bike on these lanes, broken the neighbor children’s jump rope records, and memorized every crack in the pavement.

She stepped onto the bus, hauling her little amount of belongings and her cat. She received a few judgy stares as she slunk toward the back, sitting across the aisle from an elderly couple. She hid herself in her headphones and clicked play on her music player. She pressed her forehead against the window, watching her world roll by and away forever.

𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒
𝑇𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠
𝑆𝑒𝑚𝑖-𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦
𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒
𝐼’𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑦
𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑏𝑦𝑒

***

You can put your stuff in my room,” Ron said, taking the box from Hermione’s arms. He and Crookshanks exchanged less-than-friendly looks. “He can stay with Ginny.”

“Hermione, dear,” Molly called, bustling into the room. “Do you need anything? Lunch will be ready in a bit. Have you eaten? We’ve set you up in Ginny’s room, but if you need anything, don't be shy to ask.”

Molly gave Ginny a look the way any mother would silently warn their child to behave, then returned to the kitchen.

Hermione wished someone would take her memories away, make her forget what she was missing. Molly’s motherly comforts served as a blaring reminder of what she'd done. What she lost. This must be how Harry felt. The mere thought of someone else having what she couldn't, what this war had ripped from her hands, made her want to turn to an uncharacteristic act of rage and punch them in the face for being so inconsiderate of her circumstances.

It wasn't fair. This stupid war that she had to fight in, had to make sacrifices for. It was by a bizarre stroke of what she once called luck that she was born with magic in her blood. She could have had a normal life. Her normal parents could drive her to her normal school in their normal car and this battle wouldn't concern her in the slightest.

She followed Ron to his bedroom, kicking off her shoes and emptying out the books she needed to sort through. Some were just texts she didn't want to lose, while others would be important to their mission.

“Could’ve warned me you were bringing the library. I would have cleared some more space.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she felt bad. “Sorry, I was worried what would happen to my stuff. I've made it seem like my parents kept my things in memory of me, but it’s not like I can rule how they feel.”

Ron looked sympathetic and Hermione thought she sensed a hint of guilt.

Hermione got to organizing, and Ron fell backward onto his bed, letting out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Why can't we just go get him now? He’s probably bored to death.”

“We have to be careful and precise,” Hermione said, coming to sit beside him. “If we want to keep him safe we have to follow the Order’s direction.”

“I guess,” Ron grumbled. He crossed his arms over his face, only peeking out from under his cover to ask Hermione another question. “Do you think he’s alright?”

Hermione trapped her lip between her teeth. She wanted to say ‘always,’ to reassure Ron that Harry always found a way to cope, but she was beginning to question it herself. Every September, she prepared to see a shell of the boy she spent the previous school year with, broken and beaten down after merely two months of his awful relatives.

Being alone wasn't good for Harry. Having no one by his side, not being able to turn over in bed and whisper to someone else, it made the noise in his head grow all that much louder. If it were up to Hermione, she would go get Harry right now. But one of them needed to be sensible and she filled the role well. So she answered Ron assuredly, her voice steady.

“He’ll be fine. He’s always fine.”

Because he needed to be. And wasn't that all they could do? Hermione faced many obstacles every day determined to disprove and challenge her wit and prudence. She stood firm because Harry was unsteady and Ron was rash. One of them needed to be the anchor while the others dove into the waves. They wouldn't get through this without it. If she didn't keep her steady two feet on the ground then they would all three end up adrift, and she wouldn't be the one to take that chance.

“What do you think he’s doing right now?” Ron said.

“I don't know.”

While Harry was all Hermione could think of, he was all Ron could talk about. They were told not to send him letters, so all those random thoughts Ron had all day could only be shared with Hermione.

“Does it get awfully hot over there?”

How should she know? She’d never been to Surrey. Harry never spoke of his summers, void of any pleasant memories to share.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve never been to a muggle town. I mean, I’ve been around muggles, and I've been to Harry’s once, did you know about that?”

Hermione didn't even get a chance to ask what he was referring to before he went on yapping. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the story anyway.

“But I've never spent time in a muggle town, like, actually around muggles and their things. Harry said it’s boring over there. Where are you from again?”

“We lived two hours outside of London,” she replied heavily, her gaze boring into the wall opposite her as Ron went on about boring summers and muggles.

“Or what about a bicycle?” Ron said.

Hermione didn't catch the first part of whatever he said, only the curious gleam in his intensely blue eyes.

“Did you have one of those?”

“I think everyone had a bicycle, Ron.”

“I didn't.”

Hermione laughed and her previous regret was replaced with deep gratitude for the fact that she boarded the Hogwarts Express on September 1, 1991, and chanced to run into Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. She brushed Ron’s bangs back and thought maybe everything else wasn’t so bad.

“What’s the purpose of a bicycle?” Ron asked. He scrunched up his nose. “Ew, I sound like Dad. I mean, is it for transportation or just fun?”

“Both.”

Ron nodded, his interest in bicycles waning.

“There’s nothing to do around here,” he moaned. “When’s lunch?”

“You’ve been in the house too long,” Hermione said. “Let’s go sit outside.”

They weren't supposed to wander too far from the Burrow. Molly was in a proper fright every time they so much as stepped outside the backdoor. It made no real difference whether they were inside or out, if Death Eaters found them it wouldn't be because they had chosen to walk around the garden. Still, Molly was restless.

Hermione understood. Losing family could make a woman inconsolable. Hermione’s parents were alive and perfectly well and thinking about them being gone still felt like a gut punch. She didn't want to think about what losing someone for good would feel like.

Ron didn't let those unwanted thoughts flit around her head for too long. He dragged her downstairs with tiptoeing footsteps past Molly as they slipped outside, not getting a chance to grab their shoes. They sat down in the grass together, the mild summer breeze drifting through their hair.

Ron lifted his gaze to stare up at the dull blue-grey expanse of the sky. A gleam of sunlight was starting to peek out between puffs of grey.

Hermione glanced up and then at Ron. He met her eyes, his blue better to stare at than any sky. Ron looked away suddenly, a shy smile creeping over his face. Why was he smiling like that? Because of her?

Hermione turned abruptly, feeling a surge of embarrassment. She combed her fingers through her bangs, suddenly insecure that they looked weird. Ron’s ears burned a bright red that Hermione was too caught up in her hair to notice.

Ron picked up a stone that was poking into his thigh. He smoothed his thumb over it before tossing it as hard as he could. He cocked his head at Hermione.

“I can't believe I'm old.”

“You are not old,” she laughed. “You’re only seventeen.”

“Which is close to eighteen and that's close to being old.”

“No, it is not,” she disagreed. “You've plenty of youth left in you.”

“I wish I could stay seventeen forever,” he said.

“I don't. I’m excited to grow up. There's so much more I want to learn and do.”

“I think I’ve seen enough, thanks.” Ron leaned back on his elbows, the short grass prickling at his bare, freckled arms.

The air was warmer than it had been earlier, and she wanted to ditch her hoodie, but she was suddenly self-conscious about the thin tank top and exposed bra straps she wore underneath. She wondered if she was alone with Harry, would she be hesitant? She thought not, but that led her to that heartsore she was supposed to avoid examining.

“You’re still young,” she said instead, lying on her side. “Make the most of it. You have plenty of years left to be an evergreen teenager.”

“By the time this war’s over I could be twenty. I won't have much time to enjoy the rest of my golden years.”

Hermione hadn't thought about that. What if this war lasted a long time? Wasn't it foolish to assume they would find Voldemort’s horcruxes and put a stop to all this in a matter of months? This could go on for years.

“What do you want to do?” Ron’s casual voice withdrew her from her terrifying thoughts. “After all of this is over?”

“I’d like to go to university. Study political science, perhaps economics. Oxford would be a dream but it’s one of the most difficult universities to get into. I suppose King’s would do if that doesn't work out.”

Ron closed his eyes against the sun and smiled to himself, not getting a word of what Hermione was on about. “Sure.”

“What about you? What will you do?”

Ron fell back into the grass, crossing his arms over his stomach. “I don't know. Enjoy what’s left of my decreasing youth, I s’pose.”

“Live that teenage dream before you become decrepit.”

“I've always wanted kids,” Ron said. “I know that's far into the future, but it’s something I’ve always thought. That I'd have a family.”

That made Hermione feel warm, like the glaring sun above them was trapped inside her chest. Of course, Ron would want a family. He grew up in an amazing one, full of an untouchable, inimitable love that only another slew of Weasleys could recreate.

“You’d be a good father.”

“You think?”

“Not now, of course. But after a bit of growing up, I think so, yeah.”

He would be good. Hermione would love seeing Ron as a father. She wondered what his babies would look like. What would 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 babies look like? She imagined chubby freckled faces, big blue eyes, and curly hair. She pictured Ron holding their baby, feeding them, kissing them.

Would she ever want kids? She had read a bit about pregnancy and with everything she learned she ticked off a new reason she wouldn't want that, but that might be her anxiety talking. People get pregnant all the time. She wondered what the maternal mortality statistics were. It didn't matter anyhow. Hermione wouldn't be the one Ron would marry or get pregnant. These were all ridiculous thoughts.

“How many children would you want?” Hermione asked.

Ron shrugged. “Depends who I marry, what they want. They’ll be the one giving birth.”

The look he gave her felt full of insinuation but she told herself she was imagining it. Why would Ron want to marry her? She wouldn't make a very good wife. She was naggy, she talked too much, and she wouldn't want to be stuck at home with kids. Ron would want something traditional.

“Would you want your wife to stay home? With the children.”

“If she wants to,” Ron said. “I don't really think that's necessary, but if someone had to, I could do it.”

So he didn't care about being traditional. Good to know. Not that it mattered. Because it really shouldn't and failing to remember that would only end up with her getting hurt. Sometimes Hermione questioned if Ron genuinely liked her, too, but he had plenty of chances to show her he did and he didn't take them.

She was a best friend to him, not a future wife. She was okay with that. She could learn to be okay with that. Ron was a precious part of her life and she could be content loving him even if she never got to touch him. She didn't need to call him boyfriend to know that was her boy. He was insufferable, besides, the most annoying person she'd ever met.

She smiled fondly over at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she hummed. “Are you excited for the wedding?”

“I’m excited for the cake.”

Of course, that's what Ron was thinking about. Hermione was looking forward to the wedding because of the welcome distraction it would provide. She loved being witness to all the planning, hectic as it was, and everything that went into preparing for the big day. With every little touch and bit of work she saw Bill and Fleur go over, she dreamed of what she would do for a wedding of her own.

“What kind of wedding would you want?” Hermione asked.

“A small one. Like Bill’s having, but less people. I don't care if it’s just us, no one who ruins my mood is invited to my wedding.”

“U-us?”

“Yeah. The family,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Right. Obviously. “I think I'd like that too. For my own wedding, I mean.”

“I’ll take a nice big cake though,” Ron said, Hermione’s awkwardness going over his head.

“Chocolate?”

“Definitely.”

The two laughed. A bird perched on a branch above them sang along to their merriment. Laughing was a lot easier than talking. Saying stupid things, making nonsense jokes, and laughing at things that weren't particularly funny was much easier than trying to hold a conversation.

Ron hadn't felt very talkative all summer. It was hard to make conversation when the only thing running through his head was “Are we going to be okay?” It was hard to talk to others when all he wanted was for Harry to get here already.

Ron didn't do well with a lot of time on his hands. The stagnant crawl of July gave him too much time to think which led to the picking apart of his insecurities and dreaming up new fears. It wasn't a good look on him.

He tried to work up a routine of going for a fly every morning, clear his head and that. Ginny said that always worked for her. He found exercise wasn't for him. And neither was losing an hour of sleep to do it in the morning. Sleeping was the only thing he liked to do. He wished he could sleep away most of his days.

Except when he was talking to Hermione. He turned his head, sharp grass poking his cheek, and found she was staring right at him. He reached out to trace a finger down the bridge of her pretty nose. The surprised smile it elicited was delightful.

Ron wasn't sure when he realized it, but Hermione was gorgeous. She was gorgeous, pretty, beautiful, all of those words. And proper fit. She’d grown up a lot. Having done it alongside her, it was something that slipped Ron’s mind and only hit him very suddenly and very randomly. She was a long way from that hoity-toity little twerp who had shown him up on the train ride to school when they were eleven.

She still showed him up plenty but now it was only partly to show off, the rest being her need to make everything right. And that she did. Hermione made everything right. It was no exaggeration to say Ron wouldn't have gotten half as far without her pulling him along. In school, in life, in every crease and bump he came across. Hermione was right there to help him figure it out. She was his partner through everything.

Ron sat up and Hermione followed. The two stared at one another, and something lit up in Hermione’s eyes as Ron held his gaze steady. Something she tried to hide by averting her eyes and staring at a tiny ladybug climbing through the grass.

If Ron had slightly worse self-control, he would reach out to her again. He would ask if he could hold her. He wanted to hug her and talk about everything that was wrong, no restraints or avoidance. He wanted her to tell him how she really felt and he would console her, or encourage her, or whatever response was called for.

“Do you ever feel,” Hermione said. “That all your good days are already up? You were talking about not wanting to get old, but what if we’ve already spent all our good years? Maybe we’re done?”

“I don't think my ten different awkward stages were the best years of my life.”

“But in terms of learning, passion, whatever hunger for life I had when I was thirteen that seems to have dwindled somewhere over the years.”

“Were you not just talking about all the universities you want to attend?”

Hermione sighed. She stretched her arms out above her to block out the glare of the sun as passing clouds uncovered its glow.

“I want to learn things and study, still, it’s just that I don't know if I've the same energy in me that I used to.”

Ron clearly didn't know what she meant. That was made apparent enough by the confusion in the stare he gave her.

“What if I go out for a job and nobody wants me? Or nobody takes me seriously at uni.”

“You?” he said in disbelief. “I’m not sure that's possible. You're a freaky genius, you always have something clever to say, I can't imagine anyone wouldn't take you seriously.”

He couldn't imagine anyone who would be anything short of impressed with Hermione.

“It seems you weren't present for the past six years that I was being called a bossy know-it-all,” she said.

“Well, alright, that's annoying in school but isn't that good stuff in the business world?”

Wasn't it? But the thing was, it wasn't only the other children calling her names. It was the professors, adults calling her a know-it-all and making her feel like she was pushy, overbearing, and inherently wrong for wanting to know and be more.

“I suppose it would be,” she replied. “If I were a man.”

Ron’s face fell as understanding dawned on him, his confusion becoming sympathy. Hermione was glad for it because she wasn't sure she could find any other words to fully explain it. No amount of eloquently strung together words could describe the feeling of thinking at eight years old that being told you would be a good lawyer was a compliment only to realize eight years later that it was a backhanded way of calling you mean. And heaven forbid a woman ever tell someone else what to do.

“Women don't simply get to be lawyers,” Hermione said. “They have to fight for a seat in the room first. I don't know if I want to work my life away only to have the door shut in my face.”

She sat abruptly upright, hot tears welling in her eyes. “I don't want to be a waste of hard work because I should be at home having a man’s children.”

Ron, staying ever quiet, reached for her hand. He wasn't sure if it was his place to speak and part of Hermione took satisfaction in that. In the fact that, for once, it was a man questioning where he stood when speaking with a woman. But that satisfaction wasn't what Hermione was truly searching for. She didn't want men to feel bad, she wanted them to try and understand.

And wasn't that just the issue? Hermione knew not all men were horrendous. In the sea of awful, slimy, ignorant jerks in the world there were some decent ones. But even they didn't understand. Playing your part had to be more than just being kind and considerate. It required fighting from both sides.

“It affects everything,” she said. “Since we’re born and wrapped in a flowery blanket and a big hair bow. When you and your siblings played rough or got dirty outside, who was the one who always got scolded?”

“Ginny,” he answered, a slow but sure realization on his face.

“And was she told to sit with her legs closed and lower her voice, but you can't recall ever being told the same thing?”

“Yes. She complained about that a lot.”

“And were your clothes utterly awful, itchy waistbands, pinchy ballet flats, and ribbons too tight in your hair?”

“No.”

“But I bet Ginny hated her clothes, didn't she?”

“How are you so spot on?”

“Because it happens to all of us,” she said. “My parents never treated me like I was horrid simply because I was a daughter, but all those things were there. There's so much shit that women don't even realize all of it.”

Ron laughed, shamefully covering his mouth. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I don't think I've ever heard you curse before.”

“Have you not?”

He shook his head, still trying and failing to hide just how amused this first made him.

“Because I'm a proper lady, Ron,” she said sarcastically.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said. “I'm sorry you have to deal with that. I wish- I don't know what-”

“I know,” she said, saving him the trouble of trying to express his sympathy. “All we can do is be a part of the push and change. I’m sorry it sounds like I'm complaining.”

“You shouldn't be sorry, and it's not complaining. You're right.”

“Yeah, I am,” she agreed, enthusiasm finding itself. “I am right.”

“Just you wait,” Ron said, matching her excitement. “In ten, twenty years from now women and little girls and little boys are going to look up to you and all the changes you started. And they're going to want to make their own. That's how we’ll change the world.”

Hermione felt her suppressed tears return. “Oh, Ron. That's beautiful.”

Ron laughed and didn't hesitate to pull Hermione into a hug. She tucked her face into his shoulder.

“It’s alright to cry,” he told her. “Women should be able to cry and not get told that makes them a bad fit for a leader. You'd make a kickass world leader.”

“Thank you,” she sniffled. She pulled away and dried her eyes with her hands. “And boys can cry too, you know. Doesn't make you weak.”

“Why is no one allowed to cry?” Ron questioned. “Can't be healthy.”

“Certainly not.”

“With the state of things, we need you as a leader.”

“I don't know if I have it in me to go that far.” She looked down at her hands, but a smile spread over her face.

“Not with that attitude, you won't. I can see it. Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic 2020.”

Hermione laughed. “I like the way you think, Ron.”

He grinned. “Thank you.”

“Come one,” she said, standing up. The grass was plush and tickling beneath her bare feet. “It’s too warm out here.”

“Do you think Mum will mind if we go out to the pond?” He lifted his hand like a visor over his eyes as he gazed past the lawn. “She’ll probably have a fit if we tried.”

“Give her a break, won't you? She's worried.”

“If there are Death Eaters hanging out at our pond then it won't make much difference if we stay here or not.”

“I’m too tired for swimming, anyhow. And my hair’s getting frizzy. Let’s go inside.”

Ron trudged inside after her, peering around the kitchen as they entered. Molly was sitting at the table, her face creased with worry as she flipped through the Daily Prophet. Ron came up behind her, sliding his arms around her shoulders.

“Hello, dear,” she said, folding the paper and sliding it away. As if Ron hadn't already read the entire thing over his cereal this morning.

Ron kissed her cheek and went to fill a plate full of the bean salad waiting atop the counter. Shoveling it into his mouth, he gave his mother an approving nod.

“Thi’ is ‘ood,” he said around a mouthful.

Hermione and Molly both glanced at him, then at each other with a chuckle. Whether it was nature or societal-drawn lines, both could agree that girlhood was a holder of secrets, a bearer of big laughs, and a sharing partner of good-natured head shakes. And whatever the use of boys on this earth was, one was certainly to elicit such reactions.

Chapter Text

“What even is this stuff?” Harry addressed his one-woman audience as he ripped loose a shoelace that had been caught between two heavy books. Hedwig gave an obligatory squawk in response.

In the past six years, Harry had never fully emptied out his school trunk. He never found it necessary. The things on the top were the only things he needed every day and through the summer, hence them being on the top. Whatever mysteries lay at the bottom were either only useful to him at school and didn't need to be unpacked or things he'd stuffed in there without the intention of ever using them again.

His floor was currently littered with the shocking amount of things he'd been able to fit in there over the course of his school years. He picked up a random piece of wrinkled paper, unfolding it to reveal a note from Ron. It wasn't an important note worth keeping, just Ron doing his job as a best mate and letting Harry know during class that Cho was staring at him. It was complete with a poorly drawn kissy face and what Harry assumed were supposed to be hearts.

After it ended, Harry hadn't given his and Cho’s relationship much thought. He felt bad for hurting her feelings, she was nice, but he realized a little too late he never actually liked her like that. He did like her, just not the way a boyfriend should. She was just a crush, a sweet, pretty girl, and he was, well, him. Harry hoped one day she would find someone who loved her properly.

Compared to saving the world from impending doom, finding a partner seemed like a juvenile worry. But he had Ginny now, and she was wonderful. Perfect, really. She was a best friend, someone who could pull him from the drag of this world and make him laugh. She was everything a girlfriend was supposed to be.

Harry crumpled the note and, along with a button that had popped off something he couldn't for the life of him remember, tossed it in the bin that was already overflowing with all the random rubbish he'd emptied out of his trunk. He would never have declared himself the biggest neat freak in the world nor the mildly tidiest, but he didn't remember being such a slob.

He pulled out an old, completely filled notebook. It had a mark in the top corner from having been bent back. The covering was chipping away at the bottom of the spine. On the front, in sloppy little letters that had only barely improved since this was written, was the name Harry J. Potter. Also gracing the front cover was what looked like an insect that had been put out of its misery.

The next thing he pulled out made him laugh. It was an old sock, too small for how much he'd grown since then. He tugged it over his foot, stretching it enough to get over his ankle, and stuck his foot upward toward Hedwig.

“I can't believe I used to be little,” he said. Not receiving a response, he filled in for her as he often did. “You can't believe it either? It’s weird, I know.”

He pulled off the sock, balling it up and sending it toward the rubbish bin. He found a hairpin that had collected a little ball of dust on it. He had absolutely no idea where it had come from but he dusted it off and used it to pin back his hair.

“I’m working up a sweat just sitting here.” He pulled off his hoodie, tossing it out of the way of the growing piles of junk on the floor.

Hedwig screeched, making him jump back.

“What!” He whipped his head in every direction to try and catch whatever caused her fright. Seeing nothing, he narrowed his eyes at her, shaking his head. “Calm down, sister. Nothing’s happening.”

She clucked disapprovingly at him.

“I get it. Sometimes you have to scream. Bit cranky?” He tilted his head at her. “Get some sleep, won't you?”

Harry dove back into the depths of the swamp, hands roaming the deepest part. With yelp as sudden as Hedwig’s had been, he yanked his hand out. From the top of his finger, a bead of red blood formed.

What had he broken? If the other junk he'd been pulling out was anything to go by, it was probably something he didn't remember breaking or stuffing in his trunk for safekeeping.

“Fuck, ow,” he muttered. He got up, blowing on his fresh cut, and nudged open his bedroom door with his shoulder.

He stumbled over something, hearing it crunch under his step. He looked down to see a broken tea cup on the floor right outside his door.

“The hell?”

It was a good thing he was wearing shoes or he’d end up with a mess much worse than broken glass and an insignificantly small finger wound. He stuffed the tea cup pieces into the bin in his bedroom and resumed his trip to the bathroom.

He stuck his finger under the tap, the icy water pleasantly numbing. Icy water, he thought. That's what he needed. Something that numbed him to the core, leaving him with only a vague, stingy feeling like the one in his finger right now. What was it called that dentists used to numb your mouth? Novocaine. He needed novocaine for his soul.

He supposed that was why people did drugs. But he couldn't do that. Not that he really wanted to, but he didn't have much of a choice now. He couldn't face Voldemort while he was tripping. Though it would take the edge off things. Harry laughed at his own imagination and cracked open the sticky mirror cabinet to retrieve the antiseptic.

He dribbled some onto a cotton ball and dabbed at his broken skin. He hissed out a curse at the sting. This wouldn't be a problem if the time would hurry up and pass so he could legally do magic. Though come to think of it, he still wouldn't know how to repair this injury. If he were a healer his patients would be done for.

In all seriousness, he should probably learn how to do that. Now more than ever. He hoped his slacking off in school wasn't finally coming back to bite him in the arse. He was fairly confident he knew enough and anything he didn't know, Hermione would be there to pick up the slack.

He tossed his blood-soaked cotton ball into the bin, picking away a bit of fluff sticking to his finger. He returned back to his cleaning, more carefully this time. He was mindful of his hurt finger as he searched cautiously for the offender.

He pulled out a button, holding it up, and watched it flicker back and forth between saying 𝑆𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝐶𝑒𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑐 𝐷𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑦 and 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠. It was funny to think Cedric was one of the few who actually supported Harry during that time. Guess that old saying “The good die young” wasn't something random you only heard in movies.

Cedric was good, he had so much of his life left to keep being good. But he didn't get to, his story was cut short, and all that goodness that could have graced the world was instead stripped from it. People talked an awful lot about wanting to be young forever. In a way, Cedric achieved something a lot of people wanted, the ability to live their fullest, longest life during their teen years. Cedric was evergreen, like any good seventeen-year-old, and he had been for the last three years.

He found the sneakoscope Ron had given him for his thirteenth birthday. The glass top was splintered with a large crack. This thing used to whistle nonstop around Scabbers. 𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟. Harry had taken too long to put that together, but in his defense why in hell would he ever assume Ron’s rat was up to no good?

He picked out the locket with R.A.B’s note inside it. He placed that on the top but it had slipped through the cracks of his things. He still didn't know who R. A. B. was or what it would even change if he did, but he was as curious as ever. A Death Eater had betrayed Voldy. For what purpose? What had happened to the real Horcrux? Hopefully, it was already destroyed. That made things easier for Harry.

Finally, Harry found the broken item he was searching for. It was a jagged shard from the mirror Sirius had gifted him. The mirror he'd broken in his anger, something he deeply regretted doing. This was the last thing he had of his godfather, a single fragment of the thoughtful gift he had smashed against a wall. Or the floor, or bedpost, or whatever he'd thrown it at. He couldn't remember.

He should have been more careful with it. He should have treasured it. He should have talked to Sirius more, asked him questions, sought advice, and asked for more stories. He should have kept every gift, guarded every little piece of paper Sirius had ever written on. But how was Harry to know that every scrap of Sirius would be taken from him?

Harry stared into the mirror. A hope he realized made no sense singed his chest. All he saw in the smudgy reflection was his own green eye. He placed the glass shard on top of the issue of the Daily Prophet that lay folded on his bed. He hadn't gotten to reading it yet, though it was probably full of more rubbish than his trunk.

The next hour was spent emptying out his trunk, throwing away all the useless scraps, old socks, and a mysterious piece of what he hoped wasn't food. He made a separate pile of things he could still find use for. The things he had used for school weren't of any use to him now. He would leave those here for his aunt and uncle to do what they pleased with.

The keep pile was stuffed into his backpack. His invisibility cloak, potion-making kit, a few particular books that would come in handy, and, of course, his wand. He kept a stack of letters full of words worth holding onto. He wouldn't make the mistake of losing any more parts of his loved ones. He stuffed his photobook in there too.

In the front pocket was the Marauder’s Map and the locket. He didn't actually need the locket, it was the only thing here that was completely useless. But after what he went through to get it he wasn't about to part with it now. And it reminded him of Dumbledore. It wasn't tied to very nice memories but said memories were tied to him nonetheless.

It also reminded him to keep his focus, reminded him of his mission. He would hold it in one unfeeling hand, heavy like a dead weight, the rusted chain tangled around his fingers. And it gave him a sense of what he had to do. Which was simply whatever needed to be done.

The only thing Harry needed to sort through now
was the massive stack of newspapers on his desk that he was wondering why he kept. There was one for every single day he had spent here this summer. Reading the paper was completely normal, hoarding them because of some fatuous fear that only half made sense in his own mind was not.

Hedwig was making much less noise than she had been an hour ago. She looked to have fallen asleep. For the better, she had been angry at Harry the way she got each summer for lack of freedom to stretch her wings. That must be why she was yelling at him earlier. He understood the feeling. He needed a good fly, too.

He dug through the papers, grabbed the one he was in specific search of, and sat on his bed, mindful of the mirror shard. He had reread this very same article about a million times. He kept going back to it.

𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝐷𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑅𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 by Elphias Doge

Elphias Doge was Dumbledore’s old friend from Hogwarts. Actually, Harry wasn't sure if they had kept in contact after school. They'd meant to, sure, but Dumbledore’s life hadn't been smooth sailing plans for, well, ever, it seemed.

Harry kept reading the article over and over for two reasons. One was that he missed Dumbledore and reading this, like keeping the locket, made Harry feel like he was still close. Staring at the picture of his Headmaster smiling made him feel like he was still near, smiling back at Harry in that subtle, twinkling way.

The other reason was because he was curious. Curious, nosy, interested, call it what you will. There was so much about Dumbledore’s life, about his past, that Harry didn't know. Rightfully so, it was never and still wasn't any business of his. In fact, he thought it a bit odd that his best friend was dishing all of this personal information to the public. Questionability aside, it served Harry’s hunger for wanting to know more.

Harry had done the same thing with Dumbledore as he had done with Sirius, missed out on something he would never get another chance at. He had been given much experience-based wisdom, but he had never asked for the complex situations and harsh consequences of mistakes that became lessons. He looked up to Dumbledore as if he had always been the venerable, august, kindly, and mildly kooky old man he knew him as.

He hadn't ever asked, or even wondered, all that it took to become that man. There had been heartache beyond anything Harry could imagine. Losing Sirius and parents he couldn't even remember had hurt him indefinitely, but he couldn't compare to the horror that was losing a mother and child sister you’d grown up with in such a short period of time.

And that was without all the burdens Dumbledore had to carry on top of it. He had to halt his trip, his future, to care for children when he was still very much a child himself. At seventeen, Harry couldn't begin to think about caring for a child, much less two. And one of which was in poor health. It was daunting just to imagine.

Elphias said Dumbledore was never the same again after the loss of his sister. His light-heartedness was gone, his shine dimmed. Harry thought Dumbledore had gotten a bit of his sparkle back in his old age, but how would he know? Maybe Elphias would disagree.

Harry felt bad for Elphias. He returned home from the trip he was supposed to go on with his best friend only to find there was very little left of the boy he used to know. He said this loss would be worse for the entirety of the Wizarding World than it would be for him, but Harry disagreed. In a practical sense, perhaps, but a world of people who revered you would never truly need you as much as your best friend did.

This stuff Elphias was sharing was, it seemed, somewhat common knowledge, though not very widely known. Harry didn't think the world deserved to know. Not with the way the public handled things. Hadn't Dumbledore gone through enough without his memory having to be defaced by idiots who considered even the death of a famous man to be a spectacle for them to observe and dissect?

Harry had never thought about Dumbledore being famous. He knew how irritating it could be at times, how invasive and inconsiderate people could be. Like he wasn't even human, just something to be poked and prodded at in hopes of a reaction.

Even through that, even in the face of every misfortune and setback, Dumbledore had remained kind, gracious, and altruistic. He still cared for others rather than pushing them away. His heart was, if walled off, still warm and feeling.

Very unlike Harry. With everything he went through, Harry only felt himself grow more angry, bitter, and, ultimately, jaded. He didn't think he was mean. Okay, he didn't think he was that mean. Not to undeserving people, anyway. Only people who were mean first, which was entirely different than being a mean person. Point is, he was a decent guy. But he wasn't good. Not as wholly, or as truthfully, as Dumbledore was.

Harry tore Elphias’ eulogy out of the paper, folded it into a creased square, and stuck it in between the pages of one of his Defense books for safekeeping. He went back to his bed, picking up this morning’s issue of the Daily Prophet and settling against the metal bars of his headboard.

Harry’s eyes flicked toward the bottom of the front page. Seeing Dumbledore’s name he rushed to read it only to be severely disappointed and disturbed by the content. Apparently, the bug herself Rita Skeeter was releasing a book about the “truth” of Dumbledore’s life. What did she know about his truth?

He read the interview she had done to promote this awful book. She called it “the full story.” Harry highly doubted it would contain even a lick of truth that hadn't been heavily exaggerated. The worst part was, he knew people would eat it up and discuss it over tea as if it was all true and somehow their business.

A couple summer’s ago, Harry had picked a biography off of Aunt Petunia's bookshelf. It was about Marilyn Monroe, written after she died. He had no way of knowing what parts were true, if any, and which were fictitious, but it was cruel, condescending, and full of things that Harry didn't think the author, whoever the hell they are, had any right to share with the world.

Elphias happened to be of the same opinion as Harry. He said Skeeter’s book was all hogwash. She boasted reliable sources, but he would know better than she who was telling the truth. Harry didn't put it past her at all to entirely make up her own truth even with the stories she collected.

Skeeter went on for the rest of the interview about how Dumbledore was actually harboring dark, unbelievable secrets as well as naming him things like a liar, a schemer, and even a dabbler in the Dark Arts. Harry, regrettably, couldn't deny his interest but he certainly would not be buying a copy.

His interest dipped when she mentioned him. She had ever so thoughtfully dedicated a whole chapter to the relationship between him and Dumbledore. Every single word she used to describe it confirmed Harry’s suspicion that she was simply spewing whatever random falsehood sounded the most interesting to her. She also claimed to be close to him. What a freak.

Harry crumpled the paper and, in a burst of fury, tossed it against the wall. He shouldn't be angry, he knew all of this stuff wasn't true, but knowing people would believe it and spread it like it was true made him want to tear his hair out. Or Rita Skeeter’s hair, preferably.

This was defamation. Wasn't that illegal? Not that that information was of much use to him. Harry was no lawyer and he knew less about the Wizengamot than he did about Muggle Britain’s court of law and parliament, which was basically nothing. Nothing that would assist him in a defamation lawsuit, anyhow. For all he knew, this wasn't even a valid crime in the Wizarding World.

Harry exhaled in a low groan and turned to the window. Below him were the ever-familiar streets of Little Whinging, the god-awful town he'd grown up in. Halfway grown up in, that is. The halls of Hogwarts had done far more to raise him than this nasty little place. Even still, a part of him had been built here. A deep part that he couldn't erase no matter how hard he tried to rub the stain out.

The window was dappled with raindrops from earlier downpour. The sky as far as he could see, which wasn't much, was hidden in a blanket of grey fog. Across the street, Mr. Moore was trimming his bushes. An older woman rolled a baby in a pram down the sidewalk. From his window spot, Harry had a view of all the wet leaves collecting in the gutter.

There was not a reason in the world he would return to his hometown.

He flopped back down on his bed, defeated and achingly empty. He picked up his mirror, catching his own eye. Except it wasn't his eye. Instead, the piercing blue that he had only known to belong to one person stared back at him. In shock, he dropped the mirror. It landed safely on the padding of his blanket but the jagged edges caught on more of his fingers.

Harry was too shocked by what he'd seen to pay any mind to the drops of blood staining his fingertips. That was Dumbledore. He'd seen Dumbledore’s eye. There wasn't anyone else it could be. No one he knew of. But it couldn't be. Why would Dumbledore’s eye be in his mirror?

Carefully, with his non-injured hand, he picked it back up. He only saw himself. It was his imagination. He was just losing his mind, that's all. Brilliant. Just super cool. He wouldn't be a whole lot of use to the world if he went mad.

“Super fucking cool,” Harry said. The words clogged in his throat, choking him up along with the tears that stung his eyes.

He got up, his legs suddenly feeling shaky, and headed to the bathroom. The cold water distracted him from the heavy, heated emotions rising up like bile in his throat. He wished Hermione was here, and not just to heal his hand. He couldn't wait another day to be with Hermione and Ron.

That was all he did, wait around and long for people he couldn't be with. Wait for someone to come and take him away from here. Far away to somewhere safe and sound and well hidden from everything that was trying to hurt him. He needed something safe right now. Something steady. He needed his friends.

All he did was long for people. All he did was want what he couldn’t have. All he did was fight, run, hide, hurt. And lose. Lose, lose, lose. Lose and wish he hadn't. Spend the rest of his days in regret and bitter anger. Because what was Harry Potter if not a loser, right?

Harry bandaged one of his fingers, the one that had acquired the deepest cut, and went back to his room. Placing his glass carefully on the nightstand, he flopped down onto his bed.

“What the fuck,” he rang in a sing-song voice.

He felt ill. There was a weird feeling in his stomach that traveled up his chest. Like a dentist’s office nervousness. It wasn't painful, but it was very uncomfortable and he wished it would dissipate.

He kept his hand elevated and palm upward, hoping he didn't get any blood on the blanket but not trying all that hard to avoid it. He wouldn't be needing this blanket ever again. The Dursleys might want extra covers, though. Aunt Petunia ran cold.

He tossed his glasses down on the bed, rubbing his tired eyes. He sunk into his pillow, bone-tired. Deeply, utterly exhausted. The kind of weariness that didn't go away with a good night’s sleep. Not that he would really know. He didn't get any of those. He wasn't sure he'd had a proper sleep since, well, ever, actually.

Hedwig clucked in her cage, having woken up from her beauty sleep. Her wings rustled, batting against the cage. He turned his head, trying to focus his blurry-eyed gaze on her. She looked like no more than a white blob.

“I know, I'm sick of it too,” he said. That didn't ease the poor bird.

“Don't worry. You’ll fly soon,” he promised.

***

“This– this evil Lord thing you speak of,” Vernon started.

Harry let out an impatient sigh. They had gone over this so many times.

“I’ve told you all this before. You are in danger,” Harry carefully articulated. “If Voldemort finds you, he’ll either torture you, brutally,” he added, hoping that might have some effect. “Or hold you hostage because he believes I’ll rescue you.”

He chose his words deliberately and Vernon noticed. They locked eyes, both asking the same question. Would Harry actually rescue them if they were held hostage? Harry raised his eyebrows threateningly. He would be lying if he said he didn't get enjoyment from his uncle’s fear of him.

Vernon said nothing, filling the silence with the sound of his pacing feet moving over the bare parquet floor. The rain had started up again in a light shower that pelted gently against the side of the house.

“Isn't there a Magic Ministry?” Vernon asked.

“Yeah? So?”

“So,” he spat. “Why aren't they protecting us? All we’ve ever done was bear 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 burden, forced to harbor a wanted man.”

Wanted? That made it sound like he was a criminal.

“The Ministry has been infiltrated by Voldemort. You wouldn't be safe with them.”

Harry could see Vernon growing increasingly frustrated and, for once, he could relate to his uncle.

“What about Kingsley, then? Why isn't he the one protecting us?”

“Because he's protecting the Prime Minister.”

Harry had told him this a thousand times already.

“Precisely my point! He’s the best. So why isn't he looking after us?”

Harry frowned at Vernon like this conversation was the biggest waste of time he could think of.

“Because you're not the Prime Minister.”

Vernon huffed as if he for some reason did believe he was on par with the Prime Minister. Or anyone of any relative importance. This useless conversation carried on until Harry lost his temper and he and Vernon were both snapping at one another. It ended with Dudley deciding, out of pure fear, that he didn't want to take any risks and would be going with the Order. And, of course, Petunia and Vernon couldn't be separated from their precious peach.

Harry dipped out of the room the first chance he got. What an absolutely pointless argument. Much like all the arguments they had carried out over the last sixteen years. As he bolted up the stairs, all Harry could think was good riddance. He spared one moment as he skipped the last step up and wondered, “Why is this my life?”

Down in the sitting room, trapped in the nervous haze of his parents, Dudley was thinking the same thing. How did he end up stuck in all of this? He could have had a normal life and live in his normal childhood home for the rest of it. He wished this was fake, that one of his dad’s theories had ended up correct and they didn't have to move because evil wizards were after them.

It was all so confusing and trying to make sense of things didn't help any. Muggles and wizards, evil lords waging war and chaos, it sounded like a madman’s ramblings. Like if you met an old, pruny man in a nursing home and he told you he really saw a dragon egg or floating object. Except he wasn't lying, he genuinely did see something of the magic sort. This was real.

It was real and Dudley was helpless to it. What choice did he have but to trust that Harry would keep them safe? He'd nearly been killed by one of those creepy demon thingies that one summer. He lived with Harry and his weirdness for long enough to know two things about him.

One, magic was very real and very powerful. And two, he wasn't the type to play around. He also wasn't that great at coming up with believable lies. Dudley doubted this was some scheme of his. Unless they taught a class on calculation and manipulation at that weird school, Harry was still very much a goof when it came to thinking up elaborate things such as this situation.

So, no, Dudley didn't believe Harry was lying. He just wished that he was. He wished this was all a game, like that time when they were little kids running around the sandy playground playing a game of sorcerers. The only harm that came from that was the sticks they threw at each other. That and the way his mum had freaked out when she noticed what they were playing. At the time, neither boy understood why.

Dudley wished he could go back in time and be that young again. Growing up had been absolute shit, but if he could go back to that park and have a competition with Harry to see who could go higher on the swings, that would be perfect. Just a swing and the occasional ice cream cone he would be allowed to buy when the ice cream truck rolled around. Before he had to grow up and know things he'd rather stay hidden. Before he and Harry learned what it meant to despise one another.

Dudley wasn't sure he'd ever been kind to Harry. He’d been pulling his hair and kicking his shins for as long as he could remember. But he didn't think he'd been 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 mean to him, had he? Or maybe he had. Was he totally awful? To be quite frank about it, he wasn't sure he entirely remembered how awful he was to Harry throughout their childhood. Over the summers, he barely even spoke to him.

Regardless of his own memory, Harry hated Dudley. Sometimes Dudley didn't like Harry, but he didn't think he ever hated him. Not really. Maybe they could have been friends in some other, vastly different life. Maybe they could have spent their summers on the rusted swing set sucking on Twisters and not yelling, chasing, or throwing things.

The wizards who were supposed to pick them up arrived and Harry came back downstairs. Dudley barely listened as the wizards spoke to his parents and Harry. He didn't understand what they were on about, anyhow.

“Come now, poppet,” Petunia said, fiddling with every clasp and pocket in her handbag. “We’ve got to go now.”

“What about Harry?”

“What about him?” she asked tiredly.

“Why isn't he coming with us?”

Petunia and Vernon looked at one another in painful conflict as they telepathically decided what to tell Dudley.

“Well, because he doesn't want to,” Vernon supplied. Petunia nodded readily.

“Isn't that right, boy?”

“Damn right.”

Vernon gave him a look, but because of their company and his own readiness to leave, he ignored that.

“See, he doesn't want to. Let's go, now,” he said, ushering Petunia out into the hall. “Be a waste of space anyway.”

The wizards, one who was calming herself after dealing with Vernon, and the other frantically checking his watch, didn't seem to hear what he said. But Harry heard. And Dudley heard.

Dudley understood, maybe for the first time ever, what Harry was feeling. Not because his father had ever said such awful things about him, but because he had spent much of his life feeling unworthy of the space he took up. Perhaps it was his own anger and denial of such feelings that brought his fists up. He'd spent all their childhood armed with stones at a pillow fight, and he understood the reason for his own actions no better than Harry must have. But he knew one thing now.

“I don't think you're a waste of space, Harry.”

Harry didn't look terribly shocked. He stared at Dudley with a mildly confused but mostly blank expression, blinking at him. His eyes searched the room as if someone else was there to have said those strange words and, upon finding no one, came back to Dudley.

“Er, thanks, Dudley.”

What was he supposed to say to that? And why was Dudley telling him now? Or at all, for that matter. Harry had spent almost every second of this summer in his bedroom and he wasn't sure he'd spoken so much as a word to his cousin. He couldn't imagine Dudley had been spending that time introspectively.

They were rushed outside, but Dudley stopped in the doorway, turning back to Harry with an extended hand. Harry, once again terribly confused, took it.

“Did you start looking somewhere other than the rubbish bin for personality traits?” Harry said, giving Dudley’s hand a shake.

Dudley could only shrug. “See you around, Harry.”

Harry didn't respond right away, so Dudley turned and left the house. As he walked off Harry quietly spoke. “Yeah. Take care, Big D.”

He was left alone with Petunia, who faced him with a tense yet timid look. If she had something to say, Harry didn't want to hear it. He felt some regret over that fact as if he were being too harsh, but bad feelings or not it was how he felt.

Petunia had been making remarks about how unfair it was that she had to leave the home she had lived in for so long. Harry couldn't believe the audacity, honestly, for her to talk about what was 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟. She must be well and truly out of her mind if she thought Harry cared.

He didn't care. Not about her or her stupid house. But for some reason, when she gave him one last quivering look, he felt bad. Not for her, exactly, but he felt as though he'd lost something. Something he never had in the first place, but perhaps something he could have had. Harry didn't love Petunia, but there was still a piece of little boy in him, tottering around clumsily and reaching out his hand to her only for it to be slapped away, that wanted her to love him.

Harry watched out the window as the Dursleys left and he let out a long sigh that felt like seventeen years' worth of misery. He didn't want to think about Petunia anymore, so he thought about Dudley instead. When had he changed?

Harry used to ask himself the same question when he was running away from Dudley and his new school friends chasing him down on their bikes. It wasn't as if Harry had many fond memories of Dudley or anything, since seven or eight it had been nothing but kicks and jabs, but it wasn't always like that. He supposed Dudley had simply been too little to understand how truly awful Harry was.

Harry had felt so awful. He thought he was the single worst person to ever live. He understood why Dudley and Aunt Tuny and Uncle Vernon hated him so much. He thought he deserved that. Every cruel word, every belt bruise, every single time someone turned their head in refusal to play with him, he thought that was a normal way for someone as awful as him to be treated.

He could never forgive Petunia and Vernon for how they treated him, but he wished they were sorry. Not so he could laugh in their face with his grudge, but because he wanted to know they had some sort of regret for how they made him feel. If not remorse, he wished he could get an explanation.

How could they? He was a little boy. He was only a baby when he arrived on their doorstep. Who could hold a baby and be filled with hatred for him? How could you want to hurt a little kid? He couldn't help but think it was something wrong with him. Even now, he wondered if he was that deeply unlovable.

Harry felt tears brimming in his eyes. He didn't cry a lot. He didn't cry about the Dursleys. He crossed his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. As much as he tried and told himself he moved past it, that it didn't matter to him anymore, it was still there. That deep-seated ache that sat in between his ribs, grown there when he was merely a baby, still hurt him. It had never left.

Harry was wearing Dudley’s old t-shirt. He'd just about fully replaced his wardrobe, filling it with muggle clothes and wizard robes alike that were all to his choosing. But when he was sitting around the house he threw on an old, oversized shirt for comfort over fashion. It was comforting now, in a way that Harry thought should feel wrong but didn't.

He wiped his eyes and ran upstairs. He changed out of his baggy shirt and joggers into a more presentable pair of jeans and a fitting top. He spent a good deal of time debating whether or not he should bring a jacket and ended up picking out a lightweight denim one he'd found at a thrift store.
There was a single patch sewn onto the sleeve that said The Bitch Is Back. He didn't quite have the attitude to match it, but it was a nice little reminder. He was here, and he may not have a plan, but everyone should know to watch out. He was Harry Potter, after all. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 Harry Potter, some would say.

Harry grabbed things and headed downstairs. Hedwig was quiet now. The house was quiet, too, empty as it was. Perhaps Hedwig could feel the weight of that silence and took it upon herself to protect it.

His eyes roamed the empty living room, memories flooding back. When the Dursleys would leave him alone, out to enjoy themselves as a proper family without their little tag-along, he would steal a package of Dudley’s fruit roll-ups and sit on the floor flicking through the channels for something decent to watch.

“I watched a lot of rubbish television like that,” he informed Hedwig.

The kitchen didn't hold many great memories. He'd learned to cook as soon as he could reach the counter, and by learned he meant he did as Petunia did. No guidance, only reprimanding if he did something wrong. He was sure he still had a burn mark from his junior chef endeavors.

“I was no chef, that's for sure.”

Hedwig remained quiet. Harry used to be quiet. He learned early on that quiet meant less punishment. Fighting back was an easy way to get yourself into even more trouble. It was never worth it. Being snippy was funny and self-satisfying, but the fistful of hair or the bruise on his arm that it cost him dampened the humor of it.

“Look at this, baby,” Harry said, setting down Hedwig’s cage by the staircase. “This is where I used to sleep.”

He opened the door to the cupboard that had once served as his bedroom. It was tiny. How did he ever fit in there? If it weren't crowded with junk he would try and crawl into the small space, stretching out his legs to see how far he still could.

“Not a very comfortable bed.”

Out of a long-forgotten habit, Harry peeked into the cupboard and turned his gaze upward, checking for spiders. Spiders had been common company for much of his childhood. Harry was a bit like a spider himself, a little monster that you jumped at the sight of, afraid of his bite when he couldn't do you much harm if he tried.

He minded his own business, weaving his own comfortable webs, but there would always be someone who cursed at the sight of him and went for a jar to trap him in. Sometimes they scrutinized the specimen, sometimes they threw him outside to fend for himself or die somewhere they wouldn't have to suffer the pain of watching.

Because how dare he be alive? How dare his tiny, insignificant presence take up space in someone else’s home. That was a punishable crime, wasn't it? His existence in the presence of people who didn't want him. His existence in the presence of people who feared him. His existence.

Drawing out of the cupboard, Harry knocked his head on the low door frame. He stumbled backward, letting out a string of colorful curse words. Rubbing his head, he looked apologetically at Hedwig.

“Sorry. That was no way to speak in front of a lady.”

Hedwig never seemed to like Harry’s jokes. She stared at him with her big round eyes in a way that would appear alarming if you were not used to having an owl constantly staring at you.

“Why don't you ever turn your head all the way round?” Harry looked over his shoulder. “I thought owls could do that.”

He scurried to sit behind her in hopes it might prompt her to turn. She didn't.

A rising commotion was heard from outside and Harry knew it was time for them to go. He rushed to the window to see Hagrid and his enchanted motorbike. He saw Moody ambling up the path, followed by more people than he'd expected.

Arthur was there, looking disarrayed as he spoke to Fred and George. Remus and Tonks stood close together, her hand on his arm. He looked like he hadn't slept or so much as taken a seat in ages. Bill and Fleur both had their long hair tied back in plaits, Fleur’s neatly done while Bill’s sported many loose pieces. The most surprising to see were Mundungus Fletcher and Kingsley.

Harry laid eyes on Hermione and Ron and ran outside, straight into Ron’s arms. Ron let him go only for Hermione to take her turn.

“Good to see you, mate,” Ron said, keeping his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “It's been horrid without you.”

“He’s been crying every day,” Hermione said.

“I have not! And if I was, it was out of sheer boredom.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said. “I was doing the same thing. I didn't expect so many of you.”

Arthur put what felt like a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder, but he didn't say anything.

“There’s been a bit of a change in plans,” Moody said. “Let’s get inside and then I’ll tell ya.”

Harry followed Moody into the house, clutching Hermione and Ron by the hands.

Chapter Text

Harry pulled himself up onto the kitchen counter. It felt sticky from whatever substance it was that Petunia rubbed down the house with when she was cleaning it the other day.

Ron leaned his elbow on the counter beside Harry and Hermione stood near, fidgeting with her hands. Harry took one of the curls gathered in her ponytail, twirling it gently around his finger. He noticed her hair sported caramel-colored highlights mingling with the chocolatey brown. Was that new? He couldn't remember if she had them last year or not. He leaned forward, elbows pressed to his knees.

“Did you get your hair done?”

“Yes,” she said tensely. “Do you like it?”

“It’s a nice color.”

“Thank you.”

Harry glanced up, catching Kingsley’s line of sight. “I thought you had to be with the Prime Minister.”

“Right now, you're more important.”

More important than the Prime Minister? It was a notion that would make anyone feel special. It only made him feel nauseous.

He kicked his heels against the counter, Hermione shifted from foot to foot, and Ron’s fingers were picking at the seam of Harry’s jeans.

“Harry, look!” Tonks caught his attention, stumbling around the coffee table as she bounded over. She stuck her left hand in his face, a thin gold band with a small, round diamond glittering on her finger.

“You’re married?” he gasped.

Remus started to apologize for not being able to invite Harry to the ceremony, but Harry only heard a snippet of his words. He took Tonks’ hand, admiring the ring. It was simple but in a cute way. It was sweet. Harry would like a simple ring, were he ever to marry.

“It’s so pretty.”

Tonks grinned as bright as her pink hair.

And then Moody was barking orders and explaining the new plan. There had been a lot of plan-changing after Dumbledore’s death, with everything Snape knew being deemed dangerous. This was an old plan, but it had so many new twists and turns that it would be as confusing to the Death Eaters as it sounded to Harry.

Harry sat up straight and attentive. His lower back hurt from slouching around on his bedroom floor all day. For the past couple of days, actually. Come to think of it, this was probably the constant consequence of seventeen years of slouching around. He ignored his back pain and listened to Moody.

Everything was only moderately upsetting until Moody’s hand delved deep into one of the bags he'd brought, drawing out a bottle of something that looked like the mud that particularly rainy days left pooling in the garden. Harry didn't need to ask. He happened to be familiar with the disgusting sludge in Moody’s hand.

“Absolutely not,” he said, jumping down from his perch on the countertop. “No way.”

“Told you,” Hermione said.

“I am not letting you put all of your lives in danger for mine.”

“It's not something we've never done before.” Ron put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, but the way he rolled his eyes was less than comforting.

Harry smacked his hand away. “It’s not happening.”

“Not an argument,” Moody said, too impatient to deal with Harry’s vehement refusal.

“Harry,” Arthur said. “They can't send a horde of Death Eaters after several Harry Potters. Their team will be split up, too. We are all as capable as you are to hold our own.”

That was a fair point, but not one that deterred his abhorrence for this plan in the slightest. Besides, how did Arthur know how many Death Eaters there would be? They could be vastly outnumbered.

“No,” he said defiantly, coming across as a child that wouldn't eat a plate of peas for all the toy bribery in the world.

“You can't do it if I don't cooperate.”

Moody gave him a look to say, “Oh, yes, we can.” Perhaps it was a threat. A ‘don't try me.’ He could try if he liked.

“Oh, no,” Fred said. “What would we ever do?”

“All of us against a single, defenceless dweeb,” George joined.

“It’s our best option,” Moody said. “And just about our only one. I expect your cooperation, but it's not needed.”

“Yikes, thanks, guys,” Harry said.

Ron nudged Harry’s ankle with his foot, giving him a prodding, get-it-over-with look. Harry gave him a scathing look, as if Ron had been the sole orchestrator of this plan, and tipped his head.

“Did you have to do it so hard?” Harry whined, rubbing at his scalp.

Ron winced. “Sorry.”

“Ooh, look,” Hermione said, as the potion bubbled. “It’s gold. You look much nicer than Crabbe and Goyle.”

Ron raised his eyebrows playfully at her.

“Shut up, Ron,” she said, crimson color rising in her cheeks.

“I didn't even say anything,” he chuckled.

Moody was once again giving orders, lining up their decoy Harrys. His essence didn't seem to be all that much sweeter than that of Crabbe and Goyle, judging by the reactions it brought out. Ron, standing in front of the gleaming, empty kitchen sink, turned around to puke in it. Harry wouldn't be cleaning that up. Hermione rubbed Ron’s back and, when he was quite finished, pulled out her wand and vanished his vomit.

“Look at us,” Fred said, sharing a matching smile with George. At the same time, they said, “We’re identical.”

“I’m still the handsome one,” Fred said, inspecting himself in the scrubbed clean chrome toaster.

George narrowed his eyes, nudging Fred over so he could have a look.

Fleur looked down at herself in a fright. She covered her new face in a rather dramatic gesture. “Don't look at me, Bill. I’m hideous.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Harry quietly remarked. Only Ron and Hermione heard him and smiled.

“I’m so short,” Ron said, standing in front of Harry. “We can finally see eye to eye.”

“𝑊ℎ𝑦, 𝑜ℎ, 𝑤ℎ𝑦,” Harry started singing. Ron joined in. “𝐶𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑦𝑒.”

That was funny until Harry noticed he was staring directly at himself. He didn't blame Fleur for her distaste, he wasn't very nice to look at. Scrawny. Too short. He wished he had Ron’s stature. George ran a hand through his, 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦’𝑠, unruly hair. George’s natural hair was very straight and much more preferable.

“Weasley!” Moody barked. The five present Weasleys abruptly turned their attention to him. He pointed at Ron. “Get changed.”

As everyone stripped down to change into the clothes Moody brought, Harry decided that out of all the bizarre things he had witnessed in his life, this was absolutely the weirdest. He scrutinized his own body as it was displayed, no one giving a second thought to his privacy.

“Why are you staring at me?” Fred said, scandalized. He threw his arms over his bare chest. “I’m naked.”

George laughed and whacked him with the t-shirt in his hand.

“Oi! Five galleons for the handjob,” Harry shouted at Hermione, who was tugging at her jeans trying to adjust herself.

She flushed red and pulled her hands away. Harry grinned at her and Ron’s laugh was only stifled because Moody yelled at them for messing around.

Harry grabbed his backpack from where it rested on the floor in the hallway. He grabbed his broom and Hedwig’s cage and followed Hagrid out to the garden.

“Ready, girl?” Harry said. Hedwig’s mood hadn't livened up in the slightest.

Harry crammed himself and his belongings into the tiny sidecar of Hagrid’s motorbike, bringing his knees uncomfortably up to his chest. He caught Ron’s gaze, a grave mistake as he watched a wicked grin spread across his face. Harry felt incredibly weird watching himself smile at him.

Nearly as soon as they were in the sky, they were surrounded by hooded figures. Harry’s ears rang with the sound of screams, the roar of the motorbike, and Hedwig’s sudden screeching. Poor thing, she was terrified.

Wind whipped in Harry’s ears. He could barely hear a thing. He saw flashes of green light and people whooshing past him. The bike tipped and Hedwig’s cage nearly slipped out, but Harry was quick to catch it. His heart was beating so fast he couldn't even be properly relieved. He’d lost his broom but he couldn't care about that very much right now.

Out of nowhere, a flash of green light shot toward Harry. He jumped in his seat in his split second terror. It didn't hit him. With a screech, Hedwig dropped to the floor of her cage. Harry screamed, eyes wide as his owl’s. He screamed and screamed, loudly, he knew, but he couldn't hear a thing. He gasped for air between bouts of more screaming.

Hedwig. The reality of the situation rushed in, knocking the air out of his lungs. Ron. Hermione.

“Stop!” Harry shouted. “Stop, go back! Hagrid!”

Harry screamed until he felt his voice come out in a choking cough. He thought at first that Hagrid couldn't hear him until he was met with a pained look. Hagrid was purposefully ignoring him. He said something about orders, Harry couldn't hear him over the rush of wind and the loud thumping of his heart. He didn't care about orders.

From his god-awful position, Harry tried to fend off Death Eaters as well as he could. His defensive spells clashed with their fatal ones, exploding in colored sparks across the sky. Harry wondered if the Muggles below could see them. His version of birthday fireworks.

Hagrid slammed on a button and flames roared from the bike, shooting them forward. It did hardly anything to lose the Death Eaters swarming them.

“I got it, Harry!”

Bless him, really, but Harry felt much safer with his well-being in his own hands. With every right because the next thing he knew, he was being yanked onto the motorbike as the sidecar split completely from it. It was all he could do to keep throwing jinxes. He slung his bag over his shoulders and gripped his wand tightly, not wanting to lose that, too.

“I’ve got ya, Harry!” Hagrid shouted.

Over the roar of the engine and the clamor of the fight, Harry could hear one of the Death Eaters yelling.

“It’s him! Potter! It’s him!”

And then it stopped. It stopped so suddenly that the quiet felt as loud as the chaos. The Death Eaters had fallen back and somehow disappeared into the darkness. But if they knew it was him, why would they retreat? And how did they know it was him?

“Hagrid, do the fire thingy again,” Harry called. “Let’s go.”

They shot forward, Harry gripping Hagrid’s coat. A burst of searing pain shot through his head, fire splitting his skull so painfully he could only think of one other moment to compare it to. It felt like it had in the graveyard, the first time Voldemort pressed his filthy finger against his throbbing scar, digging his claws through Harry’s brain. His grip tightened, the material of Hagrid’s coat bunching in his fists.

Hagrid let out a cry of fear and Harry, assuming the Death Eaters were back, whipped his head up to look. The swift motion sent a sharp pain shooting through his head and nausea rolling through his stomach. It wasn't the Death Eaters. Flying beside them was Voldemort himself.

Harry was pretty sure this would be how he died. His head hurt so bad he could barely focus his eyes. He questioned for a moment if he’d dropped his glasses. All he could see was a cloaked figure aiming at him. He clutched his wand but before he could make a move, Hagrid was leaping off the bike and toward a Death Eater. Harry watched in horror as they plummeted to the ground but he was pulled away from the sight by a nasty, hissing voice.

“You’re mine, Potter.”

Harry wasn't ready to die just yet. He drew his wand, screams sounding around him. He was more concerned about finding Hagrid, but he had no choice in making that rotten egg his top priority. His head hurt too much to think, he was scared, and he had to find Hagrid. He heard Voldemort’s gross voice, hissing at him. He saw his red eyes, blinked in pain back at them. And then he saw Voldemort disappear. He just vanished.

What the hell? Good riddance, but what?

Next thing he knew, he was plummeting into a muddy pond. Water splashed against his face, covering his glasses. He could taste warm blood in his mouth and he spat into the water as he
waded through. He climbed through sludge onto the bank, his trainers sopping wet and squeaking as he stepped.

“Hagrid! Hagrid!”

His head was spinning and it was all he could do not to pass. He heard people shouting. Was it the Death Eaters? Was Voldemort back? Knees weak, he staggered without direction. He thought he felt someone touching him, speaking in his ear, but he couldn't see clearly. He couldn't think. He couldn't—

Harry blinked awake, finding himself staring up at the ceiling of a cottage rather than the dark sky. He was lying on someone’s sofa. It was comfortable and well-cushioned. Harry settled back against the pillow, only to find it was less comfortable. It had beading crossing over the fabric, making an awful headrest.

Harry shot up, sharp pains shooting through his ribcage as he did. His head still felt like it was about to pop.

“Hagrid?” he called.

“It’s alright,” a man said. He was tall, mousy-haired, and sporting an anxious but soft expression.

Harry glanced around the room and squinted. Why were the lights so damn bright in here? His backpack was sitting on the floor, wet and muddy like his jeans and socks. His dirty shoes were nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Hagrid?” he demanded, though it lacked the strength he wished to convey.

“With my wife, Andy. She’s looking after him. I’m Ted Tonks, Dora’s father.”

Oh. He didn't look like her much.

“Voldemort-”

“Isn't here,” Ted gently cut him off. “You’re safe, love.”

“Where are my shoes?”

“In the sink,” Ted said with a laugh. He was far more soft-spoken than Tonks. “I washed them for you.”

“You could wash them with magic. It would be quicker.”

Harry pressed his palm against his forehead. He felt delirious, but he could form coherent sentences so he must not be. Was he forming coherent sentences? Ted chuckled and Harry shut his eyes, slumping back down.

“You make a good point. Even now, I don't always think of magic immediately.”

“Oh.” He was also guilty of thinking of the muggle way to do something before remembering he happened to be a wizard. Harry crossed an arm over his eyes.

“Is that light bothering you?”

Before Harry could answer, Hagrid came barging into the room. Harry sat up just as he was being pulled into a crushing hug.

“Harry, I’m so glad yer alright. I thought we’d be goners fer sure.”

Harry nodded against Hagrid’s chest, letting out a small moan. He lifted his head and spotted the woman who had followed Hagrid in. He jumped back, instinctively reached for his wand.

“Your wand’s right here,” Ted said, tapping it against Harry’s arm. “That would be my wife. She only bites sometimes.”

Andromeda laughed airily, waving off Ted’s comment. Her face became suddenly serious. She looked so much like Bellatrix. Her cascading black curls were much neater and done in stylish ringlets. Her lips and face were full, unlike Narcissa Malfoy’s narrow features. Her eyebrows were noticeably thinner than Bellatrix’s. She was like a prettier version of her.

“Where is our child?” Andromeda asked. “Dora. What happened to her?”

Guilt gripped Harry, claws caging around his heart. He didn't know. If something had happened to her, it was his fault. He should have fought harder against this stupid plan.

“Dora’s alright,” Ted decided without any proof of the fact. “You know them, Andy. They’ll find a way to deal. Don't hound the poor boy.”

“I never liked this Auror nonsense to begin with.”

“Yes, but it’s Dora’s job. They know what they're doing.”

“The Burrow,” Harry said. “We need to get to the Burrow. Tonks will, Dora, I’ll tell them-”

“Easy.” Ted rested a steady hand on his shoulder. Harry must be acting delirious. Or Ted just wanted him to calm down. “You can go to the Burrow. Come one, I’ll show you to the Portkey.”

Harry took a step forward, then turned wildly on Ted. “Shoes.”

“Shoes,” Ted repeated and hurried into the kitchen. He came back with a pair of wet but no longer mud-caked trainers. He dried them by means of magic and practically shoved them onto Harry’s feet for him. Harry slung his backpack over his shoulders, didn't bother lacing up his shoes, and the four of them rushed to the Portkey.

“I’ll tell Dora to contact you as soon as we-”

“Go, go,” Ted rushed.

Harry and Hagrid were whipped away by the Portkey. The spinning did nothing for Harry’s headache, but it was already lessening. In a flash, they were gone, leaving Andromeda and Ted alone. Ted placed a placating hand on his wife’s shoulder with a look to match it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “That girl has done nothing but get herself into trouble for years and you know it.”

“Yes, but they always find themselves a way out of it, don't they?”

“It’s the women in my family, I swear.” She tipped her head upward and sighed, shutting her eyes. “A love for trouble, every one of them.”

“Yourself included?” Ted said, teasing.

Andromeda smiled, fluttering her eyes open and meeting Ted’s eyes. “In my own ways.”

“But you work it out, don't you?”

“It’s yet to stop us.”

The women of the House Black were quite spirited, the opposite of what good women ought to be. Boisterous, adventurous, too deeply romantic, those weren't words meant to describe good girls. But Andy, Bella, and Cissy fit them well. Even with all the etiquette and submissiveness Cissy tried to hide beneath.

Their mother was like that as well, too loud, too outspoken, too domineering. They had grown up watching her be put in her place. Aunt Walburga, too, had a deep fire drowned out in complacency. Dora was no exception to the Black women’s need to scale the world’s mountains with nothing but her two hands and an amount of passion that would leave an old man shaking in his boots.

Andromeda wondered if this was truly a family thing or simply the natural hunger of a woman starved. She had come across many women who sat complaisant and content, keeping their lips and their legs politely closed. Were they content, or were they more like Cissy, broken down to be rebuilt into someone’s little wife? What if every woman who bowed her head and unfeelingly folded her hands had once been full of ferocity and intensity?

“Ted, dear.”

“Yes, love?”

“What was that tea Dora was drinking when she came over?”

“I believe it was vanilla earl grey with cornflowers.” He thought a moment before adding, “And a splash of orange juice.”

“Let’s have some of that.”

Dora had always been an oddity to her mother. Not because she put juice in her tea, though that was an interesting choice. They were just so different, complete opposites. It produced a great deal of disagreements, but Andromeda wouldn't change her little space oddity for anything. She would make sure to tell her that when she got home.

***

Harry and Hagrid arrived at the Burrow in a stumbling landing. Harry fell painfully to his knees in the grass, palms pressed into the dirt. He had barely gotten to his feet before Ginny was pulling him into a hug.

“Hey, Ginny,” he breathed out. He stroked her head the way he'd seen Arthur do so many times when she was upset or in need of comfort.

“Where are the others?” Molly asked, voice frantic.

“They're not here yet,” Harry spoke at the same time the news hit him. They hadn't gotten back. Where were they? Were they—

He fumbled for an explanation, but Molly shushed him with a hug.

“Thank goodness you're not hurt.”

She rubbed his back and Harry couldn't even fall into the undeserved hug. What happened? They couldn't all be gone, could they? What if Voldemort got to them? What had he done?

“I’m glad you're here,” Ginny said as Molly went on to tend to Hagrid. “I was going mad without you. You should have seen the state Mum was in. She wouldn't sit still for a moment.”

Harry didn't answer. Ginny brushed some hardened dirt off his shoulder.

“Why are you all muddy except for your shoes?”

“Ted cleaned them for me.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows and would have questioned this further, but something else caught her attention.

“Harry! Look!”

Tumbling onto the lawn just as Harry and Hagrid had done, came Remus and George. Only George was being dragged along by Remus, who was doing his best to support his limp body. As Harry and Ginny ran toward him, Remus felt a rush of guilt. He was supposed to guard George and he'd allowed this to happen. Some protector he was.

Harry helped carry George into the house, laying him on the sofa while Ginny screamed for her mother. Blood dripped down the side of George’s head, smearing over his neck, and staining his shirt. Harry didn't realize upon first glance, but he noticed the cause of the wound was his ear. Rather, his lack of ear.

Molly let out a sharp gasp. Working on pure instinct, she knelt beside her son and began dressing his wounds.

“My baby,” she whispered, mopping up blood with delicate hands.

Remus seized Harry roughly by the arm, shoving him against the wall with his wand pointed at his neck. Harry felt his heart rate pick up, his face flushing with anger and the sudden need to fight back.

“What are you,” Harry struggled against him, “doing?”

“What creature was in my office the first time Harry Potter visited me at Hogwarts?” he demanded.

What kind of test was this? How should he know?

“A grindylow? Blaise Zabini called them Pollywiggles and everyone spent a week laughing about it.”

Remus eased off, releasing Harry with a slight chuckle. “That’s what they're called in some parts.”

Harry didn't know what parts that would be, but Zabini bragged about his extensive travels whereas Harry had been to two different places ever.

“That's all you wanted to know?”

“Sorry, Harry. I had to make sure it was really you. It seems there's a traitor in our midst.”

Remus said that all too easily as if that wasn’t an insane accusation. One of their own was a traitor?

“How can you be sure?”

“No one outside the Order would have known about that plan. Someone took it to You-Know-Who. Or told someone who did.”

It couldn't be anyone in their midst right now. Surely they wouldn't have agreed to such a mission. Maybe Mundungus would feed information if he was offered money or something.

“We’ll have to keep our circle small from now on,” Remus said. “Be careful who you tell what. Only the ones carrying out missions should know what they are.”

That sounded like a lot of mistrust and deception that Harry wasn't sure he wanted to be part of. Remus must be familiar with the part already. If shady things had been happening during the first war, they must have caught on that it was one of their own. Harry could imagine the tumult and inconsolable suspicion that would bring about.

Harry couldn't begin to imagine what it would feel like to find out Ron or Hermione were traitors. If they were, how would he ever know? Would he sense something was off? Remus hadn't. You would think it an easy thing to sense that something was off about your childhood friend. Then again, no one would ever suspect it was their friend who was responsible for selling them out.

Luckily, Harry didn't have to worry about that particular problem. Hermione wouldn't be allowed among Voldemort’s crew and Ron would let it slip within five minutes of joining what he'd done. Harry knew his friends well enough to know that. Of course, that was assuming they hadn't spent years crafting fake personalities to fool him, but he didn't think that was top of mind for many ten-year-olds.

Unless…

What if that's what Peter Pettigrew had done? What if he was actually a child mastermind, a constantly conniving evil genius who made friends just to kill them? Harry didn't want to go off with that thought, so he wandered to the sofa. Peering over the back, he got a look at the mess that used to be George’s ear. It was less bloody after Molly’s cleaning up.

He wanted to ask if he would be alright, but he knew Molly couldn't be sure yet and he didn't want to upset her. Would George have to be earless for the rest of his days? He could never wear sunglasses again.

“Harry, dear,” Molly said gently. “You’re in my light.”

“Sorry.” He stepped backward into Remus. “Sorry,” he mumbled again.

Remus wrapped a steadying arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his chest. Harry allowed himself to rest his head against Remus, taking in much needed deep breaths and Remus’ black coffee scent. It didn't last long enough, Remus rushing outside as soon as a commotion was heard, stealing all of Harry’s comfort as he vanished out the backdoor.

Harry got it back when Hermione rushed forward into his arms.

“Where’s Ron?” she whispered.

“He’s not here yet.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide like a sad little dog. Harry’s gaze fell downward, not without shame, to avoid having to see her like that. She turned her sad eyes on George, covering her mouth to hide a gasp. His bleeding had been stopped, but he still had a hole in his head which was just as startling.

Ginny stood beside Hermione, their hands finding each other. Harry slipped his arm around Ginny’s waist. All he wanted to do was hold her and sleep for a while. He felt her arm around his waist, her thumb sneaking around his belt loop.

With a string of shouts, Arthur came storming inside. Harry didn't think he had ever heard Arthur shout before. By the shocked look on Ginny’s face, he guessed she had never heard such a thing either.

“Arthur!” Molly cried in relief. He was at his wife’s side in an instant, his hand coming to rest on George’s arm.

“He’s alright,” Arthur said, rubbing George’s arm. “You’re alright, baby boy.”

Fred leaned over the back of the sofa, blocking Molly’s light. She said nothing. As if sensing Fred’s presence, a gift both twins had long claimed they possessed, George stirred and blinked upward at him. Fred, more gentle than Harry had ever seen him be, stroked George’s head.

Ginny joined Fred by George’s side and Harry followed Hermione as she slipped outside. He didn't want to witness that half-reunion any more than she did. He knew what she was thinking. He was thinking it too. But he couldn't allow himself to dwell on it. He didn't want Hermione to dwell on it. He wanted to hold her and let this awful night fade away, but they couldn't do that peacefully knowing Ron wasn't back safely yet.

“You saw him,” Hermione whispered.

Harry might have been confused about who she was referring to if not for the emphasis she put on the word ℎ𝑖𝑚.

“Yeah. He was being very gross. He was all,” Harry put on a slimy, sibilant voice, “You’re mine, Potter.”

“Ew!” she squealed, pushing at Harry. “Don't do that.”

“Why?” he chuckled. “You don't like my impressions?”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Yeah. He wants me bad.”

Hermione scrunched her face in equal parts disgust and humor. “Gross.”

Harry curled his lip in disgust and pretended to shake something gross off his hand. “Ugh! As if.”

Hermione laughed, slapping a hand over her mouth. Remus snapped his head in her direction and she frowned guiltily. She and Harry shared a look, biting their lips to hold back laughter.

A commotion overhead stole their attention. It was Tonks and Ron. Ron had barely touched the ground before he was scooped into their arms.

“We thought you were-” Hermione started.

“I’m fine. It was mostly Aunt Muriel who kept us anyhow.”

Tonks headed straight for Remus’ waiting arms.

“Are you alright?” he said softly.

“I’m fine. We’re alright.”

“We’re alright,” he repeated.

“We ran into Bellatrix. She was going to every length to try and have me killed.”

The confusion in Tonks’ eyes, the angry curl of her mouth, the laugh as she spoke of Bellatrix’s attempts, were all things Remus couldn't understand. Tonks didn't understand them much better herself.

She knew Bellatrix wanted her dead because of her relation to Tonks’ mother. But how could she feel such loathing for her sister? How was less of the question, Tonks understood loathing, but she wanted to know what exactly had gone down. Her mother would never tell her and Tonks never pushed past hinting at wanting to know.

Becoming a Death Eater was a pretty justifiable reason to hate someone, in her opinion, and Bellatrix was very clearly wicked, but was that it? Did Bellatrix’s hatred for muggles and their kin surpass all other feelings? Did she even have feelings? Probably not.

Remus brushed a hand through Tonks’ mussed hair, the shaved sides bristling against the pads of his fingers. He may not understand, but he would stay here through every one of her confusing thoughts and she knew it. Explaining herself wasn't a strong suit of hers and neither was making sense of her feelings, but Remus was a good enough listener and a steady enough shoulder that it hardly mattered.

In the eyes of both, as long as Remus was here, they would be okay. Remus would take care of Tonks. He always did. Whether that meant catching her arm when she tripped over her own feet or catching her tears as they fell, he always had her back. Tonks had his back, too. At least, she tried. She didn't think herself as good a protector as him, but she had the spirit. Remus said that was quite enough.

Hearing a rise of voices, Remus and Tonks tore their eyes off one another to see Bill and Fleur looking shaken. Tonks noticed Bill petting the thestral they'd flown in on, something he hadn't been doing before they took off. Bill couldn't see thestrals.

Molly and Arthur rushed outside, Molly running up to cup Bill’s face.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed in sheer relief. All of her babies were safe and accounted for.

Bill didn't embrace his mother. He put a hardly comforting hand on her shoulder and turned to the others. He looked lost, like there was something he needed to say but he couldn't quite find the words to do so.

“Bill,” Tonks said, her voice tight and prodding. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to help, I swear. There wasn't anything I could do.”

Tonks’ face contorted with horror, her eyes glistening before Bill could even say what had happened. It didn't matter. She knew.

“Mad-Eye’s dead,” he said, taking Fleur’s hand. “We saw it. You-Know-Who was there. We tried to- we wanted to help, but there wasn't anything we could do. We had to-”

He tried desperately to explain what happened, to make them understand why he hadn't been able to save him, to justify to himself why he had let it happen. Tonks wasn't listening. She felt Bill grab at her hand but it fell limply in his hold.

How was he gone? Really, truly gone. It wasn't a question. There was no maybe. The nervous looks Fleur kept sending toward the thestral were enough proof. He was gone. Dead. Tonks had to go through the rest of her life without him. But she had so much life left. That would be a long time, too long to imagine getting by without him. How was she supposed to do that?

Moody taught her everything he knew, not only about being an Auror but about life. He had taken her under his wing, guided her messy footsteps to somewhere more stable. He had joked around that one day she would run right past him, blazing her own trail that he couldn't keep up with. It seemed he was right, but she had always imagined he would be somewhere behind her, cheering her on from afar.

She didn't think she would ever surpass him. She still had so much to learn about life. She could barely remember who she was before him. For so long they'd been Moody and Tonks. She had been the woman he taught her to be. Who was she supposed to be now?

Tonks didn't realize she was crying until she felt the hot, salty tears trickle onto her lips. She wiped her hand over her mouth and began sobbing. She shook so hard she could barely stand. She felt Remus’ hands on her just as her legs gave way, knees hitting the ground.

Minding Remus’ bad back, Bill scooped her up, carrying her inside the house. Hearing her cries, Fred and George halted their conversation. They shared a look and both boys knew by the sudden cold that permeated the air what had happened. Fred did a hasty headcount and let out a shaky gasp of relief when he saw Ron with Hermione and Harry, and Bill setting Tonks onto her feet, Fleur right beside them.

Bill went to the sideboard and poured several glasses of firewhiskey. He handed one to Tonks and clinked their cups. “To Mad-Eye.”

Everyone followed his lead, grabbing a glass and raising it in toast.

Tonks downed hers and handed it to Bill. “Gimme another.”

Bill grabbed her glass but he didn't refill it. “I’ll make you something else, babe.”

Fleur rubbed her back and Bill dashed into the kitchen to rush through making a hot chocolate. He returned to a conversation about Mundungus’ sudden absence and Remus’ suspicion that there was a traitor among them. Bill and Fleur had been saying the same thing on their way here.

“I don't think it was him,” Bill said. “He’s the one who suggested the extra Harrys and the Death Eaters didn't know about that.”

“You’d make a good Auror, Billie,” Tonks said with a laugh and a sniffle.

“Somebody must have let it slip,” Fleur said. “Did anyone tell someone outside of the Order?”

“If they did, it couldn't have been on purpose,” Harry said. “It was a mistake, not a deliberate attack on me.”

Harry looked over at Hagrid, who was sobbing miserably into his handkerchief. He noticed Harry’s stare and nodded. He knew what he meant. Hagrid was guilty of feeding Voldemort information, but he would never intentionally try to harm Harry. After tonight, Harry believed that more than ever.

“Whatever happened was an accident.”

“You can't be sure,” Remus said. “In times like these, with things like power and money in unlimited quantity, you never know who you can trust.”

Harry tapped the rim of his glass with an irritated finger. “Do you think someone in this room is betraying us?”

Remus glanced around the room. At Molly, Arthur, Ginny, Ron, and Fred crowded around a wounded George. At Tonks and Hagrid sobbing, Fleur’s angry expression, and Hermione’s fearful glances. No, he didn't. But he didn't think it seventeen years ago when he, Sirius, and Peter were sitting around the table fawning over pictures of James and Lily’s newborn baby either.

“We can discuss this later,” Bill said, trying to cut the thick tension stretching between Harry and Remus. “We need to go.”

“Go where?” Fleur demanded, startled. At the same time, Tonks said, “For what?”

“Mad-Eye’s body,” Bill replied. He gave Tonks a pat on the shoulder and kissed Fleur’s cheek.

Molly began to protest but Bill stopped her. “Mum, we’ve got to. Otherwise the Death Eaters will beat us to it. He doesn't deserve that.”

She couldn't argue against that. “Very well. But I expect you back for dinner.”

It was well past dinner time but none of them had managed to fit a meal into their schedule this evening. Bill and Remus left and Molly headed for the kitchen.

Tonks shakily set down her cup on the edge of the coffee table and sat down on the floor. Fleur sat beside her, gently stroking her hair and whispering something in her ear. She laughed, a gross, snotty laugh, but it made Fleur smile.

Harry pushed Tonks’ mug closer to the center of the table. The pieces of a barely begun puzzle were scattered over the table, probably something Ginny and Molly had been trying to ease their nerves with.

Harry slipped upstairs, heading for Ron’s bedroom. Ron and Hermione followed him and the three settled into Ron’s bed.

“You two don't think one of us is a traitor, do you?” Harry asked.

Ron and Hermione looked nervous. How very reassuring. Was he not taking this seriously enough? Could he not tell when someone was lying to his face? Or was he making sense? Was he right and Ron and Hermione were becoming more people who didn't believe him? Who didn't trust him. Was he losing the only two who had always been on his side no matter what?

Did they even like him anymore? Oh God, they didn't love him anymore. Why? What had he done? Did they even want to be his friend? Maybe they wanted to betray him to finally get rid of him. They weren't acting like they wanted to get rid of him or stop being friends. But they hadn't come to his defense when he was arguing with Remus. That was basically the same thing.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Ron asked.

“I don't think so.” He was pretty sure this was it. He was losing his mind. For real this time.

He was sick of this. He didn't want to fight Voldemort. He didn't want to save the world. He wanted to run away to somewhere he wouldn't feel like this anymore. Why was this his job? Why did he have to be tied to a stupid prophecy?

Not that he would wish it on anyone else. He looked into Ron’s kind blue eyes and imagined if it had been him instead, tossing through the night because of some old-timer overlord and crying himself to sleep with burning headaches. He pictured Hermione screaming awake from nightmares, sifting through tortured thoughts in frenzied attempts to keep herself and Voldemort separate. No, he wouldn't want anyone else to do this.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I think I'm going mad or something.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “It’s alright. It’s a lot.”

Ron nodded, taking his other hand.

This was what pushed Harry on, the thing that reminded him what all of this was for. It wasn't for him, it was for everyone who didn't stand a fighting chance. It was for all the people in both the wizarding and muggle worlds who deserved freedom and peace in their lives. For the mothers who wanted to push their baby’s pram around outside without fear, the children who waited every day for the sound of their dad getting home, and the woman who made his favorite cream corn soup at the Three Broomsticks. The people. His people.

His best friends. Saving the world was a big deal and a heavy thing to carry on his tired, scrawny shoulders. But he thought about Hermione’s career as an activist and politician, about Ron’s future proposal to her and the wedding Harry would obviously be officiating. He imagined their child someday sitting in Neville’s Herbology class, things that might only be ideas now but had a chance to become real if he kept on. That was what he was fighting for. If he ever were to die, it would be to ensure those futures.

“Harry?” Ron said.

“Hmm?”

“Where’d you put Hedwig?”

Harry didn't mean to, but his eyes welled up with tears. Hermione and Ron tucked themselves into his side, Hermione’s head on his shoulder and Ron rubbing his hand. They let him cry until he had nothing left inside him that he needed to get out.

Chapter Text

Elphias looked at his old wristwatch for the second time in the span of what he discovered had only been two minutes. The second hand took its time circling the small clock, dragging along until it came full circle. Elphias watched it as it did so and counted another minute.

9:59 a.m.

Elphias stared at his watch until one more minute passed.

10:00 a.m. on the dot.

It had been fifteen minutes since he had gotten on the train. Half an hour since he arrived at the train station. An hour since he had woken up that morning. Twenty-six days since the funeral. It had been twenty-nine days since he saw the news.

When Elphias picked up the morning paper, he had been expecting the usual. Harry Potter is mad, the Ministry is just dandy, and trouble is being caused by not the Death Eaters. He had sat down for a spot of tea and a bit of marmalade toast, slid on his spectacles, and meant to glance over the front page before finding the crossword puzzle. Instead, he was stopped by the bold-lettered headline.

𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝐷𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑒, 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝐴𝑡 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝐻𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐹𝑖𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛

A crude way to put it, that was. It was a shock, like being suddenly slapped in the face in the middle of a cordial conversation. But it wasn't unbelievable. Albus was old. Old men died all the time. It’s sort of what they do.

He wasn't sure exactly what he did after reading that, but he supposed he went about his day. He only read the headline, abandoning the paper as soon as he did. The next thing he remembered reading was the letter that informed him when and where the funeral would be held.

The funeral was lovely, one of the most beautiful he'd ever been to. He had, unfortunately, been to quite a few. It was another thing that came with the territory of being elderly. He brought red calla lilies, Albus had loved those, and paid for the casket. He remembered all those years ago when Albus was planning Kendra’s funeral and Elphias had offered to pay for a nice marble headstone. Albus hadn't let him.

Elphias spoke at the funeral. He directed much of it. He expected Aberforth might want to take charge, but he'd been informed otherwise. He should have suspected. It was typical of Aberforth to want nothing to do with anything that made Albus the center of attention. Or perhaps it was funerals. Albus said Aberforth never helped with those.

After that, Elphias’ life carried on as it always did. He went to work, fed his Siberian cat, Eloise, went to bed and woke up. He rode the train in silence, said hello to the colleagues he passed by, and sat at home by the fire in the evening. What he didn't do was read the paper. That had become something to avoid rather than a staple of his normal routine.

He missed the conversations at work, which wasn't difficult seeing as the Ministry had gotten awfully quiet as of late. Quiet and busy. No one had the time or desire for idle chit-chat these days. Fine by him. He talked to no one, he kept to himself, and stayed away from the news. He thanked the stars he had decided against choosing to pursue a career as a newspaper publicist.

He did, of course, learn of the resurgence of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. The small, single-bedroom bungalow he lived in wasn't entirely under a rock and he did work within the Ministry. With this information came the unsaid understanding between him and his colleagues that this wasn't something to go around discussing. Yes, the Dark Lord was back. Anyone with half a brain could see that, not to mention those who had actually seen him. But they weren't supposed to talk about it. Keep the people calm and such.

It was hogwash, if you asked him. People deserved to know what was going on. But there was a deep-seated fear within the Ministry that people among them might be with You-Know-Who, hiding among their ranks and collecting information or looking for a way to power. No one wanted to know the people they looked up to for protection were so terribly afraid, and no one wanted to say something to the wrong person. So the Ministry was quiet.

All of this knowledge didn't take away the shock of finding out that Albus’ death had been at the hands of Death Eaters. Death Eaters had broken into Hogwarts somehow. There were names like Malfoy, Dolohov, Macnair. It was rumored that Severus Snape had been the one to kill Albus. The very same Severus Snape that Albus had so charitably saved from a life in Azkaban, pardoning him from his crimes by taking him under his wing. It seemed the boy had only ever been playing a part.

It didn't feel right. Not the betrayal, that came as no surprise. Personally, Elphias would never have trusted an ex-Death Eater. But that was the kind of person Albus was. Had been. He welcomed misfits and sinners with open arms. He didn't see someone gone too far down a dark path to be saved, he saw a young man who had lost his way and provided a guiding light. The betrayal was the least shocking of all of this.

What felt wrong was that Albus, darling Albus, had his life stolen from him by the hands of evil. That good-hearted man, that good-hearted boy who had extended his hand to Elphias on the Hogwarts Express when no one else would talk to him, deserved to fall asleep in peace with only a sore chest and a bad cough ailing him.

He didn't deserve the press picking apart his life, judging him, mocking him. He got enough of that when he was alive. Wasn't that just like him? Good old Albus, attracting attention in all he did, even when he wasn't around to bow his head in gracious thanks.

Elphias laughed aloud. The woman sitting in the booth across from him gave him a funny look. He didn't care. He got plenty of those. At least Albus could still make him laugh, even without being present or aware that he was doing so. Elphias raised his eyes to the ceiling of the train, smiling fondly to himself.

It was a strange thought. It was crushing, horrifying, but mostly strange, to think that the world would have to learn how to get on without Albus in it. No one would ever be on the receiving end of that kind smile, that soul-searching blue-eyed stare, or that accepting embrace.

The press seemed to be getting on just fine. In his disgust at their stories and speculation, Elphias decided to submit a statement of his own. If he told the truth, gave some insight on Albus’ life, the man he had truly been, and the hardships he had faced, perhaps that would open space for some respect and empathy for his name.

There had been no such luck, but Elphias was glad he had done it. He had put the truth, to a very vague extent, out there. Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps no one would listen and no one would care. But Elphias would know.

He knew Albus better, perhaps, than anyone else did. Maybe Aberforth, but he hadn't kept close with Albus for years. Elphias and Albus’ contact lessened the older and busier they became, but their friendship remained strong. Every time they met up, it was as though no time had passed.

The world didn't know Albus, didn't deserve to, but he did. They thought they did. They thought this loss was tremendous for them. Perfect strangers were saying this affected them. The whole wizarding world claimed they needed Albus Dumbledore, and maybe they did, but not as much as Elphias. It would be a tremendous pain, something that would touch every soul that had ever known Albus Dumbledore in any capacity. But they would not understand.

Elphias remembered when Albus’ mother had died. He didn't think he would ever forget that day. After all these years, he could still picture it so vividly in his mind.

~~~

𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑦, 𝑔𝑎𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

“𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠?” ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑. “𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛?”

𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑢𝑝 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑟. 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠’ 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛. 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠.

“𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?”

𝘈𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘌𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴.

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦,” 𝘈𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥. “𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺…𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴.”

𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑓 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑤𝑓𝑢𝑙, 𝑖𝑐𝑒-𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠.

𝐴𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑦. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒'𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠, 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠, 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑝 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡. 𝐴 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑥 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑤𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑑. 𝐴𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝐴𝑙𝑏𝑢𝑠’ 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑, 𝐸𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑤 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑝𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑.

~~~

Watching Albus read the letter, hearing the rapidly quickening pace of his breathing, was a terrible thing to witness. He didn't cry, barely moved an inch, and only spoke two words. She’s dead. Elphias had thought he meant his sister at first. He knew the poor girl was unwell, so it was no great shock to lose her. But Albus handed him the letter to read for himself. It was a moment that would be burned into Elphias’ mind until the day he, too, was dead and buried.

He remembered something Albus said. That he knew. He said that when he woke, he knew something was wrong and as soon as he saw the family’s owl, he knew what kind of news he was about to receive. Albus had always been like that. He had this strange ability to just 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 and 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤. It had never ceased to impress Elphias.

Elphias went with him to Godric’s Hollow to attend Kendra’s funeral. Albus told him he didn't have to, but that was something Elphias wouldn't hear him out on. Of course, he was coming. He wouldn't let Albus do this alone. He looked at his own mother as she stuffed bread and cheese into his knapsack and he couldn't.

He still remembered the funeral quite clearly. It was cold out, the sky grey, but not a hint of rain coming to worsen the already foul mood. Ariana wasn't there. Albus didn't say so, but Elphias assumed she was either too ill or too grief-stricken to attend. Aberforth and Elphias stood silent and shoulder-to-shoulder with Albus. Elphias didn't know what to say, and he wasn't sure Albus wanted useless words of comfort, so he kept quiet.

He remembered wondering at the way Albus kept his tears at bay. Elphias wasn't sure he ever witnessed him cry again after that. He was sure it happened, he just kept it to himself. He kept to himself a lot after that. He seldom wrote back when Elphias sent letters. While away on his solo grand tour, Elphias picked out as many sweets and souvenirs as he could and sent them over, hoping he could bring at least a bit of sunshine to the three.

Little Ariana passed while he was away. He came back for the funeral, which had been a thousand times more tense than Kendra’s. Albus was even more silent, more ghost-like. Elphias thought of the saying “a shell of a man” and he knew exactly what it meant.

When Elphias returned, he saw Albus very little. He wrote to him frequently, but he rarely got letters back. He longed to speak with him, but he knew he needed to give him space. The Albus he had left, confused, mourning, and aggrieved, had become resentful, distant, and self-loathing. He had suffered even more losses in the span of two months. His darling sister and the end of a short-lived but passionate relationship.

In such a short time, Albus had moved on from the boy he was three months ago. The two had never stopped writing or speaking, but between the loss of Kendra and Ariana, the mess with Gellert, and the tested relationship with Aberforth, Elphias wasn't on top of the list of priorities in Albus’ life.

It was a few years later that they reconnected. The weight of his loss wasn't as ever-present in the eyes of the onlooker, and Albus had gotten back his smile. Though Elphias feared Albus never truly got it back, he only replaced it with a new one.

He gained something else in its place. Wisdom, experience, understanding. All very important and venerated things. He went on to have the incredible life, experiences, and triumphs that everyone always knew he would, but he found nothing to fill the hole that his lost love had formed in him.

Everything one could ever want was in the palm of his hand, yet not a single thing that he needed. He recalled many a time when Albus would focus on the things Elphias had done, his career and successes. They were significantly smaller ones than Albus’ and not nearly as exciting, but Albus always seemed interested. He was always more proud of Elphias than he was of himself.

Darling Albus, Elphias thought to himself. The world treated you so poorly.

But Elphias would always remember Albus as he had truly been. Not as a great wizard, a savior, or a famous name, but as a good friend. As the boy who had shared his mittens because Elphias had misplaced his own. Who he'd stayed up with so many nights talking about what they wanted from this life. Who he had shared secrets with, ranted about boys and girls with, complained and celebrated with. Teased, praised, loved.

That was who Elphias mourned on this misty morning train ride. That was who he wept for. That was the man the wizarding world had lost. The one Elphias would spend the rest of his sad little life trying to get by without. The little eleven-year-old boy, kind and soulful beyond his years, who had sat next to him when no one else would so much as speak to him.

And not many would truly understand what they had lost.

***

He heard the news of the Death Eaters first. The Dark Lord had taken Hogwarts. His first concern had been the children. Would his brother be able to protect them all? As he waited for more news, it had never crossed his mind that Albus wouldn't be able to protect himself.

When Minerva came down to the Hog’s Head, he knew it wasn't just to pay him a visit. He knew something had happened. Her asking to speak in a private room was only confirmation. Someone was hurt or Albus required assistance with something. She looked terribly distressed and, for the first time, he considered maybe his older brother had tapped into his old recklessness and his self-assumption had gone too far.

Was Albus hurt? He asked it with a silent, jaw-clenched expression. Minerva looked like she was about to burst if she spoke, all of her usual composure having been dropped somewhere on her way here.

“Minerva,” he said, becoming the stern one of the two. “Why are you here? What happened?”

“Albus,” she managed to get out. “He’s dead.”

Aberforth stared at her blankly for a long time. At last, he said, “It’s true?”

Horrified at having to say it out loud, Minerva nodded. After another beat of silence, Aberforth repeated the question. Minerva, hand over her quivering mouth, mumbled an affirmative response. Tears welled up in her eyes. He felt uncomfortable seeing her behave in such an uncharacteristic manner.

“It’s true?” Aberforth asked once more. He was having trouble believing this had truly happened.

“Yes, it’s true,” Minevera said, tears spilling from her eyes. She swiped her knuckles over her cheeks.

Albus was dead. He was gone. Truly.

“When did it happen?”

Minerva fell shakily into a chair. “A few hours ago.”

“How?”

“It was-” the words caught in her throat. “It was Severus.”

Snape? The boy Albus had taken under his wing. That Death Eater brat killed his brother?

“You’ll be alright,” Aberforth said, taking Minerva’s trembling hand.

Aberforth knew how much Minerva looked up to Albus. She was one of his best students both in academic achievement as well as wit and ambition. He didn't have many comforting words to give, but he hoped she would take what she was offered and be on her way. After expressing her condolences, which was a prolonged and tear-filled process, she finally left.

Aberforth felt odd. He felt out of place. Right away he got to thinking about how he was going to handle this, how he would move forward. For the first few days, he focused on work and keeping on. He slept fine, he ate fine. He didn't do all the things mourning people were supposed to do. It was almost like nothing happened.

He attended his brother’s funeral. He hadn’t helped organize it. He didn't speak or cry during it. He didn't say hello to Elphias. He only stood there gravely, watching the ceremony proceed. It wasn't that he didn't care, he realized that was how it seemed, though no one paid enough attention to him to accuse him of being rude. He simply wasn't sure how to feel.

He didn't hate Albus. The only reason he was so angry at him for so long was because he loved him. He didn't hate him, he wanted him to be different. He didn't entirely blame Albus for the way he turned out, their parents weren't, as Aberforth had long come to accept, terrific people. And this world had been overly cruel to Albus.

But Aberforth couldn't change Albus and he couldn't save him from himself, try as he might have. When they were young, Aberforth knew how different he and Albus were, he was made painfully aware of it, but he still flocked with him like birds of a feather. He wanted to be Albus’ friend. He had been, once. He only wished his older brother didn't have to change, that they could always be the small boys who carelessly poked fun at and wrestled one another.

But Albus grew up and Aberforth couldn't catch up. Albus started bugging him about worse things than doing his homework. He told him to always be respectful, to keep his mouth shut, and his cards close to his chest. All things he was terrible at. Albus wanted Aberforth to be like him. To tell people what they wanted to hear, to play some game to win things like respect and affection. Aberforth didn't want any of that and he wasn't going to fake for them.

It had taken him a long time to call Albus what he was. A liar. Manipulative. Selfish. Pick your poison. There were a lot of things he thought Albus simply didn't understand, but maybe he understood all along. He just didn't care. He didn't care about Aberforth. He hadn't cared about Ariana. He cared about whatever game he was playing, one they had never learned how to play.

What Aberforth felt most now wasn't sorrow at what he'd lost, but shame. Shame for what they had done to one another, remorse for all the years he'd spent in bitterness. He was still angry. Albus had been many things, a good brother not being very high on the list. It hadn't been for a long time. But Aberforth had not been better. He couldn't say he'd even been a better man, truthfully, and maybe he didn't have a good enough reason to hate Albus. Maybe he didn't hate him because he was a bad person, but because he'd been bad to him.

Aberforth remembered the time Albus had come to apologize to him, to try and mend the gap between them. They didn't talk things out, but Albus said he was sorry. Aberforth didn't believe him. He wasn't sorry, he was only saying that so Aberforth would stop giving him that angry stare.

Albus admitted the way things went down wasn't right. But did he realize how truly wrong it was? Did he realize the way he hurt people? Did he know how deeply his mere presence cut Aberforth down to the bones? How much Aberforth hated that he knew him, that he was so intrinsically intertwined with him, because he couldn't ever really get away?

Aberforth didn't think he knew any of that. Or he didn't care about any of it. Either could be true. Perhaps a bit of both, even. He certainly didn't seem to care about how Aberforth felt, that much was fact. All he wanted to do was smooth over the creased edges and pretend. To lie like he so loved doing.

Perhaps he did feel guilty and that was why he tried to cross a bridge that had burned. But the gap he was jumping over had been put there by him and reaching the other side wouldn't change that. Staying friends would be so nice, so easy, if they were to pretend. But Aberforth didn't want to pretend. He didn't want Albus’ fake and honestly unnecessary friendship.

Aberforth kept things cordial with his older brother but he refused to let Albus get close to him again. To hurt him again. He couldn't live on his terms, always following in his careless footsteps while Albus talked down to him and constantly pushed away the trickier parts. Albus could keep close to his pride and his precious little lies if he was lonely. Aberforth was quite comfortable with his resentment.

Aberforth knew it was the best thing to do. Staying distant from Albus was the right thing for both of them. Because Albus was awful and Aberforth was, in his old age, still too immature to deal with him. He just wished he could forget how it used to be. He wished he could stop thinking about what it could have been.

He hated him sometimes, but he missed his brother like he was a little kid. More than anything, he wished Albus had been a better man. He couldn't find it in himself to forgive him. There were so many things to go over, things they had spent years neglecting to talk about. Aberforth wished now that they hadn't. Even if their relationship could never be mended, at least it might offer some closure.

Aberforth did grieve, but not for Albus personally. He didn't grieve the loss of his brother. He grieved the loss of everything that could have been, everything that had gone wrong, and everything that could have gone right. Because Aberforth had to come to terms with the loss of his brother long before he died.

Thinking of him still brought pain, but it wouldn't be much different now than it was before. It wasn't as if they were ever going to make amends. A part of Aberforth knew they would take this broken relationship to their graves.

Once, during the summer after what Aberforth believed must have been his third year at Hogwarts, he and Albus had been talking about dying. Humourous and distant, as death was when you were thirteen.

Albus had been worried, because when they were dead, who would be there to tell everyone that they had to be buried beside one another? Who would choose the flowers to be laid on their graves? Nothing too girly. Albus liked flowers, among other girly things, but that was not yet a secret shared with Aberforth. And who was going to make sure they were both buried in their little, isolated town, in the spot they had picked specially for themselves?

None of that mattered now. Albus was buried somewhere near the school and Aberforth had no plans to lay flowers on his grave. He didn't have it in himself to show his brother respect, even in his death. Aberforth had never carried himself with as much grace as Albus did.

And Albus didn't deserve it. Not after everything he'd put them through. If Aberforth wasn't worth a proper apology or explanation then Albus wasn't worth his forgiveness and respect. Aberforth would stay away from him the same as he always did, cursing his name and wishing he was still around.

Albus had enough love from his admirers to take care of him. He died a hero in their eyes. An infallible, pure-hearted man. He carried out the Dumbledores’ legacy well, as a liar. He manipulated his image, kept his secrets tidied away, and shut the door to all the skeletons in his closet.

Aberforth used to try and refrain from getting upset with Albus for his seemingly natural charm and talents, but it was terribly annoying the way everyone fawned over him, worshiping the ground he walked on as if it became sacred just by the brush of his boot. Because the thing was, Aberforth believed that, too. He was Albus’ first admirer, and for the longest time he looked at him like he was made from bits of stardust.

All those stupid people lined up ready to give Albus the world, and treated him as if he were their world. But as far as Aberforth was concerned, he'd held the world by the hand and it wasn't something he thought they could ever understand. And he wasn't very willing to share the only person who had ever actually wanted to be his friend.

Aberforth went unrecognized in this clear position of superiority, being the one who knew Albus Dumbledore best of all. That used to be his pride, his special little secret. The one thing he would always be able to hold over the heads of invasive onlookers. Now it seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Aberforth used to wonder when it had all gone wrong. When had Albus changed? Somewhere in the midst of all these questions, Aberforth considered that perhaps Albus hadn't changed. Aberforth did. He came to realize who Albus truly was. The man he, by a preoccupied mother and the raw world, was raised to be.

Albus used to fight beside Aberforth but for all he knew Albus had been fighting for himself the entire time. He used to tell Aberforth he was brave, but did he actually think it? He told him once that he was proud of him. Was he? When had he stopped feeling it? Had Aberforth done something to cause the ruin of their relationship? Or had Albus?

After Ari died, Aberforth blamed Albus for everything. For the next couple of years, he was angry at Albus for ruining their lives, and angry at Gellert for his intrusion and brother-stealing. He blamed Gellert a lot for ruining Albus, but, truthfully, he didn't think it was entirely his fault. Albus had always been a free thinker and he had always been strong in his own beliefs. Aberforth didn't think a blush would be enough to sway that.

Albus had always accused Aberforth of not understanding his and Gellert’s relationship. Which was true. Aberforth didn't understand why Albus liked that creep. He still hated him and it put a little spring in his step every time he remembered the bastard was rotting in prison.

Albus had the worst friends. Gellert Grindelwald took the cake a thousand times, and Severus the backstabber was definitely up there. Elphias Doge, the groveling fool, wasn't much better. Only Minerva was somewhat alright. Aberforth didn't know her well, but she seemed normal enough. She blindly admired him far too much, but that was not a unique fault.

While Albus’ friends lamented their tragic loss and declared their great love for Albus’ inflated ego, Aberforth remained alone. Any people he once called a friend hadn't been spoken to in decades and he didn't plan on changing that. That was, after all, what Aberforth did best. Push people out. Leave them behind. Lose them.

He lost everyone he ever loved. It felt just as pathetic as it sounded. At only eight years of age he experienced his first loss in the form of his father being taken away. His father wasn't a great man, not someone he should have been looking up to, but at eight he didn't know that yet.

The loss of his mother was devastating. It filled him with a fear he had felt never before in his life. He'd yet to feel it again since. Losing Ariana felt unreal, unimaginable even as he held her limp body in his arms. The only things he could remember from the week after was picking Gellert’s blonde hair off of the bathroom wall and punching Albus in the face at Ari’s funeral. And hating himself for what he'd done. He still didn't forgive himself for what happened. For starting that fight. He never would.

And then there was Albus. Awful, beautiful Albus. His Albus. He would never forgive Albus for what he'd done just as he would never forgive himself for the way he'd handled their relationship. He'd live with those regrets, tormented by memories of things he couldn't change, until he was laid in a grave of his own.

Chapter Text

Draco had never understood why anyone would want to die. He didn't always like his life and he could do without his own presence, but death was terrifying. It was only now that he realized there were many things to be feared more greatly than death. With those in mind, death seemed like such a tame sentence. And an increasingly more welcoming one.

For example, one thing more frightening than your own death was the death of someone else. In a heartbeat, Draco would rather lose his own life for the sake of his mother’s, his father’s, and plenty of other people he could list off the top of his head.

Another thing worse than death was living in constant fear and misery. The kind that made you wish for death’s release. The same went for eliciting it in others. Being the giver was easily just as bad as being on the receiving end, in Draco’s opinion. It hurt just as much, even if not physically.

Draco didn't actually know that. He hadn't yet had to torture someone himself. Bellatrix had promised she would show him the ropes of making your victims suffer. It excited her as if she were taking her child nephew to the summer market and buying him an ice cream cone for the first time.

His aunt was an awful woman. A wicked, rotten person. But his mother loved her. Draco supposed it must be one of those things that only siblings would understand. One goes mad but you still remember them as they were when you were young. And perhaps you don't love them now, you only love them as they were, but nonetheless, it does not let you let go so easily.

That was what you did when you loved someone, wasn't it? You kept loving them, even if they lost their mind, or their hearts, or themselves. Like that quote from that one muggle classic he had read in fifth year out of pure curiosity.

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑛, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙. 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑, 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

His mother’s arms confined her raving sister just as they might have held her as children, falling asleep in the same bed. Like she couldn't stop. She hadn't forgotten how even as Bellatrix’s mind slipped away into some dark, damaged pit. Muscle memory.

Draco couldn't. He didn't have those memories. He didn't love his aunt. He didn't know her, and he didn't want to. She was disgusting. The only feeling she could possibly provoke was revulsion. Even his initial curiosity had quickly faded upon one conversation, if one could call the way she spoke to others conversing.

Draco loathed being trapped in a house with these people. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 house, being contaminated and violated by these freakish Voldemort shoe-kissers. It wasn't as if they were here every day, but they gathered often enough. They floated in and out like ghosts, haunting the place he had once called home. He didn't think he'd use that word again.

The Dark Lord wasn't here every day either, he had Dark Lord business to attend to, but he was here more often than not. He stayed cooped up in the room he'd claimed, plotting Harry Potter’s demise. His presence brought a bleak chill to the entire Manor, one that crept into your very bones and left a lingering presence even when he was gone.

Malfoy Manor was a home no more. What was once a room Draco played in as a child was now the Dark Lord’s conference room. The halls he wandered through aimlessly during long, boring summer days were crowded with unfamiliar footsteps. All the curiosity, frivolity, and fun Draco had filled this house with had been exchanged with madness and horror.

Draco remembered overhearing conversation, only spoken in hushed voices behind closed doors to avoid revealing such shameful secrets to his innocent ears, of an uncle who had gone mad. He had been confined to a sanatorium and a lifetime of whispered stories. Draco didn't know if he was still alive, he didn't even know his name, but he wondered about him.

The way he heard his parents talk of him was as if he had done something wrong by losing his mind. He didn't have anyone who loved him enough to hold him through his raving. The way people spoke of Bellatrix was similar, though much meaner. Most people didn't like her for an array of reasons.

That uncle conversation was a core memory because it was the first time he had ever heard talk of someone who had lost their mind. But this unknown man and Aunt Bella were only two of many people in their family who suffered from madness. On his mother’s side, there were several cases, all hushed up in shame.

Draco didn't know what caused someone to lose themselves in such a way, but he wondered if these people were simply victims of circumstance. It wasn't as if any of them chose to be that way. It couldn't be helped. Bellatrix couldn't help the funny way she walked, the sloppy way she spoke, the unsteady way she held onto her wand or her wine glass.

And perhaps she could not help the awful thoughts in her head or the bouts of anger she didn't control. It wasn't impossible to imagine she didn't understand the extent of her own cruel, careless manner. Whatever had happened in her head, to her brain, wasn't something she would have chosen to bring on. Draco didn't think it was, anyway.

He knew next to nothing about the way his mother had grown up. He didn't know what kind of bedlam her childhood home had been. Not to mention what Azkaban prison could do to someone’s mind. His father had been there for a far shorter time than Bella, and he hadn't been the same since. Bella had been locked away, trapped among people just as sordid and wicked as she was now. It was no wonder she lost it. This place made Draco feel like he was fighting every day to keep up his sanity. Maybe some people had a harder time keeping up the fight.

He counted that as another thing greater and more unnerving than the idea of death. Losing his mind. How much sense of self did mad people have? Did they know they were mad? Did they know and simply not care? Who would care for him? He wouldn't want his parents to have a madman for a son. He wouldn't want his mother, whose hands were full already, to have to become caretaker to another loved one who had mislaid their mental equilibrium.

Draco wasn't sure that hiding in his room was the best way to protect his peace, but it was his only sanctuary in this madhouse. He wasn't let outside, it was more dangerous for him out there than it was in here. Although, that was debatable. He was confined, just like any patient would be, caged inside these walls.

But Draco was building walls of his own. Ones that could, hopefully, safeguard him. At least to some degree. Beginning last July, he had taken up the task of learning Occlumency. His aunt taught it to him and he spent a great deal of his free time trying to master the skill. Both Aunt Bella and Severus were greatly skilled in Occlumency.

That was another thing he wondered about. He was noticing how much of his life had passed by without him sparing a thought for his mother’s mysterious past. Why had she never shared any stories of her sisters or her childhood? Why was Bellatrix so competent in the art of guarding your mind? Was it simply a coincidence, something Bella thought she ought to know, or was it a protective measure she picked up out of necessity?

Draco could hear Bellatrix now, downstairs talking loudly and full of delight about something. He didn't try to make out her words. She was probably just confessing her love and devotion to her man for the umpteenth time. She really liked the Dark Lord. Like, a lot. That was hardly any different from the rest of his followers, but he seemed to have a weird liking for her too.

They had some kind of creepy love affair going on. Or Bellatrix wished they did. The Dark Lord might only be teasing her. The way he spoke to her was very odd. He had his favorites and she was definitely one of them. Another of his favorite pets was Severus, but only because he was so competent and helpful. That might be the only thing around here that made any sense.

For some reason, the Dark Lord also favored Peter Pettigrew. That didn't make any sense to Draco. Pettigrew was barely competent. He wasn't obnoxiously loud about his loyalty like Bellatrix was either, though maybe quiet devotion was just as admired. But he didn't seem to do anything of greater importance than all the other random people around here.

They could get on just fine without him so why did the Dark Lord favor him so much? He spoke to him in that weird way he spoke to Bella. Like he was, as appalling as it was to think, 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 with them. Flirting if it was convoluted and covered with a blanket of demeaning malignance.

The Dark Lord loved to tease people. It wasn't something that, after all the horrific tales he'd heard over the years, Draco would ever expect from him, and it was one of the most disconcerting things about him. He did it to Draco sometimes, spoke to him in a way that was meant to either humiliate or confuse him, or both. And occasionally he had that creepy undertone that Draco would, in any other circumstances, deem sexual.

But he didn't think the Dark Lord was trying to seduce him. Why would he? If he wanted something from Draco, would he not simply take it? Draco highly doubted he would waste time being coy and playful. He shuddered outwardly at the thought.

Disturbing as it was, it got him thinking. Did the Dark Lord bed his followers? Did he hold the possibility over their heads, watching them claw at each other and fight for it like they did with any form of his approval? Draco wouldn't put it past him.

He imagined they would boast their heads off if anyone had made it to the Dark Lord’s bed. It was because he'd never heard such tales that he guessed this wasn't something that actually happened and was only a product of his increasingly bizarre imagination.

In reality, the Dark Lord exercised his dominance in many different forms. He kept them on their toes. What kind of evil master would he be if he didn't? It seemed he liked them at each other’s throats, testing each other’s loyalty and resilience so he didn't have to. Draco thought he was picked on because he was the runt of the group.

Draco rolled up his sleeve, staring at the mark on his thin forearm. It was so ugly. He despised this thing more than anything else in the world. More than muggle-borns, more than crazed Death Eaters, more than the violation of his pretty house. He hated this mark.

He didn't even want to be a Death Eater. He didn't want Voldemort to win. He wanted him gone. He wanted this war to be over. He wanted stupid Potter to swoop in with his savior complex and his heroics and stop this. Or just to show up at his window like a fairytale prince, pick him up bridal-style, and run away with him. Just because he wanted to leave. Not any other reason.

Why did they want to live under the Dark Lord’s oppression anyway? So what if he had to share a classroom with muggle-borns? He didn't even go to school anymore, what did he care?

He wished he was still in school. He had always disliked the actual homework, but those were simpler days. Being with his friends, gossiping, poking fun at their peers, and skipping out on lunches in the Great Hall in favor of causing trouble with a to-go apple in hand. Life was a lot easier when his biggest problem was worrying if his hair looked okay and his greatest schemes were how he would make his friends laugh that day.

Draco’s biggest worry these days shouldn't be the ugly mark on his skin, but it was. It was ugly and he wanted it 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒. It hurt, it burned whenever the Dark Lord was close, whenever he had his eyes on him. It hadn't even been his choice to take it. His mother didn't have one. She was a Death Eater by association. Why couldn't he be that?

The Dark Lord had been very pleased to see Draco’s mark. As the son of a proclaimed failure, Draco had a lot to live up to. He was under the Dark Lord’s watchful eye, any misstep being both his and his family’s disgrace.

Draco went to his bookshelf, reaching for the stand that held his knife. It was a beautiful dagger he had received as a gift for his fourteenth birthday. It was decorative more than anything and had, until now, been used only to adorn his shelf. The handle was resin, dried purple pansies creating an exquisite hilt.

Bringing the knife to his forearm, he swiped it once across his pale skin where the mark covered it. Blood seeped from the thin line and with it spilled out the rot inside him. As he watched the blood trickle down his arm and darken the bunched sleeve of his robe, Draco felt relieved.

Tension, anger, and that revolting sickness he constantly felt were replaced with a distracting and preferable burn. He took the knife to his arm once more. He didn't cut any deeper, just a light stripe across the hideous emblem. Relief flooded him as his blood left, and in the wake of the brief sting, he felt calm.

Something lit up inside him as he did it, awakening the darkened depths of his mind. He knew it was a bad thing to do, but it didn't 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 bad. And it was only a few small cuts. It was only a little bit of relief. And if it was bad, he deserved it. This monstrous thing on his body deserved it.

He hissed in pain as he nicked himself again, but watching the snake’s body leak crimson made him feel better. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling more at ease than he had in too long. He cleaned off his knife and fetched himself a damp cloth to dab away the mess from his arm. He didn't want to heal it with magic, he wanted the mild pain to remain.

He ran his fresh cuts underneath cold water and once they'd stopped bleeding, he tugged down his sleeve, re-tied his bootlaces, and headed downstairs. The Dark Lord was in his room, and though he was far down the hall from Draco, his presence pervaded the air of the house. Draco’s one comfort was that he rarely came out.

Draco spent most of his time in his room, pushing away thoughts of death by reading through books about magic darker than Defense class had ever covered. He found it all interesting, but he couldn't say he understood how it became obsessive for some people. It was any other interesting branch of magic, if a bit more intriguing due to the illegal factor.

Draco’s heeled boots clicked against the steps as he made his way downstairs. He lingered in the doorway of the sitting room, bowing his head as if he were ashamed of his own presence.

Bellatrix was standing on the sofa, her feet bare. Her boots were lying under the table, tossed haphazardly out of her way. Narcissa was having a cup of tea, stiff and impassive save for the irritated glances she directed at her sister. Lucius was up and pacing, pausing occasionally to stare out the window. They all paused their activities to stare at Draco.

“Is there something you need, darling?” Narcissa asked.

“Em, no.”

Bellatrix flopped down on the sofa, settling down and patting the spot next to her. Draco blinked at her, his feet rooted to their spot.

“C’mere.” She opened her arms for him.

Creep.

Grudgingly, he joined her on the sofa, allowing her to nestle him into her side. Such a gesture should be comforting, familial, but it was nothing of the sort. Bella’s hand curled around his shoulder, her toothy grin uncanny among the darkness that she embodied. It wasn't a nice grin. It was ugly and left Draco ill at ease, so on second thought it was perfectly fitting for her.

“Bored, Draco?” she said. “Ready for another lesson?”

She, like the rest of his family, treated the Dark Arts like an ancient treasure. Draco supposed that was precisely what they were, depending on what you would define as treasure. Bellatrix said performers of such magic garnered fear and subsequently respect. People respected what they feared. They respected those who sat upon unachievable thrones. Hadn't Draco known this his whole life?

His father said there was freedom in the Dark Arts. You could test the limits to your heart’s content, unrestricted by trivial things like laws and morals. Severus knew a lot more about the Dark Arts than Draco had ever realized. He had even taught Draco’s father quite a bit about it.

His mother said there was a beauty to it. An intoxicating, unfixed, ever-expanding, and mystifying beauty. Something mysterious that she had not yet succeeded in unraveling. Something Draco couldn't decide if he wanted to or not.

“I’m a bit tired at the moment,” Draco said.

Bella’s laugh rang in his ear. “Aw, the little duckling is tired. He takes after you, Lucy.”

Draco wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he knew it was probably insulting. His dad, who understood the insult, didn't look very happy.

He turned a disdainful look on Bellatrix. “How I'd like to explore the cobwebbed crevices of your mind to understand how you imagine me.”

“I don't have to imagine. I've known you your whole life, brat.”

Draco imagined they’d fought like this since they were children. He wasn't sure how long they'd know one another, but any amount of time spent with the two together was unbearable. How did his mother put up with years of this?

“You've proven Draco could have worse role models,” Lucius said.

“Oh?” she cackled. “I don't suppose you'd like to take my spot as his instructor, then?”

Draco wouldn't mind that. His dad may not have the greatest moral compass of any man, but he was less keen on harming others for the fun of it. He was, as he was often made fun of for, too soft. He was still much tougher than Draco.

“I happen to be proficient in the Dark Arts,” he bit out.

Draco thought he sounded slightly jealous. Judging by the way they behaved, Draco wouldn't be surprised if this was something she had been holding over his head for a long time.

“Following your boy around like a bitch doesn't make you 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡,” she made an attempt to copy his plummy voice, “in an art that takes actual brains to master.”

Your boy? What boy? Was she referring to Severus? They did always stand by each other, figuratively just as much as literally.

“It must not take much if you've gotten the hang of it.”

“You’ve always been such a baby about it.”

“At least I know where my head’s at.”

Bella’s eyes flashed, her playful taunts having the tendency to become something vicious in the space of a second.

“Enough!” Narcissa commanded, raising her voice uncharacteristically.

Draco rarely heard his mother yell.

“You two behave as if you were children.”

“It’s natural for Bella,” Lucius said. “She hasn't grown up since then.”

Bellatrix shot up abruptly. “You’re still just as much of a-”

“Stop it!” Narcissa shouted, her voice sounding more desperate this time. “What kind of example are you setting for Draco?”

Draco didn't add the unnecessary comment that he wasn't taking any life lessons from either of them.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Bellatrix dismissed her sister. “You've cradled him too much.”

Lucius was swift with a harsh correction. “The word is coddled, you stupid cow.”

“The word is coddled,” she mimicked, confirming the childish accusations. “You know what I mean! You protect him too much.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Narcissa asked sharply. “Toss him to the wolves?”

Bellatrix turned her grin on Draco. “You’ve ever been hit in your face?”

“Yes,” Draco said, equal parts confused and frightened.

Bella’s smile fell into a surprised frown. “Really?”

She looked over to Lucius.

“Not by me,” he snapped, deeply offended by the mere implication in her stare.

“He needs a little-” Bellatrix voluntarily shook her body, sticking out her tongue in the comical symbol of dying. Draco didn't know what that meant but his parents seemed to.

“Bella!” Narcissa scolded even more harshly.

“Oh, sure,” Lucius’ voice was full of mockery and contempt. “Shake him around a bit til he’s lost his mind. He’ll make you a lovely counterpart.”

Narcissa slammed her saucer down on the table so hard Draco was surprised it didn't break. She shot up from her seat, blazing eyes on Lucius.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Me? Your sister is suggesting I take a page from your lovely father’s book.”

The way he said ‘your’ was full of long-held-back detestation. Draco didn't know anything about his maternal grandparents besides the things you could read in a book. And he still didn't know what they were talking about, but it was very obviously personal.

“Draco, leave,” Narcissa ordered, her voice calmer now as she spoke to him.

He got up to leave and Bellatrix stood, too.

“He doesn't have to go,” she said. “This is what I mean. You can't keep protecting him like this.”

“I can do as I please with my own son.”

“What good will it do him? Make him a pitiful excuse for an heir? Leave him to rely on Mummy and Daddy forever? Or maybe let him do as he pleases, come up with his own ideas, and end up like Andy.”

“Bellatrix!”

“Andy?” Draco mumbled, but Bellatrix caught it.

“You know our sister Andromeda, yeah?”

“Know her?”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and her head along with them. “Of her.”

“Sure.”

“When we were your age, Andy thought it would be a good idea to marry a mudblood.” Bellatrix laughed so hard she started choking. Clearing her throat, she said, “It’s disgusting, isn't it?”

“Terribly.” Draco wasn't sure he actually thought it that big a deal anymore. After all that he'd been through and witnessed since last summer, he had come to the conclusion there were much worse things in the world than marrying muggle spawn.

“It’s a shame,” Lucius said. “She could have had a beautiful life.”

Draco wondered if her life was beautiful now or if she had regrets. He wondered if his dad actually thought his life was beautiful. Was that how he described it when he was alone with no one to put on a show for?

“And her daughter, as you've heard, is a werewolf fucker.” Bella didn't laugh at that. Instead, she growled in rage.

“Please, stop talking,” Narcissa begged.

Draco could see why Andromeda left. Who wouldn't want to run from this? And with as good a reason as being in love, what could possibly keep her? Draco looked over at his mother. She stared straight ahead of her, expression empty. He could think of one thing.

“She left, then?” he said. “Just like that.”

“She thought that foul boy was better than her own family,” Bella spat. “Not an ounce of loyalty in her.”

“I’m surprised she didn't come crawling back to us,” Lucius said. “Do you remember how dull he was?”

Bellatrix laughed again and this time Lucius joined her.

“I wish she had married a better man,” Bella said. “I could have ended up with a brother-in-law I like.”

For once, Lucius didn't look overly offended at the jab. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Doubtful. You don't like anyone.”

“I like Rodolphus,” she argued.

“Not when you were betrothed, you didn't.”

“Ugh, no. He was such a bore.” Bellatrix jabbed a finger in Draco’s direction. “Does he have a girl?”

“They are not yet engaged,” Narcissa said.

Draco’s eyes widened at her statement. What she meant to say was “No, he doesn't.”

“Who is it?” Bellatrix asked excitedly, joining Narcissa on the sofa.

“Astoria Greengrass.”

The unagreed engagement was bad, but that came as much more of a shock. Astoria Greengrass? As in the little girl that followed Daphne and their group around Hogwarts for the first four years. She never really stopped, but she eventually made some friends of her own. That twerp was going to be his wife?

Bellatrix went on about Tori’s respectable family, but all Draco could care about was the fact that this had been decided completely without his consent. He knew he would have to marry for status rather than love, but he never considered the fact that he wouldn't have any say in choosing his own wife.

Astoria was a sweet girl, Draco had no problems with her. He was shocked more than anything. When had this been decided? How long had this been the plan? Why hadn't anyone had the idea to let him know?

“I suppose you weren't planning to let me know this?” Draco said angrily.

Narcissa looked up, startled. Just as Draco was unused to his mother’s harshness, she was unused to his anger.

“We weren't going to keep it from you forever.”

“It would be very difficult to have you engaged without you knowing,” Lucius said.

“When was this decided?” Draco demanded. “I would have liked to be informed of who 𝑚𝑦 future wife is going to be.”

“Draco, dear,” his father said coolly. He waved a hand between him and Narcissa. “We’ve been spoken for since we were five. It’s not so unusual.”

“I don't care how usual it is,” Draco snapped. Lucius frowned at his tone but Draco didn't care about that either. “It’s 𝑚𝑦 future. What if I didn't want to marry Astoria?”

“I thought you two were friends,” Narcissa said.

That didn't ease his anger at all. Didn't she see the problem? They were readily giving his hand without even having informed him. And he was supposed to be okay with that?

“Oh, calm down,” Bellatrix said. “Your parents have made you a good match. You’ll thank them later, trust me. You’re only angry now because you're young.”

The look Narcissa gave her sister was one of both confusion and pity. Or plain sadness. Draco couldn't tell and he didn't care.

“I understand perfectly well. You can't make decisions about my life without my consent.”

“I didn't realize it would be such a great deal to you,” Narcissa said. She sounded slightly sympathetic.

“It seems you didn't take me into consideration at all.”

“Draco, I'm sorry–”

Draco didn't hear her out, stomping out of the room. He heard Bellatrix’s voice as he left.

“Let him go. He’ll come to his senses on his own.”

Draco paused at the bottom of the staircase, casting a look backward toward the sitting room before bolting upstairs. He wondered if Bellatrix was speaking from experience.

His dad said he and Mum had been promised to one another since they were five years old. That was madness. When had they been told? Since they were that young? And they hadn't cared? He supposed they thought this was the normal way to do it. He couldn't really blame them for that. He was still angry, though.

Draco flopped dramatically down on his bed, burying his face in his pillows. Why was everyone horrible? Why did no one stop for even a second to consider how all of this might be making him feel? Draco wanted to cry but he didn't have any tears left in him. Sometimes he felt like all his tears, all his emotions, had dried up. That was alright with him. He didn't want to cry ever again.

He blamed the Dark Lord for this. This particular problem wasn't his fault, but Draco blamed him for everything these days. He was the one responsible for all of his misery. Everyone was so in love with him and his stupid power and his stupid ugly face. Bellatrix loved the fact that whenever he wasn't off doing whatever creepy business he did, he chose to reside in their house. She called it an honor. Didn't he have a damn house of his own? Draco supposed no one wanted to rent out a flat to Lord Voldemort.

Draco felt helpless and pathetically childish. He was whining about the Dark Lord and his goons invading his personal space as if his biggest worry right now was not being able to have tea time with his mum in peace. That wasn't even the real reason he was angry right now.

He wondered, did Tori know? He doubted she wanted to marry him any more than he did her. In a bout of anger, he did something that might get him into trouble later. He pulled out a piece of parchment and his quill case and wrote to Astoria.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑇𝑜𝑟𝑖,

𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑤𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑠. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑤𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒, 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ, 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒, 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑. 𝐸𝑛𝑔𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑑, 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑜. 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑙𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑠𝑜. 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑡. 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒.

𝐼𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢, 𝐷𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑛𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝐷𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑑. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑑𝑑, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑢𝑛, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒. 𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑠.

𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝐼. 𝐼𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑤𝑒'𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒, 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠, 𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑜.

Chapter Text

Harry wrestled with nightmares all through the night. He usually slept more soundly at the Burrow. Or was that another one of his delusions? Was he okay? Genuinely? Doubtful.

He woke up screaming, sweating, crying, all the good stuff. He wondered if Voldemort was plagued by nightmares. What did that matter? If he was, it was his own weirdness that caused it, just as he did to Harry. That freak ruined his life day and night.

Ron held Harry against his chest, soothing him like he did every time this happened. Maybe Ron wasn't sick of him just yet. Someone who was tired of his friendship probably wouldn't spend his nights consoling instead of sleeping.

“Do you love me?”

“Yeah,” Ron said easily. He tucked Harry into his side with one hand on the back of his head.

“And Hermione?”

“And Hermione,” he confirmed.

Ron hugged like Mrs. Weasley. Safe. Protective. Home. The other Weasley’s did that, too. Maybe it was a Weasley thing. But Ginny didn't do that. It was the opposite where Harry felt the need to safely envelop Ginny in his arms.

“Does- does Ginny?” Harry stammered. “Does Ginny love me?”

“So much.” Ron squeezed him to physically convey just how much.

“Am I losing my mind?”

“I don't think so.”

Ron’s quick response came as a comfort to Harry. Ron didn't think he was mad. That was good.

“And if you do,” Ron said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

That doubled his comfort. Ron would never desert him. “Thanks.”

“You’ll find it, Haz.”

“Hmm?” Harry mumbled tiredly into Ron’s chest.

“Your peace of mind,” he replied. “Your safety, your ease, whatever. You’ll find it.”

“Where do you find yours? Your peace of mind.”

“On your right side.”

“Huh? I'm too tired for your code words.”

Ron chuckled. “Your right-hand side. Like, your right-hand man.”

“Oh, yeah. I like that.”

“Yeah? So you find yours and all find mine at your right side.”

“Mhm, right side,” Harry mumbled.

Ron held him like that until they both fell asleep huddled beneath Harry’s blanket.

***

Harry and Ron woke to Hermione calling them for breakfast. She was talking several notches too loud for so early in the morning. Ad she informed them, it was actually past noon. The boys didn't ask why she was forcing them out of bed. Hermione always acted weird when she was on edge, which was quite often for her but even more so these days.

Ron and Harry trudged downstairs, making a beeline toward the kitchen. Harry rubbed at his side. Even with Ted’s healing spells, his ribs were still sore and achy. Fred was sitting at the table munching on a bowl of abnormally purple cereal.

“Where’s George?” Ron asked, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

“Sleeping.”

“Didn't know he did that.” Ron’s tone was humorous, but the concern written on his face begged the question, was he okay?

“He’s sleeping off the pain relieving potion Mum gave him,” Fred said. “Made him all drowsy. Pretty sure he was delirious last night, he wouldn't shut up about his 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 detailed way of making scrambled eggs.”

Ron and Harry shared a look.

“Anyway, he passed out at around one and he's still resting.” Fred slurped up a spoonful of cereal, a dot of milk splashing his cheek.

Hermione shuffled around the kitchen, making toast and, by the concentrated look on her face, constructing something much more complex in her head.

“Do you guys want to do something today?” Ron asked. “I’m dying to get away from Mum’s wedding frenzy.”

“Same,” Fred agreed. “When I get married, I don't want any of this fuss.”

“Like you’ll ever get married.”

Fred dipped his fingers into his bowl and launched a soggy purple loop of cereal at Ron.

“You’re disgusting!” Ron shouted, wiping milk off his face as Fred fell into laughter.

Harry scooted over slightly.

“Do you mind?” Hermione snapped. “Honestly, sometimes I can't stand any of you.”

“I didn't do anything,” Harry said.

Coming in from the back garden, Ginny barged into the house, letting the door shut with a slam. The twiggy wreath on it shook.

“What’s your problem?” Fred asked.

“Don’t talk to me!” Ginny stomped out of the room, not bothering to toss her trainers off. They heard her pounding feet on the stairs, following the steps until the distinct sound of her bedroom door slamming shut was heard.

They looked at each other and Molly came bustling into the kitchen, casting accusing stares on all of them.

“What have you done to Ginny?”

Ron’s hands flew up, defending himself from her accusatory wrath. “We didn't do that. She came inside all angry.”

Molly shook her head. Her sight landed on Fred’s cereal bowl that he was in the process of refilling, and her mouth turned downward the way it did whenever she was about to announce her displeasure.

“No better than a toddler, you,” she said. “I made you a nice lunch, you didn't touch a bit of it, and now you're having cereal.”

“I wasn't hungry when you made lunch,” Fred said sheepishly.

Molly shook her head again, but there was no trace of any real disappointment in it.

Another angry storm came through the back door, this time in the form of swishing silver hair and French shouts. Bill stepped cautiously into the house. Harry, Ron, Fred, and Hermione looked at one another and kept their eye rolls to themselves.
Fleur and Bill were over often to oversee the final preparations for their wedding day, not a visit going by where Ginny and Fleur didn't exchange a mean word if not a full-on shouting match. Molly sympathized with Ginny more, being her mother and understanding that Fleur was a difficult person to get along with. Hermione, Ron, and Harry had unanimously agreed that they were both just as annoying.

“Please, with the yelling,” Molly said. “What’s going on now?”

Fleur didn't grace her with a response. She stalked out of the kitchen, long hair whipping behind her. Molly looked at Bill, who was looking guilty in the corner.

“I don’t know how to make them stop fighting.”

“You can't make them stop,” Hermione said. “They’ve got to realize on their own how immature they're being.”

“I might have made it worse,” Bill said. “I think I hurt Ginny’s feelings.”

“Then you better make up with her,” Molly said. “I don't want any trouble at the wedding.”

Bill headed upstairs, giving his mother no such promises. Fleur was as quick to anger as any of the Weasleys, but she calmed down far easier than he knew Ginny would. And Fleur wasn't the one with the problem. She was mean when Ginny’s nasty comments provoked her, but she didn't hate her.

Bill approached Ginny’s door, heart clenching with guilt as he heard muffled sobs from within. He didn't think Fleur deserved it, Ginny should be more mature, but he felt sympathetic toward his little sister. He never meant to make her so upset, he just wished she would tell him what bothered her so much about his fiancée.

Bill knocked, being told immediately to fuck off, then waited a minute before knocking again. Ginny’s mumbled “come in” reached the other side of the door. Ginny was lying face down in bed, still wearing her shoes. Bill sat and tugged her trainers off. Ginny mumbled something into her pillow.

“What’s that?”

“I said,” Ginny spoke louder, flipping around and sitting up. “Did you come to convince me that stupid tart you're marrying would actually make a decent member of our family?”

Bill blinked at her. He was sure she hadn't said all that. “That’s very rude.”

“Oh, yeah, because she’s just the sweetest.”

“Why do you hate Fleur?”

“Is my calling her a stupid, self-centered bitch every day not enough to help you understand?”

“Not really, no. Did she do something to you?”

“What would it matter? You’d take her side anyway.”

“Ginny.” Bill slipped his hand into Ginny’s. She didn't make any move to hold him back, but she let her hand rest in his. “I’ll always take your side. You come first, before anyone. I’m not going to let you harass Fleur for no reason, but if something’s really wrong, you can tell me.”

“You took her side.”

“Because you told her we didn't want her in the family.”

Ginny shrugged, pulling her hand from Bill’s to cross her arms. “I don't.”

“Well, I do.”

“Then go marry her!” Ginny shouted. “Go have your nice little life far away from me and I’ll never bother you and your stupid, precious wife ever again. Just leave! I don't care. I don't want either of you here.”

“Is that why you're upset? You don't want me to get married?”

Ginny slumped against her pillows, her pout the very same she wore as a little girl when their mum would refuse a biscuit before dinner. Bill would always sneak her one. Ginny had always been Bill’s little girl. He remembered holding her as a baby, playing with her, begging Mum to let him help care for her. He used to sing her to sleep, at one point being the only person who could put her down.

Ginny would always be his baby, but she was afraid her crown title was being taken away by someone undeserving. He could understand that. Not because he thought Fleur was undeserving in sharing his affections, but because if it were Ginny getting married he would immediately deem anyone unworthy. No one could love her the way he did, no one would be able to take care of her properly.

“Ginny.”

“If you're going to tell me it's stupid, I already know.”

“I wasn't going to say that. What’s stupid, exactly?”

“I barely see you as it is,” Ginny said. “When you're married, when are you ever going to be around? You’ll be with your wife, having family dinners with her, taking her out places, and going on vacations together. We’ll never get to hang out.”

Bill chuckled, earning a glare from Ginny.

“We can still hang out,” he said. “I’m not running away. I’m still going to like you as much as I did when I was single, you’ll just have to split my time. Is that okay?”

“No,” Ginny grumbled.

“Now you're just being mean. Is that the only reason you're upset?”

Ginny looked away, her round cheeks flushed as she muttered, “Yeah.”

“C’mere.” Bill opened his arms and Ginny fell into his hug. “I love you, Ginny. You’re my baby girl, you know that?” Bill brushed his nose against Ginny’s. “And you're always going to be.”

“I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

“I know you are.”

The embarrassment and slight quiver in her voice told him she really did feel bad. It reminded him just how young Ginny was. Two weeks and she’d be sixteen, mature in many ways but still sheltering the softness of a little girl who needed her big brother.

Bill rubbed her back. “I’d like you to apologize to Fleur, please.”

Ginny groaned. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. Because I love her, too, and you don't have to, but I won't let you be needlessly mean to her.”

“Fine, I’ll apologize. But only if she does first.”

Bill knew that was as good as he was going to get. Thankfully, Fleur wouldn't be as much trouble to convince. She’d somewhat given up on trying to make peace with Ginny, but she still wanted to. She wanted the family to like her. He wished they could see her the way he did so they could love her just as much.

Fleur and Ginny fought less after that, but they were by no means friends. They weren't even friendly, they simply didn't speak. Everyone else hoped that was their way of easing into a better relationship. Nobody said it, but they were all afraid of having to deal with a family feud every Thanksgiving. Not even an entertaining one that they could laugh about. It was just unpleasant to bear.

The days flew by filled with wedding preparations, updates from the Order, and family dinners. Harry kept expecting to see Moody come through the door, gruff as he offered another update for them. But he never did. Molly kept him busy enough that he didn't have to dwell on it, something he suspected she was doing on purpose.

Molly wouldn't let them so much as breathe for more than two seconds before she was throwing ribbons and rose petals at them. Harry tried to be mindful of the fact that she was doing a lot and her goal truly wasn't to get their stress levels as high as hers, but she was succeeding nonetheless.

Bill and Fleur still had to work, so the rest of them were left with a mountain of last-minute details. Harry made sure to always be conveniently missing when any advice was being asked of. He couldn't imagine planning his own wedding. He was both incredibly indecisive as well as possessing a significant lack of care for half the things Fleur, Bill, and their mothers were so worried about.

“Won’t give it a rest, will she?” Ron said when they were finally shut up in his room.

Ron flopped down on his bed, sending Crookshanks, who had been curling up for a nap, shrieking away. Ron followed him with a sideways glare. Crookshanks nestled himself safely in Hermione’s lap, causing her to work around him. She was still sorting through her enormous collection of books. Filling up the pile of books she was keeping were texts about the darkest of arts that she had 𝑛𝑜𝑡 stolen from Dumbledore’s office, filled with information about making and destroying horcruxes.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry said. “That you two should stay here.”

“Hmm,” Ron hummed. “No, I don't think so.”

“Don’t start with this, Harry,” Hermione said, dropping a heavy book onto her keep stack. “You can't do this alone and I've already done far too much organizing and packing for you to throw it away just because you want to go heroing alone.”

“This isn't your fight. You shouldn't have to be dragged into this because of me.”

“This is all of our fight,” Ron said. “This war threatens all our lives, not just yours. You may be the chosen one, but this is bigger than you.”

“And you're not dragging us into it,” Hermione added. “We made the choice to stand by you years ago when we decided to follow you into the school’s basement to find a mythical object.”

“Yeah,” Ron chuckled. “You’re stuck with us, mate.”

Molly’s call disrupted them, beckoning them downstairs. Ron groaned and Hermione moved Crookshanks from her lap. She sent them off with jobs, Harry being confined to the kitchen to set the table. The Delacours were arriving this morning and Molly wanted brunch to be perfect.

“Happy early birthday, Ginny,” Harry said.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, disapproving. “You won't be here for my birthday?”

“I don’t know. I hope it's a good one.”

“Me too. I hope Luna can come.”

“If you-”

“Are you done?” Molly’s loud voice interrupted. “They're here.”

Harry and Ginny rushed to place the last of the knives down and followed Molly outside to greet Fleur’s family. Ginny noticed little Gabrielle, a spitting image of her older sister, gazing up at Harry with fluttering lashes. Ginny slipped an arm around her shoulder.

“That one,” she spoke quietly as she pointed a finger at Harry. “He’s nothing but trouble. I wouldn't even think about it, if I were you.”

“Why? You two have been together?”

Ginny grinned. “I used to be all googly-eyes mad for him when I was your age.”

Gabrielle went bright pink and Ginny couldn't help but laugh. The girls sat together at breakfast, Ginny keeping her voice low so Fleur couldn't overhear their conversation.

Gabrielle and Fleur were attached by the hip, the younger following her older sister everywhere. It reminded Ginny of herself and Bill and she wondered if Gabi felt like Bill was snatching her best friend away. Bill might have had the same thought because Ginny noticed him making an effort to befriend the young girl. It was sort of sweet, seeing them get on so well. Maybe this family might be tolerable after all.

***

"You really don’t like being fussed over, do you?" Ginny said, cupping Harry’s chin.

"It’s just a birthday. I’ve never made a big deal of them."

Harry hated the inconvenience he caused. The inconvenience that he was. Molly insisted on throwing him a party as if she wasn't tired enough, making sure Bill and Fleur had a lovely wedding and that her family was kept safe from Voldemort’s wicked lackeys. He was only further stressing her out, always adding to the pressure. She said she didn't mind, that she was happy to, but if he weren't here there would be one less plate to clean.

“Well, I like making a big deal of you.”

Ginny shifted closer, pressing her lips against his. The kiss was soft, no fireworks. It was sweet. Nice. Normal.

Ginny glanced toward the door, then back at Harry with a glint in her eye. “Come on,” she said, tugging his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something.”

They slipped quietly outside, running through the tall grass toward the apple orchard. The orchard was still and golden, sunlight spilling through the trees. The warm air carried the scent of apple blossoms. Ginny had hardly laid down the picnic blanket she grabbed when Harry pulled her down, rolling on top of her.

She grinned up at him, making him laugh.

”What?”

”Nothing,” Harry laughed.

Nothing. Just Ginny. Ginny who made everything feel lighter. Who could always made Harry feel better. Maybe she wasn't fireworks and heart-stopping passion, but she was something just as good.

Ginny kissed him. Her lips tasted like cherries.

“Do you think you’ll find someone else while you're gone? A new girlfriend.”

“I have a feeling my options will be slim.”

Ginny laughed. Harry pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him on top of her. She wouldn't have called it perfect, she wouldn't even say it felt undoubtedly right. But it felt good, and that was enough for her.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Do I- I, er-”

“Only if you want to.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I want to. But I've- I've never-”

“I know. Neither have I.”

Harry gasped when Ginny’s hands slid beneath his t-shirt. She wandered over his body, sending shivers across his skin before tugging his shirt off. Harry captured her in a slow kiss. It wasn't any different, not more intimate. But Ginny’s hands were warm and her lips soft.

Their exploration of each other’s bodies was messy, all clumsy hands and sloppy kisses. The air buzzed with nervous excitement. Ginny’s hands slid down his back, beneath the waistband of his trousers. He was careful not to hurt her, easing their way into it.

Ginny took his hand, interlocking their fingers. Harry’s lips brushed against her cheek, his panting breath in her ear. She buried her moans in his shoulder. Their hips moved together in sloppy but not unsatisfactory rhythm. The soft hush of summer mingled with the sounds they made, the orchard holding onto it for them. It always would, even when its trees rotted and withered, even when Harry and Ginny did the same.

“Harry.”

Harry nodded, throat tight. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ginny.”

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

***

Harry spent the morning of his birthday color-coding ribbons. He’d spent the night having dreams about Voldemort. He tried to think about Ginny instead. She was a lot more pleasant and didn't look like a botched crossover of snake meets egg. He looked like literal skin and bones. Did he have organs in there? He looked almost translucent, like one of those jello desserts with fruit inside. Harry could see all his pineapples.

He shouldn't be thinking about this. He should be picturing Ginny naked, not Voldemort. He and Ginny had been, it was, well, it was okay. It wasn't the most amazing thing he'd ever felt, but maybe that was just a first time thing. It didn't feel bad, it just wasn't meaningful. But he liked Ginny, so it couldn't be that big a worry. They would just have to do it more.

Harry’s ribbon work was taken away by Fleur and her mother and he was left to oscillate between thoughts of Ginny and Voldemort. He wasn't in the mood for a dinner full of people or the party the others had so thoughtfully set up for him. The garden was decked out with purple and gold streamers, floating lanterns, and bunches of balloons tied to chairs. A birthday feast was laid out on the table and Molly had even made him a cake that looked like a golden snitch.

As Harry stood on the terrace looking out at the people celebrating him, all he could feel was how he didn't deserve this. And he didn't want it. He didn't want to know he was loved here just when he was about to depart on a journey that he very well may not return from. He would, because he had to, but there was always the possibility.

And if Harry didn't come back, all these people that were happy and celebrating him would be planning his funeral and mourning him instead. What if he was gone for a long time? What if it took years to defeat Voldemort?

Seeing Hagrid cheered him up some, he gave him a cool pouch, but Hagrid was just another person whose life had been, in one way or another, tormented by Harry’s cursed fate.

Charlie spotted him sitting alone and sat on the terrace steps beside him. His hair was done neatly in two half braids, his waves styled smoothly and flowing around his shoulders. He'd had a bit of a tussle with Molly earlier about cutting his hair for the wedding, something only she was rooting for.

Ginny came to his defense first, and the rest of his siblings, as well as Harry, joined in. Molly admitted defeat on the condition that he do something to make himself presentable, to which Madame Delacour offered to braid it for him.

“Alright, bud?”

Harry nodded.

Charlie leaned close to him, and Harry could practically feel his smile as he whispered “happy birthday” and tickled his side. Harry swatted his hand away, but he couldn't fight his own smile.

“You’re not allowed to bother me, it's my birthday.”

“I haven't seen you in forever. I need to get my fill in.”

“How long are you staying?”

Charlie scratched his denim-clad arm, staring thoughtfully at a copse of trees. Before he could decide on an answer, a ruckus struck up around them. Arthur had sent a patronus informing them the Minister was coming.

Remus looked at Tonks, worry seeping into the lines of his face. He stooped where Harry sat, taking his hand.

“We have to go, Harry, I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon?”

“Sure.”

“I owe you a drink sometime. Happy birthday, love.”

Remus squeezed his hand once, then took Tonks by the arm, and the two disappeared. Harry stared out at the gate where Arthur and Scrimgeour were approaching. What could the Ministry possibly want with him this time?

***

“I think we should break up.”

Harry stared at Ginny, her words scratching the surface of his skin. They wanted to break through, to cut deep through his hardened layers, but they didn't. Harry and Ginny were sitting on her bed, the sound of voices and clinking dishes floating upstairs. Sunlight streamed in behind Harry, casting a yellow halo around his mop of dark hair.

“Why?”

The question made her want to roll her eyes, which then made her feel guilty. She wasn't annoyed with Harry. She wasn't sure what she was annoyed with. Harry was wonderful. He was kind and fun and good. But the spot in her chest where he was supposed to live, filling it with sparks and butterflies, was empty. She thought about him leaving, maybe even finding someone else, and she sort of didn't care.

She thought being intimate with him would suddenly ignite something, bringing them closer together in a way more romantic than their late-night conversations full of goofy jokes and midnight snacks.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

Ginny’s chest tightened with guilt. He hadn't done anything wrong. It was something wrong with her, something keeping her from feeling everything she was supposed to. He’d been so sweet, so careful with her heart. But she didn't feel as much for him as she thought she would when he was her starry-eyed crush. And maybe they were together more because it made sense than it felt right.

“No, Harry. It’s not that.”

It wasn't that. It was the fact that Harry still felt like a friend she kissed a few times instead of a full stop, heart rush, teenage dream.

“I just think, since you're leaving, it might be for the best. You don't need any distractions. And I don't need to sit around missing my boyfriend. It’s not fair to either of us.”

There was a part of Harry, whatever part sat still on the surface like a sheen of ice, that told him to fight for her. But a small ache in the pit of his stomach told him to let it go. It didn't want to hold on. Why, he wasn't sure. It would be easy, it had always been easy. It should be easy.

Harry reached for Ginny’s hand, but it didn't alight some spark that would keep them together. It didn't feel like anything and Harry wondered again if this was his fault. Maybe it was his lack of feeling anything that drove Ginny away. He wasn't the most romantic boyfriend in the world. He wasn't even close. And still, he didn't want to convince her he could do better.

“We can still be friends,” Ginny said. “I mean, I hope we can. I still want to be your friend.”

“Yeah,” he said absently.

He wanted to be her friend, too. For some reason, it felt like that's what they'd been this whole time. It wasn't strange, of course you would be friends with your girlfriend, but it was missing a significant part that made it different from the way he was friends with Hermione or Ron. The girlfriend part. Ginny just felt like any other friend.

“Do you think, maybe, we weren't ready for this?” he asked. “Like we were trying to hold onto it for so long but…”

“But it was never there,” Ginny finished for him. “I thought you were just brilliant when I was, like, ten, but I think we've both grown quite a bit since then.”

Ginny gave a dry laugh and Harry echoed it.

“I’m not really sure how I feel,” he said.

“About me?”

“I know how I feel about you.” He rubbed his thumb across her freckled knuckles. “I love you, Gin. And I will wherever life takes us. It’s the whole dating you thing I think we messed up.”

“We’re better friends than romantic partners, aren't we?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed again. “We are. But you're a good girlfriend, I think. To someone else, you would be.”

“Thanks. I think you'd be a good boyfriend to someone else, too.”

“I was kind of a shit boyfriend.”

Ginny gave him a light shove. “You were not. You just need someone who makes you feel a little more than I did.”

“Is it weird that I can't see myself with anyone else?”

Ginny shrugged. “I am the only person you ever dated.”

“That’s not even true,” he said, kicking at her ankle.

She scooted back on the bed, giggling. “But I was your first serious relationship.”

“If you can call that serious.” He followed her, tackling her onto the bed.

Ginny’s arms wrapped instinctively around his neck. “I’m sorry about the other day. I thought maybe if we, you know, that it would somehow make me feel like that for you.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn't have agreed to it if I hadn't been thinking the same thing.”

“We’re not very good at being boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Harry stuck his nose in the crook of Ginny’s neck, tickling her. “We were shit at it. But I kind of like being friends better.”

“I kind of like being friends better, too.”

“What are we supposed to do now? Just not date?”

Ginny poked his cheek. “That is what people tend to do when they break up.”

“Feels weird.”

Ginny pushed him off her, sitting up and straightening her ponytail. “Maybe we shouldn't tell anyone yet. I don't want all the questions and I know Mum will be disappointed.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. I wouldn't even know how to explain.”

And that was the good sort of easiness that Ginny and Harry brought each other. They didn't have to explain anything to each other. Their relationship didn't change all that much, it only no longer included unfeeling kisses or hope-fueled sexual endeavors. That was the real perfection of it.

They still smiled at one another over their breakfast, sent whispers and meaningful gazes, and snuck out to the orchard for other purposes. Harry still liked the way his toothbrush rested beside Ginny’s in the bathroom or how she only liked the way he made her tea. Ginny still enjoyed Harry sneaking into her bedroom for late-night talks and the way he would sometimes leave his things in her room.

“Mum keeps making comments about me getting married,” Ginny told Harry as they folded a pile of towels. “She’s all, “When you get married.”

“She said something like that to me the other day,” he said, shaking out a white towel. “Do you think she knows and she's trying to guilt trip us into getting back together?”

“I’m sure she’ll survive the disappointment. She’ll have plenty of other weddings to plan.” Ginny folded a towel into something that loosely resembled a square. “Weren’t these already done? I swear she unfolds things just to refold them.”

Harry snorted, redoing Ginny’s work. “She kicked Ron off napkin folding duty because he wasn't doing it neatly enough.”

“How do you fold so nicely?”

“I don't know. My aunt always acted batty when things didn't look perfect for some reason.” He smoothed his hands over any trace of creases in the fabric. “I think your mum’s noticed. She had me arranging doilies earlier. I didn't even know what a doily was until today.”

“Alas,” she said solemnly. “The chosen one has met his match, brought to defeat by decorative lace.”

“At least Voldy doesn't make me sort things by color.”

They dissolved into laughter, stifled so Molly wouldn't hear them from the other room.

“Oh!” Ginny swatted his arm with a towel. “Do you know what she said to me yesterday?” She put on a scarily accurate, high-pitched impression of her mother. “I wonder who will be next after Bill and Fleur. I know someone might already be thinking about it. And then she looked at me.”

“Oh, god,” Harry groaned. “If we told her now, she might have to cancel the wedding in mourning.”

“Ron keeps looking at me all suspicious. I don't know if he's onto us or if he thinks we’ve secretly gotten engaged. Did you tell him?”

“I haven't told anyone anything. He knows as much as he always did.”

Molly’s shouting sounded from the kitchen, saying something about gold trim and cake stands. Harry and Ginny tipped their heads together, laughing quietly. George passed by with a heap of bedsheets, dumping them on the sofa. Ginny sent him a glare.

“Don’t look at me like that. You two seemed to be having a grand romantic time with your prolonged towel folding.”

“You take a little too long to fold towels and suddenly you're engaged.”

Harry shushed her. “Stop saying that word. Your mum will start planning a second wedding as soon as she hears it.”

George flopped onto the sofa beside the laundry. “She’s already sure you two will be the next to get married.”

“She’s going to be terribly devastated then,” Ginny said, pulling out a baby blue sheet.

“Why? The lovebirds finally called it quits?”

Harry and Ginny shared a look, awkward and edged with something neither could find much bravery in them to touch.

“Actually, yeah,” Ginny said. “But you can't tell Mum. We don't want anyone to know just yet.”

“Oh.” There was a stretch of silence before George spoke again. “So, I should tell her to call off the double wedding cake?”

“The what?!”

He laughed at the pure shock on their faces, and Ginny gave him a glare worse than before.

“Gin, you're folding like a troll.” Harry snatched the sheet from her.

“Sorry, I wasn't trained in the ancient arts of laundry folding. Can't we take a break? I'm hungry and it sounds like Mum’s gone outside. Let’s sneak some snacks before she comes back.”

They left George and the half-folded laundry, and dodged flower displays as they entered the kitchen. Ginny brushed a bit of lint from her denim shorts and got to work slicing one of the bread loaves Molly made that afternoon.

She slathered a crusty piece of bread with butter, then pushed the dish toward Harry. The butter was soft from sitting out and Harry spread it liberally across his slice. He watched Ginny from the corner of his eye as he ate, making her laugh every time she caught his gaze. It almost felt like nothing had changed.

Ron entered the kitchen at the same time Molly came in from the back garden. He immediately slipped out before she could find him something to do.

“Have you two seen Fleur? I have a question about her candles.”

“I think I heard her yelling upstairs,” Ginny supplied.

“Would you find her?”

Ginny gave her mother a look that went unnoticed and she and Harry left their bread to fetch Fleur. Just as Harry stepped through the kitchen doorway, Fleur did, too, dropping the candles Molly had been so worried about. Fleur’s eyes flickered between Harry’s guilty face and her now broken candles. Harry thought he saw an eye twitch, but Ginny tugged him out of the room before he could face any real wrath.

Ron, who was sitting on the bottom of the stairs, got up when he saw Harry. He tilted his head toward the staircase.

“Can we talk, mate?” he asked quietly.

Harry assumed the whispering and hiding was so Molly wouldn't try pestering them again about what they were up to. He knew that she knew they were up to something, maybe even what it was, and she knew he knew. It made everything more secretive and tense than it needed to be.

Harry followed Ron upstairs.

Ginny went back to the abandoned laundry only to find it was all folded and George was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Text

Percy slumped forward on his desk, swiping his fingers beneath the rims of his glasses to rub at his tired eyes. The glow of lamplight illuminated the piles of paperwork stacked in front of him. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in the air, his ink-stained fingers skimming over yet another tedious report.

Honestly, how many more of these did he have to go through? Everyone seemed to have new big ideas for him to approve every week. He understood, things were more stressful now than they had ever been since Percy started working here. Even during Harry’s spectacularly ill-behaved fifth year. Percy wasn't sure that boy knew the meaning of subtlety. He ought to learn it now that everything was being closely monitored. Especially transportation, which was why Percy was currently still working instead of heading back to his lonely little flat to make dinner for one and sleep off his stress.

But he was here, keeping his eyes open to make sure he didn't approve anything ridiculous. One couldn't be too careful these days. No one wanted to take any risk they didn't absolutely have to. New hires were non-existent, as no one wanted to take the risk of trusting the wrong person. Percy received request after request to further secure the monitoring of transportation. He approved most of them. He didn't know how You-Know-Who traveled, but anything to make his life a bit more difficult. That was, after all, why they were doing all this, though it wasn't something anyone said out loud.

Percy’s quill moved mechanically across the page, checking boxes and scrawling his name into corners. The everyday hum of work, the routine and habits he had fallen into, it came as a comfort to him. Easy. Orderly. Predictable. Mountains of boring paperwork? Yes. Comfortable and unchanging? Also yes. Just how Percy preferred it.

Though lately, it wasn't so unchanging. Something was off, something that had been off for a while. Ever since…well, that didn't matter. It was off. He couldn't pretend he didn't know why, but he could do what everyone else was doing. Not saying it out loud. But it was still there. It was trapped in the tension in the air, thicker than the late July heat. It prickled at his skin, sunk down his throat and sat in the pit of his stomach. It was the kind of ominous air you got when you knew someone was watching you.

Maybe it was the constant muttering in the hallways, the subtle shift in the atmosphere that said everything was about to change and everyone could feel it. Something was happening. Something nobody cared to share with Percy. Because Percy, for all of his ambition and discipline, was still a Weasley. And by extension, an outsider.

He was a pureblood, for Merlin’s sake. This was not the kind of treatment he deserved. Not that he was treated poorly, not exactly, but it carried a certain air about it, being a Weasley. Nobody could look at him, with his freckled cheeks, red hair, and the face of his father, and look past it.

It was unfair, really. There were people out there like Lucius Malfoy, who snatched the luxuries of life and ran away with them. And he could because he sat atop the ladder that Percy had to crawl rung by rung up just so he could ask for the same things the Malfoys were freely handed.

It wasn't that he wanted to be like other purebloods, it was vile, the way they behaved, but it was a simple fact of wizarding life that his status was different. Purebloods were different things. They received different respect. But the Weasleys were so far from that, their name built into something entirely different, that those advantages were lost to Percy.

Percy had to work his hardest every second, to devote his life to the Ministry and the system it ran, to be allowed a seat in the room. And he'd done it. He'd been promoted and promoted again, he'd held the position of Junior Assistant to the Minister himself, and now he was the head of his department. Within a few years, he'd accomplished what some took years to achieve. What some didn't ever achieve.

It was something he should be proud of. And he had been, before. He'd worked for this. He gave his blood, sweat, and tears for it, and that wasn't being dramatic. Every extra hour, every rule followed to the letter, every time he tended to the needs of Cornelius Fudge and now Scrimgeour, who both had this peculiar habit of showing up whenever Percy was thinking about taking a seat. He'd earned this. He belonged here.

His mother used to beam at his O.W.L. results. She'd just about cried when he became Head Boy. His dad used to go around telling colleagues how bright his son was, how he would be walking these very halls soon enough. They had encouraged him up this hill he climbed, and now his father couldn't look him in the eye.

His parents had always wanted him to make something of himself, so that's what he did. For some reason, it didn't feel as good as he dreamed it would. For a very brief moment, it felt right, but everything after was, well, not right. He stood tall and proud, just as his parents had taught him to. He was disciplined, diligent, and ambitious to, maybe, a fault. While everyone else laughed, broke rules and laws, and whispered treason in the corners of dingy pubs, he did the right thing.

What he thought was the right thing. He set down his faith and dug his heels in. He'd always been taught to stand up for what he believed in, and that's what he did. That’s what he thought would set him down the right path. Only, he wasn't sure what he believed anymore.

He wanted to make a difference, but had he done that? He placed his trust in a system he thought was working alongside him, but maybe things were more complicated than that. Maybe the Ministry wasn't a single, perfect thing that followed the same orderly pursuit of peace and justice that he did. Maybe it was full of flawed people who did imperfect and sometimes downright awful things.

He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but everything had changed, and it changed fast. And yet, it felt so agonizingly slow. He saw You-Know-Who with his own eyes. And still, the Ministry chose to hush things up, to ignore it and hope for the best. And maybe that was for the best, maybe it was to protect the people from a nationwide panic. But maybe it wasn't.

Whatever it was, it made every step forward, every sign of loyalty he'd etched into the wall, suddenly stare back at him with wide grins and mocking laughter. This was his bed, he'd tucked it tight and smoothed the creases. Should he not lie in it? Had he considered, deep down, that maybe Harry hadn't lost his mind and he had seen something? Hadn't he not wanted to believe it?

He was wrong.

Wrong about Harry. Wrong about Dumbledore. Wrong about Voldemort.

He'd put his trust in the wrong people. It was a mistake, one anyone might make, and maybe he might be forgiven had he not been so cruel and dismissive about it. He'd so easily believed what was tidy, streamlined, and sensical, turning his back on his reckless, foolish family. He thought they shouldn't be so blindly devoted, but hadn't he been the same?

He couldn't undo that. And did he want to? He was sure he wasn't wanted back home, but he wasn't sure he wanted to step away from this anyway. If he did, everything he'd built, everything he'd sacrificed and worked for, would be meaningless. He had climbed so high and he feared what would become of him if he jumped off his precipice.

Percy’s tumultuous thoughts and the work he was losing focus on were halted by a knock on the door. He looked up, only slightly annoyed by this interruption.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open, the blonde head of a young assistant poking in. She held a cream-colored envelope, setting it down on Percy’s desk with a polite smile.

“Is this for me?”

He already knew the answer, but he was surprised anyone was writing to him. He assumed it was another one of the social pleasantries the Ministry sent out, or perhaps someone important inviting him to a stuffy dinner party. Though those were becoming scarce these days.

“Yes, sir. It’s from Bill Weasley.”

Percy blinked at the envelope, his stomach lurching slightly. He kept staring at it, long after he was left alone. His work went forgotten on the desk as he tried to make sense of this unexpected event. It was only a letter, but what could Bill possibly have to say to him? And at such a random time. It wasn't a holiday or anything.

When they were little, he and Bill had been inseparable. That felt like another lifetime ago. Where had that gone? He thought back to summers at the Burrow, long afternoons stretching into evenings when the air was warm with the smell of dinner cooking and childish laughter floated in through the kitchen window.

Back then, Bill had been his hero. He thought he was just the coolest. And he was Bill’s baby. That’s what Bill always said. And he didn't stop saying it until Percy was fourteen and insisting he was too mature for such things. Even then it came out sometimes.

Bill had been a pain when Percy became a teenager and started wanting his independence. And his space. Maybe it was Percy who was a pain, pushing Bill out of his room and insisting he could do everything and anything on his own. Even after all the teenage moodiness he subjected his older brother to, Bill was always the one there to pick him up when things went wrong.

Bill always made things better. He always knew what to say. Percy wondered how he'd gotten so wise, and if he would gain some of that wisdom when he got older. He wasn't sure if he had or not. Maybe he just lacked Bill’s talent for being comforting. If there was one person Percy knew he could count on, it was Bill. He felt safe with him. Bill had this way of making him feel important, like anything he had to say mattered. He encouraged all his big ideas, even when he probably shouldn't have.

When nobody would play the games Percy wanted to, Bill was there. When everyone else was teasing him, Bill never did. He always took his side in arguments. He wished he'd had Bill during his Hogwarts years. That would have made social events much easier to bear. Not that he ever attended those, but for him, speaking to others was a social event.

Percy always used to say Bill was his favorite brother. Bill said it, too, only quieter so the rest of his younger brothers wouldn't hear. My favorite little brother. It was silly, but those words had meant everything to Percy. Percy wasn't anyone’s favorite, he had never been good at making friends, everything called him many names, favorite not being one. But he was always Bill’s.

Bill taught Percy how to fly a broom just as he taught him how to stand up for himself. Bill taught him how to tie his shoes, how to whistle, how to never give up on what you believe is right. He made anything seem possible when Percy only felt awkward and out of place in his own skin. Somewhere between blowing bubbles in milk and taking on the world, Percy had found a deep admiration for his older brother.

When he would retreat into his books, Bill was understanding. When he went on about facts and got excited over details, Bill listened like it was the most important thing in the world. They had quiet conversations, things for just the two of them to share, about everything and nothing. Percy thought Bill might be the only person who didn't see him as a nuisance.

He didn't appreciate it enough back then. When he was moody and slammed his bedroom door, wishing the world would go away, he wished he'd let Bill in. When he was busy with studying and exams and N.E.W.Ts, he wished he'd taken a break to write a letter or two.

Bill looked out for him, shielding him from the terrible teasing of his siblings that maybe wasn't that terrible. But sometimes they got too rough or the innocent joke went a bit too far, and little, overly sensitive Percy ended up with no worse wounds than hurt feelings. But Bill comforted him. He never teased him about being sensitive.

Bill had made him feel like he didn't have to walk through this big, scary world alone. As a child, he thought he'd always have that. But Percy had done something no child accounted for. He'd grown up. The older he got, the more his differences from his family changed from teasing to a wedge between them.

They were messy, careless, and unprofessional. They didn't take things as seriously as they should. They didn't see things the way he did, and they didn't try. Not even Bill. They couldn't understand his ambitions because they lacked those themselves. And if all they wanted to do was drag him down, then it was best to create distance. That distance widened and Percy convinced himself it was for the best. He focused on himself, the only dishes he cleaned were his own, and he could go a good few days without getting his feelings hurt. This was better for him.

It was supposed to be. But now, as he sat in his nice office and stared at Bill’s letter, he couldn't ignore the ache settling in his chest. What did Bill think of him now? Did he want to see him? To talk? Would that even end well? He wondered if Bill thought about him sometimes, about the days when they were small and carefree, and if he missed him. Or had Percy’s self-imposed isolation changed that? Percy tore open the envelope, pulling out a flower-bordered card that was much too pretty to be Bill’s regular stationary.

𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑚 𝑊𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐹𝑙𝑒𝑢𝑟 𝐷𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒…

Percy dropped the letter.

Wedding? Bill was getting married. Married? To Fleur Delacour. And he hadn't known a thing about it. He knew vaguely of their relationship, but this was the first time he had heard anything about this. Of course, why would he? People who weren't on speaking terms didn't tend to get the best bits of each other’s lives.

Why was he being invited? He was sure no one would want him there. He would bring an awkward tension, create an unpleasant atmosphere nobody wanted at a wedding. This was sent out of politeness, Bill’s way of making sure Percy never felt left out. Just as he always had.

A pang of guilt hit him. He hadn't been a proper part of the family for a while. He'd left behind that loud, chaotic world and traded it in for a constant, structured life. And yet, Bill had still invited him. He must know Percy wouldn't come. But what if Bill genuinely wanted him to and this wasn't just an effort to be nice?

A bitter laugh bubbled in his throat. What was he thinking? Of course, they didn't want him there. They had to invite him, just like they had to invite everyone else. This letter was merely to say we tried, so Percy could never accuse them of being the ones to cause a rift. No, that was all his fault. If he didn't accept this, if he stayed put and didn't show up at the wedding, it was entirely his own fault.

Percy ran a hand through his hair. He tried to push away the forceful feeling gnawing at him, the one that wanted him to pick up that invitation again and maybe reconsider. But the rational part of his brain told him not to be so foolish. They were only being civil.

His fingers hovered over the card, his eyes tracing the loops of Bill’s name. What was he supposed to do? Show up and pretend nothing had happened? So someone can throw potatoes at him again? No, thank you.

Fred and George wouldn't want him to attend. Harry and Ron wouldn't. His mother and father wouldn't miss him. He wasn't sure that Bill would either. No, he was not needed there.

Percy took a deep breath, looking once more at the invitation. He would feel like a stranger among them. He was better off staying home, sparing himself the embarrassment. Still, he feared not going at all might make a worse regret. Was he really going to miss his brother’s wedding?

But it wouldn't be a sweet moment, not with him there. He wouldn't stand at Bill’s side or make a speech. He wouldn't sit with the family, cry with them, laugh with them. He would sit in the back, keeping to himself, and offering no more than a congratulations as if he were just some man from work Bill had been kind enough to invite. He was far from the best man Bill might have asked for a few years ago.

He sighed, folding the invitation back into its envelope. He didn't have to decide yet, he could think about it. It wasn't anything worth getting worked up over. It wasn't as if anyone cared if he went or not.

He tried to resume his paperwork but that stupid invitation stared at him with a menacing eye, a faint hum of whispered words slipping past the paper and coiling around his ear. This was his fault. He left that behind. He couldn't go home now. The Percy that Bill wanted at his wedding wasn't someone who existed anymore.

He tried to ignore it, but the shuffling of parchment and scratching of quills wasn't loud enough to drown out the noise. He tossed his quill down, a spot of ink splattering onto the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he let out a low, pitiful groan.

It had been how long now since he'd left? At eighteen, he hadn't any qualms about stepping away from home in search of something bigger, and no one else did either. Everyone knew this was what he wanted, what he'd been working for since he learned how to read.

He got everything he wanted. He raised the bar, climbing higher and higher with promotions and good works. Proof of his constant dedication. In the eyes of most, he was doing everything right. To his parents, he had always done everything right. Until he didn't. Suddenly, the Ministry was wrong, and Harry’s mad ramblings were more important than the life Percy had sacrificed for.

How unfair that used to seem. Harry was one person, capable of being misinformed and misguided by the trauma of his unique situation. Percy had been too hard on him, he never truly had anything against Harry. But why should he trust him? Why should his family? Why were Harry’s beliefs more important, more valid, than his own?

Why had his parents praised and encouraged him throughout his life, pushing him forward as he reached out for this very thing only to change their minds once he'd gotten it? Everyone had been proud of him except for the people whose approval he wanted most. And maybe he was more upset about that than he ever was about his rules. He used to be proud of himself. Now he was being mocked by an envelope.

What was all of this for? Why had he been good, why had he never settled when all it did was make a mess of what could have been an easy life? Why had he been so persistent, so undyingly loyal only to end up feeling like a fool? Where had he misstepped, what piece of the puzzle had he placed wrong so that his picture came out unclear?

Where had he ruined it? When did everything stop seeming like a dream and start feeling like a mistake he couldn't undo? He got what he wanted. But it used to be fantasy, an overly ambitious goal he would do anything to achieve. One he used to be cheered on for. Now it felt more like something he could toss away and no one would care much either way.

And for what? The Dark Lord? Cornelius Fudge, who was no longer in charge? Or was it him? Was it something worse that he had done? Maybe he had changed and that's what caused this irreparable break. It never had a thing to do with rule following or secret keeping. It was just him.

Percy, head of his department and assistant to the Minister. Youngest person to ever do so. Perfect in every way. So why was he beginning to feel that he didn't want to be here? When had the doubt set in? Why was he pushing away the only people he could talk to about this? Why had he let it get this far?

He had barely spoken to his family since he’d moved out, and now he never saw them at all. Now he drifted about with people much older and wiser than he, pretending he knew what he was doing just like they did. Pretending he was happy with the thing he had created.

Things at the Ministry weren't as clear-cut as he thought they would be. It wasn't as simple, as perfectly true, as he had once tried convincing his family it was. That he'd convinced himself it was. The hard work he expected, the stress of it, the never-ending cycle of having something to prove. It was the secrets he hadn't been ready for.

Just as he was warned of, the Ministry was hiding something. They kept things locked in boxes or swept under the rug. And they were still doing it. Something was being kept from him. Maybe not him solely, but him nonetheless. High-ranking officials spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting to one another in cryptic, wordless code. Spoken words were done with too much caution. Things didn't add up, but if anyone ever dared say so, they were swept out of here quicker than it took a second person to question.

The newer policies being introduced seemed to favor efficiency, but there had been one too many important people, people who had been crucial to the inner workings of the Ministry for years, removed. People less important were being discharged, too, and Percy couldn't help but wonder at the reasoning behind it.

A muggle-born clerk, Coralie, a woman a year younger than Percy, had been arrested mere days ago, and no one had been told the reason. Percy had seen her as she was escorted from the building, had heard her asking for someone to contact her mother.

There must be some reason. The Ministry didn't just do that sort of thing without one. They didn't used to, anyway. Things were changing and it was happening too fast for Percy to keep up. Half the place would be replaced by the time he figured out what was going on.

And how did he know who would be next? How could he be sure it wouldn't be him? If he spoke up, if he did anything to disrupt this new way of doing things, would they send him out without a second thought? If he so much as dared to suggest that some of these new policies being proposed were questionable (because he'd noticed a few), what would they do to him?

He didn't have to agree with every little thing, but he didn't have to disagree either. Doubts were normal, everyone had them. No one could agree with everyone on every matter at hand. But he didn't have to cause needless trouble. He had to look out for himself, do what he could to keep his position. Things changed. They grew and evolved. And people did what they could to deal.

Percy remained focused on himself and his own stability, but it was becoming harder to ignore the undercurrents of worry that rippled through the Ministry and settled like a shadow over all of his colleagues. It was something no one could name and wouldn't dare to.

Percy had always believed that if you did the right thing, if you played by the rules, that everything else would fall into place. But what if the rules changed? What if the very foundations of what had brought him here were beginning to shake, the thing he'd trusted becoming something he couldn't stand for? What if everyone knew something he didn't want to know?

It wasn't as though he wanted to go back home. There was nothing left for him there, no more room at the table. He'd made the choice to move past what he was, to become something greater and not let the fact that he was a Weasley dampen his ambitious spirit. He wanted to be more than that, but now, sitting alone and in this nice office with his important work, he felt smaller.

He picked up a piece of parchment, a routine assignment. Even routine felt off now. Something was happening, something big was brewing beneath the surface, and no one would tell him what. The harder he tried to find out, the more he felt like a child with the door shut in his face while the adults talked.

There had been a brief conversation in the lift this morning, if it could even be called that. A colleague, someone he barely knew, had made a remark about how complicated things had gotten. There was little said after and no elaboration. They fell into a silence Percy wasn't allowed to break. He wasn't sure the other man was allowed either.

And, still, the worst part of all of this was that Percy wasn't sure the Ministry was the only thing making him uneasy. It was the creeping thought that wouldn't shut up, the one that begged the question “Do you want this?” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Percy wasn't sure what he wanted.

***

The atrium was a mess of hurried footsteps, frantic whispers, and alarmed eyes. Percy stood rigidly, watching it unfold.

The minister was dead.

Killed, he'd been killed. It wasn't one of those whispered guesses, the conspiracies of people with too much time on their hands and a penchant for trouble. He had been killed by Death Eaters. It wasn't a loud announcement, it was clear in an unspoken warning to everyone with a toe in the Ministry that this was meant to stay hushed up. But they all knew.

The Ministry, the very thing so many of them had dedicated their lives to, was crumbling. And there wasn't much to do but watch it happen. It was swift, it was quiet, it was spine-chillingly terrifying. They were supposed to keep moving along as if they didn't know what was happening. As if there wasn't a Death Eater working next door. Of course, no one could be sure whether or not there was, but that somehow made it worse than confirmation would have.

Pius Thicknesse was to be their new minister. Was he one of them? Would everyone have to swear their allegiance to the Dark Lord or would silent adherence be enough?

“I’ve never seen a thing like this.”

Percy turned to see Amos Diggory beside him, looking pale and sporting tired eyes that insinuated several sleepless nights.

“The first war was nothing like this,” his voice came out a low whisper, his mouth so close to Percy’s ear he was nearly touching it. “They aren’t waiting this time.”

Percy had been a toddler for the worst of the first war. He was five, maybe, when You-Know-Who disappeared. While Mr. Diggory and his father chatted in the kitchen about things much bigger than them, Percy and Cedric ran about the garden, wishing they could climb trees as well as Charlie and Bill.

Percy wasn't sure when the last time he'd spoken to Cedric was. They hadn't been friends in school. His heart sank as he wished they could both go back to a time when their biggest worry was growing taller.

Amos must have always believed in the mad whispers, the return of Lord Voldemort. That was the first real pang of regret. The guilt Percy called what it was. Cedric had died at Voldemort’s hand. Denying that would be a disrespect to the life he'd lost. Harry had been right. And the Ministry, well, it was clear they didn't know how to handle it after all.

Amos squeezed Percy’s shoulder, his eyes distant. This hadn't seemed real before. Percy thought if he could somehow push it away, it would disappear. But it was there, bright and flickering in Amos’ eyes.

Their conversation was cut short. There was much work to be done, many changes to be made. Percy had always hated change. When he was younger, he used to cry on the train every time he had to start a new year at Hogwarts. Up until he was about fourteen.

This was much worse than new school books. This was a shake of his very core, a test of everything he'd stood so firm on. This was a game of winners and losers, and the winner takes it all. He didn't know who was an enemy. That was why everyone was so reluctant to share anything. They didn't know who they could trust.

He didn’t know what side he was on anymore. Where was he supposed to stand? Not with Voldemort, not in a million years. But he couldn't simply walk up to Kingsley Shacklebolt and ask to be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix. Could he? What would he even do then? He’d be at risk of being caught every day.

The best thing he could do now was keep his head down. Do what he was told. It wasn't as if anyone would ask him to join the Death Eaters. He would be careful, cautious. He would wait this out, keeping his cards close to his chest until then. His loyalty had been misplaced, but he would not make that mistake twice.

This did put a bit of a halt to his life. He would have to keep his focus, stay sharp at all times. Especially being a Weasley, a family known for flaunting their blood traitor status. His mind flashed to the muggle-borns who worked there, to those with muggle-born or, worse, fully muggle spouses. What would become of them? Would they end up like Coralie?

Not without guilt, he felt lucky that he was a pureblood. As long as he watched his tongue, which he always did, he would be safe. Maybe he could get more information, find out something useful about the inner workings of this new agenda. Or someone more qualified than him would. Maybe this wouldn't last long.

And maybe it could go unsaid that he ever made the mistake of trusting blindly. How was he supposed to know Voldemort was actually back? He could have listened to Harry. He could have asked about Cedric. He could have paid more attention to the things being said around him instead of focusing so hard on his own wants. He could have been less selfish.

He stood in the middle of a crowd, people bustling past him with fresh workloads to keep them busy. It was only a matter of time until he was called to work. He wondered what they would have him doing. More bids for strict monitoring? Proposals for less rigorous watch? New orders from the new Minister? Would he know what was a sneaky Death Eater plot and what was a quiet attempt to avoid this?

Maybe he should have gone to the wedding today.

Chapter Text

“Mum!” Ginny called, voice muffled as she ran down the stairs. “Mum, where are my shoes?”

She found not her mother, but Harry standing in the kitchen, shoving canapés in his mouth.

“Your shoes are in the living room,” he mumbled around a bite.

“Don’t eat all the appetizers or Mum’s going to cut you up and serve you on a plate.”

“She hasn't let me have a bite of food all day,” he groaned. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks. You should get dressed before Mum sees you.”

As if summoned, Molly entered the kitchen.

“Ginny, where are your shoes? Go put them on, we’ve only an hour before the guests start arriving. Harry! Why aren't you dressed? Go, go!”

Upstairs, Hermione was roaming the hallway fiddling with her zipper, unable to get it all the way up. Her heels clicked up the steps to Ron’s room.

“Ron! Can you help me with this?”

Ron, only half ready, paused what he was doing. He stared at her for a moment, mouth slightly open like he didn't know what to make of her.

”Uh, yeah, sure.”

She turned around, brushing her hair aside and exposing her open dress to him. There was a beat of hesitation and she wished she could see the look on his face. She felt a cold hand on her bare skin, lingering just longer than necessary. Ron was deliberately slow as he slid the zipper up.

“Thanks,” she said softly, hoping her face didn't betray as much as the rosy pink of Ron’s cheeks did.

They jumped when Harry entered the room. Harry ignored them, picking up his robes from Ron’s bed and his crumpled trousers from the floor.

“Why does it feel like I’m about to sit an exam?” he said, wrapping himself in his dark blue robes. He should have chosen something lighter for summer. “I’m not even the one getting married.”

“Have you ever been to a wedding?” Hermione asked. Her dress was lavender, the spaghetti straps and ruffled hem perfectly summery.

“No.”

“That’s probably why you’re nervous.”

Ron came to his assistance with his many buttons. Harry was already half-consumed with dread at having to spend the whole day in this outfit and he'd had it on for five seconds.

“Don’t worry about it, mate. You don't have to do anything but sit there and say congrats.”

The three went downstairs, robes and skirts swirling about.

“Ron!” Molly swooped in, adjusting his robes. “I don’t want you looking sloppy today. Harry, dear, you look lovely. Where are the twins? I swear, if they even think of turning Aunt Muriel’s hat into a toad again…”

Molly hurried away to take her scolding elsewhere.

“How do I look?” Ginny asked, giving her golden dress a twirl.

“Like a princess,” Harry said, offering his hand with a bow.

Ginny took it and Ron gave Harry a look.

“You look so pretty!” Hermione gushed. “The gold looks perfect on you.”

“Thank you. Do you like this?” She stuck out her leg, showing off the slit that was more revealing than it appeared when she kept her legs close together.

“Ooh, I love it.”

Ginny and Gabi matched in gold, their curled hair piled atop their heads, and their dangly earrings identical. Ginny slipped her hand into Gabi’s, taking her outside. Gabi’s short heels poked into the grass and Ginny was glad she’d opted for flats.

“Do you want to chase the garden gnomes?” Ginny asked.

“Won’t our mothers be upset if we get our dresses soiled?”

Ginny leaned in with a grin. “I’m good at cleaning charms. Come on, it’s funny.”

Gabi followed her, finding it was rather funny to prod at the little gnomes and watch them run. Fred and George were outside, putting the finishing touches on everything. They had strung garlands of blooming white flowers, shimmering gold and twinkling lights hanging from the raised tent top. White roses and gold balloons were fixed everywhere you looked. They went around adjusting smooth tablecloths, blossoming centerpieces, and seat ribbons.

Fred tapped his wand to his chin, inspecting the string of enchanted string lights their dad had spent a terrible portion of his morning trying to figure out. George gave him a nudge and a grin.

“Shut up,” Fred grinned. “I’m just making sure they look nice.”

“Mm, okay. I suppose you didn't want any ideas, then.”

Molly appeared suddenly, sensing trouble, they assumed. She broke into a smile at the decorations, but shook her head at her sons.

“Are those the shoes you're wearing? Nevermind it, Bill wants us all in the garden before the ceremony begins.”

“We’re in the garden,” Fred said.

Molly frowned. “Go get your siblings. Ten minutes! Make sure Harry has his hair done. And if you see Mrs. Delacour, let her know we’re not releasing the doves until after the speeches. And no touching the cake until Fleur has seen it!”

They came bustling back into the garden just as the first guests were beginning to arrive. Ginny and Gabi, who were going around swapping place cards, joined them. Harry’s hair looked as untamed as ever, Ron was barefoot in the grass, his shoes in hand, and Hermione was still securing the end of her braid.

“You look like a herd of wild hippogriffs,” Molly said. “Do greet the guests, won't you? Don't touch anything. And be polite.”

“Mum, do you hear that?” Fred said, grinning at George. “I think someone’s trying to nick the cake.”

George nodded. “We better stop them.”

Fred and George ran off, laughing as Molly yelled after them.

Guests arrived in twos and threes, their robes in pastels and bright colors. Fleur’s French relatives came first, greeting one another with cheek kisses. The twins returned from their cake hunt to see who they could tease. Ron herded a group of children and Ginny led an elderly woman to the shadiest spot. Charlie laughed with a gaggle of Delacour cousins, jokes landing despite the language barrier.

Arthur stood at a small podium, bunches of gold balloons overhead, adjusting his cuffs and beaming brightly.

Heels clicked on the garden path, voices growing louder as more guests greeted one another. The scent of several mingling perfumes, the bountiful rose decor, and fresh pastries from the tented reception area filled the air. A few orange butterflies flitted around the party.

Dozens of guests later, a hush fell over the garden as the music shifted. The harp played a slow, lilting melody. Noisy chatter became excited whispers, all eyes on the rose-bordered aisle.

On her father’s arm came Fleur, floating down the carpet in a white gown that billowed around her like a morning mist. The tiara on her head sparkled, but not as brightly as her smile as she stared at Bill waiting for her at the altar. Bill was beaming, his face almost as radiant as the natural glow that emanated from Fleur.

For a moment, it seemed even the butterflies paused to watch.

Hermione giggled quietly, clutching Harry’s hands.

When they reached Bill, Fleur’s father kissed her cheek and slid her hand into Bill’s. He kissed Bill’s cheek, too, leaving the other man baffled. Harry looked at Hermione and they stifled laughter. By the end, Molly and Mrs. Delacour were a mess of tears. Everyone else wore joyous smiles. Fleur and Bill were swept away by well-wishers, moving about the party to greet everyone.

Harry spotted Bill chatting with Xenophilius Lovegood, who was decked out in sunny yellow and beaded jewelry. He found Luna close by, wandering barefoot, her yellow dress dragging around the grass. Her wrists were covered in blue beads and a large sunflower stuck out from the curls of her hair.

Ginny and Gabi were making their way through the appetizers, picking through fruit tarts and sneaking a glass of fire whiskey. The little cousins ran about with Fred and George, chasing balloons and strands of sparkles, while the girls chased Viktor Krum around the party.

Aunt Muriel came around to say hello and give her unwarranted opinion on their outfits. Which was odd coming from a woman with a mound of mauve feathers and beady-eyed birds on her head. But no one said a thing about that.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with weddings these days,” she announced to no one in particular but loud enough for anyone to hear. “Too much tulle, not enough tradition. It’s these modern brides, I’ll tell you. No one cares about being traditional anymore. It’s why everything looks such a mess.”

She cast a disapproving look on Ginny, who was lucky to be too far off to notice her. “Someone ought to tell Ginevra she's not on the cover of Witch Weekly. Honestly, could that dress be any lower cut? Who is she trying to impress?”

Harry glanced at Ginny, catching her eye and sending her an amused smile. She didn't get it, but she returned it.

Muriel went on about the length of Ron’s hair, the material of the tablecloths, and complained that Fred and George hadn't said hello to her yet. No one wondered why. She sniffed in disapproval when she caught sight of Luna’s bare feet.

“It’s how she communes with the earth,” Ron said, taking off before Muriel could give her opinion on that. He'd had enough of her opinions.

“Can I join you?” he asked Luna, who was swaying around the dance floor by herself.

“Yes,” she happily accepted, taking his hands. They swayed in circles until Hermione and Harry joined in, the four circling the floor hand in hand until they were tripping over one another’s feet in laughter.

Later into the night, Harry slipped quietly away from the lively party and found Ron and Hermione sitting in the grass, sharing butterbeer and wedding cake. Hermione’s heels sat in the grass beside her.

“Harry,” Hermione said, moving her shoes so he could sit beside her. “Where were you?”

“I, er, I've just had a conversation with Elphias Doge and Muriel.”

Ron groaned. “No wonder you were gone so long. What was she on about this time, criticizing the soup?”

“She was talking about Dumbledore.”

Ron looked at him sympathetically.

“She was saying terrible things about his sister, that she was a squib and their mother locked her away because she was ashamed. Muriel thinks that she was kept against her will and that she- that she,” he whispered the next part. “Killed Kendra Dumbledore.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open in shock. “That’s horrible. And terribly rude, making up stories like that.”

“Doge wasn’t very happy to hear it. He said Muriel doesn't know what she's talking about. I thought he was close to hexing her. But, still, he couldn't explain what really happened.”

Ron frowned. “That’s not a reason to consider the rubbish Muriel says.”

“No, I know. But Dumbledore never did talk about his life, and Muriel said that he used to be a bit, well, full of himself, I guess. And she said his brother, Aberforth, would fight with him all the time. Even at their sister’s funeral.”

Harry’s voice was low when he added, “I didn’t know Dumbledore even had a sister before reading Doge’s obituary.”

Hermione’s eyes searched his face, worry written all over hers. “Harry, don't tell me you believe a word she says. You knew Dumbledore, she didn't.”

“Did I? Did you know he used to live in Godric’s Hollow? And not once did he ever mention it. What if he really was hiding something about his family?”

“If he was, it’s no business of ours.”

“You think he was keeping something from you?” Ron asked. “Something bad.”

“I’m not sure.” He didn't want to believe it. He almost couldn't. “But the way Doge was acting, it was like he wasn't telling the whole truth. Or he didn't know it either.”

Hermione laid a hand atop his. “I wouldn't take it too seriously. Dumbledore may not have told you everything, but you still knew him. You know he was a good man.”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently.

He stared up at the moonlit sky and something strange knotted in his stomach. Something he had never felt when thinking about Dumbledore.

Doubt.

“I think,” Ron started, but paused when he saw Harry scrunch his eyes shut, then snap them open in alarm. “What is it?”

“Something’s happening.”

It came in the form of a silver lynx and Kingsley’s voice. The Minister was dead. And then screams, rising and falling like waves. Plates clattered and children wailed. Wands were whipped out, all except Harry’s, whose hands were busy grasping at Hermione and Ron’s to keep from losing them.

Masked figures swarmed the garden, shrieks and cracks of apparition sounding. Green and red light shot around the marquee. Harry yanked Ron’s arm hard, pulling him out of the way of a flying spell that crashed into the cake table, splattering buttercream frosting across Ron’s cheek.

“𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑔𝑜 𝑀𝑎𝑥𝑖𝑚𝑎!” Hermione shouted. The shield rippled under the force of incoming curses. She pushed Harry hard, gripping his shoulder to keep him pressed against the ground. “They’re after you! We have to go!”

Ron ducked as a swirling black cloak came closer, floating like a ghost. His counter sent them flying back into a table full of champagne glasses, glass shattering as the Death Eater hit the ground. Another explosion sent part of the tent into the air. Bill and Fleur stood back to back in the middle of the dance floor, Bill’s long hair whipping around his head and the hem of Fleur’s dress ripped.

Harry’s heart pounded, Hermione and Ron’s shouts ringing in his ears.

“𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑜!” Ron cried, wrecking another table and doing worse damage to his victim.

“We need to go!” Hermione yelled.

‘No!” Ron shouted back. “Side along apparition will be tracked. They’ll follow us.”

“We don't have a choice!”

Suddenly, Ron and Hermione hit the ground, rolling on top of Harry. He felt his wrist move at an odd angle, but he didn't make a sound. He gripped his wand, pain searing through his hand, and crawled across the floor.

“Now!” Hermione screamed.

They gripped each other’s hands, Harry’s wrist burning. With a crack, they vanished. They landed in the middle of the street, stumbling over each other’s feet to jump just in time out of the way of a bus. They fell backward onto the sidewalk, annoyed pedestrians bustling past them.

They scooted backward across the pavement, backing into a stone wall. Harry gasped for air, clutching his wrist. Ron stared out at the busy street like he'd never seen one before.

“How did they know?” Harry gasped. “How did they find us? How did they-”

“I don't know!” Hermione snapped, gripping her wand. “Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe they were targeting the Weasleys, they are in the Order.”

“Or they figured that's where you'd be,” Ron said.

Harry stood up, wincing at a bout of dizziness. “Come on. If they can somehow track me, we can't wait around here. If we stop, we’re as good as dead.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered. “Where the hell are we?”

Hermione fiddled with her wand, flicking it tensely before shoving it in her bag so passing muggles wouldn't see it.

“I hope everyone can get out safely,” she said. “The children. Your family is-”

“Don’t,” Ron said harshly. He flinched at the sound of his own voice. “Don’t say that.”

He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Harry began.

“Oh, shut up with the martyr act,” Hermione interrupted. “This was no one’s fault but Voldemort’s.”

She said the name with a venomous hiss. A firetruck blared past them. Muggles slipped by, oblivious to what had just transpired.

“We have to go,” she said. “We have to find somewhere to lay low.”

“We’re not hiding,” Harry said. “I’m not.”

“We need to figure out a plan before we rush in head first. You said yourself, we’re as good as dead.”

“I didn't mean we should run away, just that we shouldn't wait around in the streets and cause more trouble. Hermione, we just left people who might have died protecting me. I can't-”

“I know! I know that, Harry! I stepped over someone’s body while we were running around the place. You're not the only one who cares, but I'm not going to let that be you.”

Hermione’s eyes glistened with tears, but the ferocious gleam kept them from falling. She lifted her finger to her mouth, biting down on it. Ron laid a hand on her back.

“Dumbledore would want us to keep moving,” Ron said. “To fight smart. There's no point in getting ourselves killed.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Right, alright.”

They walked without speaking, the only sounds their somewhat frantic footsteps and the rumble of nighttime traffic. No one noticed them. London had seen stranger things than three fancy-robed, dirty-faced, tense teenagers. They ducked into an alleyway, Hermione digging through her bag.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I didn't bring you two clothes. I only have this.”

She pulled Harry's backpack from the bag. Harry nodded his head across the street. A small thrift shop stared back at them. They crept inside, Hermione casting a confundus charm on the two workers. They snatched t-shirts and jeans, and stuffed jackets, hoodies, and whatever else they thought necessary into Hermione’s magically expanded bag.

They ducked back into the alley to change. Harry hissed at the burn tearing through his wrist.

“Hermione,” he held up his limp hand to her.

She took it gently. “Is it broken?”

Carefully, she felt his wrist, checking for any damage. She discreetly pulled out her and whispered, “𝐸𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑘𝑒𝑦.”

Harry sighed as the pain eased. “Thanks.”

They roamed the streets, unsure of where they were going or what they were looking for. A parked car rolled its windows down and two men hollered at them.

“Ay, Ginger! That your girl? Mind sharing?”

The other man honked and made lewd gestures with his tongue.

Ron glared daggers at them, putting a protective arm around Hermione.

They wandered into a twenty-four-hour diner, sandwiched between a souvenir shop and a closed juice bar. The diner was empty except for two waiters and a grouchy man working the kitchen. They slipped into a booth, sliding across the cracked leather. Hermione and Ron sat on the same side, opposite Harry.

A waitress with smudged eyeliner, a nose hoop, and a nametag that read Tara, approached their table. Hermione ordered a coffee, Ron a tea and chips, and Harry stared at the bowl of sugar packets and wondered briefly if Hermione had brought any muggle money. They'd done enough thieving tonight.

“Why have we had so many near-death experiences?” Ron said with a humorless laugh.

“I think that one was real,” Harry said.

“The other ones felt pretty real.”

“But before we had Dumbledore. We had the Order, Hogwarts, people to back us up. This is our fight now, and it’s ours alone.”

Hermione nudged his foot beneath the table.

“I think we shouldn't have run,” Harry said. “They needed us.”

“They need us alive more,” Ron said. “Besides, you know my mum. She could fight off ten Death Eaters in a pair of heels.”

Hermione gave a weak smile. Harry reached for one of Ron’s chips.

Three men shuffled into the diner, sliding into the booth opposite them. Harry caught one of them staring and made a face at him.

“Where are we going to go tonight?” Ron asked. “Is there anywhere we can snag a copy of the Prophet and see what's going on?”

They didn't get to form a proper plan because the men at the other table were suddenly standing, drawing wands from their pockets. The trio raised their wands immediately, spells flying. The waiters screamed and Harry stunned them both before they could run away.

A blast shattered the window, a jagged shard slicing across Ron’s cheek. Harry spun around tables, dodging an attack that sent splinters around the room. Hermione slipped, a sharp edge of broken table cutting through her worn jeans. Blood bloomed across her knee, staining the ripped edges.

The lights overhead burst, raining over them and plunging them into darkness only broken by the streetlights outside. The floor was wet with spilled coffee and tea. Glass crunched beneath their feet. Spells flew. Green light missed Hermione by mere inches.

Ron sent a Death Eater slamming against the wall, crumpling to the floor in a puddle of spilled tea. Harry’s wand moved in slashing motions, crimson gashes splitting the man getting too close to Hermione. He grasped at his arms, blood pooling through his fingers.

A sharp kick to the back of his knees sent Harry doubling over. He whipped his head around, teeth bared animalistically. So they wanted to fight like muggles now?

Harry pounced on the man, wrestling his wand from his grip. He drove its sharp end into the man’s stomach. He cried out, gripping both Harry's wrist and his hair. He yanked his head back hard and Harry lost his grip. Harry tried to slam the man into the countertop, but he brought him with. They wrestled around the counter, the Death Eater somehow producing a knife to press against Harry’s clavicle.

Just below the throat. He wouldn't kill him. Not with Lord Voldemort’s petty revenge wish to be the one to do it himself. >p>Harry turned quickly, the blade slicing his skin, and bit down on the man’s arm. It only ended him in the same situation, being yanked off by the hair. He spat in the Death Eater’s face, earning him a sudden slap across the face. He'd lost his wand somewhere while they were wrestling. The blade was lifted to his throat this time, threatening him.

“Touch him and you’re dead,” Hermione said, wand raised more threateningly than his tiny blade.

She didn't wait for him to move, sending him levitating through the air and crashing down into the ice cream machine. Creamy vanilla splattered over his limp body and stuck in their hair.

Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione and Ron, holding them close. He could feel them shaking beneath his touch. Hermione sniffled into Harry’s shoulder, letting out a shuddering breath. Ron rubbed her arm with a trembling hand.

“It’s okay,” he said in a quavering voice. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

“Come on,” Harry said, letting them go. “We have to move.”

Hermione wiped the memories of the Death Eaters, waiters, and the cook who must have been knocked out sometime during the fight. Harry and Ron cleaned up the mess they'd made of the diner.

“How did they find us?” Ron said. “They have to be tracking us somehow?” >p>”Which is why we can’t stop moving,” Harry said with a look at Hermione. “Until we have a plan.”

“And go where?” Ron asked. “If they can track us, nothing’s safe.”

“We’ll figure out what they're doing,” Hermione said. “We’ll- we’ll figure it out. I’ll think of s-something.”

“If we can't stop moving-” Ron started.

“Stop, stop,” Hermione said. “Stop, I’ll figure something out.”

“We need to figure out how-”

“Let me think.”

“I don't know of any way they could track us. Not any legal ones. But if they've taken the Ministry-”

“I know, Ron, I know!”

Harry held a hand between them. “We can talk about this later. Not here. We’ll go to Grimmauld-”

“Harry, no,” Ron cut in.

“We’ll go to Grimmauld,” he repeated. “It’s the only place with strong enough protections.”

“If they still work.”

“But Snape can get past them,” Hermione said.

“Let him try,” Harry said.

Hermione swallowed thickly, words sticking to her throat. She nodded.

“For tonight,” Ron said. “But we leave in the morning. If anything’s changed, anything’s off, we leave immediately.”

“Yeah, fine.” Harry hooked his arm around Ron’s.

“If we die in there-”

“We won’t,” Hermione said, sliding her arm around Harry’s.

They landed on the front step of Number 12 Grimmauld Place in a stumbling landing. They needed to get better at their entrances. The house was deathly quiet aside from the traps that the Order had set up. They got past them with little trouble, knowing their way around. Though not without a few heart-pounding surprises. They tracked no traces of life, magical or otherwise, besides Kreacher.

They were alone.

They gathered in the drawing room, Hermione already cleaning the smeared blood off Ron’s cheek. Harry took a step toward her, then dropped to his knees. A searing pain ripped through his skull, talons ripping apart the healed threads of his scar and dipping into his brain. A scream ripped from his throat, his fist colliding with the nearby wall. The candles flickered and went out, leaving them in the dark.

“Harry!” Hermione’s shout rippled through his pounding head.

He staggered back, knocking into an end table. He picked up the vase on it, hurling it at Hermione. She ducked and turned wide eyes on him. He stumbled like a drunk, sending offensive spells and breakable objects at Ron and Hermione.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ron yelled, using all of his effort to disarm him.

Harry's spells left scorching marks on the walls, destroyed what they could only assume were priceless family heirlooms, and crumbled a chunk of the mantle. The room quaked under their feet, floorboards trembling and furniture flying backward. The force of Harry’s magic buzzed around them, prickling their skin in a wave of heat.

“Harry! Stop it! Fight it!”

Harry raised his wand at Hermione. Ron jumped in front of her only to be hurled over the back of the sofa, slamming into the wall.

“Harry, he's in your head!” Hermione shouted, knuckles white around her wand.

She fought with protective shields Harry cracked, stunning spells he blocked, and a rapid run through every defense lesson she could recall.

Harry stilled, hand twitching around his wand. Hermione stared him dead in the eye, someone other than him staring back. He took a slow step forward. Hermione froze. Something pressed in on them, something electric, a burn Hermione could almost feel singeing her skin.

Harry collapsed to the floor, wand rolling on the floor and hands clutching his head. Hermione rushed to his side, pulling him into his chest. Harry trembled in her arms.

“It’s okay, it’s over. He's gone.”

“He’s never gone.”

Ron crawled toward them, clutching at his side. “It was him? In your head?”

“He’s angry.”

“You have to block him out,” Hermione said, a bit hysterically.

He didn't know how. Oh, god, he didn't know how to stop him. He was going to lose it like this. He was going to kill his friends and then there would be no one to stop him from going crazy.

“Come on,” Ron said softly. “Let’s clean you up.”

They laid Harry on the sofa, Hermione healing his cuts and she and Ron repairing everything he'd destroyed. His head spun, his stomach roiling. He was still covered in dirt and melted ice cream, but he wasn't sure he could stand long enough to shower.

He ended up sitting in the ancient tub, mopping up his filth. He avoided staring in the mirror, focusing on the gold veins running through the black marble as he brushed his teeth. Hair damp and clad in his Gryffindor jumper, he rejoined Ron and Hermione, sitting between them atop the blankets they'd spread across the floor. Ron was wearing a long sleeve shirt he must have found in Harry’s bag and Hermione’s wet curls were tied back in braids.

Harry laid his head on Ron’s shoulder. He smelled of faint violet, cedarwood, and musk. Like Sirius used to. Ron rested his head against Harry’s. They didn't say a thing, not a noise filling the room until a silver weasel swooped in, Arthur’s voice speaking to them.

“The family is safe. Don't reply, they're watching everything. Stay hidden. We love you.” And then there was laughter and a round of tight hugs.

They spent the night curled up together on the floor because Hermione was too scared to sleep alone. Ron and Harry felt no need to mention they were, too. Harry didn't get much sleep. He lay on his side, Ron’s back pressed up against his. His soft snores said he couldn't empathize with Harry’s sleeping troubles. Hermione laid on Ron’s other side, clutching a throw pillow, her breathing even and quiet.

Eventually, Harry drifted off, ending up somewhere else. Somewhere colder, darker, even less like a home than Grimmauld Place. It looked like a drawing room, but it was dreary, smelled rotten, and a fire burned despite it being the middle of summer. The firelight glinted off a white blonde-head, casting shadows over a pale face.

Draco.

He looked more pasty than usual, his eyes red-rimmed and heavily underlined with grey. His hands trembled, and part of Harry wanted to reach out and hold them still.

Harry could hear Voldemort’s voice, the cruel hiss curling around his ears like it was coming from his own mouth.

“Show me, Draco. Don’t disappoint me again.” Voldemort’s voice was soft, amused.

Draco’s face was tense, but that Malfoy mask he wore so well, the one of confidence and haughtiness, was cracking. Harry could see it, the fear, the near tremble of his bottom lip. He was somehow both composed, tightly wound as ever, yet unraveling before Harry’s eyes. Unexpectedly, he felt bad for Draco.

A bony hand curled around Draco’s jaw. “Just like your father, aren't you?”

Harry couldn't see it, but he felt the sneering smile curl his lips. He could almost feel it, the tension in the room, a laugh that burned in the back of his throat. Draco stared at him.

“Perhaps I can find some use for your mother.”

Draco’s breath caught. So did Harry’s. He wanted to step between them, to guard Draco. To punch Voldemort in his ugly, sneering face.

He couldn't take his eyes off Draco. Voldemort’s eyes. He shouldn't feel so sick right now. Since when did he feel bad for Draco Malfoy? Since when did Malfoy feel bad for anyone besides himself? But something nauseating twisted into knots in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

He wished he could reach out, knock the wand from Draco’s hand. Take his hand. Draco kept staring. At him. Through him. His grey eyes were wet, like fresh storm clouds rolling in and threatening to ruin the day with a downpour.

Draco raised his wand. In front of him, in a heap on the floor, was one of the Death Eaters they had fought in the diner. His crucio was whispered fearfully, but it worked.

Harry jolted upright, Sunlight peeked out from behind the dark drapes. Harry pressed his palm to his scar, but the pain wasn't the worst of it. It was the lingering image of Draco’s frightened face, the murmured curse, the way he winced at the screams.

Hermione and Ron were still asleep, their arms outstretched across the blankets. Harry was sure they hadn't fallen asleep holding hands.

Chapter Text

Bellatrix thought Narcissa and Lucius were far too lenient with Draco. That was why he felt so comfortable opposing them. She quite liked the little thing’s fire, but she knew it would burn out eventually. It always did. He would learn. He wouldn't learn to love the Greengrass girl. No, he would learn to deal with her. A punishment or two would help it along, sometimes sense needed to be hammered in, but Cissy didn't believe in that.

Nonetheless, he would deal. Just as she had. Bellatrix saw much of herself in Draco. He was prideful, his sense of self-importance inflated. His opinions were loud, but messy and confused as if he wasn't quite sure which were his and which belonged to someone else. There was still a part of him that was soft, naive, a revolting part that Bellatrix would stomp out. It would be a favor to him.

Draco was strong. She could see it, could feel it in their lessons. He could be so much more than his fussy mother was letting him. Cissy had always been a worrywart. She’d been weak, too. She had her strengths, many she didn't play to, but she was soft. Soft like her husband. Bellatrix hated softness. She was disgusted by it. She wouldn't let it ruin Draco, not when he had her there to snuff it out before it was inflamed.

Like Draco, Bella hadn't wanted to be married either. She had no interest in Rodolphus. She hadn't wanted to be betrothed at the age of fifteen. She despised the idea as much as Draco, if not more. The scenes she caused over it were far worse. Her tantrums were infamous. But she got over it. Draco would get over it. They all did. She guessed no one told Draco he could take lovers on the side. That had come as a great relief to his father.

Bellatrix wasn't a good wife. She was quite awful, she knew, when it came to that sort of thing. She had never been obedient, never docile, nothing like the meek creature that others expected her to be. She wasn’t the quiet, submissive sort. She bit and snarled. And she hated being told what to do. She wasn't the woman to sit idly by while others sought to define her place.

Cissy didn't like it. She was like their mother, always telling her to behave. To be more ladylike. Saying no man would ever want her, none would ever tolerate such an ill-behaved, foul-mouthed woman. Her father proved that to be true well enough. She did try to be good. Sometimes. But she was always too loud, too feisty, too much. Her passion, her refusal to bend or be broken, her untamable fury, all things she was misunderstood for. It used to be something that bothered her.

As a young girl, she had been eager for her father’s approval. He called her his favorite girl. She was his “special” one, his perfect first born daughter. Until she wasn't. Because good girls did what they were told. Good girls were obedient. Good girls made their fathers proud. She did nothing of the sort. He was a man of high expectations, ones she had lost desire to fulfill. She never fit the perfectly shaped, restricting mold he had made for her. Her disobedience was met with severe punishments, things little Draco would faint upon hearing let alone living.

She had heard it so many times. Why can't you be good, Bella? Why can't you behave? Be like Cissy. Be like Andy. Shut your mouth. Cross your legs. Be good. Why couldn't she be good?

When she did what was asked of her, when she followed commands like a trained dog, she earned moments of fake, fleeting praise.

“You’re my favorite girl, Bella.”

No, she wasn't. His praise, his love, was tied to her behavior. Conditional on her obedience. The punishments were much more frequent than the praises. They were easier to swallow, less bitter than his smiles. She knew what to do with them, how to get through.

It was always terrible. From what she could remember of it, anyway. Some of it was spotty, too confused for her to sit and think on it. All she knew was the pain, the horrible ache that seemed to cling to her even now. And maybe she had deserved it, maybe she needed it to form the woman she was now.

Bellatrix had become something even worse than he could have ever imagined. She hoped he was rolling in his grave over it, that even in death he couldn't escape the torment of his beloved, least favorite daughter. She hoped everyone who met her recoiled in fear, coming away with an awful chill they couldn't shake for days.

And her husband? He didn’t understand her. He never had. But Rodolphus didn’t want her to be a good wife. He didn’t need her to be. He took his women on the side, too, as they all did. His quiet, stupid dolls he could play as he pleased with. Never would that be her. She was a hurricane, a force that could not be wrapped in ribbons and presented to a man who only wanted to spread her flush thighs and carry on his worthless name.

She was not in love with him and she never expected she would be. She did once believe she might have to submit, to learn to bow her head to a mere man. He seemed to have been under the same impression, thinking he could treat her like one of his conquests. Like she was nothing more than a prize he'd won, the heir to the noble Blacks held under his thumb. To dominate her. How foolish.

It didn't last long. Bellatrix made it clear that she was no doll of his, and she was not Mrs. Rodolphus Lestrange. It was her hand at play, dangling crumbs over his begging mouth and tugging tight at his leash. It was she who held the power, who offered pleasure and reward only as she saw fit. She knew it. He knew it. She wasn’t there to be pleasing or accommodating. She wasn’t here to be the shadow of a man. Let them call her mad. Shameless. Loud. A good wife? That was for soft women like her sister.

He became a decent partner to her, but love for him she had none. Her respect for him was that of two artful wizards who worked in close proximity to one another. He was formidable, but she was his head. He did not own her. He would always be one step below her and he would do good not to forget it. Bella’s heart was not meant to be tamed, but that did not mean it was incapable of love. Some thought so, but it only needed someone to love it in a way as wild, as cruel and thrilling, as every hectic beat was.

Someone like him.

She had been nineteen when she found it, about to be married, angry, and with her cold heart set on never loving another. But she was young, sensitive, and easily taken by fanciful things. What she wanted was to be selfish, to cause trouble for the sake of causing it, and prove people wrong, but what she needed was someone to show her a place where she belonged.

She was eager to prove herself, to prove worthy and capable, and he saw that. She remembered the first time his eyes had locked on hers, burning with an intensity that sent her pulse racing. She had believed herself smart then, believed she had it all figured out. She thought her loyalty would be enough for him, that an unyielding warrior was all he wanted.

Her fiery spirit made her stand out, he'd told her so. Her fierce strength, her ability to perform without hesitation tasks that sent men much older than her trembling away. He was impressed by her skill. By her passion. By her rage. She was somebody to him. That was before she knew what it meant to be truly consumed by him.

He wasn't kind, he had always been cruel, distant, unpredictable. It was what Bellatrix needed. Softness, weakness, it was something most men had so glaringly once you peeled back that thin layer of egotistical bravado. He was rough, raw, perfectly vicious in a way that kept her on her toes.

It took her some time to learn this. She gained his attention easily, but she hadn't known it could be taken away just as quickly. She had to work for it, a constant challenge to earn his approval. It was thrilling. His love was thrilling. It wasn’t typical, easy love. It was the way he would meet her eyes with that knife-like stare. In the moments his voice would brush against her ear, heated whispers that told her she was his only one.

The up and down of insults and praise, the turbulent way of their affection, sunk deep into her heart like twisted roots. Something flowered there, something that could never be removed. She was the only one who truly understood him, and he her. She saw through the mask he wore for others. She bowed her head to him not because he used her, but because he knew her. She submitted to him not out of timid, forced respect, but from deep, soulful devotion.

She would kneel for him the second he asked. She would fall from grace a thousand times, like an angel with her wings burned off, just to caress his face. When he touched her, she fell apart like the delicate petals of a flower. She sang sweet, cried raw, screamed in fits of passion for him. She was everything she despised, and yet it troubled her not.

For he was no man. It was an insult, likening him to a mere human. He was something else entirely, something worthy of being worshipped. She submitted to him, on her knees in devoted praise. Obsessively smitten, an animal capable of being trained into submission. She was whatever he needed her to be.

She would even, if he ever required it, let him breed her. The thought had always disgusted her, letting a man soil her with his seed. To grow fat with someone’s spawn and endure the pains of giving birth all for a child she wouldn't care for. But now, if he desired it, she would give up her body to him. Anything to keep him pleased, to keep him hers. She had learned with time how to keep him most pleased, but never escaping the rush of wondering if he would suddenly be angry or bored of her. The uncertainty kept the fire burning.

She learned to ignore the little things, the dismissive gestures, the cutting remarks, the way he discarded her after she’d served her purpose until she needed to be picked up again. She ignored it because she knew in her heart that it was love for her that burned in the deepest part of him. Every glance, every word, every whisper in the dark meant something and she clung to it.

She displeased him sometimes. She was an awful failure, something she couldn't fully scrub away. It was always severe with him, punishments. But she thought a part of her might like being punished. He got a thrill out of it and she got a thrill out of seeing him like that, watching him toy with her freedom, dangling it over her head where her bound hands couldn't reach. Even in those moments, she loved him. And he needed her.

No one could make him feel the way she did. No one was the perfect servant. Even when she misbehaved and needed to be punished. He wanted her to misstep, he waited for it. In a way, her failures weren't such a terrible grievance to him. He needed it as badly as she did.

She needed him. She wanted him. More than she had ever wanted anyone or anything. More than she wanted her own life. She craved him, she rolled in the dirt like a dog, drooling and pouncing around his feet for attention. He was everything to her. The vicious devotion he demanded, the way his presence bent the world around him, making her feel small and fragile. In the way that she could fit in his right hand, his fingers curled around her like a cage. To be his alone.

Even when he treated her like an afterthought, when his coldness and cruelty set off a fire of humiliation in her. It only furthered her desire to please him. After all, what was she compared to him? What was she without him? He created her, built her into the woman she was.

His little tricks, his games of chess, it was all a test of her devotion. She would do anything to meet his expectations. Ever since she had been that hungry young girl, she had been his. He knew it. And he loved it. He loved the way she whispered his name like a mantra, like it was the only truth she knew. Lord Voldemort.

Her master. The power he held over her, the power she submitted to, was something she would never find anywhere else.

***

Draco, with another letter to Tori and a handful of owl treats, walked across the sun-soaked lawn to the aviary. He’d forgone shoes, the plush grass tickling his feet. One of their peacocks stalked past him. There were six in all, four of which bore beautiful all-white feathers. All the birds had been named by his parents, given noble and beautiful titles befitting a Malfoy. Draco had been given the honor of naming two birds himself. As a child, he was neither as creative nor as dignified as his parents.

Axius, Kallos, Rapture, and Augustus were their milky white beauties. One of Draco’s, whom he had been very proud of, was Sir Feathering Malfoy. His baby, the only bird that came up to greet him with a peck at his leg, was called Star Ruby Essence.

He bent down to stroke her. “Hello, beautiful.”

Draco hadn't been outside enough this summer. He spent most of his time cooped up and hidden away in his room, but the spacious garden offered him just as much privacy if he needed somewhere to get away. The mid-summer sun was lovely, as was the fresh scented air.

Draco went to find his owl, Niklaus, holding out his hand full of treats. “Hey, baby. I've got something for you.”

He held up the envelope, waving it in front of the bird. Niklaus took it in his beak and Draco stepped back, watching his owl stretch its wings and take off. Draco watched him fly away and turned to wander the garden. He lay down on the grass, spreading his arms out and taking in the grounding feeling of the natural world.

His gaze fell upon the window of the Dark Lord’s room. The dark curtains were drawn shut and the atmosphere eerily still, almost like he wasn't there at all. It was the same every time, a pattern Draco was grateful for as he had come to know what to expect. Something would anger the Dark Lord and it would end in a mess of pleas, punishments, and a competition for the best new idea to slay that pesky boy who lived.

And then came the stillness. The Dark Lord shut himself up for days, not even the sound of pacing feet alerting them to what he was up to. Though Draco never came close enough to his room to listen. He didn't want to know what was going on up there.

Bellatrix would probably keep her promise to give him a lesson later today. Maybe she would give him a lesson on toughening up. She had mentioned before that she would like to take him down to the cellar to watch the fun go down. He would never be able to torture someone himself if he could barely watch without feeling the need to spill his guts.

He didn't understand why torturing people was so important. For information, maybe, but not for little to no reason. The Dark Lord threw around the cruciatus curse when anyone so much as disturbed him. Bellatrix preferred more creative methods. Draco wondered if his father had tortured people. He must have if it was such an integral part of being a Death Eater. Draco wondered how he felt about it.

His dad was always on edge these days, fearing the Dark Lord would pounce upon him at any second and punish his failures. He didn't have the ability Severus possessed to calm the storm with bright ideas or important information. He was as groveling as the rest of them. It made Draco angry, filled him with shame and distaste when he looked at his father. The very man he'd looked up to with pride and admiration, idolized him even in his faults, was nothing more than a spineless servant.

Severus was the only one who could, on occasion, talk some sense into the Dark Lord. He talked him down from fits of rage, stroking away the hurt of his delicate, wounded pride. That was how Draco saw it, anyhow. It reminded him of the stories some of his friends shared, the way they walked on eggshells and coddled their parents as if they were moody toddlers always on the verge of a breakdown. As infuriating as his parents may be, Draco was glad he hadn't been cursed with that.

Draco tried not to make assumptions about the Dark Lord, but it was hard not to wonder what went through his head. His manipulations were obvious, though rarely were his intentions, and Draco watched people fall for them daily. He was good at what he did, clearly. He was someone who invoked many questions but none would ever want to venture into his twisted mind to find the answers. Draco would gladly leave him a mystery.

Draco glanced toward the house, wondering when someone might come out looking for him. He imagined his parents, teary-eyed and full of apologies for the thoughtless way they'd shoved him into difficult positions. They didn't even ask him what he wanted, never gave him a choice in the matter. It was like they didn't care at all.

Draco rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a string of long held-back groans. He started at the sound of feet padding through the grass, whipping his head up to see not his weeping mother or remorseful father, but Severus approaching. His swaying black robes looked out of place under the shine of the warm summer sun, his skin looking even paler than usual.

Draco would miss Severus terribly once he was off to Hogwarts come September. For the first time without Draco. For so long, he'd spent most of his year around his godfather, he was always there if he needed a word of advice or comfort. Not that Severus was the most comforting man but he could always make Draco feel better. He was the only one who understood Draco’s dramatics. Such as how he would simply die in the face of a school year apart.

Severus had stayed the night, something he only did when he was worried. It didn't show, not in ways noticeable to anyone who hadn't spent their life getting to know him. But Draco could always tell when his godfather was upset about something. He couldn't always tell what it was about, such as now.

Severus sat beside Draco, the skirt of his robes pooling around his crossed legs. “Your aunt is requesting you.”

“I’m not in the mood for lessons today.”

“By all means, then, keep lounging in the garden,” Severus said. “I’m sure the war won't mind pausing while you get your rest.”

“She’s horrible.”

“I know. But she’s powerful and you would do well to let her teach you.”

“Occlumency, sure. I don't see why she needs to teach me torture methods. One crucio and they're done.”

“I fear it is your saying things like that which provokes her need to guide you.”

Draco laid his arm over his eyes, basking in the sun and the silence Severus offered him.

“I’m betrothed, did you know? I’m supposed to be married.”

“Oh?” Severus said, sounding uninterested.

“Yes. Mum and Dad didn't bother to tell me, they never do. I suppose I should be grateful they’ve made me such a nice match,” he said bitterly.

“I take it you are not?”

“Of course, I'm not!” Draco snapped, throwing his arms out. “Nobody ever asked me if I wanted to be married. I don't want to do any of this. I've been swept along my whole life, doing everything I'm told. I never make trouble. I've been good. I don't deserve this.”

His defiance was childlike, the way he sat up and clenched his fists in the grass while he protested this unfair treatment. But it wasn't fair. Why didn't anyone ever stop to consider that he might not like this?

“It’s not fair, Sev,” he said, his anger softening. “I don't want to do this anymore.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be able to make my own choices.”

Severus stared intensely at a blade of grass he twirled between his fingers. “When this is over, when your decisions are no longer ruled by the war you live in, you may do as you please. Marry who you like. I am sure Astoria wouldn't mind.”

Draco turned an accusing, offended stare on him.

“How did you know it was Astoria? You knew!”

“It might have been mentioned.”

With a huff and mumble of “traitor”, Draco crossed his arms and turned away.

“My deepest apologies, we had been under the impression the girl was your friend.”

“She is. It’s only, I wish I'd been asked.”

“You are not being married tomorrow,” Severus said. “For now, come inside before your aunt comes looking for you.”

Begrudgingly, Draco followed Severus inside, finding Bellatrix waiting for him. She took him by the wrist, skipping down the cellar stairs where their sessions took place. He sent Severus a last, pleading look, hoping he might find it in his heart to save him.

The cellar was quiet, only a faint drip of water from a corner of the ceiling and something that sounded like weak, infrequent moaning filling the stifling stone room. Bellatrix sliced through the silence with the dreadful sound of her voice.

“I thought we might do something different today.”

Please, no.

She had taught him how to inflict pain before, explained how it was done, but it had always been distant, hypothetical, even demonstrated. He had never done it himself. Never practiced on a living subject.

Bellatrix lit a flickering lamp, the dim glow casting light on the shivering form of a young woman Draco hadn't been aware was sitting in his home. Splotches of purple and red covered her face, her hair matted, and her eyes brimmed with fear as they glanced up at her captors. Why did they keep kidnapping strange women? He recalled the lady who'd died on his table and wondered what equally awful fate awaited this woman.

“Do you know who this is, Draco?”

“N-no.”

“A mudblood who’s been working in our ministry. Filthy thing, isn't it?”

He nodded.

Bellatrix’s boots clicked against the stone, each step measured and deliberate. Her eyes twinkled in a way not at all inviting, her smile unnatural. Draco’s stomach turned. Something in the air shifted when she stopped, so close to him that he almost shuddered at her presence. Her laugh was low, but it rang through the room all the same.

“You’re shaking, Draco,” she said, her knuckles brushing his cheek. “Afraid, are we?”

Draco flinched. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words escaped his tight throat.

“Did you know, Draco, that there are other methods of torture besides the Cruciatus curse?”

He would rather keep the things he knew as pages in books or boastful stories, he did not need an in-person demonstration. Bellatrix took to demonstrating anyway. The ragged woman was dragged forward. Bellatrix’s hand curled around her face, the sharpened tips of her nails digging into her cheeks. Draco watched as whatever spell his aunt uttered made the woman’s breathing harsh and constricted, hands pawing at her throat as if there was something wrapped around it. Her eyes bulged, labored gasps escaping her.

Draco wanted to look away, but Bellatrix’s eyes were boring into him, a predatory gleam dancing within them. He could hear the woman’s muffled breaths, could almost feel her rapid heartbeat matching the thudding pulse of terror beneath his own chest. She groaned weakly, and Draco’s stomach twisted. His eyes refused to leave the writhing figure on the floor.

Every snarled word he was supposed to catch fell to the floor with a crash, broken bodies crawling toward him and twisting their gnarled fingers around his ankles and wrists until he was strung up and restrained by invisible binds like the woman in front of him.

He watched as the woman writhed, clawing at her skin like she wanted to tear it off. Bellatrix cast a curse he’d read about, one that made the victim’s body swell with heat, a fire creeping through them until they, if used with enough strength, burst in a fit of invisible flames. She told him she liked to use real fire sometimes. She liked to watch it dance.

The cries grew more desperate. The sound bounced around in Draco’s skull. He wasn't sure how long he was standing there or even how many different tactics Bellatrix switched between. It felt as though he blinked and suddenly his aunt was beside him, the woman crying and whimpering about her mother as a slow string of blood trickled from her mouth.

“Can you feel it yet? Don’t you want to try?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “Please…” he whispered, barely audible. He hoped somehow that his pleas would make it past his aunt’s ears and into whatever part of her was still capable of mercy. “I can’t.”

Her wild laugh split his ears. “You can, Draco. I’ll make sure of it. Every second of it, you will feel. And when you look at her, you’ll see yourself. See what you've done. And you’ll be proud.”

Draco’s trembling hand hovered over his wand. His breath caught, a knot forming in the small space of his throat, when he felt Bellatrix’s fingers brush against his forearm. He could feel the chill of her body seeping into his skin. Her perfume was sickly sweet, smelling of lilac and something crisp and woody that stung the back of his throat. The tip of something cold and sharp pressed gently against his arm, the glinting edge of her knife.

“Draco,” she whispered, her voice soft but sharp as the blade pressing against his skin. The scent of lilac and metal grew stronger as she leaned in. “Do you know what I think about you?”

His skin crawled. He felt her fingers on his jaw, nails scratching his chin. He focused on her perfume, every note of the sickening scent.

“You’re afraid,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. She was teasing him, enjoying the way his body stiffened under her touch. “Afraid of what I might do, perhaps. Or what you might do. I don't need to push you to the edge, you’re already on it. You just haven't realized it.”

Bellatrix’s laugh was soft, almost playful. Draco stiffened, feeling the sharp point of the knife pressing against him. He could taste her perfume now, heavy and cloying. He wanted to step back, to push her away, but his body refused to obey.

“Don’t you want to try? I know you like it. I know what you are.”

“No,” he said weakly, the single word pleading. No, she didn't. She didn't know what she was talking about. She couldn't.

Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “Liar.”

The knife slid across his skin in a sudden, stinging movement. She gripped his arm, the pads of her fingers smearing in his blood.

“Daddy’s made you soft. But you're not like him, I don't think so. You’re like me.”

Draco stared at the cut on his arm, his crimson blood trickling onto his aunt’s fingers.

“You want this. You need it. Can't you feel it?”

That sting. That burn in the back of his throat. That tremble in his fingers and that pull, the irresistible urge to do something. Anything. To end the woman’s suffering. To make the sound stop.

"Do it," she murmured, her voice a soft command. "You’re ready now, Draco."

No matter how much he told himself to stop, to walk away, his body felt like it was the one being forced about. Bellatrix’s silhouette moved like a ghost in his peripheral vision, the woman’s sobs piercing his ears.

He shut his eyes.

“𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑜.”

***

“You haven't read a single line,” Lucius said, handing Severus a glass of brandy.

Severus gave him a sideways look and slowly shut his book. He leaned back in his chair, accepting the glass and staring at Lucius over the brim of it. He sipped slowly, if only to purposely draw out the lack of needless conversation.

Lucius crowded closer to him, sitting on the arm of the chair and flicking the book open to a random page. He leaned forward to scan the page, long, unwashed hair curtaining his face. A strand just missed Severus’ glass.

Severus brushed his knuckles against the back of Lucius’ hand. Lucius lifted a hand to stroke Severus’ head, his touch one of fondness that didn't match the apathetic look on his face. He wasn't even looking at Severus, he was staring out of the library's large window, something cold and fogged passing over his eyes.

Silence stretched between them, its relentless edges touching every corner of the room. Severus felt it burn down his throat with the brandy, pooling inside his stomach. It wasn't uneasy, but it was far from comfortable. The soft sort of silence shared between lovers and those who understood one another without a word was not a luxury they could afford these days.

Lucius let go of Severus’ hair, letting it fall freely in mussed tufts, and crossed the room to stand by the window. Severus glanced outside, just to make sure Lucius wasn't actually staring at anything and it was his own thoughts he was trying to focus on. Lucius pressed his hand to the glass, fingerprints melting into it.

Severus came up behind him, a tentative hand sliding around his waist. He was rarely hesitant with Lucius. It had been so long since he needed to be. He rarely had to wonder what was running through his head.

“This house feels like it’s dying,” Lucius said. “Can’t you feel it when you're here? Its heart is rending.”

Matched in skill as they might be, Severus could never sense magic at its core the way Lucius could. He wondered, usually in passing thought, if it truly did have anything to do with the muggle blood tainting the river of magic that ran beneath his skin. He never mentioned it to Lucius.

“Aren’t we all,” he said in a somber voice.

“I do not know about you,” Lucius said, turning his back on the window, palms pressed flat on the sill. “But I would rather not like to die.”

“Ever?”

Lucius huffed a laugh at that, as if it were an absurd thought that anyone would want to live forever. “One day. But not yet. And you? Do you look for the prize of many men, immortality?”

“Certainly not. I don't know how anyone could wish it. I wouldn't mind if my days were cut short tomorrow.”

Lucius looked at him, hard and indecipherable. Maybe he was concerned. Maybe he didn't know how anyone could wish for such a sudden, unprepared death. Maybe he didn't know how ready for it Severus was. Or maybe it was that he did know.

“Well, don't die,” he said. “I’d be rather upset with you for it.”

Severus didn't answer. He leaned against the windowsill beside Lucius, legs bent slightly so their knees could touch. Lucius shut his eyes, savoring the tiniest bit of reprieve the moment offered. For a moment, everything was still. The brooding above them, the cruelty below, and the chaos surrounding died down to a dull hum.

The library door creaked and the moment was shattered. On years-old instinct, they pulled away from one another, Severus’ expression hardening while Lucius adjusted his shirt cuffs. It was only a creak of the house, a sudden, harmless noise. Perhaps it was upset. Who knows?

A scream sounded, bouncing off the stone walls of the cellar below them. Severus noticed Lucius flinch. He said nothing.

“He’s growing impatient with Draco,” Lucius said. “Bella says he hesitates, that he holds back. She says I should have started earlier with him.”

Lucius had told Severus the tales, the lovely family bonding that was his father teaching him how to subject their inferiors to pain and punishment when he was only ten years of age. By that age, Severus had been plagued by his own images of torture and blood-lusting fathers. Lucius never admitted it was wrong or that it hurt him in any way, but he did not want to subject Draco to whatever ache it had forced him to live with.

“The Dark Lord will demand proof of Draco’s loyalty,” Lucius said, voice low. “You can't keep stepping in for him.”

“I am aware.”

“What happens when he fails, when it becomes too much for him? What if we push him too far? It’s my own fault, I should have taught him to be stronger.”

“Draco is already remarkably strong. It’s his brattiness that he needs to grow out of.”

Lucius took a step toward Severus, his hand reaching hesitantly forward. Severus took it, giving him a squeeze.

“We can't send him back to school,” Lucius said.

“I know.”

Even if the Dark Lord didn't want Draco here, even if Narcissa and Lucius deemed it safe to sit him among his hateful peers, Draco had one too many crimes on his hands to be set free from his confinement. Severus could only protect him from so much, as was Lucius’ point. Lucius knew how much Draco relied on his godfather and how much Severus depended on himself to keep Draco safe.

“Do you think Potter will stand in your way, come to the rescue of his precious school?”

“I expect he will be otherwise occupied.”

“I don’t expect the students will be much trouble, but I'd keep an eye out. Children can be terribly meddling, especially, it seems, when Harry Potter is involved.”

“I’m well aware.”

Severus’ worry was not about rebellion, the Carrows would take care of that. He had greater tasks than his Headmaster duties to focus on. Making sure Potter got what he needed, when he needed it. Making sure no one, not his students, or Potter’s foolish friends, interfered with these plans. Making sure Potter himself was doing what he was supposed to when Severus likely wouldn't know where he was half the time.

Lucius wrapped his arms around Severus’ waist, his head coming to rest on his shoulder. They said nothing else, Severus resting his hand on Lucius’ back, forefinger gliding over the soft material of his robes. He could feel Lucius breathing in sync with him. The war never paused, it hadn't, really, since it began back when Severus was still in school. But in moments like these, it felt, for a fleeting second, like it did.

Chapter Text

Ted set the tea tray on the table, pushing aside a stack of magazines to make room. The low-hanging ceiling lights cast a warm glow over the room and sent shadows creeping low around the corners. On the plaid armchair, sitting in a heap, was a half-done, plum-purple work of knitting that might have been a scarf. With Andy’s knitting, it was hard to tell. Crumpled on the floor beside it, either having slipped or been thrown down, was a wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet.

Ted sat down beside Andromeda, who had her legs pulled up beneath her skirt and worry lining her face.

“Dora said Remus doesn't want a pet kneazle,” Ted said. “Apparently they make good Auror partners, or so Dora says.”

“Considering the way she used to handle the cat, he's right to refuse.”

Ted laughed. “They were thirteen.”

“She tried to dye it pink.”

“They’re creative.”

Andromeda had to laugh, too. “She’s a menace, is what she is.”

“That, too.”

Ted toed at the crumpled newspaper, kicking it toward himself. Andromeda stopped him with a hand atop his.

“There’s nothing good in there.”

“Anything I need to worry about?”

During the first war, muggle-borns were as protected as ever. There were no registrations, no restrictions, no more random acts of hate-fueled violence than usual. They seemed to focus more on actual muggles, seeking some sort of thrill from leaving families dead in their homes.

Andromeda tapped Ted’s hand nervously. “There was a family.”

His eyes flicked to the paper. She nodded.

“A Ministry family. A muggle-born with a muggle husband.”

“Dead?” he whispered.

“They’re saying it was an accident, that they don't know how it happened. But, Ted, there were four of them, all dead. They had children.”

Ted gripped Andromeda’s hand. They stayed silent for a moment, before Ted broke it with more talk about Nymphadora.

“I think Dora’s taking it hard. They say they’re not worried, but I can tell. And you know how they are, always braced for a fight.”

“She’s always been too willing to throw herself on the line. I admire the boldness, I do, but I wish sometimes that she wouldn’t be so rash.”

“She’s a fighter. They have your fire.”

“They have your heart.”

Ted smiled, leaning forward to nudge Andromeda’s nose. A sharp knock broke them apart. They looked at one another, then at the front door. Another knock sounded. It was too late for neighbors and rather too polite for Death Eaters, if such distinctions were even still safe to make.

“I don't hear any rude “Let me in!” Andromeda said, mimicking her child’s voice. “So it must not be Dora. Sometimes I think they forget they're a wizard.”

“Yeah,” Ted chuckled, making his way toward the door. “What a silly thing to do.”

Andromeda laughed. She picked up her wand and followed him to the door. Ted cracked it open, peeking out to see two wizards in Ministry robes. They wore the emblem of magical law enforcement, their faces shadowy under the porchlight glow.

“Evening,” the taller of the two, thin, blonde, and lanky, said. “We’re conducting a search.”

“What sort of search?” Andromeda demanded.

Ted put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re welcome to have a look around if you wouldn't mind telling us what you're searching for.”

“Not that sort of search. We’re conducting a routine check to ensure the compliance of registered muggle-born wizards.”

“Compliance? Compliance with what? I've committed no crimes.”

The shorter man, round and mustachioed, brushed past Ted, straight into the house. “Hm, we’ll see.”

“Excuse me?” Andromeda said angrily. “This is an infringement of our rights.”

“Mm, your rights, ma’am, are whatever the Minister decides them to be. And we’ve orders straight from him, yep.”

The tall man cast a cursory glance around the cottage.

“Lovely place,” he said, his smile mocking. “A bit old-fashioned, don't you think?”

“What do you want from my husband?”

He kicked at the dropped Daily Prophet. “Don’t read much, do you? Your daughter’s an Auror, am I correct? Dangerous lot nowadays. Bunch of blood traitors.”

“Do not use that language in my house!”

The mustachioed man stepped toward Ted. Andromeda stepped in front of her husband, wand twitching in her hand. Ted moved her aside with a gentle hand on her waist.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. He took a seat in the armchair, ready for his interrogation. “Ask whatever you need to know. Get on with it.”

“The Ministry is conducting a survey due to recent research. Magic, as anyone would assume, can only be possessed through blood.”

Ted stole a glance at Andromeda.

“Where no wizarding ancestry is found, we can only conclude that the magic was acquired by means of theft or other unethical methods.”

“That is absurd,” Andromeda spat. “He was born with magic. He can prove it for you now.”

The short man shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face. “Mm, he will. We will be taking you in.”

“Taking him where?”

“Andy.”

“You know, not many pureblood witches marry beneath them.”

“You’ll watch your tongue,” she said. “And you’ll tell me where this new rule of yours has come from.”

“It should be a quick, painless affair, ma’am. Unless, of course, you have something to hide.”

“Not at all,” Ted spoke before Andromeda could.

“But first,” the blonde said. “There is another reason we stopped by. We have reason to believe you’re assisting a wanted man.”

“I assure you we are not.”

“Have you been in contact with Harry Potter or any members of the Order of the Phoenix in the last month?”

“We have not.”

The man drew his wand. “You’ll do good not to lie to me, mudblood.”

“How dare you!” Andromeda spat.

“𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑜!”

She fell to the floor with a shriek. Ted jumped up, trying to disarm the man but was hit in the back with an echo of the attack.

“Do you know what happens to those harboring criminals?”

The question was met with cries of pain.

“An easy ticket to Azkaban. No trial needed.”

They let up, wands still pointed at the couple.

“Now, I expect proper answers this time.”

To the surprise of all three men in the room, Andromeda rose on shaky arms, finding her wand swiftly, and shot one of the Death Eaters backward into the bookshelf. Books flew, scattering across the floor as the shelf toppled over. Ted was similarly slammed into the wall, but his attacker did not easily escape Andromeda’s anger.

Ted, crawling shakily across the floor, gasped for breath. “We’ve done,” he coughed. “Nothing wrong. Leave us out of your madness.”

The other man stood, wiping blood from his scowling mouth. “Your being born is enough.” “𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐-”

His wand flew from his hands, clattering to the floor and rolling beneath the sofa. Andromeda had disarmed him with a slicing hex, the skin of his arm torn open and spilling blood.

“Touch him again, I dare you.”

The other Death Eater, having crawled out from under the bookshelf, aimed his wand.

“Andy,” Ted said weakly.

Andromeda struck first. “𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑜!”

Ted stumbled to stand, swaying toward Andromeda. “Andy! Andy, stop!”

She let him go, stunning both Death Eaters before wrapping her arms around Ted.

“You're alright, come now, look at me.” She held his face, his dizzy eyes focusing on hers. “You’re alright, love.”

“I can't stay here,” he rasped.

“I know. We’ll leave, come on. We’ll go to-”

“No,” he cut her off. “You’ll go to Dora’s for a while. I’ll find somewhere to hide.”

“Absolutely not. I'm not leaving you.”

Andromeda was already packing a bag, summoning things and stuffing food into the pockets.

“Dora needs you here,” Ted said.

“Dora needs 𝑦𝑜𝑢.”

“I know, but we can't just disappear. And I won't let you put yourself at risk for me.”

“I did that when I married you.”

He grabbed her hands, giving them each a kiss, then took the bag. “It’s not a question.”

“Ted.”

“No.”

Andromeda’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m not letting you leave. Not without me.”

“Go to Dora’s, quickly now. Tell them what happened and don't come back here. Don't use any magic forms of transportation.”

Andromeda wiped at her tears, nodding at his instructions. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you, Andy. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve found somewhere safe to lay low.”

Andy cupped his face, kissing him. “I love you, darling. Stay safe, please.”

“I will.”

He hooked his pinky around hers, a silly muggle promise that always made her laugh. She smiled through her tears.

They hurried out of the house, parting ways. Ted didn't let his tears fall until he knew Andromeda wouldn't see them.

***

A shimmer of white light floated over her stomach, flickered, then shone pink. She laid her wand on the bathroom counter, beside the white stick featuring undeniable pink lines. Both muggle and magic means had agreed on their conclusion.

Tonks pulled her damp hair into a bun, staring at her peaky reflection in the steam-smudged mirror. She was wearing nothing but one of Remus’ baggy t-shirts. She turned to the side, running a hand over her flat abdomen.

Feeling suddenly weak in the knees, she took a seat on the edge of the bathtub. She was going to have a baby. A disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. A baby. Her baby. What was she going to do?

She couldn't keep working as an Auror while she was pregnant. They'd have to put her on paperwork duty. What was she thinking? She couldn't have a baby in the middle of a war. Plenty of people did, most of Molly’s children had been war babies. But Molly wasn't an Auror. War didn't take breaks, it stopped for no one. Certainly not for her and her child.

She was needed now more than ever. She couldn't simply walk away from all of that. Everyday people were lost, hurt, needed for missions. They needed all the help they could get. She risked her life daily, but now it wouldn't only be her life she was risking.

She pressed her palm flat atop her belly. What would Remus say? He'd tried to push her away a thousand times, convinced of his silly ideas that he wasn't good enough for her. Would he think he wasn't good enough for a baby? Was she good enough for a baby? What if he thought he was too old? Or too dangerous.

But wouldn't he just love it with all his heart? Wouldn't he adore this child just as he did every other child he encountered? Would he make a wonderful, caring father? She thought so.

She stood slowly, legs still slightly shaking. She wasn't sure if the nausea she felt was morning sickness come to attack her in the evening or nerves. Remus wouldn't be home until later, so Tonks sat in impatient agony until he finally, later than she’d expected, came through the door.

His hair was wet with raindrops, the streaks of grey Tonks loved so much glistening. She watched him as he toed off his shoes and came, shoulders hunched, to join her on the sofa. His cold hand slipped around her warm thigh.

“I expected you'd be asleep by now.”

“I was waiting for you.”

His tired eyes were suddenly alert. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong, exactly. But I’m, um, there's something I have to tell you.”

His stare prodded her on, his thumb smoothing over her thigh.

“Remus, I’m pregnant.”

He pulled his hand back like he'd been stung.

“What?”

“I took one of those muggle tests, and I used the charm. I’m actually pregnant. With a real baby.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s- no, no, we can't.”

“I know it’s a lot, but-”

“No,” he said firmly.

“Remus-”

He was already pacing the floor, hands running through his hair. “I don't know if the child could end up being like me, but if there's a chance, we can't risk it. That’s no life to force on anyone.”

“Well, that's not fair-”

“What’s not fair would be bringing a child into this world knowing the kind of curse they would have to live with.”

“I know it’s not fair,” Tonks said, springing from her seat. “It’s not fair that there's a war. It’s not fair that children get hurt and parents die. It’s not fair that you've been made to feel like you're less human. But that doesn't mean this child has less right to exist.”

“What sort of father do you think I’d be?” Remus near shouted at her. “What am I supposed to tell a child who has to suffer because of me? What are you going to tell them when they’re left alone for days because I’m too ill to care for them? How are you going to explain why I’m treated the way I am, or why they’re trapped in a body they hate?”

“We’ll teach them different.”

“We’re not having this conversation. There are other options.”

“I’d like to have a proper conversation before making decisions.”

“I’m not subjecting a child to life as a monster. Or having one as a father.”

Tonks shook her head, her words struggling to find themselves. “What if I don't want to get rid of it?”

Remus’ shoulders slumped beneath the terrible weight Tonks had placed atop him. “Then you're being selfish.”

“I’m being selfish?” she said, laughing cruelly. “You don't want to have a child because you’re afraid it will become something you hate. You aren't worried about their feelings, you're too wrapped up in your own self-hatred to love someone else.”

“Upset about that now, are you? I warned you what you were in for.”

“I fought for you! Why won't you do the same for me? For our child.”

“I did,” he snapped. “I married you against my better judgment.”

“Romantic,” she huffed.

“I’ve given you all of me because you said you wanted it. I let myself trust you. And now you're trying to force this on me.”

“I’m not trying to force anything on you.”

“You’re not listening to me. You don't know what it’s like to live like this. To be in pain every day and hated for something you wish you could change. That child didn’t ask for this. I never asked for this.”

Tonks’ chest heaved, anger simmering beneath it. “I never asked for a husband who gives up when it gets too hard.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing? Giving up?”

“It’s what you always do.”

Remus gave her a last, hard look, before turning to leave.

“You’re leaving?”

“I can't do this right now.”

“Fine!” she shouted. “Run away. But don't pretend you're doing it for anyone but yourself.”

The door closed with a finalizing thud.

Tonks stood in the hall, hands pressed to her belly and tears in her eyes. She stood there for too long, staring at the door as if that would somehow summon Remus back. When she heard a knock, she bound toward it. But it wasn't Remus on the other side.

“Mum?”

Andromeda fell into Tonks’ arms, holding her tight.

“Mum, what happened?”

“Oh, Dora, it’s awful. Your father– why were you crying?”

She meant to say it was nothing, to assure her mother she was fine, but she answered with fresh tears. Andromeda wrapped her in another hug.

***

Footsteps clicked down the hall, papers shuffling in an attempt to look busy. Every word of this report was nonsense. Every new rule on this sheet was worse. And why was he receiving new members in his department without his approval? They were gifts sent straight from the Minister, a man who was definitely not on their side. He seemed every bit a Voldemort puppet.

Percy found Tonks waiting outside his office just as he had requested. Why in the world he needed to talk with an Auror was anyone’s guess and nobody's business. He had made the request with severity in his tone, assuring without saying it that he would bring justice and punishment where it was due.

“You wanted to see me?” Tonks said. He couldn't tell if she sounded nervous or annoyed.

He glanced around, adjusting his glasses, and gave her a curt nod before ushering her into his office.

Tonks gave him a scrutinizing stare. He was thinner than she remembered. Taller, too. His posture was stiff, his mouth pressed into a straight line. He looked so tightly wound, so perfectly set up, that she reckoned touching him the wrong way would send everything toppling over. She had a sudden urge to poke him.

“When do you get off work?” he asked.

“An hour.”

“See me in two?”

She held back a sigh and agreed. So this was going to be a drawn-out thing.

She met up with him two hours later, walking beside him in both confusion and curiosity as they stepped outside.

“Come home with me?” Percy asked.

“Uh, I have a husband.”

He frowned at her. “Do I look like that's what I meant?”

“Well, what do you want, then, twerp?”

“That is no way to address a Ministry official.”

Tonks stared at him and hardly had a second passed when both let out a quiet laugh.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “It’s important. I didn't know who else to trust. Or who would trust me.”

“Can I trust you?”

“I’m going to need you to.”

“Sounds dubious, but alright.”

They walked to Percy’s flat, Tonks’ hand hovering over her wand the entire time. Stepping inside, she whipped her head around, searching for any signs of a trap.

“Tea?” Percy offered.

“No, thanks.”

Percy made himself tea anyway, then sat with Tonks at the table.

“I need to know they’re alright,” his words tumbled out urgently. “My family. Harry, too. I know things are bad right now, I'm not blind to it, despite what it seems. I've wanted to speak with you, but I had to be careful about it.”

Her doubt instantly subsided. “They’re all safe and accounted for except for Harry and Ron. We don't know where they are. But they're together, hiding out from You-Know-Who.”

“At least they're together,” he said hopefully. “And Hermione?”

Tonks nodded.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I know I'm not a member of the Order, but if there’s anything you need, information or help…”

“Not openly. What you did earlier was smart, pretending I was in trouble. Keep to yourself, don't show any signs of being involved with us. Fancy playing a double agent?”

Percy chuckled nervously. “Bit of a strong word. But I’ll do what I can.”

“No notes. Now owl post. You don't know me,” she stressed. “I’ll meet up with you here every Thursday, if that's alright. Debrief.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you.”

Tonks leaned forward, arms on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Percy stared at his freckled hands. “I want to help. I was always trying to help. To make things better. I'm not some hero turning on the Ministry, I'm just an idiot and I’m trying to make up for it.”

Tonks nudged his foot under the table. “That’s alright. Happens to the best of us.”

“Thank you for trusting me. I was worried you wouldn't listen.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean, I did think I was about to be reported for a second, but besides that, I do trust you.”

“Thanks,” he said again.

“I’ll take that cup of tea now.”

Percy gave her a small smile and poured a cup of chamomile tea. She clanked her cup against his.

“Is it wrong to say cheers to treason?”

Percy choked on his tea. “I want to say yes, but I'm not sure I can.”

They laughed, quiet and tired, but laughter, still.

Tonks set her cup down abruptly, a splash dotting the wood table. “Oh, guess what?”

“Hm?”

“I'm pregnant.”

“Oh. Wow. You’re- yeah.” Percy blinked at her, trying to process this information. “Sorry, that made me feel very old.”

She laughed. “Remus freaked out when I told him. Ran out on me.”

She rolled her eyes, and maybe it was Percy’s imagination, but he thought there was hurt behind it.

“So, congratulations are not in order?”

Tonks laughed again, under her breath this time. “It’s complicated. I was excited, but Remus thinks the baby’s going to be a werewolf and I'm still working as an Auror which, honestly, Perce, is terrifying. I think I might get rid of it.”

“Oh, that’s, well, why? I mean, if that's what’s best for you, but why?”

“Why? Did you miss the part about my husband leaving me?”

“Right, sorry.” Percy fiddled with his teacup, ears turning pink. “Why are you telling me?”

“You’re perceptive.”

“Am I?”

“You know why.”

“Do you know why?” he asked with innocence mostly feigned.

“I do now. Just say it.”

“After you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You wanted me to convince you to keep it,” he said. He reached across the table for her hand. “I would encourage you to make the decision that’s best for you and your potential child. And if that means keeping it, you’ll have people to support you, myself included.”

“Careful, twerp. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking we’re best friends.”

“I think discussing personal matters over tea already established that.”

“Only on Thursdays.”

“Not if you keep calling me twerp, though.”

“When you stop being a twerp, I’ll give it up.”

Percy smiled into his tea.

Tonks did not, in fact, give it up, but then it could be said that Percy hadn't either. Besides their weekly meetings, which didn’t occur as often as they had originally planned, their contact was limited to passed around papers that were disguised as things like insignificant memos. Their true meaning could only be read after a specific uttered incantation and disintegrated upon reading.

𝑀𝑢𝑚’𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑇𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑠 𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛’𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔.

Most of the notes were written in code, something that was mostly Tonks’ handiwork and took Percy a while to learn. Sometimes Tonks spoke like that in person, something he begged her not to do. Though that might help him keep up with it. They never used names. They were quiet, careful, obsessively so, but that was what the Order wanted. What they needed.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑡’𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒.

Percy’s contact with other Order members was even more limited as they didn't want to risk him looking suspicious. He stuck to his scribbled notices, security files, and maintenance updates. Bureaucratic clutter that no one would pay any mind to, unknowing of the encrypted secrets beneath it.

𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝. 𝐾𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑝.

In return, Percy did what he could. He couldn't have complete control, but being the head of his department had its advantages. He couldn't ease things up as much as he wished he could lest their lovely new Minister grow suspicious and decide someone else was a better fit for Percy’s job.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦. 𝐾𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒.

Percy kept his eye on the new muggle registration, adding keeping track of the whos, whats, and wheres do his workload. Tonks’ father had gone into hiding, fearing what these newly imposed laws would mean. Percy hoped, he wished, that had been a dramatic solution, but it seemed to be the best one.

“It’s ridiculous,” Tonks said, kicking her feet up on Percy’s coffee table. “They have to prove they inherited their magic, which is impossible even if they did have a wizard lost somewhere in their bloodline.” “It’s designed so the only possible end result is Azkaban,” Percy said.

“Exactly! It’s such poorly disguised bigotry. I heard they want to make magic theft punishable by death.”

Percy leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. “Are you at any risk?”

“I don't think so, since it’s only people with zero magical relations. Until they come up with some other excuse.”

“Have you heard from your dad at all?”

She shook her head, fear breaking through the clouds of her anger. “My mum’s worried sick about him. And she's being extra fussy. She’s cleaned out my cupboards twice and keeps organizing my clothes.”

“My mother gets like that, too, when she's stressed.”

Percy wondered constantly if his family would be safe through these new regulations. They were purebloods, but they were blood traitors. It was only muggleborns now, but what happened when it was half-bloods, and then blood traitors? Like Tonks said, they were safe until an excuse was found.

Day after day, going through motions and avoiding trouble, Percy wondered if his family would do the same. His father worked within the Ministry, what would happen to him if it were found out he had gone against the Minister? Would they even need to find that out? Could they not simply expel as they wished? That seemed to happen plenty.

𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒.

He could do that. But could his father? Could his siblings? Could Harry? He could walk these corridors with his expression perfectly blank, just as boring and unlikable to everyone as he had always been. Thank goodness he had no friends to fool. He could smile when he needed to, as well. He could trust his voice not to break even as the truth behind his words stuck in his throat.

He could easily receive the horrendous reports he was handed. Today, a woman had her broom confiscated, which made no sense because muggles could ride brooms, too, were they taught. Though he supposed that would pose a different problem anyway. He wondered if his father had gotten a similar report.

The name Marian Puckle sat at the top corner of the paper he was reading. Her wand had been confiscated, too, under the claim that it was temporary. Her blood status was marked unverified, whatever that was supposed to mean. Her trial was tomorrow morning.

He stared at the file in his hand, holding it beneath the lamplight as if the glow would uncover some secret to make sense of this. It wasn't necessary. He knew full well the real reason. He didn't know the woman, had never heard her name before, but as she had no record, he was positive her only crime was being born the wrong sort of witch at the wrong time.

She was going to disappear after tomorrow, he was sure of that. It kept happening. People went in and they didn't come back out. Maybe they made it out, they managed to escape and hide out somewhere like Ted Tonks. Or maybe they were sent straight to Azkaban, locked away for life where they could not further taint superior blood and its offspring. There was no verdict that could save her.

He glanced at his watch, the face having changed into a picture of a deep blue sky dotted with stars. He should head home, but the deep, weighted ache burying itself in his body kept him rooted to his spot.

He didn't move. Instead, he slid Marian’s file into an empty folder. With his wand rather than his own quill, he wrote 𝑈𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤 atop the folder. He made quick work of a fake docket stamp and a forged reason. A case stalled due to jurisdictional conflict between departments.

Tugging open a drawer he rarely dug through, he rummaged around and pulled out a roll of red tape. It was stickier than any tape needed to be, and always covered in hair. It was one of those things he didn't know where it had come from or why it stuck around for so long, but it came in handy now. He stuck a single piece of it around the folder. Not enough that it looked like he was hiding something, but grimy enough that no one would want to needlessly try and pry it off.

He headed to Broom Regulatory Control, slipping past with little more than a questioning glance. It was not unusual to see him roaming around, checking up on everybody and making sure things were getting done. Just as it was not unusual for him to have access to whatever he deemed necessary, like accessing the broom registry and reassigning the broom of Marian Puckle from confiscated to lost in transit. That one was, of course, done with caution, but at this hour, little of them cared what Percy was up to now.

Messing with an old floo-routing quirk they had never gotten properly fixed after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, Percy rerouted Marian’s “holding” cell assignment to a storage wing that no one who was afraid of getting their good shows dirty ever entered. He knew the elf who cleaned it. He hadn't spoken with him since his first days here when he was wide-eyed about everything, but they had, in fact, exchanged words and Percy didn't think he'd mind a little criminal harboring.

No one would wonder at the disappearance until the morning. Percy scrawled a final note, a transfer order from the Department of Magical Transportation to the Wand Reclamation Task Force. He knew a man there. Well, through Tonks, he knew a man. He could help them more subtly, take greater risks, than Percy could do alone.

By the next morning, Marian Puckle would be gone. Declared missing. Maybe searched for, if anyone cared that much. The blame would be on Law Enforcement’s incompetence, on Marian herself, on Dolores Umbridge and her assistants. There might be a brief inquiry, some extra paperwork, maybe a meeting. No one would doubt Percy. No one ever did.

The next morning was frantic, but not for him. It was all hushed up as if he didn't know a thing. Maybe it was their shame, maybe their worry. Either way, they wouldn't come knocking on his door. He was slipped a fresh memo, a complaint about portkeys. He read the note beneath the layers of jargon. The paper disintegrated in his hand, but the words remained written at the forefront of his mind.

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

So was he.

Chapter Text

The house was mostly quiet, eerily so, except for the creaking wood beneath his feet. Hermione and Ron were asleep and Harry was wandering the dim halls of this spooky house. Every time he visited, he understood why Sirius left. He ran his fingers across the walls, turning corner after corner while his mind wandered elsewhere. The walls seemed to ripple like disturbed water beneath the brush of his fingertips.

Creeping in every corner, peering out from behind heavy curtains, and creaking across every floor of Harry’s thoughts, was Dumbledore. Dumbledore with his bright eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses. Dumbledore with that kind smile, that extended hand, that musical laugh. Dumbledore telling him he didn't have to be afraid. Dumbledore lying at the bottom of the Astronomy tower, limbs twisted and blood pooling from his ears.

Harry took his glasses off, rubbing at his tired eyes. He felt a sting, an ache growing behind them that he hadn't felt since the funeral. He wasn't going to break down now. He wasn't even sure he could. He hadn't cried since then. It only wanted to come out, but it didn't know how. Better that way, he thought. No use falling apart now.

He wasn't even sure what he was mourning anymore. Was it the man he knew? Or the illusion of him that his own mind had fabricated?

He trusted Dumbledore. Simple. Too simple. More so than he had trusted anyone else, except maybe Ron and Hermione. Maybe more than them, too. Because Dumbledore made it feel safe to. It was a relief, a dream, a safety blanket draped over weary shoulders, that someone that honestly kind and full of wisdom would love Harry. It felt like the sun finally peeking through dark clouds he thought might never pass. Like a lifeline thrown out to a drowning child.

But it was starting to feel like something else.

He didn't know which parts of Dumbledore had been honest. If any. What truth had he shared, and what had he hidden? Which of his words had been lies? Was he truly kind? Truly generous? Truly brave, humble, compassionate? Could someone really fake that much? Or had Harry simply been that stupid?

Why had Dumbledore kept things seemingly harmless from him? Unless they weren't harmless. From the very limited information he had about Aberforth, he understood why Dumbledore hadn't spoken about his brother. But what about his sister? His parents? How had they not once come up, even in offhanded mention? It was either a dark secret or an embarrassing one. Harry wasn't sure either was better.

And why hadn't he ever told Harry that they once shared a hometown? What had happened in Godric’s Hollow to make him refrain from all mention of it? Harry thought about Little Whinging, the horror story of a town he'd grown up in. He wouldn't bring it up to anyone either, even when telling them they'd been born there. It wasn't a part of his story he wanted to acknowledge.

Maybe Dumbledore had been abused by his mother. Maybe they all had. Harry could understand the complicated feelings that came from that. It wasn't something he liked to talk about, or even think about. Perhaps Dumbledore had wanted to push it away, to hide it from himself more so than keep it from Harry. And Harry couldn't truly blame him for that.

But what if he hadn't been hurt by his mother? What if it was only Ariana who had to suffer, while he was praised and kissed? What if he sat by, not saying a word while his younger sister was tormented because it didn't affect him? Just like Dudley did to Harry, or Sirius’ brother did to him. If the flames never touched your own skin, why should you care how they burned?

What other things had Dumbledore ignored? What had gone down right in front of him that he turned a blind eye to? Were there other things he let happen, washing his hands of it, because it wasn't his fight? Wasn't it, though? Harry may have no siblings of his own, but he couldn't imagine ever standing by while they were mistreated. He couldn't imagine standing by while anyone was mistreated.

Had he ever seen Harry as a boy or just the prophecy? Did he relish the way Harry admired him, basking in the glow of his blind devotion? Did he know the things Harry would do for him? That he would stand by his side in fierce defense no matter who came at them. Had he known full well, and used to his advantage, the fact that, were any unsavory secrets to slip out, Harry would trust him first without a second thought?

Because he would. He hated to admit it, but he always put Dumbledore first. He trusted him first. If he were able to take these accusations and foggy wonders to Dumbledore and he was told it was all nonsense, that would be the end of it. He wanted to believe that if he found out something truly terrible with enough evidence to back it up, he would turn his back. But he wasn't sure he would.

Even with the pile of questions he had, and the hurt feelings, he couldn't stop making excuses, making favorable answers out of nothing.

Was Dumbledore truly caring for a hurt child or was he sharpening a weapon? He wanted to believe Dumbledore had loved him, even if it was in some twisted sort of way. It 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 like he loved him. The warmth in his voice when he said Harry’s name, the gentleness he showed after the harsh truths Harry slowly found more and more of, the lighthearted jokes, had felt like love.

That night in the cave, the horror and pain in his screams, the wailed pleas as he begged whoever not to hurt someone, that pain was genuine. Maybe Dumbledore had been begging his mother, begging her mercy. Maybe that was it. He hadn't stood by doing nothing, he’d been powerless to help. Even Dumbledore had once been a helpless child.

And abuse was weird. It did weird things to people. It changed them. For some, it was harder to recognize. Some people went their whole lives not realizing they were abused. Harry always knew he was treated poorly, he had someone to compare with, but even he hadn't realized so many things until he was a bit older. Maybe Dumbledore hadn't recognized it for what it was.

But maybe there were also people who went their whole lives being abusive and not knowing it. That didn't make much sense to him, but it could be true. Maybe those people weren't lying when they said it wasn't that bad, maybe they truly didn't realize just how bad it was. But if Dumbledore were one of those people, would he have the consciousness to be purposely kind? That sounded like liar behavior to him.

Was it possible to love someone and hurt them at the same time? To look at them fondly while you lied to their face. To sympathize with the pain you put them through. Was the love true and the pain accidental? Were they both accidental? Did anyone ever purposely hurt others? Voldemort did. He thought Draco did, but he wondered if all of those laughs he had were more for his own satisfaction than his victim's pain.

Voldemort didn't feel bad for those he hurt because he felt no love, he knew no sympathy. It was the dark magic that corrupted him, but from what Harry had seen of his life, Tom Riddle had little room for love either. Maybe he'd been born without a heart, or maybe he had never been raised to know it. Maybe Dumbledore did his best to break familial chains, and he was trying the best he could, but some things were too hard to shake.

Like lying. And secret keeping. And whatever else Dumbledore had been up to that Harry wasn't allowed to know about. Did he care that he was leaving Harry in the dark? Did he consider that it might hurt him? Or was Harry reading this all wrong, exaggerating things, and making worse a situation that was not all that bad?

Or maybe none of that mattered now and the only thing Harry should be trying to figure out was how to love someone he never truly knew and mourn them at the same time. Maybe his questions could be laid to rest beside the harmless body of a lifeless man. But how could he? How many times had he followed Dumbledore’s lead without question, hanging onto every word like a sinner looking to be saved? Hadn't his savior played the part well?

He felt like such an idiot. He loved Dumbledore. Not the way he loved his best friends or his godfather. The way one would kneel outside a church, staring reverently at the steeple and wondering if they were allowed through the doors. And then came the preacher, open arms and warm welcome. Harry believed he was let in to be cared for with only his best intentions in mind. In that place of worship, he felt that he mattered. Not some orb that held his fate, not the mark on his forehead. Just him.

What made these thoughts worse, what hindered his acceptance that Dumbledore just wasn't a great guy, was that he still loved him. He still missed him. He hated him. He hated every lie he told, whatever those were. He hated how he put his trust in people like Snape instead of Harry. He hated all of his stupid plans, riddles, and clues. He hated him. And he missed him.

He missed the way he made everything seem like it would be okay, even as everything else was saying otherwise. He missed feeling seen. He missed how comfortable that trickery had felt when he didn't see it for what it was. It felt wrong to love someone like that, without reason, but not without guilt. It felt wrong to feel both furious and on the verge of tears. Even in death, Dumbledore’s hold did not lessen.

He wished Dumbledore was here. Not so he could hound him with questions and force him to empty out his pockets and hand over the missing pieces of this puzzle he'd left. But to see him look at him the way he used to. To tell him it would be okay, that they would get through this. That he was doing enough.

But that encouragement was tainted now. That hadn't been love, it had been a step in whatever plan he was working. He hadn't told him about the prophecy. He had avoided him that year, kept his distance. In Harry’s moment of grief, when he needed someone to turn to, Dumbledore had been there to assure him he cared. Had he?

He'd always thought Dumbledore was slightly different, slightly above other people. He looked better high up on that pedestal Harry put him on. It was his own fault the fall seemed so great. This pain was his own doing more than it was ever Dumbledore’s. He had never asked Harry to hold him so high.

He hated himself for that. He hated the part of him that would forgive everything right now if he was only asked to. But he would never receive an apology. He would never know if Dumbledore felt any remorse. He would never know what there was to feel remorse for. He hoped, childishly, foolishly, that it wasn't true, none of it. There was more he didn't know. Dumbledore wasn't the liar. There were reasons for everything.

What kind of person was he to think these things about Dumbledore? He was no saint. Dumbledore had carried things Harry would never understand. It wasn't like he'd ever asked. Maybe he didn't mean to hurt Harry, or anyone else, he just didn't know how to love someone without doing so. Hadn't Harry hurt his friends in moments of uncertainty and fear?

But he loved them. And he loved Dumbledore. He thought he always would, no matter what he found out. If not from the heart of a man, then from that of a boy who had been rescued when he needed it most and gave his devotion in thanks. Not beneath anger and shame, but sitting right between them, was unchanging love for the man who had given him everything and taken something that could not be returned.

Harry stopped his stroll at the dark-stained door that hid his godfather’s childhood bedroom. Sirius hadn't stayed in this room when he lived here. Harry wasn't sure anyone had set foot inside since Sirius left at sixteen. It certainly hadn't been cleaned since, by the looks of it, but someone had definitely been here.

Things were strewn about, the place a mess like someone had been frantically searching for something. They'd noticed a few other rooms looked like that. Someone had been here, trying to find something. Harry couldn't think of any obvious things they were searching for. Maybe Hermione could.

He looked around the cobweb-covered bedroom. Bedsheets in red and gold matched the banners hanging from the ceiling and the tapestry that covered the window in place of drapes. The walls were barely visible, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, and Queen in glossy form covering every inch. There was an entire wall dedicated to David Bowie, his magnetic stare catching Harry’s from every direction. Starman was scribbled in red ink on the wall, messily drawn stars figures shooting around it.

Sirius used to play Bowie for them, but he hadn't mentioned loving him that much. Maybe it was a teenage phase. Harry knelt down, pushing aside messily stacked vinyls and reading through the labels on cassette tapes. He took a few Bowie ones and returned to exploring the decorated walls.

Scantily clad women and men straddled motorcycles, the posters crinkled and curling at the edges but still sticking to the walls. Polaroids and enchanted photographs covered any empty space, stuck in the mirror frame, and created a collage above his headboard. His dad’s bespectacled face and goofy grin shined in every corner, laughing with Sirius, hugging him, grinning like he couldn't think of anything better than being by his friend’s side.

Stuck to the bottom corner of a Bowie poster, was a polaroid of Remus and Sirius. Remus was holding a plate of cake, hindered from eating in peace by Sirius who was holding his face, planting a kiss on his cheek. Harry stared at it for a moment.

He kicked aside junk scattered on the floor. Old clothes, scraps of paper, ticket stubs, and jewelry. He picked up an old leather jacket, putting it aside with his tapes. He got on his hands and knees, dust collecting on his sleeves as he searched for little bits of Sirius. He found half a letter, yellowed with age, from his mum.

She was telling Sirius all about Harry’s first birthday, thanking him for the gifts and wishing he was there. He read it over and over, imagining he could see her penning the words, hear her speaking them though he'd never heard her voice. She was talking about him, her baby. How cute he was, how sweet and silly. How much she loved him.

There was a photo, in half like the letter. A pudgy one-year-old, him as a baby, zipped around on his toy broom. A pair of red trainers chased after him. His dad. He wished it was more than a photo, that it could come alive like a memory complete with laughter and warm feelings. But all he had was emptiness.

The bedroom door burst open and a frantic Hermione came through.

“Harry! You can't disappear like that. We thought something happened.”

“Sorry, I-”

“Ron! I found him!”

Hermione knelt beside him, peering curiously over the letter. He watched her eyes scan the paper, then come up to meet his. She put a hand in the back of his head, pressing her forehead against his.

“I’m so sorry.”

“There’s so much I don't know.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“What if Dumbledore knew?”

Hermione looked at him in confusion. “About your mother?”

“No, about other things. Everything. There's so much he didn't tell me.”

“Maybe Dumbledore never knew as much as you thought he did. He was a great man, but still just a man.”

“No, listen. What if he'd been lying to me, pulling strings the whole time to set his plans in place?”

“Harry.” Hermione placed her hands atop his. “That doesn't make any sense. Dumbledore wasn't perfect, he didn't pretend to be, but that doesn't mean he was bad. You're letting speculation get to your head.”

“Maybe he wasn't bad. But maybe he wasn't good either.”

“He loved you.”

“How do you know?” Harry’s voice didn't come out angry or determined, it came out broken.

Hermione cupped his face. “I just do. Come on, let’s look around a bit more. Maybe we’ll find more letters.”

They looked around Sirius’ room, not finding anything of interest, and ended up wandering around the house as Harry had been doing earlier. Harry stopped suddenly, something jolting through him. A pull. He took a step back and pressed his palm to a shut bedroom door, the sign on it reading 𝐷𝑜 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝐸𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑅𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑙𝑢𝑠 𝐴𝑟𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘. Harry snorted. Sounded like something Percy would write. He pushed the door open.

The room was coated in dust and turned inside out, but it showed signs of used-to-be grandeur. Regulus seemed rather pompous, as most pureblood children tended to be. A Slytherin tapestry covered a large portion of the wall and, noticing something peeking out from behind, Harry pulled it aside.

“Oh my god,” he uttered beneath his breath.

It was like Bowie, but sinister.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, shuffling into the room.

She followed his eyes to the wall. It was covered in newspaper clippings, torn out articles, and meticulously handwritten notes. There was one photo of a man who looked like his human starter kit had come incomplete, his gaunt face white as chalk, his eyes gleaming red, and an air of sickness unlike any you could catch surrounding him.

Harry read some of the papers. Death Eater attacks. Masked figures. Dates. Annotations. Headlines both circled and scratched out.

“He was obsessed,” Hermione said.

Hermione couldn't take her eyes off the shrine. Harry wandered over to the desk where several journals had been tossed around. He opened them to find pages of runes, diagrams, and crossed out and rewritten notes. The dark magic and Voldemort obsession was broken up with a few pages of skillful doodles that had nothing to do with either of those things.

Tucked inside the back of one, he found a photograph of Regulus sitting with a little blonde girl he only guessed was Narcissa Malfoy because of the girl with unruly curls poorly tucked into a semi-bun sitting with them. Definitely Bellatrix. Regulus was leaning toward Narcissa as if he didn't want to risk touching Bellatrix. Harry didn't blame him, though he wouldn't feel any more comfortable with the other.

He picked up a framed photograph off the desk. The Slytherin Quidditch team, Regulus sitting in the center. He looked far less regal in this photo, a wide smile on his face. More absurd than that was the girl beside him, her arms thrown around his neck and an even wider smile on her face. It looked like–

“Dorcas Meadowes,” Harry said. “She was in the Order.”

Voldemort had killed her himself. He wondered how Regulus felt about that.

“Huh?” Hermione said. “Who?”

“Dorcas Meadowes.” He pointed her out. “It looks like she and Regulus were friends.”

“And they were on opposing sides,” she said sadly. “Do you think they were in love?”

“Er, I don't know.”

“Well, maybe they were in love, imagine it, but they had different beliefs.”

“Okay.”

“It tore them apart. Their love was strong, but not strong enough. They probably carried that regret for the rest of their lives.”

Harry gave her a look. “You’re weird.”

Hermione laughed. She picked up one of the journals, flipping through it. A loose paper fell out. Harry picked it up and Hermione crowded closer to read it. It was a letter from Regulus, addressed to Sirius.

𝑆𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑢𝑠,

𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠, 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐼𝑓 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠, 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑦 𝑚𝑒 𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑. 𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡. 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡𝑜, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓. 𝑃𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙.

𝐼 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠, 𝑎𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑜𝑡. 𝐼 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ. 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝐼 𝑒𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑆𝑖𝑟𝑖. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡. 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝐼𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑. 𝐻𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑎 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑥, 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑦 𝑖𝑡. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒, 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑠.

𝑇𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝐾𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝐴𝑛𝑑, 𝑆𝑖𝑟𝑖, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓, 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑. 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑑, 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑗𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑠.

𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦. 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

𝑅𝑒𝑔𝑔𝑖𝑒

Harry stared at the letter and Hermione blinked rapidly. Then they both screamed.

“R.A.B! It’s Regulus! The locket– Ron!”

They ran out of the room, shouting for Ron. He came up the stairs, not putting down his bowl of what looked like uncooked oats, nuts, and dried fruit. Hermione shoved the letter at him. He read through it, making several faces as he crunched dry cereal, then exclaimed the same way they had.

“That’s R.A.B! Regulus something Black.”

“Arcturus,” Harry said.

“Fancy. The locket was his then?”

Hermione nodded. “Where do you think the real one is? Somewhere in the house? Maybe already destroyed.”

“I wish,” Harry said. “But we can't take any chances. We still have to find it to make sure.”

Harry stashed the letter in the pocket of Sirius’ leather jacket, and they searched Regulus’ bedroom. Books flew, things were tossed and turned, searched again and again and again. They moved through room after room, throwing things around and yanking open drawers, wardrobes, pockets. Anything.

“Where is it?” Harry shouted.

Ron was on his knees, checking beneath every piece of furniture. Even the ones they could see very well under. “This place is a bloody maze. You could hide something anywhere and it'd take forver to find.”

“Not helpful, Ron.”

Hermione, having gathered bunches of wrinkling papers from several rooms, spilled them on the floor with a yelp. “I know where it is! I mean, I don't know where it is, not now, but don't you remember? We found that locket, the one none of us could open, and we tossed it out with the rubbish.”

Harry blinked at her. “We threw away a horcrux?!”

“You don't think…” Ron said, glancing down the staircase.

Harry took only a second to understand.

“KREACHER!”

They stampeded down the stairs, running to the basement kitchen. Harry called again and Kreacher appeared with a pop and a scowl.

“Master called?”

“Did you take that locket that we tried to throw away?”

Kreacher froze. “Y-yes, Master. Yes, Kreacher took it.”

“Where is it?” Harry demanded, desperate. He dropped to his knees, bringing himself to Kreacher’s level. “Please, Kreacher. We need it.”

Kreacher turned his drooping eyes to his feet. “Kreacher does not have it. Kreacher has failed. Failed Master Regulus.”

He let out a despairing wail. Harry and Ron shared a look.

“Kreacher, I order you to tell me nothing but the truth. What did Regulus tell you about the locket?”

“Master Regulus was proud, so proud to be a servant of the Dark Lord. Followed his every word, Master Regulus did.” Kreacher’s wrinkled hands trembled, bug eyes filling with tears. “But Master Regulus found out about the Dark Lord’s plans, about the horcrux.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“What happened,” Harry pressed. “What did Regulus do?”

“Master Regulus came to Kreacher, said the Dark Lord required an elf. It was an honour, Master Regulus said. Master Regulus was proud of Kreacher.”

Kreacher retold a story all too familiar to Harry, having lived through it himself. Voldemort took Kreacher to the cave, made him drink that potion that had Dumbledore begging for death. And then he left him there to give him just that. Kreacher only survived because Regulus had told him to come back home, and Voldemort severely underestimated the power and loyalty of elves.

“Master Regulus made Kreacher, oh, he made him do it. Kreacher begged, Kreacher was very bad,” he whimpered. “Kreacher took Master Regulus back to the cave, to drink the potion himself and switch the lockets. Master Regulus made Kreacher do it, he made him.”

A sob tore through him. He dropped to his knees, wringing his hands. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to destroy it. Kreacher tried. He tried! But Kreacher could not do it.”

“And Regulus died in the cave?”

“Oh, yes,” Kreacher blubbered. “Poor Master Regulus. Kreacher’s Mistress was mad with grief. Brave, noble Master Regulus. Kreacher failed him.”

Kreacher banged his head against the floor.

“Kreacher! Kreacher, stop!” Harry grabbed him by the shoulders. “You didn't fail him. This isn't over yet. We’re going to destroy the locket, but we have to find it first.”

“Kreacher does not know where it is. It was stolen.”

“Do you know who stole it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then find them. And here.” Harry brought out from his bag the fake locket, handing it to Kreacher. “It’s not magic, but it belonged to Regulus.”

“M-master Harry gives it to Kreacher?”

“Sure. You keep his memory alive, you tell his story. It’s yours.”

Kreacher’s fingers shook as he clutched the locket. “Kreacher is most grateful, Master. Kreacher will honor Master Regulus, he will serve the House of Black with honor and glory.”

“Er, yeah. If you want to avenge Regulus or whatever, you need to find the thief who took the locket. Then we’ll destroy it.”

“And you’ll have honored him,” Hermione said.

“Kreacher will find the thief. Kreacher will drag him here by the tongue.”

Ron chuckled. “You do that.”

“Don’t get hurt,” Harry said quickly. “Don’t fight him. Just find him.”

“As Master wishes.” Kreacher tucked the fake locket safely in his grimy nest.

“We’ll keep that safe for you while you're gone.”

Kreacher stared at Harry, eyes wide. He gave him a bow, one of sincerity rather than the usual forced respect. Harry gave a little bow in return.

“Kreacher will not fail,” he said, and then he vanished, off to drag thieves around.

Hermione knelt beside Harry. “It’s terrible, isn't it, everything about Regulus?”

“Bloody mad,” Ron said. “I don't think anyone betrays You-Know-Who. Shame nobody knew but us. He could be known as a hero.”

“Regulus did something braver than most would ever dare. And he gave us a chance. We’re not going to waste it.”

***

“Oh. My. God!” Hermione slammed her book shut. “What are you doing?”

Ron, who was fidgeting with his deluminator and flicking the lights on and off, looked up as though he couldn't fathom what was bothering her.

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Why do you keep putting the lights out? I’m trying to read.”

Laid out in front of her was 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝐵𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑑 and two Dark Arts books she had found in Regulus’ bedroom.

“Sorry. I didn't notice.”

She tilted her head with a disbelieving look. “You didn't notice the lights repeatedly flickering?”

“No, Hermione, I didn't.”

“Can you two shut up, my god.”

Hermione and Ron froze, glancing at one another before looking at Harry.

“Sorry. I’m gonna-” he pointed to the doorway before fleeing out of it.

He roamed the dark house, doing the usual snooping he passed the time with. There wasn’t nearly as much adventure as one would think they'd find in this labyrinth of a house. There were only moth-eaten fabrics and large wardrobes that looked like you could get lost in but did not open into another world. Harry would like to get lost for a spot of tea with a kind goat man right about now. But knowing his luck, he'd end up having to fight the witch lady and he had enough evil divas to deal with.

The house groaned beneath his feet. The light from his wand caught specks of floating dust, swirling around nearly every room. Shadows crawled beside him, changing shapes and sizes across the walls. They seemed to be just as alive as the portraits. He kept thinking he saw things out of the corner of his eye. If ghosts lived here, he thought we would have met them already. Maybe they were quiet.

The stairs seemed to creak every other step. He hadn't noticed that before. Maybe he could hear it better now that he was alone. A sound from downstairs made him think Hermione and Ron had come looking for him again. They never let him wander off for too long. He stopped on the landing and heard the distinct sound of Hermione’s high-pitched 𝑅𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑑.

A noise echoed through the empty front room.

Harry froze.

That was the sound of the front door closing. Slow footsteps crossed the foyer. Someone was in the house.

The door was locked and warded. He'd made sure of it and Hermione checked and rechecked anxiously several times. Not to mention the house's usual protections.

Gripping his wand, Harry slipped down the stairs. He pressed his back against the wall, hidden from view. Whoever it was didn't sound like they were in any hurry. Avoiding traps, he'd guess. He held his breath as the footsteps came closer.

“Harry?”

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the whisper. A cloaked figure passed the staircase, not noticing him. He jumped out, wand raised.

“Show yourself!”

The hood dropped and Remus’ calm face appeared behind his raised hands.

“It’s only me, it’s Remus.”

“Prove it.”

Remus looked thoughtful, not at all bothered by Harry’s pointed wand as he came up with something.

“I once told you that if you have trouble finding something, put it back in the spot you first looked, not wherever you found it.”

“That’s…more specific than I expected.” Harry lowered his wand. “I kept losing stuff, though.”

Remus chuckled. “How are you? Where are your friends?”

“Bickering in the sitting room. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve some news for you. And I brought dinner.”

Over plates of semi-warm food, Remus told them what had gone down since the night of the wedding. He shared as much as he knew about the Ministry’s new ideas and their excuses for freely searching Order members’ homes in search of Harry. Apparently an attack was warranted if you went against the Ministry. Or, you know, if you harbored criminals. Harry was now wanted for many absurd reasons named in place of the real one. At this point, he didn't know why they couldn't just say it.

It was awful, all of it. The way the Ministry was treating people. Going after muggle-borns under the pretense of magic theft, whatever that was even supposed to mean. The blatant lies. The imposing of their will. The four of them stared into cups of murky tea and wondered how on earth they were going to win this.

“You three are leaving, aren't you?” Remus asked.

“We have to,” Harry said. “We have a mission from Dumbledore.”

“I suspected so. I can come with you, protect you.”

“That would be great, but you can't. We’re the only ones who are supposed to know.”

“But you might need me,” Remus pressed on. “I can help.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look.

“Remus,” Harry said. “We need to stay invisible.”

“And what about Tonks?” Hermione said.

“She’s safe. She’s staying with her mother.”

“She’s what? I meant that, well, it’s just that you are her husband. Why’s she staying with her mother?”

Harry agreed it was strange. Tonks could protect herself and wouldn't give up a chance to protect others as well. She wasn't the type to lay low unless she really needed to.

“She’s pregnant,” Remus said, begrudgingly as though they'd forced it out of him.

Hermione squealed, Ron cheered, and Harry gave a congratulations. Though Harry’s reaction wasn’t entirely heartfelt.

“Why do you want to leave if she’s pregnant?” he asked, maybe too accusingly.

“It’s not like that. You don't understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“Werewolves don't breed with normal people,” Remus said.

“Remus,” Hermione interjected, but Remus cut her off.

“What sort of life will that child have? With me as a father?”

“So your noble idea was to run?” Harry said. “What sort of life will that child have never knowing why their dad didn't want to stay for them?”

“I’m trying to protect them!” Remus shouted, rising from his seat. “They’ll be better off never knowing me, never having to face the way people look at them, the way people will treat them knowing what their father is.”

“That shouldn't matter,” Ron joined in, rather more timidly than Harry. “Family ought to stick together through that.”

“I won't force someone to live like that, having a monster for a father.”

Harry’s eyes burned as he stared straight at Remus. “If you leave, you’ll do just that.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” Remus said, jaw tight.

“No, you're not. You're trying to run away because facing it is harder. Look at yourself. You don't want to be a monster, then go home.”

“You don't understand,” he bit out. “Any child of mine would only be ashamed of me.”

“You’re the only one ashamed of yourself. And me, if you don't go home and make this right. The only thing you've got to be ashamed of is this.”

“Don’t tell me what I am,” Remus said harshly. “You couldn't possibly know a thing about it.”

Harry stood up, eyes flaring. “Then figure it out yourself. I don't want any part of this.”

“James would agree with me.”

“𝐽𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠,” Harry spat. “Died to protect his wife and son. So, no, I don't think he would.”

“You didn't know him.”

The kitchen burned with a heat as intense as Harry’s anger. He didn't notice it himself, but the others were sure the walls shook. Something kindled in its bones, just as it did Harry’s. One of Hermione’s books fell to the floor with a thud.

“I know that he was brave. Coward.”

Harry spat the word out and Remus flinched as if he'd felt it hit his skin. Remus’ hand flew to his wand. Ron rushed in front of Harry. Remus’ face fell, as if seeing for the first time what he was doing.

“I…” he started, hand dropping to his side. Shame flooded his features.

If Harry weren't so angry he might feel victorious seeing it.

Remus turned and fled the room. They heard the front door open and click shut.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered. “What was that?”

“It was necessary,” Harry said, fists still clenched. He dropped into a chair, slumping over the table.

Hermione placed a gentle hand on his back. “You weren’t wrong, Harry, but I’m not sure all of that was necessary.”

“Who leaves their pregnant wife? He was going to let his child grow up without a father.”

Anger still prickled beneath Harry’s skin. His scar pulsed. What a sorry excuse for a father, what an undeserving human being. Leaving a child before they were even born. It was disgusting. Repulsive. Something no man who was anything besides worthless would do, leaving a child scrambling for answers about his life, wondering how he could hold such little value to be left that way. It made him sick.

Ron and Hermione watched the fire in Harry’s eyes burn, the embers revealing something they both knew they couldn't understand the way Harry did.

Chapter Text

Hermione paced the room, the newspaper Remus had brought them crinkling in her fists. She kept rereading that specific page. Occasionally, she would stop her pacing to voice her disfavor for Hogwarts’ new headmaster or mention again how ridiculous it was that Harry was being hunted, but Ron noticed how she never turned the pages. He knew where her focus was.

He would have said something had anything remotely comforting come to mind. He would protect her with all he had, but that didn't mean she was safe. She was in hiding, she was not the one on trial, but it touched her all the same. Those were her people. Voicing his disgust didn't seem to be the most helpful course of action.

Muggle-born registration. Trying to say they weren't wizards, as if Hermione weren't a better one than him. Hunting them like animals. Putting them on lists like they were criminal by nature. It was disgusting. They suspected this was coming, it was the main focus of this whole scheme, but watching it unfold was more disturbing than any of them had been ready for.

Hermione clutched the paper, the words blurring. Staring at all the names, reading about trials and interrogations, running through the order over and over and over, it felt unreal. But it was real. It was so glaringly their new reality. Her mind raced with thoughts of all the people who would suffer from this. People, families, with nowhere to hide. Helpless children.

And she was sitting here being useless. There must be some way, something they could do to help these people. They couldn't leave them to face this on their own while they ran around chasing horcruxes. These people couldn't wait that long. They needed help now.

Hermione dropped the paper, involuntary tears running down her cheeks. She felt a pair of arms wrap around her shaking shoulders.

“It’s going to get better,” Ron said, none too confidently. “We’re going to turn this around.”

“When?” she wailed. “After innocent people have rotted away in Azkaban? You don't simply go back to your life after that.”

She buried her face in his chest. He awkwardly patted her back, his arms stiff around her.

“We’re going to stop them,” he said. “These things will change. And if we can't save everyone now, we can make a better world for their children.”

Hermione sniffled, wiping the back of her hands across her cheeks. “That’s true. It’s like you said, younger people will look up to us and the changes we’ve started.”

“Did I say that? Well, I was right.”

Hermione let out a watery laugh. She stopped crying, but her fingers still curled loosely around Ron’s t-shirt, her head resting on his shoulder. His arms relaxed around her, the most complicated of his job over. Now he just held her.

She let go first, picking up the newspaper and folding it. She set it down on the table, having done enough reading for the day. She sat on the sofa, head in her hands, and let out a deep breath. Ron sat beside her.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

Ron leaned back, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. He glanced at the Prophet, a sickening twist forming in his gut. He turned his stare to the murky windows, always hidden by dark drapes. He hoped that somehow all those Muggle-borns would be alright. Some of them, at least. He wondered what was going down at the Ministry right now. What were they telling these poor people? What were they doing to them?

“Do you think-” he paused. “I wonder how Dad’s holding up.”

“He’s strong. He’s always gotten by just fine, hasn't he? He's got this way of bringing light everywhere he goes and making you feel like the weight isn't so heavy.”

Hermione smiled at Ron, a look that made him wonder if it was just his father’s kindness she was thinking of.

“Yeah,” he laughed, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “He does do that.”

“What were you going to say? Do I think what?”

He was hoping she hadn't noticed that.

“You’re so nosy.”

“Nosy? You said it to me.” Hermione crossed her arms, pouting at him. “Is it something bad?”

“Define bad?”

“Bad to you?”

“It’s just,” he sighed. He picked at the hem of his shirt. “I don't know. Do you think Percy’s okay with all this?”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “He’s never been like that. And it’s not like he has any business with the law.”

“But he's Head of Transportation, which, if you remember, is on total lockdown to stop us.”

“Well, he 𝑖𝑠 working under Death Eaters. Maybe it’s not what you think.”

Ron looked doubtful. “I feel like it’s a bit late for the benefit of the doubt. He's made it quite clear how he feels about all of us. I don't care, he can have his precious Ministry job. I just, I don't know, I keep wondering if he's okay.”

He questioned if Percy was doing alright, if he was simply putting up with this new regime or happy to go along with it. What if he'd turned into an evil blood purist snob? Ron didn't know where that would sprout from, but he had already been plenty surprised.

“It’s okay to miss him,” Hermione said.

“I don't, it’s just-”

He was cut off by Hermione’s hand resting on his knee. “Ron, it’s okay.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s the furthest thing from stupid. He's your brother.”

What did that count for? Not much, in Percy’s opinion. What did nights spent stuck at the kitchen table helping Ron with homework mean to Percy? What about all those times he would let Ron read aloud to him while he studied because he was struggling learning to read? Or when he told him secrets like that Father Christmas kidnapped naughty children and forced them to work like elves in his workshop? Ron had kept Percy up all night with follow-up questions.

But Percy didn't care about any of that, probably didn't even think about it. Ron never crossed his mind. Why should he? He was a part of Percy’s past. Percy had a new life, one Ron loathed with everything in him. He hated it. He hated Percy for what he did, for what he was probably doing now. But still, he hoped he was alright.

Ron didn't wish the worst for Percy, not at all. He wished him nothing but happiness, success, and all that bullshit. And maybe that he stepped in chewing gum from time to time, but nothing worse. He wanted Percy to be happy, he just wished happy wasn't so far away.

“Do you think he’ll come around?” Hermione said. “He might now.”

Ron didn't think he would. He didn't think Voldemort was truly the thing that drove Percy away, as much as he’d like to blame him for it. He left because of them, because he wanted different things. Because they didn't fit into his new life and he'd decided they didn't matter as much as it. He was gone and there wasn't anything they could do to bring him back.

Ron wouldn't even know where to begin. He wished he could start over, reset the clock, and take back every mean thing he ever said to Percy. Erase every time he was annoyed or annoying. Every push and poke. Every time he'd told his older brother, in moments of childish anger, that he hated him. And then maybe he would still be here.

Hermione watched him, her eyes digging into him as if she were trying to read his thoughts. Maybe she was. He wouldn't be surprised to know she’d been secretly practicing legilimency and was waiting for the most random of moments to bring it up. He reckoned she could do it if she tried.

She reached out, giving his hand a squeeze. She didn't pull away, just kept her hand in his. The tips of his ears went bright pink and he squeezed her hand back.

“I know it’s not the same, but I understand missing your family.”

Ron, in a sudden act of bravery, or perhaps just familiarity, slotted their fingers together.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just remember you're not doing this alone.”

He gave her a small smile. They stayed like that for a moment, silent and staring at one another.

Harry shuffled in, hair ruffled and rubbing his eyes. He wore an old jumper that looked to have belonged to Sirius, the sleeves hanging over his hands. He stretched and groaned unceremoniously, not noticing the way Ron and Hermione pulled away from one another.

“What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” Ron said, a bit too quickly.

Hermione said nothing, her cheeks gone red.

Harry didn't notice. He frowned at the Prophet, his own face staring at him from the front page.

“They could’ve used a better photo,” he said, picking up the paper and holding it up beside his face. He frowned menacingly at Ron and Hermione, making them laugh.

“Do I look like a dangerous fugitive? I do happen to be Undesirable number one. One, guys.”

“A true achievement,” Hermione said.

“Ten thousand galleons,” Ron mused, rubbing his chin. “Bit much, if you ask me.”

Harry’s mouth fell open in offense. “How dare you. I’m worth twelve at least.”

“True. If I ever turn on you, I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Ron dodged the rolled newspaper Harry tossed at him.

Hermione shook her head, her smile amused.

“Being a wanted criminal is hard,” Harry said with another tired stretch. “Do you think Kreacher has lunch ready?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said. “He told us to wake you up, like, an hour ago.”

They went down to the kitchen, Harry slouching in his usual seat. Kreacher served three warm bowls of potato soup and a loaf of bread that smelled of rosemary and faintly of soot. He rested his head on his elbow, spoon spinning lazily around his bowl. As Hermione buttered slices of bread and Ron tucked into his soup, Harry’s gaze drifted tiredly around the table.

Kreacher wrung his hands, looking up at Harry with that mix of reverence and fretfulness he always had. The locket hung off his neck, resting between his bony clavicle. Him being nice was still weird, but Harry supposed he was glad for it.

“Does Master Harry dislike the soup? Kreacher will make him something else.”

“It’s fine, Kreacher. I’m just not hungry.”

“Master Harry must keep up his strength. Perhaps some treacle tart would please Master. Kreacher knows how Master likes it so.”

“Kreacher, it’s fine, really. I don’t–” Harry flinched, a sharp pain shooting through his head. He pressed a hand to his temple.

“Harry,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing.

“I’m fine. Just a headache.”

He pushed his bowl away, catching three pairs of concerned eyes as he stumbled out of the room.

“Need to lie down,” he muttered.

Ron said something to him, but Harry didn't catch it.

He ran upstairs, head swimming, and shut himself in the bathroom. He'd taken to locking himself in the bathroom so as to avoid a repeat of their first night’s incident. The headache pulsed behind his eyes, the lights suddenly blinding as they spun around him in dots. He collapsed to the floor, his head narrowly missing the edge of the bathtub.

He saw a figure, a woman crawling and whimpering on the floor. Three children crowded behind her, her arms spreading out protectively in front of them. She begged for mercy. It reminded Harry of a scene that had only played out in his dreams.

“Please,” the woman begged. “𝐷𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑒𝑖ß. It’s all I know. Please.”

Harry felt anger bubble in his chest like an overheated cauldron. He felt a shock of energy course through him, running down the veins in his arms, as he watched green light shoot from Voldemort’s wand. The screams sounded inhuman. He felt them sink into his skin, rattle his teeth, slide down his throat like something warm and sweet. Like pleasure.

Three small bodies lay on the floor, their mother fallen halfway on top of them. His pleasure was momentary, anger flooding back to take its place. She didn't have what he needed.

Harry came back to the bathroom, his forehead pressed against the cool marble floor. His skin was slick with cold sweat. One of his hands gripped his wand. He could still feel it, that scene stuck behind his eyes, pounding against his skull.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, head on the marble. Minutes. Hours. Maybe he'd fallen asleep there. But Ron and Hermione would surely have found him by then, forcefully dragging him to bed with them so they might notice quicker if he were to vanish randomly.

He heard a knock at the door, the sound rattling his brain. He must have summoned them. They were yelling at him, words hot and swirling like Kreacher’s soup around his head. He didn't answer, which never stopped his friends, who burst through the door. They looked at him like they were seeing the very same thing he felt, that someone else was moving beneath his skin.

“Bloody hell, Harry. We heard you screaming. We thought-”

“Why are you on the floor?” Hermione demanded.

Harry sat up, hunched over, and sweat-drenched. His lips were pale, his eyes unfocused.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to his wand on the floor. “Harry? What’s going on? Was it him again?”

Ron crouched beside Harry, peering into his lifeless face. Harry nodded once, painfully.

“You’re not blocking him out,” Hermione said. “Harry, we’ve talked about this.”

“We talked about how I’m shit at occlumency,” Harry said angrily. “It’s not something I can just turn on.”

“You can't just let him inside your head!”

“By all means, teach me how.”

“If you ever bothered to try-”

“Hermione,” Ron said, the only calm of the three. “Go easy on him.”

“You think I don't try? You think I want him in there?”

“I think you don't try hard enough.” Hermione’s intense stare defeated Harry’s dizzy anger. “How do we know he’s not in your head? He could see where we are or hear our plans.”

Harry pushed himself up unsteadily. Ron followed him with a helping hand, but he was pushed away.

“I’m doing the best I can, okay?”

“No, you're not! You're not even trying, are you? You're putting all of us in danger.”

Harry didn't answer. He shoved past her, storming shakily down the stairs. She didn't understand. He didn't like having Voldemort in his head, losing control to him. But he knew what Voldemort was doing, he knew what he was looking for. He gained useful information.

And maybe he didn't hate it. It was helpful. So what if he passed out a few times? He needed a nap anyway. When he saw through Voldemort’s eyes it was as though he were sailing through the storm instead of being battered by it. There were no masks, no web of lies to pick apart, just intention. Wasn't it better for him to know that? Wasn't it better to feel some sort of guidance than being so lost all the time?

Voldemort he wanted gone, but until he was, Harry could make use of him. He would destroy him, but he had to reach him first. This was a way to reach him, to pry his own hands into Voldemort’s mind, to he the one ripping open scars and peering through the split flesh. Hermione would think him crazy if he told her. Maybe he was crazy.

Harry avoided Hermione for the remainder of the day. That did nothing for the plans they were supposed to be making. Kreacher had found Mundungus Fletcher, from whom they then found out that it was Umbridge who had the locket. So they had no other choice, really, than to sneak into the Ministry and steal it.

Instead of planning, Harry was lying curled up on the sofa. A blanket was wrapped around him for comfort more than warmth, keeping him tucked tightly in his balled up position. His head was killing him. The lights were low, easy on his eyes but much less on his mind. The house was all the more eerie unlit.

He kept replaying that scene in his head. The sibilant voice. The screaming woman. The dead children. And the man Voldemort was searching for. Gregorovitch. He was a wandmaker, Krum had been talking about him at the wedding. Harry’s head spun with both pain and theories as to why Voldemort needed a wandmaker.

“Master Harry?”

Harry hadn't noticed Kreacher come in. He blinked his eyes open to find Kreacher standing beside the sofa with a teacup, steam, along with the scent of lavender, curling up from the drink.

“Kreacher heard Master Harry’s friends say he was having nightmares, terrors in his mind.”

“Er, sort of.”

“Master Regulus used to have those. His lavender tea helped soothe. Kreacher thought perhaps it would do the same for Master Harry.”

Slowly, Harry sat up, taking the cup. “Thanks, Kreacher.”

Kreacher left with a bow. Harry blew on the steaming tea before taking a sip. The warmth spread through his chest, calming him even as his headache didn't ease.

“It’s good for the nerves.”

Harry looked up to see Hermione standing in the doorway. “Do you think I'm nervous?”

“I’d say exhausted,” she said, sitting on the other end of the sofa. “Tense. Heavy.”

“Heavy?”

She shrugged, for once giving no explanation. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Hermione sighed, tucking her legs beneath her. “I know it’s not your fault, but I hate what it does to you. He’s too close, you can't see the way it takes you over. What if-” her voice shook with something besides anger now. “What if he gets in your head and he doesn't leave?”

Harry bit his lip. “You know I can't control it.”

“I need to know you want to.”

“What if I got in his head and didn't leave?”

“That’s– what?”

“Think about it. What if I could possess Voldemort?”

“That’s insane and I'm going to need you to stop thinking about it right now.”

Harry slouched against the sofa, sipping his tea.

“Would be helpful,” he muttered.

“What are you seeing anyway?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

***

Harry woke to the sound of Ron and Hermione talking unnecessarily loud outside the bedroom door. He had shaken them off him last night, saying he needed alone time. He slept in Sirius’ room, something that made Ron and Hermione stop checking in every other second and let him be.

He turned over, being greeted by the photographs he'd placed on the bedside table. There was a photo of Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter, smiles all around. Seeing his dad at this age was as endearing as it was uncomfortable as Harry felt similar to how he did staring at his polyjuice dopplegangers.

Harry’s feelings about his dad were complicated, to say the least. He remembered vividly seeing him for the first time in the Mirror of Erised, how kind and loving he had seemed. The first time he saw him in photos, he looked the same, so full of warmth and welcoming. Harry couldn't believe that man was cruel.

But Sirius and Remus said that he'd changed, he'd grown, so maybe he was true in his kindness. Or maybe everyone was a liar. Maybe people didn't change, maybe they just said they did and hid their murky pasts somewhere their admirers couldn't see.

Harry looked at another photo, Regulus’ Quidditch team, and wondered if they were all fake friends hiding secrets from each other. A glance over at the photograph of Regulus and Sirius as children confirmed it. People weren’t friends, they were liars and excuse makers. That picture of Regulus and Sirius, outfits matching and little faces scarily solemn, was already there before Harry set up the others. Sirius thought of Regulus as a Death Eater and a coward, yet he kept this picture.

Because he was holding onto something. The same thing Harry held onto when he picked up the torn photograph of his baby self. He wanted to believe everything was wonderful. He wanted his memories to go back to being untainted. Maybe things would have been different were his dad still alive, but he wasn’t, so what use was any of that information to Harry?

Harry rolled out of bed, setting aside thoughts of his father and greeting Ron and Hermione with a tired frown.

“Harry, you're up,” Hermione practically shouted. “Come on, let’s have breakfast and then we need to get going.”

Today was the day. After several days of careful planning, taking turns with the invisibility cloak to spy outside the Ministry, and going over the plan until Kreacher was pushily suggesting they get some sleep, they were ready. At least, they hoped they were ready. Harry’s tired eyes, Hermione’s inability to sit still through breakfast, and Ron’s uncharacteristic quietness said otherwise. But they needed to be.

With three vials of polyjuice potion and an hour’s wait ahead of them, they left Grimmauld Place. They had chosen three people to impersonate, an assistant, a maintenance worker, and a man who seemed important but whose exact job was unknown to them.

Harry downed the sludge-like mixture and sprang up, his arms growing thick with muscle. His chest strained against his suddenly tighter Ministry robes. He looked down at himself, holding out large hands in front of his crystal clear vision. He scratched his face, feeling the light scruff on his chin.

“Whoa,” his voice came out deep and gravelly.

“You finally get to be tall,” Ron, who was a good few inches shorter than Harry now, said. He wrapped his hands around Harry’s bicep. “Do you think you can pick me up?”

“Mate, I could probably toss you across the street.”

“Focus!” Hermione hissed. She stopped obsessively straightening her robes to adjust Harry’s collar. “Come on, we have to get going.”

Getting inside was the least of their worries. That they did fine, even wracked with nervousness as they were. Harry’s new body gave him a much needed boost of confidence. The people he towered over stepped aside when they saw him, his presence alone commanding their respect. He didn't feel like a goofy kid everyone picked on or an unqualified idiot thrown into a war. He felt powerful.

“Come on,” Hermione whispered. “We search her office, find the locket, and get out of here. No chaos, and no heroics.”

“You say that as if they're my intention.”

Hermione made to give him a sharp response, but it fell away as her eyes landed on the statue before them. It must have been a new addition to the place because none of them remembered seeing it the last time they were here. Standing high above them were magnificently robed wizards stood nobly atop a platform. The platform was held up by a mass of hunched figures, their stone bodies seeming to tremble.

Hermione’s stomach turned, her new sharp features falling into barely contained sadness.

“They’re muggles.”

Ron put a hand on her shoulder, observing the statue with disgust.

“We have to go,” Harry reminded them.

Hermione put on her Ministry mask and they headed to the lift. Everyone was too busy with their own work, heads down and feet scurrying along, to pay them any mind. Along with two other people, they stuffed themselves into the lift. They picked up one more on their way, the powdery scent of her perfume filling the space.

“Morning,” came the chipper voice. Her robes were rosy pink, not at all Ministry standard. Neither was the bow perched ugly as a spider atop her short curls.

“Ah, Hopkirk!” Umbridge said, startling Hermione. “You will be assisting me today, won't you?”

“Um, yes.”

“Splendid.”

As soon as she turned around, Hermione, Ron, and Harry made childish faces behind her back. When they stopped, Hermione sent Harry a subtle look. He nodded. Harry hadn't felt this nervous since his first Quidditch match. That might be a bad comparison now, but he hadn’t been sure Oliver wouldn't pitch him off the Astronomy Tower if they lost.

Hermione followed Umbridge down the hall, pink kitten heels tapping across the floor. Hermione’s own heels were short, but pinching at her toes, and she wondered who willingly went to work in these.

“Come, dear,” Umbridge said sweetly. “We have a rather delicate case today. I will need a record and verification of the subject’s documentation.”

“Of course. Um, who is the subject?”

“Mary Cattermole. Muggle-born and suspected thief of magic.” Through the sweetness, there was venom in her words, seeping through her politely tight lips.

Hermione followed Umbridge into a cold room. Freezing. Until Umbridge cast the Patronus charm, sending a cat frolicking around the room and filling it with warmth. Hermione wondered what warmth Umbridge had in herself to be able to conjure it.

Hermione tried to hide her flinch when the room filled with a sudden, loud scream. A sobbing woman was dragged inside, forced into a chair that clasped restraints around her wrists.

“Please, this is a mistake,” she said frantically. “I’m a wizard, I can prove it.”

Umbridge made no reply. With the same smile she’d worn the entire time, she tucked away a curl and adjusted a chain around her neck before facing the woman. Hermione took a seat at the desk that had been set up for her, but her focus was less on her papers and more on the chain that fell into Umbridge’s shirt.

It had to be the locket. And it was so close to her. She could take it and run, but she would never make it out. Not without Ron and Harry.

“Read the charge, please,” Umbridge said, sweet as sugar as her stare bore into the restrained woman.

Hermione’s hands shook as she read through Mary Cattermole’s file. No known magical parentage. If no ancestry was proven, she would be submitted to further “questioning.” Ultimately, if it were found that she had zero proof of magical blood, she would be sentenced to Azkaban under the baseless assumption of magical theft.

Hermione looked up, meeting Mary’s teary eyes. She hoped her look conveyed that she didn't want to be here any more than Mary did. She promised herself they would get out of here. They would put a stop to this. Maybe not today, but someday. She would burn this place to the ground if she had to.

They were joined by a man Hermione was pretty sure was a Death Eater, and the trial began.

***

Ron stared at the ceiling of Yaxley’s office, blinking against drops of rain. He’d been pulled aside for a job and he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. That idiot couldn't stop the rain himself? Must be a hex. Served him right. Ron would just leave it, but he didn't want the poor bloke he was impersonating to pay for a crime he did not commit.

Papers floated in puddles, melting away and ink smearing until it was illegible. He could feel the heaviness of the soaked rug beneath his feet. Rain continued to pour despite every spell, counter curse, and plea Ron resorted to. Either he had to applaud someone’s good work or he really was a lousy wizard.

He aimed his wand at the ceiling with the fake air of a man who knew what he was doing. “𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑚.”

A small square of the roof stopped leaking.

“Nasty bit of weather we’re having today,” Ron said, laughing to himself.

He gave it a few more tries before deciding he had no clue what he was doing and had to fetch another maintenance worker. He was wringing out his soaked sleeves, more focused on that than taking in his surroundings, when someone knocked elbows with him. Ron glanced up to see Percy. It came out on instinct, the response.

“Watch it, nerd.”

Percy blinked. “Pardon?”

“Uh, I mean, hello, Mr. Weasley,” he said, putting on a voice he hoped sounded mature and official. “Might I say, you are looking especially authoritative today.”

Percy continued to stare at him.

“Care for a walk in the rain?”

Percy took a step back, a polite distancing from this worker’s weirdness. Ron felt only slightly bad for tarnishing a reputation.

“Cattermole, is it?” Percy asked.

“That’s me.”

“Right. Have you stopped the rain, then? That would make how many this week?”

“Too many,” Ron said, wondering how many people were swimming in their offices.

“And they haven't found out how it’s happening?”

“Mate, I don't know. I'm just supposed to fix it.”

Percy nodded, still rather uncomfortable with ‘Cattermole’s’ behavior.

“Why?” Ron asked. “Do you think someone’s done it on purpose?”

It was only a flash, a ghost passing over as good as invisible, but Ron saw it. It might have easily gone unnoticed to anyone else, but he couldn't mistake it. Percy knew something. And Ron nearly called him out on it before remembering he was Percy’s colleague, not his little brother.

“I don't think so, no,” Percy said easily. “You know how many odd accidents we have around here.”

Ron faked a laugh like he understood perfectly well.

“Speaking of,” Percy said. “If you’re not otherwise occupied, I could use some help in my office. Non-weather related.”

Ron groaned. “Do it yourself, git.”

“Um, alright.”

“Only messing with you,” Ron laughed, nudging Percy with his wet-sleeved elbow.

Percy backed away again, staring at Ron like he'd suddenly sprouted another head.

Ron cleared his throat. “Right, uh, I’ll have to get back to you on that. Very busy. Good day.”

Ron rushed for the lift, breathing out a sigh as the doors shut. Percy seemed completely fine with the way things were in the Ministry. Not a care in the world. Ron wished he didn't care, wished he could look at Percy and say it truthfully. But all he could do was pretend his brother’s voice wasn't following him, wrapping tightly around his wrists and shouting at him to see it. Percy didn't care and he never would.

***

Drawers were yanked up, papers rustled, and neatly lined items tossed about. The office smelled like the sickly sweet perfume he had almost forgotten the memory of. Files, notes, and blood status documents flew around the room. The back of his hand burned, the scar on it having faded into scratch lines but aching like it was freshly carved. He didn't care if he had to turn the place upside down, he was getting that locket.

Things were rummaged through carelessly, his throbbing hand reminding him that she still held power. She loved it, trodding over toes and stepping above people. She needed to be knocked down a few pegs. Or several. She was torturing people freely, getting away with it because she could. The thought made him want to rip every one of her stupid kitten plates off the wall and smash them.

Tugging his invisibility cloak over his head, he snuck out of the office. Further search would only be out of spite, the locket wasn't there. He ditched the cloak and stormed into the lift, hoping his foul mood would deter anyone thinking of speaking to him.

It didn't.

“Problem, Runcorn?” Mr. Weasley addressed him with hardly hidden disdain.

Harry rolled his eyes. Not at Arthur, at himself for coming so unprepared to such an important mission. Arthur, of course, didn't take it this way. He sent Harry a glare he never would have thought Arthur capable of giving. Not to him anyway.

“I heard what you’ve done about Dirk Cresswell, found him, did you? I suppose you’ll have him locked up in Azkaban? Under absurd pretenses, no doubt.”

“I, er, so what if I do? Dug his own grave, if you ask me.” Harry had no idea what or who they were talking about.

“Is that what you think? Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? You think just because his parents were muggles that he is nothing as a wizard, but you’ll find out soon enough when you have his wife and sons to deal with how wrong you are.”

Harry didn't waste time thinking of something intimidating to say. Instead, he told Arthur something he'd noticed while rummaging through Umbridge’s files.

“You’re being watched.”

Arthur didn't falter. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fact. You’re under surveillance. Constant surveillance.”

The lift stopped and Harry held his breath until Arthur, with a last glare in his direction, walked away. Harry slipped on his cloak and continued down into what seemed like the chilly basement of the Ministry. The interrogation room. It was impossibly cold, colder than a winter’s night with nothing but a t-shirt.

When he stepped into the room, it wasn't only the cold that hit him. He felt a sudden heaviness, like someone was holding his feet in place but an offender only imagined. He glanced around the room, something as thick and slow as molasses seeping into his head. A fog settled around him, dull grey clouds blocking his view.

What was the point? Why should he even try? It wasn't going to work. Umbridge didn't even have the locket. They’d come all this way for nothing. Harry had made them come all this way for nothing. He put Ron and Hermione in danger. This was supposed to be his mission, not theirs, but he'd so easily given in to them. He should have left them while he had the chance, snuck off by himself before they even realized he was gone.

They should just give up on this entire mission. It was useless to keep trying. They weren't going to find horcruxes, much less destroy them. They weren't going to stop Voldemort. They were going to get themselves killed. Ron and Hermione didn't deserve to die.

He did.

He did this to them. He brought them here. They were only on this meaningless mission because of him. It was pointless. It was worth nothing. He was worth nothing. He'd been careless with people who cared so much about him, who he cared so much about. He might as well turn himself in now, beg for his friends’ freedom, and let Voldemort do the world a favor.

Harry sank to his knees, the heaviness crushing his shoulders, pressing firm against his back until his forehead touched the cold stone floor. He wrapped his arms around himself, fingers gripping at his robe sleeves. He couldn't do it. He couldn't move. There wasn't a reason he could think of not to give up right now. It wasn't worth it. He wasn't going to change anything. No one needed him as much as they thought they did, as much as they wanted to. He wasn't a savior.

He wasn't so sure the thing pressing down on him wasn't physical with the way his arms struggled to push himself off the floor. He saw them all around him, the Dementors. They were doing this. He looked up to see Hermione sending fearful glances to Umbridge, who stood domineering and toad-like on a platform as she faced a sobbing woman.

Harry pushed himself up off the ground and, with one foot in front of the other, he made his way toward Hermione. She needed his help. He couldn't leave her. He had to guard his mind the way she always told him to. Be strong. Fight it.

Harry crept behind Hermione. There were only two people in the room besides him, Hermione, and the captive. It took only one swift movement to stun Yaxley and incite chaos. Umbridge whipped out her wand, but Hermione was quicker, stunning her, too. She fell forward, hitting her head against the platform’s banister.

Harry tossed his cloak off so Hermione could see him. Fear poured from her face and Harry could practically feel the erratic beat of her heart thumping in his own chest. With a tug that would have gotten him nothing with his regular hands, he pulled the chain off Umbridge’s neck. The metal felt hot against his skin.

Hermione created a replica to replace the stolen locket. Umbridge would realize eventually, but that should save them some trouble. She made quick work of freeing Mary Cattermole and Harry sent his Patronus after the Dementors.

“Hermione, I need your help. Cast your Patronus.”

Nervously, Hermione raised her wand and shouted the incantation. Nothing happened. Harry, despite his racing heart, put two steady hands on Hermione’s shoulders, his breathing as even as he could manage.

“It’s okay, I'm here. You can do it. I know you can.”

Hermione leaned into him, turning her head to rest her cheek against his. She inhaled deeply.

“𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜 𝑃𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑢𝑚!”

A silver otter went swimming across the room, scaring off the Dementors.

Harry grabbed the woman’s arm and the three broke into a run. There were more muggle-borns filling the halls, waiting for their questioning. Harry barked orders at them and then the corridors were filled with running wizards.

Alarms blared and a loud voice declared a lockdown. Harry ran harder, not a thought going through his mind except escape. The group surged forward, pounding footsteps nearly tumbling over one another.

“Don’t stop!” Harry shouted. “Get out now! That's an order.”

The muggle-borns fled, disappearing as voices rose around them. The locket pulsed in Harry’s clenched fist. He barely registered his own raised voice.

“Go, go!” he shouted breathlessly.

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione shrieked, wild hair falling into her flushed face. “Harry, we have to find him!”

Spells exploded around them, bolts of red and white flashing toward them. Harry and Hermione deflected attacks, rushing the others out. One woman tripped. Harry hauled her up by the arm, shoving her less gently than he’d meant toward the exit.

Hermione just barely dodged an attack, stumbling backward. She fumbled with her wand. Before Harry could get to her, someone else blocked a curse sent straight toward her. It was Ron, soaking wet and frazzled, the Polyjuice starting to wear off.

“I’ve got him, let’s go!”

He dragged Hermione up and hooked his arm around Harry’s. Someone else grabbed Hermione’s arm just as they disappeared, angry shouts the last thing they heard. The anger faded into terror as Hermione’s screams met Harry’s ears. His eyes snapped open. Every part of his body felt sore and something was poking into his back. He pushed himself up, dry leaves rustling beneath his palms

“Harry!”

Harry scrambled to Hermione’s side. Ron was lying on the ground, his left sleeve soaked with red. Hermione frantically tore off his shirt, using it to mop up excess blood. A gash covered most of his arm, deep streaks slicing over his shoulder and down his forearm.

“Harry, my bag,” Hermione said, tears pooling in her eyes.

Harry fumbled around for the beaded purse. He followed Hermione’s shaky orders, bringing out the potion she asked for. With unsteady hands, she poured a few drops of Essence of Dittany on his open wound. Harry brushed back Ron’s bangs, resting a hand on his pale forehead.

“I think he's passed out,” Hermione said.

Ron’s skin had knit back together the way a weeks-old wound would do. Hermione pressed her fingers gingerly to his arms. Slowly, as if it took great effort to do so, Ron blinked his eyes open into Harry’s.

“Are you alright?” Harry whispered.

Ron groaned in response.

Harry ventured once more into Hermione’s bag to find something for Ron to wear. Hermione helped Ron sit up. He slumped weakly against her. Her hands, still covered in his blood, stroked his hair and smeared red on her cheeks as she wiped falling tears.

Harry brought over a hoodie and sat with them. He wanted to ask Hermione why she’d brought them here instead of back to Grimmauld Place. He wanted to go home to Kreacher’s soup. He wanted to discuss a plan. But for now, he stayed silent.

Chapter Text

Neville had known this year would be different, Snape being Headmaster was proof enough of that. He'd been reading the papers all summer, incident after incident occurring that assured him this year would be nothing but odd, to say the least. He'd expected the way parents reluctantly let go of their children, reminding them again and again to stay safe and out of trouble. The whispers throughout the usually noisy station, the whistle of the train, the clumped together Slytherin, he'd expected all that.

Gran straightened her hat, then the collar of Neville’s shirt.

“Keep out of trouble this year,” she said. “You keep your head down, do you hear me? No heroics.”

He'd expected this, too. His grandmother warned him all throughout the summer to stay out of trouble. She kept saying his parents wouldn't want him throwing away the life they gave him. Neville couldn't help but wonder what they would have done in his situation. He didn't bother asking Gran as that would probably make her turn around and take him home. Or realistically just prompt stricter warnings.

What he said was, “When have I ever been heroic?”

Gran patted his cheek. “Good boy.”

Neville kissed her goodbye and headed toward the train. He saw Seamus standing with his mother, the latter looking stiff and reluctant to leave him. Dean was saying goodbye to his sisters and watching Seamus from a distance. Lavender and Parvati cut in front of Neville, followed by Padma and a handful of other girls hurrying onto the train. He scanned the platform for a head of red hair, finding none, and followed them.

He had expected this. Conversations were whispered. No one greeted one another with laughter or shouting. There were no happy hugs, no excitement for a new year. First years were frightened, and not in the nervous, first-time way. The tears weren't ones of usual homesickness, Neville could tell.

Neville found Ginny sitting with Luna. They weren't speaking, Luna’s nose buried in an issue of The Quibbler. The orange beads dangling from her ears were as cheerful as ever, but her expression portrayed none of that.

“Hello, Neville,” she said, not looking up.

“Hey, Luna.”

Ginny’s eyes were glued to the window, arms crossed over her chest. Neville stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, before sitting down across from her. He didn't have to ask, he had expected this, too. He didn't have as much reason to, he had no idea where he was or how he would get away with it, but Neville knew Harry wouldn't be here. He assumed Ron and Hermione would be where they had been for the last six years, by Harry’s side.

Neville didn't ask where they were. He didn't expect anyone besides the professors would. It felt too dangerous to speak out loud, as though merely speaking Harry’s name might make him appear in front of them. Sort of like saying You-Know-Who’s name. It was off limits, even if nothing would actually happen. It felt wrong.

Neville pressed his forehead against the window, the glass warmed from the sun. Fields and hills rolled past, the clacking wheels the only sound daring to break through the thick silence. Seamus and Dean squeezed in by Neville, not a word from either of them. It was odd, but expected.

To their right, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbot, and Ernie Macmillan were whispering to one another, glancing around to make sure none of the timid first years passing by were overly interested in their conversation. Susan Bones joined them, adjusting her crooked yellow tie and wiping subtly at her red eyes.

Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot were bent over books though the pages never turned. Romilda Vane and Maisy Reynolds appeared slightly more at ease, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. But their words were whispered, too, and their eyes darted around the train car. Zacharias Smith sat alone, his face unusually pale and his fingers tapping incessantly against his wand.

Colin Creevey passed by, gripping the handle of his suitcase and glancing around uneasily. Dennis followed on his heels. Their quiet was the most uncomfortable to Neville, but he wasn't surprised by it. No one was in a joking mood, none too eager to discuss their summers. Neville suspected most of them had been spent the same way as his.

The jingle of the trolley was jarring, as was the very forced and somewhat pitying smile on the old witch’s face.

“Anything from the trolley, dears? Come now, have some cakes.”

“No, thank you,” Neville quietly refused.

Seamus fished a few coins from his pocket and bought a cauldron cake and a pack of bubble gum. He didn't touch the cake, the only bite taken from it going to Dean. He did chew the gum, rather loudly, until Ginny tore her gaze from the window to glare at him. He looked guiltily downward, two fingers coming up to remove it from his mouth and stick it to the underside of the table.

In a separate car, one filled with much more chatter and celebration, sat the Slytherin. Even the few who were not feeling celebratory recognized that they were protected among the snakes. One corner was just as solemn as the rest of the students, a new headmaster and the absence of one of their greatest tormentors doing nothing for their spirit.

Pansy wore her usual sneer, the one that kept people at a distance she liked. Blaise kept quiet beside her, watching Theodore shuffle a deck of cards no one had any plans to play with. Millicent and Daphne muttered to one another, and Gregory and Vincent tossed about glares and glances like they expected someone to strike up a sudden fight in the middle of the train.

None of them knew why Draco wasn't there. They could guess as much, but more than the reason, they wanted answers to their growing list of questions. What did the Dark Lord have him doing? What did he know? Was he afraid? Proud? Were they allowed to write to him? Would he be okay?

He hadn't told any of them anything, not even Pansy, and she was always first to know. She could always ask Prof– Headmaster Snape what Draco was doing and if he was alright, but she had never had any sort of serious interaction with the man without Draco beside her. It felt odd to do it now, and Pansy had the odd feeling of not knowing what she was supposed to say. She’d never been particularly afraid of Snape, but he seemed all the more intimidating as a Headmaster.

By the time the train came to a halt, darkness had fallen, and hardly a word had been spoken by anyone. Neville caught Pansy’s eye as they brushed past one another, receiving an unpleasant but typical scowl. The loud voice of Hagrid was a pleasant familiarity, though even his usual cheer seemed to be dampened.

“First years! This way! Come on now,” he urged gently, helping a small girl with a ponytail of curls into a boat. “There you go, nothing to be scared of.”

The first years crowded close, instant bonds forming from necessity and fear of being alone rather than the fun of meeting new, equally jittery people. They were scarily quiet, more so than anyone could remember first years ever being. They didn't laugh, didn't joke or scream, they stared ahead, confused and looking to Hagrid as if he might have an answer to why this magical place wasn't as fun as it purported to be.

The rest of the students took the carriages to the castle. The warm glow of the castle had been replaced with cold, blue-tinged light, the atmosphere colder than early September usually was. The walls were as pristine as ever, but it gave a feeling closer to the impersonal polish of St. Mungo’s instead of the whimsical perfection of their home away from home. There was no welcoming smell of dinner, no buzzing chatter, or friends reuniting. Not much had actually changed appearance-wise, but they could all feel it.

The first years stood clumped together, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. They were guided into the Great Hall by sullen prefects. Snape stood before them like a shadow looming over the room. His eyes raked over the students, the force of his stare pushing them down into their seats. There was no warm welcome, only a swift sorting and an introduction for the new year.

They had two new professors, Alecto and Amycus Carrow. Alecto would be teaching Muggle Studies and Amycus Defense Against the Dark Arts. Both were stout, square-shouldered, and sneering. Alecto smiled in a way that left the students uneasy and Amycus flickered his eyes every which way, restless for something.

Ginny’s hand clenched around the material of her robe, jaw tightening. She sent a glare toward the Slytherin table, her hatred directed at no one in particular. She noticed Malfoy wasn't there. Good riddance, if you asked her. One less thing to deal with.

Pansy Parkinson caught her stare, their eyes locking. Ginny held her gaze like she couldn't tear her eyes away if she tried. She just stared until Pansy’s gaze wandered toward the Carrows. She didn't look celebratory like many others at her table and Blaise and Theo looked equally quiet on either side of her. They were still, stone-faced, and, though this might be Ginny’s imagination, somewhat disappointed. Maybe they didn't approve of these new professors. Not hateful enough for them, perhaps. Ginny didn't know these people, she wouldn't know.

They ate in relative silence, everyone much too nervous at the way Amycus was watching them to enjoy either their company or their food. Neville noticed the man’s predatory eyes on him, his appetite disappearing. After dinner when the prefects were leading the younger children to their dormitories, Neville heard Ernie’s hushed words of guidance to the Hufflepuff.

“Stick together,” he said. “I mean all of you. Don't go anywhere alone.”

Neville quietly followed his housemates up to their tower. Ginny lingered at the back of the crowd, her eyes roaming the Great Hall as it emptied. They had only just gotten there, the school year had hardly begun, but she already had one thing decided. She wouldn't stand for this. She wouldn't keep her mouth shut. She could sense Neville’s nervousness, he wouldn't stand up unless it was absolutely necessary. But to her, it already was, and she was itching for a fight.

She ducked out of the Great Hall with a fire already burning inside her. Those Carrows, 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 Snape, the blood purist Slytherins weren't going to get in her way. What she was going to do, she had no idea, but it wouldn't be nothing. She caught Pansy’s eye. She was staring at them again. Why was she being so strange? What did she want?

Ginny couldn't fall asleep at all that night. She tossed and turned, going over how badly this year could potentially go. Being a pureblood only spared her so much, and it did nothing to help her muggle-born friends. What would happen to them? If the Ministry was rounding up muggle-borns did that include children? How could she protect them? And what would she need to protect them from?

Her answer didn't come immediately. The first changes were small, not terribly alarming. Just an annoying exercise of control. Curfew at eight. No wandering off between classes. No unapproved extracurricular groups. And their professors and brand new Headmaster were to be treated with the utmost respect.

Those rules were enforced with as much rigidity and intolerance for disobedience as Umbridge’s were. The difference was that a detention with Umbridge was, though far from a coveted position, a bearable thought. In the sense that the worst it ever left them was bloody. No one wanted to be the first to see what cruel tortures Alecto Carrow was hiding beneath the gleam in her smile, or what else Amycus’ hands were capable of besides occasionally brushing against the students.

The seventh years knew something was really wrong. The younger students saw it, too. It was a secret to no one. But none faced the difficulties of it as badly as the first years. The muggle-born first years. They were taken in groups to the Defense classroom where Amycus would badger them on their magical lineage and other things they didn't dare repeat outside of that room.

Seamus managed to find out from a new Gryffindor boy that they were forced to perform spells, wandless and far beyond their basic knowledge, and if they failed that was reason for further questioning and surveillance. As if they were seasoned criminals rather than kids who'd never known magic.

The older muggle-born students were questioned as well, though they spoke even less about it. Ginny wasn't sure she saw Justin smile once after his first private meeting with Amycus. Colin left his with a bleeding lip and clouded eyes.

Neville, Susan, and Seamus took to being the ones always there to comfort frightened first years who came back shaking and near tears. Some cried, but that was a highly frowned upon action here, so it was hidden in the back of their throats or Neville’s robes. The fear they struck pleased the Carrows, the sense of safety the students found in one another did not.

They wanted to keep them apart, to divide them any way they could. By blood, age, gender, house. They tried it all. Ginny knew the only way they could get through this year was if they stuck together. She told Neville as much.

“We have to restart the DA,” she said. It was hardly a proposal. They needed it.

“And do what? The DA was made to teach us the things Umbridge wouldn't.”

“The DA was made to make sure we could protect ourselves. We need protection now.”

Neville looked at her tiredly. He couldn't be tired already. She needed him. She would try regardless, she would take every kid here under her wing if she had to, but she wouldn't do half as well without him.

“Harry’s not here,” he said. “We need him. I wouldn't even know where to start without him. I don't know about you, but I'm not half the leader.”

“So you won't even try? You're just going to go along with this?”

“What do you want to do, fight? It won't end well for us.”

“We can't do nothing.”

Ginny couldn't do nothing. She couldn't stand by. She refused. She couldn't understand how Neville could stand to the side and let this happen. He didn't like it, she knew that. It made him angry, but what use was anger if it incited no change? This was their school. These kids, regardless of house, were theirs. They had to push back.

The days went by and Ginny’s persuasion tactics were combatted by Neville’s refusal. He said helping the muggle-borns was their safest bet, that putting up a fight would only make things worse. Their arguments did nothing to change either opinions or situations. They were still trapped, still frightened, and still angry.

No one was allowed to leave. They knew that much coming in, but some parents seemed to have changed their mind about complying with this new law. Concerned parents sent letters to their children that ended up confiscated. Seamus’ mother sent four in three days, demanding that she be allowed to withdraw her son.

Dean’s mother sent a letter almost every day until one day they just stopped. All she wanted was to check on him, to make sure he was safe. She didn't understand Death Eaters and blood purists, knew nothing of magical punishment and the danger the school was already in with its new Headmaster. And now she wasn't even allowed to speak with her son.

At least, that’s what they all assumed was happening. Dean didn't believe for a second that his mother had simply stopped writing, and neither did anyone else. He tried to ask McGonagall about it, but all she gave was an eerie, vague warning to “be mindful.” They realized then that they could only rely on one another.

Nothing about this was easy to figure out, they were unqualified and had no idea what they were doing. It wasn't much, but an effort was made. It was a lot of standing up for kids getting tripped in the hallways and finding loopholes in the rules. Ginny didn't want to wish it into existence, but she knew things would get worse. She suspected it would be sooner rather than later. And she thought fifth year was a lot.

At dinners, while everyone sat with their heads down, Ginny held hers high and made sure anyone who caught her eye knew what she was thinking. That she wouldn't give up easily. Neville, Seamus, and Dean, if not as strongly as she, felt the same way, it just didn't show on their faces. Lavender, Parvati, and the Creeveys were right beside her, ready to help and nervously picking at their food.

Everyone needed a little push in the right direction and Ginny needed to figure out how to give them that. But Neville was right about one thing, Harry wasn't here, and they couldn't do what he did. Ginny wasn't Harry. She wasn't a beacon of hope. She wasn't half a leader. People didn't look up to her the way they did him. But this wasn't Harry’s fight alone, it was just as much theirs. She could do this, could be brave the way he always was.

On top of her actually important issues, Pansy kept staring at her from across the room, eyeing her up while she sat beside Blaise, who was often sending sly looks of his own. What did they want from her? Did they know something? What was there to know? Pansy’s stares seemed searching, measured. And it always found Ginny.

***

They stood lined up in the courtyard, the pure and half-bloods aside while the muggle-borns had their wands inspected. Alecto turned over and examined wands as if these childrens’ criminal secrets hid within the wood. Amycus breathed down their necks, whispering threats. If their wands were not up to standard, something that was given no further explanation, they would be taken away. What would become of the owner was not yet known.

It wasn't just the Carrows this time. Dark-robed Ministry officials stood in the courtyard, law enforcement covering the lawn. There was a group of people in blue accented robes that Ginny, who was watching this scene unfold from her window perch, didn't recognize. They were doing most of the inspecting. What did they need so many people for?

Ginny spotted an unmistakable face even beneath the cropped, natural black hair. Tonks. She must be here undercover, pretending she was okay with this when she was actually gathering information or ensuring their safety. Ginny looked at the man beside her, his stiffly formal robes matching his expression, and she thought of Percy.

She wondered if he thought any of this was okay. Was he able to turn his back on children while the Ministry stripped them of their rights? Would he turn in a child if they couldn't prove they belonged here, among the protected purebloods like himself? It wasn't his job now, and maybe he didn't know about all this, but he had no problem turning Harry in and he'd known Harry. What would he care about someone whose situation wouldn't affect him one way or another?

One of the older, stuffier-looking Ministry officials unfolded a piece of parchment.

“The following students, please, step forward. Do not resist. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action under the Muggle-Born Registration Commission.”

Names were read off.

Leanne Ridge.

Avery Edwards.

Colin Creevey.

Alice Tolipan.

Luca Caruso.

Dean Thomas.

Seamus was standing on the lawn with a cluster of students, and he almost ran toward Dean, stopping him from handing over his wand. But Neville held him by the arm, giving him a subtle headshake. Tonks took Dean’s wand from his hands, a second Auror casting some charms that were most likely useless over it. Whatever they were doing, it ended up being decided that his was a “pending review” and his wand would have to be confiscated.

A first-year girl was to be taken into questioning. Ginny watched Tonks lead her away, a guiding hand on her shoulder. Tonks waited until it was only turned backs facing them to lean down to whisper to the girl.

“You're going to be okay. We’re going to get you back to your parents. But I need you to be very quiet and very good for me, alright?”

She looked up at her with ocean blue eyes full of fear and nodded.

Later that evening, Ginny, Neville, Seamus, and Dean sat around a dying fire in the Gryffindor common room. Dean sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, having barely spoken a word since the incident earlier. They'd decided they only needed his wand for now, leaving him both defenseless and with no way of completing any hands-on homework.

Ginny stared into the low flames, orange light glistening off her face. She was still thinking about Percy, which should be the least of her worries right now. She thought about Tonks, how she'd seen her take Dean’s wand with her own hands. She'd taken that little girl away, most likely with plans to protect her. Was there a chance Percy was pretending, too? She feared it was more likely that Tonks had switched sides.

“What are we going to do?” Seamus said quietly. “We can't keep sitting around and waiting for something to change.”

Dean’s hands fiddled with his shirt sleeves. “And what if we start something we don't know how to finish? We have no idea what we’re doing and little means to, what exactly? Fight?”

“We have to stand up for ourselves.”

“We have to fight back,” Ginny said. “It’s either that or let them do as they please to us. You can push back or you can be complaisant. That’s how they win.”

Seamus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What about the passages, the ones Harry used to get around?”

“What passages?” Ginny said. “What does that mean?”

“He had that map with all the passages. I saw him use it all the time. We can sneak out to Hogsmeade, I think, get messages to people. Maybe even Harry.”

“With the Carrows just waiting for one of us to mess up?” Dean said. “Way too risky.”

“So we should just do nothing?”

“We shouldn't do anything that’s going to get me expelled for no reason. Or worse. Have you seen what they're doing to the muggle-borns?”

Seamus looked down guiltily, but his fire didn't falter. “That’s exactly why we need to do something.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the embers and the other hushed conversations around them. Ginny’s eyes, fixed on the fire, gleamed fiercely, the glow from the hearth making her red hair look like flames.

“Harry isn't giving up,” she spoke. “He’s out there, still fighting. We can't stop either. He needs us to do what we can.”

They looked at Neville, who had been quiet the whole time.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” he said. “I only want to make sure the younger students don't lose hope. They need our guidance more than our anger.”

“They can have both,” Ginny said.

“I’m not starting any fights.”

Dean sighed. “I can't even start any fights. Someone’s got to teach me how to punch.”

Seamus, for maybe the first time since they got there, cracked a smile. “I think I can manage that.”

***

Amycus’ eyes followed his students’ movements, taking in the tremble of their hands and the energetic fear radiating off them. He circled the desks, his hands wandering with him. Neville stiffened when he felt a hand brush over his shoulders.

“Today’s lesson is a practical one. Today you will be learning the Cruciatus Curse.”

Several gasps sounded. Seamus muttered something under his breath. Dean glanced nervously at him. Neville sat silent, eyes on his lap.

“It seems some of you are familiar with it. Has anyone in this room ever witnessed it?”

Silence.

“I see. Very well. I will give the first demonstration.”

He let in a group of students, fearful and confused. First years, and, Neville noticed because he'd taken the time to meet them, all muggle-born.

“𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑜!”

A boy fell to the ground, writhing and screaming. Shouts erupted in the classroom while others sat deathly silent, gripping the edge of their desks. No one kept their eyes on the scene before them. Not wanting his lesson to prove useless, he invited them to have a go at it themselves. Some of them tried, but nothing happened. Others rose shaky wands and chickened out before the words left. And some were able to do it, their faces blank.

“Miss Parkinson?” Amycus beckoned Pansy forward. “Would you like to demonstrate? I trust you can give your class a good example.”

Pansy, her eyes dark and mouth a tight line, stood from her seat and looked down at the whimpering boy on the floor. It was long suspected that Pansy’s father was involved with the Death Eaters, and Amycus’ high expectations of her further proved it. Pansy didn't look the boy in the eye as she uttered the curse.

Nothing happened.

She glanced at Amycus who gave her a nod. She tried again. And again. Nothing.

“It seems I was mistaken. Perhaps next time.”

Pansy returned to her seat, catching Neville’s eye. His hands shook around his own wand which he had no intention of using, his brown eyes shining. She kept looking at him as she sat down beside Blaise, across the aisle from him. He thought, if only for a moment, her mask cracked, and she looked almost sympathetic.

“Longbottom.”

Neville wiped his eyes and looked up. “Yes, sir?”

Amycus motioned for Neville to come forward. He did so, taking shaky steps to the front of the room. He didn't expect he'd be able to do it, but he wasn't going to try. Even if he wanted to, his hands were shaking so much he couldn't hold his wand steady.

Someone laughed.

Amycus gripped Neville’s jaw, dark eyes meeting watery ones. “What’s the matter, Longbottom, having trouble finding that courage your house is so well known for? Don't cower now.”

Amycus stared at him. Expectant. Hungry. Lingering slow and patient beside him, like an animal waiting for its prey to make the first move.

“No,” Neville mumbled.

“What was that?”

“No,” he said, more firmly. “I won’t do it.”

Amycus tilted his head. “Won’t do it?”

Neville shook his head.

“I see.”

Amycus turned his back to Neville, his wand tapping slowly against his palm. With a swift movement, he turned on his heel and aimed his wand at Neville.

“𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑜!”

Neville collapsed to the floor, knees hitting the stone. His limbs spasmed as a fire-like pain surged through him, his bones stretching and splitting but never enough to break. It caught in his throat, tying into a knot that made it hard to breathe. Screams met his ears, sounding like the sudden, shrill shatter of glass. None of them were his own. He didn't scream. He choked for air, he bit his lip so hard it bled, but he didn't scream.

“Stop! Stop it!”

It didn't stop. That was the last thing he heard. He woke up curled on the floor, his head pounding worse than he'd ever felt. He could barely blink his eyes open to catch two redheads hovering over him. It was Ginny and Susan. Susan was pressing a cool cloth against his head, doing next to nothing to ease his pain.

“‘M fine,” he said hoarsely.

“You will be,” Ginny said, taking his hand gently. The movement sent a jolt of pain up his arm.

“We’re going to be in trouble,” Luna said, kneeling beside him. She looked rather happy about it.

“For skipping class,” Seamus said, breaking off a piece of chocolate and handing it to Neville. Neville shook his head, wincing at the pain, but Seamus urged the chocolate forward. “It’ll make you feel better.”

”You shouldn't get in trouble for me,” Neville said, taking the chocolate and letting it melt on his tongue.

Dean leaned against a desk, looking down at the huddle on the floor. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I had to.”

He couldn't stand by and let that happen. He couldn't participate. Never. No matter what it cost him. They could torture him, throw him out, kill him, he didn't care. He would take no part.

”Because of you, others refused to do it, too.”

Neville rubbed at his aching head. That was too much for him to think about right now. He didn't want anyone else getting in trouble because of him, but he didn't want those kids getting hurt. He didn't want anyone getting hurt.

The six of them all served a detention similar to Neville’s punishment in class. Later that night, they sat in the Gryffindor common room, Susan and Luna included, nursing one another’s wounds. Dean and Neville got it the worst, Dean because he was muggle-born and Neville because he needed extra reminding of his place.

Dean lay curled up on the sofa, his limp hand resting in Seamus’ grip. Neville couldn't let this go on. He thought of Dean and every other student with non-magic parents who were going to face a year of this treatment. He thought of the new laws forcing people from their homes and families. He thought of Harry, Ron, and Hermione who were missing, being hunted, and never giving up, probably not even thinking of it.

He thought about what Gran said. Keep your head down. But he couldn't. He looked at Dean, at Seamus who never took his aching eyes off him. At Ginny who was cradling Luna’s head in her lap, her eyes still burning with fury. It would take a lot more than a detention to take the fight out of her.

“I was wrong,” Neville said. “We have to do something. Nothing too rash, I don't want to go picking fights, but we can't go on like this.”

Ginny only nodded once and Neville knew he’d just begun something.

***

“Muggles are vermin. Magic belongs to the pure, to those with their roots in our world. Not thieves of our sacred gift.”

Alecto Carrow’s class was no longer an optional one. Muggle Studies was required learning for every student. It seemed Headmaster Snape thought it of the utmost importance to let everyone know muggles were the earth’s worst filth.

Luna raised her hand.

“Lovegood?”

“How can one be a thief of magic at such a young, inexperienced age. It requires a great amount of knowledge and skill to perform such a feat as magic theft. And it reportedly takes someone who is already a wizard.”

“And have you ever performed such a thing, girl?”

“No, I would not know where to begin.”

“Then keep your mouth shut. Unless you are looking for another detention.”

“It wouldn't feel much different to this,” Luna said, straight-faced.

The room collectively held their breath, not a giggle escaping.

“Detention.”

They weren't the only ones rebelling. Luna showed them an article in the Quibbler, three Ministry workers had freed several muggle-borns being held there. Seeing that furthered their fight, sharpened their tongues. They weren't doing this alone. Maybe theirs was only bandages and insults, but they were doing something. They weren't sitting still and taking it.

These small rebellious acts became common among their group, as did detentions. Seamus racked up the most, having trouble keeping his mouth shut. It didn't go unnoticed. The younger students, the muggle-borns, the Slytherins, everyone had a whisper, a question, an odd look for them.

Ginny and Luna ran into Pansy in the hall on their way to Defense class. She gave them the faintest tilt of her head, an acknowledgment. Of what, Ginny could only guess. She wished it was she who could read minds so she could know what on earth Pansy and her friends were thinking and why they kept sending them dark-eyed stares.

Ginny asked Neville to keep an eye out in class. He came back with little news. They did nothing more suspicious than occasionally stare in an unreadable way. Ginny guessed they were up to something, or perhaps they knew she was up to something. Either way, the Slytherins and their odd behavior wasn't the most important thing on her mind.

***

Dean had only been out after curfew because he was returning a book he'd borrowed from Michael Corner. That was his excuse. It would only take about ten or fifteen minutes. He'd meant to go right back. He’d really wanted an excuse to get out, to have just a moment to breathe. So he'd stepped out alone.

He didn't come back.

By the time Neville, Ginny, and Seamus noticed he was missing, he'd been gone for half an hour. In the murky dungeon were their detentions were held, Dean knelt on the damp stone floor, arms magically bound and chest heaving.

Alecto Carrow circled him like a predator. She had demanded to know what he was doing out past curfew, but took none of his excuses. She was convinced he was secretly conferring with other 𝑚𝑢𝑑𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑠.

“Answer me, filth,” Alecto demanded. “I know the kinds of things you and your little friends get up to. Tell me what you're doing?”

Dean said nothing.

He was hit with another wave of pain, the scream that ripped from his throat strangled. His back arched, trainers scraping desperately against the floor like his body was trying to escape itself. He couldn't tell how long it was held, it always felt like forever. When it stopped, he dropped to the floor, body trembling.

“Are you ready to behave?” Alecto grinned. “Or shall I go again?”

“I think you've made your point.”

Ginny stood in the doorway, Seamus, Luna, and Neville behind her. Seamus stepped forward, wand pointed.

Alecto laughed cruelly. “Come to save your little mudblood friend? The little lions come to scratch.”

“He did nothing wrong,” Neville said.

Alecto, surprisingly, did not argue. She let them take Dean, smiling all the while. Neville kept his eyes on her until they were all out of the room, not once turning his back. She wasn't done with them.

The next morning during breakfast, there was a letter waiting in Dean’s spot. Alecto, with her wicked grin, stood above him while he read it aloud.

“Dean Thomas is to be committed into Ministry custody for immediate investigation regarding his magical lineage and potential wand theft. That’s ridiculous! I didn't steal my wand, it’s mine.”

Beside him, Seamus met his eyes.

Ginny stood up. “You can't take him.”

“Sit down, blood traitor. Ministry’s orders.”

Dean stayed still, as did many in the Great Hall witnessing this scene.

Seamus got up from his seat, reaching for his wand. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean grabbed his wrist, putting himself between Seamus and Alecto. “Don’t,” he whispered. “You’re going to get hurt.”

“I don't care. They're not taking you.”

Alecto laughed. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

A crowd had formed around them now, mostly of Gryffindors stepping in to protect.

Alecto raised her wand at Seamus. “I doubt anyone will notice if you've gone missing. I'm sure your mother won't miss your loud mouth.”

Before Seamus could say what he thought of Alecto’s mother, Blaise came stepping gracefully over the Slytherin table, dropping to the ground beside Alecto.

“Don’t you think killing a student would attract the wrong sort of Ministry attention? Even for you?”

“Is that a threat, Zabini?”

“Politics are still politics,” he said with a shrug. “Even for you, I'd assume. Unless, of course, you're telling me laws don't apply to you now, in which case I have some additional questions.”

Alecto scowled. “You’d do better to hold your tongue, boy.”

Blaise looked unfazed. He glanced once at Neville, and when Alecto finally turned around, Dean was running. She shouted curses, but she was outnumbered by students. The only professor to assist her was Amycus. Their Headmaster was nowhere to be seen.

Dishes and defenses were thrown around the hall, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws alike jumping in. Most of it was calculated chaos they hoped to later excuse themselves from. Luna, Ernie, and Lavender crowded around Alecto, feigning confusion and fear. Padma tipped her goblet, slicking the floor with pumpkin juice. Justin stuck out a long leg to trip one of the Slytherin students running after Dean.

Dean and Seamus were already at the edge of the grounds, stopped only to catch their breath. Neither spoke a word, only stared through ragged panting.

“You’re mad,” Dean said. “And a bloody idiot.”

Seamus gave him a crooked smile. “Takes one to know one.” His face fell. “What are we doing?”

“I’ll get home somehow, muggle transport maybe, and figure it out from there. You stay safe, you hear me?”

Dean gave Seamus’ hand a squeeze, one that lingered longer than it should have both for Dean’s safety and his peace of mind. But Seamus didn't let go until Dean did. And then Dean was running again, and Seamus was watching him until he disappeared among the trees. Seamus ran back inside, not wanting to be caught anywhere near the area Dean had just fled from.

He was punished that night, more severely than usual, but he didn't care. Neville snuck into the greenhouse to snag plants for a pain relief potion. Professor Sprout said nothing. Lavender and Parvati brought Seamus tea and comforting words, but he took neither.

The rest of their rebellion was quieter than their stunt in the Great Hall, but it was there. During one of their many late-night meetings, Neville brought up an earlier suggestion of Ginny’s, and there wasn't a person who disagreed with it. He wanted to restart the DA.

Chapter Text

The flat smelled faintly of ink and strongly of Tonks and Percy’s poor attempt at stew. Atop the sitting room’s small table were two sides of files, one being a neat stack and the other more of a pile. Half was Tonks’ work, half Percy’s, and some were bits and pieces of information they may or may not be supposed to have.

The lamp on the end table cast a yellow glow over their work. Percy sat on the floor, a bowl of stew at one elbow and an inkpot at the other. His quill danced across a trivial report, brows knit together in mild irritation. It was getting harder to focus on his usual heap of boring tasks.

Tonks lay on the sofa, legs stretched out in front of her, and a sandwich plate balanced on her stomach. She was staring at a piece of paper like it had personally offended her. Maybe it had. She tore off a bite of her sandwich and turned to Percy.

“You need to buy more condiments. This sandwich is terrible.” She handed over the parchment in her hand. “Do you know who I’m looking at?”

“Nigel Hornby,” he said. “Works in the Apparition Test Center. Extremely reliable. Always punctual.”

“Thanks for not answering my question.”

”Muggle-born.”

She made a face of disgust and flipped quickly through a small bunch of papers “Do you know Reginald Cattermole?”

“Maintenance.”

“Do you know everyone?”

“I'm good at remembering names.”

She handed over the stack, letting it go before Percy even had his hand on it and spilling papers across the floor. They both glanced at the mess, back up at each other, and laughed. Percy gathered up the papers. It was a report about the break-in.

Three people had entered the Ministry, presented valid credentials, and exited the building with no claims of duress or anything especially incriminating. Except for Mafalda Hopkirk waking up in an alley. They'd also freed up to twenty muggle-borns being held for interrogation, what everyone assumed was their reason for being there.

After hearing Cattermole, Hopkirk, and Runcorn’s testimonies, as well as those of Arthur Weasley, Percy himself, and several record keepers, it was believed that these intruders were impersonators.

“They're clean,” Tonks said. “Coordinated. I’d guess they've got insider knowledge. But if they were current employees they wouldn't need to disguise themselves, would they?”

“Maybe, if they'd rather someone else take the fall for them. They could have walked back into work the next morning with no trouble waiting for them.”

“But then they would have had to miss a day of work.”

Percy frowned at the report he’d reorganized. “They knew the proper codes, clearance levels, even the new routing enchantments. Their unemployment must have been recent.”

That was hardly unbelievable considering how many people had been let go as of late.

“When I ran into Cattermole that day, he was acting very strange.”

“Strange in any way that might be helpful to us?”

“He called me a nerd.”

Tonks snorted.

“Yes, ha ha, but that's a highly irregular way for people who don't know me to speak.”

“You don't think it was them, do you?” Tonks asked. “The trio? But they don't know the place well enough for that, not even your brother, does he? One doesn't simply walk out of the Ministry with twenty people unless they know exactly what they’re doing. Those three run on nothing but luck.”

Percy leaned forward on his elbows, thoughtful confusion creasing his face. “They’re also completely mental. I wouldn't put it past them to try.”

“True. It’s how they succeeded that's the question.”

Percy huffed. “Regardless, we have a full security review to deal with now.”

“I don't know how you do this every day. I’m not looking forward to spending my nights elbow-deep in this nightmare.”

“You’re switching jobs, then? No more field work?”

“I’m not sure. My mother says I should stop working, she doesn't think it’s a good idea to let anyone know I’m vulnerable. But I'm afraid I won't be able to walk out and come back as I please.”

“Have you talked to Remus at all?” Percy asked, eyes scanning a file.

“Haven't seen him.”

Percy’s face twisted into a frown, but it wasn't directed at Tonks. Tonks set her plate down on the table and crawled over to him, peering over his shoulder.

“What is it, babe?”

“They’ve started bringing in liaisons from the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. They're not allowed to travel freely. At all.”

Tonks groaned. “Oh, brilliant. How long do you think it’ll be before they find some sinister overlord to replace you?”

“Tonks.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not...” Percy hesitated. “I do everything I’m supposed to.”

He followed procedures, met quotas, improved efficiency. He memorized rules and regulations from top to bottom, corrected things, and offered valuable insight. He only ever served to make things better.

“Hey, don't worry about it. You won't lose your job.”

“I might.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “You said yourself, you do everything you're supposed to. They won't risk getting rid of someone as competent as you, especially when they're falling apart every other Tuesday.”

Percy gave a small laugh. “That’s true. We have had a good bit of chaos, haven't we?”

“Yaxley’s office was raining for half the day. That’s our longest one yet. Good, because he deserves it most. Besides Umbridge, maybe, but her office is impossible to get into.”

“Except for our intruders, apparently. Stole that creepy eye and everything.”

Tonks looked down, a dark cloud creeping over her face. “That was Moody’s, you know. They stole it off his body.”

He hadn't known. He didn't know much about Alistair Moody, but he'd talked with Tonks enough to understand their relationship.

“I keep wondering what they did to him,” she said. “Took what they wanted and left, I guess. But we couldn't find his body.”

Percy reached for her hand. They stayed like that, silent and hand in hand, until Percy spoke again.

“So, who’s been springing leaks?”

“As far as they know, incompetent caretakers.”

Tonks retrieved her sandwich from the sofa, munching on it and grabbing another piece of parchment that wasn't even meant for her.

“Are you eating alright?” Percy asked. “Seeing as you can't cook to save your life.”

“Look who’s talking. And yeah, since Mum’s been staying with me she's kept me well fed. Though I can't say I've had much of an appetite.”

“How are you feeling? Morning sickness?”

Tonks shrugged. “It comes and goes, but it’s not been so bad. Everything’s been rather easy. I'm sure it will only get worse from here.”

“So you’ve decided, then? You’re keeping it.”

Tonks looked down at a fallen lettuce leaf, then back at Percy with a small smile. “That’s my baby you're talking about.”

Percy smiled. “Do you think they’ll be a metamorphmagus like you?”

“Wouldn’t that be fun? Hey, what is this?” She handed over the papers she held.

Percy scanned it swiftly and put it down. “Nothing. They're certainly keeping us busy. All the new rules, I suppose.”

“My guess is they don't want to give us a second to think for ourselves.”

“Likely.”

“Did you hear what the kid did?”

“What kid?”

“Dean Thomas. The one whose wand we took. Left school, no one knows where he is now.” She shook her head, looking rather impressed. “I’ve asked around, but no one has a word on him.”

“They’re resourceful,” Percy said. “The kids. Goodness knows they don't mind breaking rules. They've stopped so many owl posts, they're trying to keep them like prisoners at the school. But I know Harry’s friends at least won't put up with it.”

“Good. They shouldn't. I only hope they’ll stay safe.”

Percy stirred his spoon around his bowl, sifting through chunks of meat and lentils. In the years he'd attended Hogwarts, it prided itself on being the safest place in the world. Now the students were being hunted from within its walls. Dean Thomas was a child, forced from his friends and into hiding from laws set against his existence.

There was so much going on. Percy and Tonks worked tirelessly, doing things that Percy would never have imagined for himself had he been asked to name the least likely possibilities for his future. Tonks hadn't heard from her father since he'd left, her mother was a wreck, and she was pregnant and husbandless. And still, she was holding it together. Percy didn't think he'd get on even half as well without her.

“Tonks?”

“Yep?”

“Did you always know you wanted to be an Auror?”

“Oh, definitely not,” she said. “I wanted to do so many things, and everyone telling me at thirteen that I needed to decide my future didn't help any. You always knew what you wanted, didn't you? I remember when you were little you always said you wanted to work in the Ministry.”

“I thought so.”

For so long, Percy had only gotten what he wanted. Perfect grades, coveted positions, praise. But he'd come to realize that there were more important things than all of his superficial desires. Sitting here in his own flat surrounded by his highly valued work wasn't an entirely bad thing, but it was the easy conversation of his company and the fire inside her that licked at his fingers until he was ignited too, that was where he found meaning in any of this.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Tonks said. “This isn't the way it’s going to be forever.”

“I don't think the Ministry was that splendid before.”

Tonks pulled a knee up, crossing her hands over it. “Well, no. But you're not the entire Ministry, Percy. You're not going to fix it single-handedly. It’s okay to like your job and stand up when you need to.”

“That’s the problem. I didn't stand up when I should have.”

It would have been less embarrassing if he'd been too cowardly. At least then he could say that he did know it was wrong, that he'd kept the truth like a secret and purposefully shoved it down. But he had been naive, foolishly so, thinking he had everything figured out. The people he'd cared about most tried to warn him, to help him, and he pushed them away.

“You’re standing now,” Tonks said. “I’d say that counts for something, wouldn't you?”

“I suppose. I'm afraid it might be too little too late.”

“Do you know who I think would disagree? All of those students wishing someone would fight for them. All of those muggle-borns wondering what they're going to do now. It counts to them.”

That brought the tiniest of smiles out of him and she grinned back. She was right, he was doing something good now. And maybe he had a lot of good to do before he could make up for the bad he'd done, maybe his family wouldn't ever forgive him, and he and his dad would still exchange impassive looks from across the hall, but at least he would know he tried to do the right thing.

And maybe then the bed he smoothed out and tucked himself into every night wouldn't seem so rough. Maybe he could finally fall asleep.

***

Remus’ father hated werewolves. He loathed them. Remus had been too young to remember the impassioned hatred Lyall Lupin spewed, but one of his earliest memories of his father featured this strong detestation. His father had explained to him that werewolves could try and hide in plain sight, but they were unkempt, unwashed, and usually grinning wickedly at good little boys like Remus.

Remus couldn't remember much of his earliest days as a little werewolf, but he distinctly remembered the thought he carried for years. That he was destined to be a monster. He was certain it would happen, that he would one day be faced with thoughts of eating children and purposely harming people. He prepared to arm himself against these inevitable desires, but they never came.

He spent years trying to tame himself, keeping any extreme emotional displays tucked safely away in the back of his mind. He let wolfish hunger drown in the pit of his stomach, let anger simmer under his ribcage, and kept his composure hidden beneath his tongue. He was poised, level-headed, and tame.

Currently, he was acting like anything but. He'd almost attacked Harry. And for what? Because he had pointed out what was entirely true? Remus was behaving childishly. He was running away from his responsibility, from a beautiful life he couldn't possibly regret creating, because of the thing inside him he could never run far enough from. Harry had every reason to be ashamed.

Not once when Remus had visited Godric’s Hollow and played with that tiny, messy-haired boy had he ever imagined fighting with him like that. Never had he thought he would ever do something to provoke his anger. Or to deserve it. But everything Harry said was right. And James, he wouldn't agree with Remus. He would probably be furious knowing how Remus had treated his son.

After Remus was bitten, his father could have run away. He could have left his monster of a son and lived a life where that problem would never touch him. But he stayed. He tried to raise Remus into a decent man, facing the same fear that this creature could never truly fit among normal people, and must be tamed. His father desperately wished he were different and Remus wished it just as badly.

Remus’ relationship with his father was as complicated as his relationship with himself. Maybe less, because he could still look up to his father with love, and he had so little of that for himself. That was the feeling he was knowingly subjecting his own child to if he left. They would grow up hating themself and wondering why their father felt the same way.

And what if they did end up with some of his traits? What if they were a wolfish child? Could it be passed down through his blood? Would the child be a full werewolf of some sort of half version? Perhaps none at all. But if they were, who would be there to tell them it was alright, that they were perfect the way they are? Wasn't that what fathers were supposed to do?

Or would he leave it up to Dora to explain why their father had agreed that they were a monster beyond help, easier to be free from? Shouldn't he be there to tell them that werewolves were not the monsters they were made out to be, they were people who felt and wanted and loved just as everyone else did. They were sons and fathers and friends. They were frightened children and men who tried so hard to be kind.

And what if the child wasn't wolfish at all? Would they be treated as inferior simply for the fact of who their father was? Dora faced it, why wouldn't their child? But the same applied. He should be there to tell them it was wrong. To prove that werewolves weren't heartless beasts. Harry’s words rang in his head, and he knew he was right. He was making himself a monster by letting those prejudices become his truth.

He was not a monster. He did have malice in his blood. He did not truly believe that the evil he had so long feared, and so long avoided, would suddenly come out when faced with his own child. But he feared it. He feared he would finally break, that the inescapable creature that chased him would finally catch up, and the people he loved would be the ones affected. That he would become a monster.

But leaving would not ensure he wouldn't. Quite the opposite. Staying would not either, but it gave him a chance. He got to try. He got to give his best to something. Leaving was the cowardly thing to do. He had been a lot of things in his life, many he was not proud of, but he was not a coward. And he wouldn't let his child spend their entire life thinking he was.

Dora admired his bravery, the way he would always stand up and do the right thing. She was probably ashamed of the spineless coward he'd turned out to be. His friends called him brave, would pat him on the back and praise him for it. Madame Pomfrey said it in a comforting tone as she bandaged fresh wounds, telling him he was the bravest boy she knew. Sirius told him once that it made him proud how brave Remus was in the face of all he went through.

He had to be brave now. He had to go back home. Dora wouldn't want him now, it was better for her to let him go, but at least he could say he tried. And the last thing she would have from him would be an apology. She could choose to keep his memory however she wanted for their child. But he would try. And he would never stop trying. He hadn't been a part of Harry’s childhood because he had been too stuck in his own misery and self-loathing to give himself to someone else. He wouldn't make that same mistake.

Psyching himself up for seeing Dora again was no easy task, but he found himself on her doorstep nonetheless. He tried to plan out what to say to her, some way to apologize and explain, but even in fake, one-sided conversation he was at a loss for words. He decided on begging for forgiveness and then letting her take the lead.

He knocked on the door, his fist closed around nervous sweat. There was no answer and he wondered if she had gone to stay with her parents. Should he have checked there first? Should he leave? Was coming back a mistake? No, he had to do this? But if she wasn't here–

The door opened and he was met with Andromeda’s sharp disdain.

“Dora’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“I don't see how that's any business of yours. Goodbye.”

Andromeda tried to close the door on him, but Remus put a hand out to prevent her.

“Andromeda, please, just let me speak with her. Won't you at least let her know that I'm here.”

Andromeda sniffed. “She has nothing to say to you, thank you.”

Remus heard a muffled voice from inside and footsteps toward the door. Andromeda tried to shut him out again, closing the door on his face, but it was opened again within seconds. Tonks sent a look over her shoulder at her mother, then faced Remus.

“Remus.”

Remus gave her a timid smile. “Hey, Dor.”

How could she possibly want him back after this? How could he leave her? He wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her until she felt how sorry he was. Until all of this was fixed and put behind them. He wanted to show her how much he loved her, how much this meant to him.

“Is it alright if we talk?”

Tonks nodded slowly. Without ever taking her eyes off Remus, she ordered her mother to allow them privacy, then let him inside. He followed her to the sofa, the last time they'd sat down for a talk flashing through his mind.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Your mother is upset with me?”

Perhaps not his best starter, but the easiest thing to get out of the way.

“Were you expecting her to be pleased?”

“No, I suppose not. Are you upset with me?”

Tonks didn't respond. Remus dared to reach out, running a hand through her dark, unwashed hair. Tonks caught his hand, pushing him away. It wasn't rough or angry which made it all the more painful.

“You have every reason to be upset with me,” Remus said.

“You're absolutely right, I do,” she huffed. “Do you know I haven't slept well since you left? I kept waiting, thinking maybe you would come back. And every night you didn't. I sat up wondering what I would tell our child, how I would explain to them that their father couldn't stand them. And why? Because they're a monster? Because they're too much like you?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks and Remus wanted to wipe them away, but he didn't.

“I was so worried about you,” she said. “I didn't know where you were or what you were going to do. You left me alone and confused and afraid. And now you're here to– what are you here for?”

“I’m a fool.”

“I’m aware.”

Remus held his hand out in offering. Tonks frowned like he was holding out something disgusting and took it.

“I talked to Harry,” he said. “He basically called me a pathetic coward and a terrible person. And he was right to. It surprised me because I think I went to him expecting his father's understanding, a friend who would, if not take my side, at least hear me out. But he didn't. So I left, and I drank, and I thought about you.”

“Outstanding coping.”

“I didn't know how to come back. I didn't think you would want me to.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, noticing a small scratch on her forefinger. “I didn't want to hurt you anymore. I'm so sorry. I know I can't make up for it, but I’ll do anything I can to be here for you. If you don't want me back, I understand–”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know. I–”

Tonks smiled in a tired sort of way. “All I've ever wanted was for you to understand how much I care about you. I would take you back in an instant if you just said you're sorry, but you're so lost in your own self-hatred you don't see that. Remus, I love you so much. You're kind of making me wish I didn't, but, of course, I want you back.”

Remus squeezed her hand and sighed. “I am sorry. So sorry. You deserve better.”

“Then be better.”

“I will. I promise, I will. I’ll try and I’ll never stop trying.”

Tonks cupped his face, bringing him closer. “If you ever leave me again, I’ll kill you.”

He smiled between her hands. “Wouldn't dream of it, love.”

Tonks pulled him into a kiss. She ran her hands through his hair, stroked his cheeks, took in everything she had been missing. Remus kissed her wet cheeks, his mouth leaving a trail down her neck. He got to his knees in front of her and, with tender hands, lifted her shirt to press a kiss to her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with another soft kiss. “I’ll never leave you again.”

Tonks cupped his jaw, raising his head. He kissed her palm. He circled his arms around her waist, resting his head against her chest. He would stay right there, no more running. A perfect father he may never be, but he would always be there.

“Dor?”

“Yes?”

Remus lifted himself back onto the sofa, Tonks curling into his side.

“Where’s your father?” he asked.

***

“Remus!”

Remus winced at the wailing, wondering what new problem had come to trouble her now, and set down his toast. He found Tonks in the bathroom, frowning at herself in the mirror. She was wearing only her bra, hands cupping her breasts, which Remus was certain looked the same as they always did.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are my tits getting bigger?” she wailed. “They are, aren't they?”

Remus lifted an eyebrow at the breasts she was accentuating by pushing up.

“I'm not sure it's happened yet, but you are aware that's a part of pregnancy.”

“I know that!” She crossed her arms over her chest, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “Only, I didn't think about it.”

Remus wrapped an arm around her waist. “Is it bothering you a lot?”

She nodded and buried her face in his chest.

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?” She groaned into his shirt. “It’s only going to get worse. I'm going to grow curves and softness and breasts I don't want. And I can't just morph it away.”

“Would it help if you dressed differently? Maybe we could try looser clothing.”

Her face scrunched in disgust. “I don't want to wear maternity dresses. Mum said she would give me some, but there's no way I'm wearing that.”

“You can wear my clothes, if you'd like,” Remus offered. “We can buy you men’s shirts. Nothing fitted and no dresses, yeah?”

“I sort of thought, for a moment,” Tonks said, looking rather embarrassed as she stared down at her feet. “That being pregnant might make me feel more like a woman. I think I was right, but I thought, for some reason, that I could finally be a proper, happy woman.”

Remus cupped her face, guiding it upward to look at him. “You don't have to be a proper woman. It doesn't make you worth more. You're a perfect person and you're going to be a perfectly wonderful parent.” He pressed a hand to her stomach. “They will only ever know you as that, their amazing parent.”

A small smile lifted her lips. “What will they call me? I don't want to be a mum. Is that wrong?”

“Wrong? Not at all. We have plenty of time to figure that out.”

Remus hugged her to his chest again, arms wrapping securely around her shoulders.

“I don't want to be only a mother,” Tonks said. “That's what everyone’s going to see me as. A mother is supposedly the greatest thing a woman can be, like the feminine divine. And maybe for some it is, but not me. I'm still a whole person outside of that.”

“Of course, you are,” Remus said in a tone of soft encouragement. “I don't think I'm qualified to judge the power of pregnancy, but it doesn't have to mean anything more to you than the fact that you're carrying your child. That's beautiful and it has nothing to do with you being a woman.”

“I think I might want to just stay inside once I start showing. I don't want to hear anything about being a mummy or a lovely little pregnant lady.”

“That's fine.” Remus smoothed a hand over her hair and kissed the top of her head. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

Tonks turned around to face herself in the mirror again. Her long hair disappeared, morphing into choppy strands that hung loosely around her face. She shifted through colors before stopping on a light shade of purple.

“Remus?”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Yes?”

“Could you stop calling me she? I know you don't do it very much, but I think I'd like to use neutral terms more often.”

“Whatever you want. Do you want me to call you a different name?”

Tonks leaned back into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder. “I like when you say my name.”

Remus’ lips met her neck, pressing kisses to the skin she tipped her head back to expose. He curled a hand in her hair.

“I like this,” he said. “It suits you.”

“Does it? I thought the style made it harder to tell what I am. People judge way too much by the hair.”

“I am also guilty of this,” Remus said with a laugh. “If I passed you on the street, I wouldn't know.”

Tonks smiled. “Perfect.”

“If you need anything,” Remus said seriously. “You can always let me know. I'll do whatever I can to make this easier for you.”

“You always do.”

As the beginning stages of Tonks’ pregnancy progressed, Remus did all he could to keep them comfortable. Their body wasn't any bigger than usual, it wouldn't be troublingly so for a while, but Tonks preferred roaming the house in Remus’ oversized shirts and shapeless pajama bottoms. They kept their hair short and Remus noted a few slight changes in facial features.

Every compliment that came to mind was said aloud. And Remus had plenty. He loved all of Tonks’ looks, but seeing them be themselves in happiness and comfort somehow accentuated their attractiveness. Remus understood that divine Tonks had been talking about. It wasn't feminine, but it was divine nonetheless.

Watching Tonks grow through their pregnancy, feeling and watching as their baby grew, was a marvel. It was nothing short of incredible. He adored every second of it. His protectiveness grew, too, getting stronger by the day. When Tonks was throwing up at five in the morning or when they were on the bathroom floor crying into the night, he wanted to be there. He wanted to protect both of his loves.

It wasn't easy for Tonks. Oversized shirts and affirmations only did so much when one's body was changing by the day. Those pregnancy boobs that had been non-existent at the first complaint were actually becoming more noticeable. Many nights were spent in tears and emotional rants, and plenty of days, sometimes weeks, were spent in a state of general misery.

Remus wished he could take their pain away, or somehow assure them that none of that mattered. He wished he could, at the least, do more to bring them some happiness. Andromeda did less to help than she thought. Folding Dora’s laundry and making meals was lovely of her, and appreciated, but she kept talking about this “happy time” and how the “glow” would come in time. It only made Tonks feel worse.

“Hey, Dor,” Remus said as he slipped into bed beside them. He slipped a hand beneath their shirt, resting on their stomach.

Tonks hummed tiredly, stroking Remus’ head. Their closed eyes were underlined with bags.

“You’re doing a good job, you know that? You're a good parent.”

A tired smile appeared on Tonks’ face. “I'm not really a parent yet.”

“Still. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks. I'm glad you take notice of all the tough sleeping and sulking I do.”

“It’s not sulking.” He kissed her stomach softly. “You're allowed to be upset. Pregnancy is hard.”

“I didn't expect it would be so draining. The physical exhaustion I was prepared for, but the mental exhaustion, no one told me about that. I didn't realize my will to live would start dwindling.”

Remus looked up with alarm.

Tonks waved him off. “I’m kidding. Only barely. I don't want to do anything. I can't stand the sight of myself. And everything hurts my feelings.”

Remus cuddled into them. They wrapped their arms around him, nestling their face into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“I hope they never have to be in pain,” Tonks said. “Our baby. I know that's not possible, but I hope at least the world treats them better. They're not even here yet but I know they deserve all of that.”

“I hope so, too. Unfortunately, we can't change the world. All we can do is give them a place to go when the world is cruel.”

“I want them to always be able to be themselves with us. Even when we don't understand. Promise me to try?”

“Promise,” he said easily. He wanted the very same for their baby.

“My dad was always good with that. He tries so hard to understand me.”

Remus held Tonks tighter, wishing he could release all of their pain when he released his hold. He wanted to love their child with everything he had. He wanted to change the world for that unborn little bundle of joy. He wanted to be the kind of man for his child that Dora’s father was to them. He wanted to make a thousand promises he wasn't sure he could keep, but he would try. For their little family, he would try.

Chapter Text

“Where are we?” Ron grumbled, trekking through fallen leaves at a much slower pace than Hermione and Harry.

“I’m sorry, it was the only place close enough,” Hermione apologized. “We couldn't get too far from Grimmauld by apparition alone, so we’ll have to keep moving around.”

“Great,” Ron muttered, rubbing his arm. “You know, we could go a bit further.”

“I can’t, Ron, I'm not that good. Hence your current injury. Besides, you can't–”

Hermione stopped abruptly, looking at Ron and Harry in panic.

“The Ministry can track apparition.”

Ron and Harry looked at one another, then followed in her panic.

“Wait, wait!” Harry yelled, clutching both of them by the arm. “We’ve been apparating all around this forest, and plenty before that. And no one’s come after us. Maybe they aren’t tracking us.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Ron said. “They tracked apparition even before their security got so strict. Someone had to have seen us.”

“Then we’re just lucky. We’ll keep apparition to a minimum from now on, yeah?”

“We shouldn't use it unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Hermione said. “Come on, we can set up here. Ron needs to rest.”

Hermione brought their tent out, making quick work of putting it together before Harry could even think to help. She righted a pole and pulled her wand out.

“𝐸𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜.”

The pole sprang up, straightening beneath the tent cloth. Harry and Ron covered their mouths and their laughter. Hermione made sure they both saw her side-eye before finishing her work. She made sure Ron had a comfortable spot to lie down and rest, and dug through her bag for whatever cold pop tarts and nut assortments might satisfy him.

Harry sat outside the tent, fastening two sticks together with a piece of twine he'd conjured. He brushed dirt over the still-whizzing eye lying in the ground, burying the only bit of Mad-Eye they had in a makeshift grave. This was the great honour of a hero, the great legacy they left. This was the mark of war. A casualty didn't feel honour. They didn't feel brave. They were considered lucky to even get a proper headstone.

He wondered if he would have a grave. What if his body was left on some forest floor, lost and eventually forgotten? Or would he be buried beneath a grand work of marble and stone? Would people pile flowers and empty grievances atop his corpse, praising the hero he died as? If he died a hero.

That was what everyone expected him to do, but they would soon be disappointed. He was going to die. He was sure of it. It would be a bland, pitiful, disappointing death. One of Voldemort’s lackeys would catch him with a stray curse and that would be the end of Harry Potter. Everyone else would have to figure out what to do without him. Probably die, too. It would be best.

Harry felt the locket press into his skin, almost like a hand was holding it against him. A shock of fire burned through his forehead, spreading down in a lightning-like streak. He let go of the locket to press his palm against his head, trying to flatten out the sharpened bolts of pain. His head hurt worse than usual, so much that he thought he might not be able to stand up off the ground.

And so what if he didn't? If he stayed here, slumped against this tree where no one would ever think to look for him, he would eventually die one way or another. Anything else he did would be equally pointless, so what did it matter? He wasn't going to save anyone. He could barely pick himself up off the ground, he wasn't going to fight.

He wished this pain in his head would melt into another vision. At least then he would have something to focus on. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't see Voldemort. All he could see was himself, green eyes ablaze with all the apathy befitting a darling hero. Dumbledore’s little hero. His pride and hope. His lip curled in disgust.

Dumbledore had always seen it, hadn't he? The suffering. The deep, painful unfair things that made his world go around. And they were all just things. Things that had to happen so that everything else would unfold the way he thought it ought to. Of course, he didn't tell Harry anything, not until after it unfolded so that he wouldn't be able to stick his fingers in the intentionally woven web.

He tore out pages and handed them to Harry, letting him stumble through the story with blank spaces to fill on his own. As though it were all a test. As though it weren't his life being weighed and measured on paper. Dumbledore didn't care about him. He didn't care about anyone. He was a foolish old man who needed a boy to do his dirty work.

Harry felt a stiffness in his fingers and unfurled from the locket. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it. The metal still burned against his skin, emanating a heat that wouldn't die down. It seemed to whisper to him, it’s hissing curling around his ears and turning into his thoughts.

Dumbledore had always been in his way. He stood high and mighty like a guardian, turning his back on those he swore to protect. Fools, all of them. They had no idea what was in store for them. There would be no mercy. No gentleness. Power was power, and it did not bend its head to others. Dumbledore was a man of great power. It was why he feared him so.

Feared?

Harry didn't fear Dumbledore. He thought he was clever, too clever, and spun people around like they were made to be controlled beneath his fingers. He thought he was always five moves ahead and always smiling because he knew that. He thought he didn't crave power because he already had so much of it. Harry had never thought that before.

Even dead he meddled.

𝐷𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑏𝑜𝑦? 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠, 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙.

Harry stood up, walking toward the tent. They'd managed to get their hands on a small radio, and he could hear the muffled voice of a reporter witch. He lifted the flap to see Ron and Hermione with their heads together in whispered conversation. They abruptly pulled away and shut up when they saw him. They were talking about him. He could see it on their faces.

That was only the first time he saw it. This scene played over and over like a movie stuck on repeat. Harry found Ron and Hermione sharing secrets and suddenly losing their mood to chat when he showed up.

The three of them traveled through forests and fields, listening for any important wizarding world news and working through the dry snacks Hermione had packed. They passed the locket around, no one wearing it for too long. Harry wore it the most. Not because it affected him least, something he admitted only when the necklace was off his skin. But because it was hard to let go of.

When he wore it, his scar pulsed like a heartbeat, matching the thrum of the locket. He was curious to know how it worked. He knew so little about dark magic and there was so much to learn. He felt like Hermione when she got her hands on a new subject. It drove him mad not knowing. Wearing the locket made him feel that he had something at least.

“Let’s stop here for the night,” Hermione said, not waiting for their agreement before pulling their things out. “We can head to that town tomorrow morning and see if we can get anything for breakfast.”

Ron groaned. “We better.”

Hermione gave him a tight, not at all happy, smile, and continued with setting up their tent. Ron grabbed his blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“It’s bloody freezing.”

Hermione gave the chain around Harry’s neck a gentle tug. “I’ll wear this while you sleep and take the first watch.”

Harry’s hand came up to circle protectively around the pendant. Hermione looked frightened, but she didn't back down.

“You always have nightmares when you wear it. And you talk in your sleep. It freaks me out.”

She tried to undo the clasp but he pushed her hands away. He felt a warm trickle, like hot water, dripping down his forehead. He wiped his hand across his skin, coming back with bloody fingers. “What is it?” Hermione swiped her thumb across his scar. There was no blood on her hand.

“What do I say?” Harry asked. “When I talk in my sleep.”

“I don't know. You keep talking about that wandmaker and you say creepy things. Give me that.”

Hermione snatched the locket. Harry felt the familiar drain that followed, the energy peeling off of his chest and leaving him more relieved than he thought he could ever be only moments ago.

“Get some sleep, alright.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”

Harry lay down next to Ron, huddling into his warmth. The cold was always an excuse to cuddle, but all three of them had more reasons than just practicality. Harry hoped Hermione was alright by herself. He knew how jumpy she could be. He didn't have much time to worry because he soon drifted off to sleep.

He didn't dream of Gregorovitch or Voldemort. His sleep wasn’t filled with images of land he had never seen before or snake-like whispers. Hermione was right, the locket did something to him. Somehow, it amplified his connection with Voldemort. It could be in his head, a completely imagined occurrence, but something was happening.

And it was all Voldemort’s fault. Every night he fell asleep without the locket and every morning he woke up after, he was angry. And he placed blame where it was due. If he didn't kill Voldemort to stop this war, he would do it just to get back at him. It was a thought that kept him going through all of this. Voldemort ruined his life. The least he was going to do was return the favor.

The next morning, Harry was the first up, having taken the earliest watch. It was also his turn to wear the locket. His fascination with it rose and fell as he put it on and took it off. When it was hanging off Ron or Hermione’s neck, he thought of it as nothing more than a horcrux. Something to destroy. When he wore it, he couldn't imagine destroying it yet.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his hands underneath his jacket. He wondered how many horcruxes he could find before winter came. If Voldemort had any use in him, Harry’s visions would come with clues. Nothing they were doing was working. They weren't doing anything. No one was coming up with a plan good enough for him. No one did anything around here.

He got up off the ground, pacing around the area to warm himself up and let go of his frustrations on the dry leaves he kicked around. They weren't getting anywhere. Hermione and Ron were as good as useless. If he killed them, it wouldn't change anything. He looked at the tent where they slept, leaving him to come up with everything on his own. Fine, then, he would.

He slipped into the tent, hardly a ripple of fabric to announce his entrance. Hermione and Ron were asleep, but Hermione stirred as he crept closer. His footsteps were silent, as was the motion of drawing his wand. The whisper, the hissing from the locket, slid through his head and down his spine. He stood there, staring blankly, unsure, almost, of where he was. The whisper-hiss came as nothing more than a pulse, no clear orders of what it wanted Harry to do.

He turned around and left, not looking back until he was nearing the edge of the woods where they were camping. They had stayed close to a small town in hopes of coming by any useful necessities. Or at least some real food. Harry kept walking, knowing if he stopped, something bad would happen. Something bad always happened.

The town was cold and grey like any rainy September day would bring about, but there was a certain gloom about it that Harry didn't have to look up to understand. He did look up, though, and saw the dementors swarming the skies like black clouds. What were they doing here?

He walked aimlessly around, forgetting what he had even come there to do. He kept to the corners, sneaking around the few people who passed by. He guessed no one felt like being outside today. He realized suddenly that he could keep the dementors away from him and reached for his wand. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Why was he so out of it today?

He raised his wand to the sky and spoke the incantation, but nothing came. There was no silvery stag, no emanating light to protect him. He stood in his place for a while after that, not even his thoughts to keep him company. He felt empty. His frustration from earlier was completely gone. There was nothing inside him. He thought of Ron and Hermione who were waiting for him, but he knew his return did not matter.

He wandered into a corner shop, brushing past unsatisfying snacks and papers full of news he cared nothing for. His head started to throb, the heartbeat under his scar the only thing reminding him that his otherwise unfeeling body was still unfortunately alive. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes, slipped them into his pocket, and headed back to their campsite.

Hermione and Ron were awake, running frantically around the area. Harry felt a surge of anger toward them. They stopped their anxious race when they saw him.

“Where were you!” Hermione screamed.

“I went looking for food,” he said impassively. <>“Oh, good,” Ron said, forgetting his fear. “What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Hermione said, giving Ron a look that didn't quiet him.

“Speak for yourself. Are we supposed to just starve? Some good we’ll be then.”

“Ron!”

“Why don't you find us some food then,” Harry said, still rather calm. “Maybe your inferior magic skills can conjure a patronus against those dementors.”

“My what?”

“There were dementors?” Hermione said. “You couldn't conjure your patronus?”

Hermione’s hands came up, almost instinctively, to the chain around Harry’s neck. Harry felt it intensely, the shame that flooded into him. It helped push the locket into Hermione’s hands. He couldn't cast a patronus, he hadn't even looked for food, he'd been wandering around feeling sorry for himself. He couldn't look at his friends, getting a feeling familiar to the time he was the only one to collapse on the Hogwarts Express.

Hermione put the locket on. “It’s okay. You’re okay now.”

Harry turned his face away so she couldn't see the way her words made him wince. He hated that feeling, being seen as weak. As unstable. As someone who needed to be looked after.

“We still have no food,” Ron reminded them.

Humiliation burned in Harry’s cheeks. He was the only one making this harder. To think, he'd wanted to do this alone. He would be dead in a day without Hermione and Ron. And he repaid them by starving them while they comforted him. He reached into his pocket, offering the little he had.

“Harry,” Hermione said in the same tone a mother would had she seen his gift. “This is what you got? Honestly?”

He wasn't actually sure what he bought them.

“Supposedly they curb hunger, so they're not completely useless.”

“Whatever,” Ron said. “Give me one.”

Hermione's protestations died down quickly enough once the three of them were sitting together lighting up cigarettes. It made Hermione slightly nauseous, but her laughter at Ron’s coughing cheered her up plenty. Harry was fine. This wasn’t actually his first time.

There wasn't a lot to do during a summer in Privet Drive. When he'd gone back after his second year, he snuck out in the evenings and walked along the side of the suburban roads doing what his uncle might refer to as “looking for trouble.” He wasn't, he was just bored and alone. One time, a couple of older teen boys who didn't know him offered him one. It was a fleeting moment of instant relief, and if Harry had been more inclined toward thievery back then, it might have become a habit.

And it did ease their hunger pains. Though that was another thing Harry was used to. He barely felt it, or he'd learned how to tune it out. He found himself getting irritated when Ron complained about his empty stomach. Ron was used to three warm, full meals a day. He had no idea what it was like to be starving. It was coincidentally when Harry took the locket off that he felt guilty for being bitter toward Ron.

They had better find a way to destroy that soon.

Hermione was the only one trying to figure out how they would do that. Well, she thought so, anyway. But she was positive Ron wasn't doing a thing. All he did was lounge around and complain that nothing was getting done. She was reading and rereading every page of these damned books she’d stolen, trying to figure out how to destroy horcruxes, while also making sure they didn't die out here.

Every one of their plans were hers. And, sure, they were all useless ones that ended up scrapped, but she wasn't hearing suggestions from elsewhere. That might have been fine, she could deal with one difficult task, but not once did Ron ever suggest where they go next, or Harry help put up the tent. Harry, she could excuse, he was dealing with far too much already, but that was another load Ron didn't help lighten.

It was like he didn't even consider how awful Harry was feeling. Hermione tried to be supportive and caring, which was made especially difficult because of how averse Harry could be to accepting help. Ron didn't do anything but get angry at her over bruised fruit and other things she couldn't control. They treated her like she was just supposed to know everything and do it perfectly. And she was tired of it.

One night, as she turned bits of chicken over a fire, both things that were only present because of her work, she was particularly angered. Ron was lying on his back beside the fire, the glow of it leaving half his face in shadows. The locket around her neck felt warmer, heated by the flames. Ron was complaining, like he always was, about their less-than-favorable meal options and their complete lack of progress.

Hermione, only partially with harmful intent, sent an ember flying toward Ron. She received very little satisfaction from the way he scurried away from it. He didn't seem to notice she'd done it on purpose.

“Are you almost done?”

“No, Ron,” she spat. “I’m not almost done. Would you like to take a turn?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 with me? You can't be serious.” She huffed angrily. “You don't do 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. You never lift a finger. You're utterly useless and you expect me to take care of you like I’m your mother.”

“That’s not true! You never even ask for help.”

“I didn't know I needed to ask to not be the one doing all of the work. I know what you think.” She'd been thinking it for a while now, the thought that kept crossing her mind. “You expect me to cook and take care of you because I'm a woman.”

“What? Don't be stupid.”

“Oh, you think I'm stupid?”

“Right now, yeah.”

“Guys, stop,” Harry said, without much force. He was tired of their constant bickering and he had no energy to try and break up an actual fight.

“Sorry,” Hermione apologized.

“How come you never get mad at Harry? What does he ever do?”

“Ron!” she hissed.

“You’re never upset with him,” Ron accused. “You just hate me.”

“Harry,” she said, voice low as if he weren't right in front of them, “Is dealing with a lot.”

“So, he gets let off the hook because he's batshit now?”

“Ron!”

Without so much as a word, or anything to show he was offended, Harry stood up and left to hide in their tent. He caught plenty of Hermione’s harsh words. He knew she pitied him. It was his own fault, he needed to be stronger. He was the leader of this wild chase, the one they looked to for answers, but he had none.

Ron and Hermione kept talking about him, having whispered conversations behind his back. They were tired of him. He was tired, too. He had to figure something out. He tried to form plans, to think of some way they could take the next step in this race, but he came up with nothing. Everything he thought of was a useless lead. He couldn't see them roaming around some ancient wizard shop or foreign lands trying to find something that might have held some value to Voldemort.

Maybe if he tried, if he could focus on just feeling it, he could reach Voldemort. He shut his eyes, picturing the ugly face with its creepy curling smile. Now, what would he do if he were evil and creepy and obsessed with death? What would he make a horcrux and where would he hide it? His first thought was Hogwarts, but was that accessible enough to Voldemort for him to leave something so important there? Maybe it had been when he'd done it. And it would be now, so they might as well check.

But they could all be there. What meant something to Voldemort? Where were his roots planted? What held a figurative piece of his soul? An image flickered across the back of his eyelids, an unusually small boy with dirtied cheeks and shabby clothes. It was young Voldemort. Tom Riddle. It must be back when he lived in that orphanage.

Harry felt repulsion roll over him. Like he hated the boy and the filthy stone walls that caged him. He felt disgusted at the thought of returning, of ever setting foot inside that building. He decided they had to go there, to the orphanage, to see why. There must be something there, otherwise he wouldn't have seen it just now. Would he?

Hermione, having lost her appetite, came brushing into the tent while Ron ate outside. She slumped onto a chair, opening a book. Harry noticed the chain around her neck was gone. He sort of wished she would be upset with him. That would be easier to deal with.

“I think we should go to the orphanage.”

She looked up, surprise and a glimmer of hope shining through her eyes.

“What orphanage?”

“The one where Vold-” he paused, glancing sideways toward the tent door. Ron had been on them about saying his name.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah? His orphanage. You think there's something there?”

“I think it’s worth looking. It feels weird, like, I don't know, like something about it is connected.”

To Voldemort. To him. To something.

“Well, it would make sense. He grew up there. When should we go?”

“We can set off tomorrow.”

Hermione gave a content nod and continued flipping through the pages of her book, feeling much lighter now. Harry sat silently, trying to mentally prepare for the journey ahead. It wasn't much, but it was something. He had to trust his instincts, to go where that pull inside led him.

“Harry!” Hermione shot up from her seat, shoving her book at him. “Basilisk venom! Basilisk venom can destroy horcuxes. Why didn't I realize it before?”

“Great,” Harry said, unfeeling. “If only we had a basilisk.”

“That’s what I thought, but, Harry, you used the sword to kill the basilisk. It’s imbued with venom.”

“Oh my god, Hermione!” He cupped her face. “You’re brilliant. We need to find the sword. Do you think the Ministry has it?”

“It might still be in the school. We’ll go to the orphanage first, see if we can find anything, and then we’ll figure out the sword. Oh, Harry, this is great.”

Hermione took Harry’s hands, bouncing on her feet. She couldn't help her excitement. They finally had a lead.

“Do you think Snape knows?” Harry said. “Maybe he's protecting the sword?”

“We could assume. We’ll have to go back to Hogwarts eventually, won't we? Let’s get the horcruxes first, yeah?”

“Yeah, yes.”

Harry high-fived her, his own excitement rising for the first time since they'd started out.

The tent door flapped open, showing Ron’s shadowy face as he dipped inside out of the darkness. It had started to rain, fresh drops wetting Ron’s hair and dotting his clothes.

“Ron,” Harry said excitedly. “If we get the sword of Gryffindor, we can use it to destroy the horcruxes. We figured-”

“Oh, wonderful,” Ron said sarcastically.

Of course, Hermione and Harry had come up with a plan, but Ron was in no mood to hear it. He couldn't imagine it would be anything more than useless information, but even if it wasn’t, one idea they hadn't even achieved yet was nothing to celebrate.

But maybe he didn't understand. Maybe he was the problem. That always seemed to be it. Harry and Hermione came up with the ideas, formed the plans, and he stood by proving how useless he was. He didn't understand what was going on. He had no idea how the sword would help them. He wouldn't have figured it out on his own and they didn't need his help to see it. He was nothing more than an extra, unnecessary wheel.

“Excuse me for not jumping up and down with joy,” Ron said. “In case you didn't notice, we don't have the sword of Gryffindor, and we don't know where it is. It’s just another thing we need to find. Another thing that you don't know.”

“Something 𝐼 don't know. I have told you everything that Dumbledore told me. What more do you want me to do?”

The rain pattered against the wall of the tent, making sure every tense silence was filled.

“I didn't know we'd be running around for nothing. I thought you had a plan. You didn't even have a starting point. We’re nowhere near finding another horcrux or even destroying the one we have.”

“The locket,” Hermione gasped. “Ron, take it off.”

Harry didn't share her concern. His own anger was brimming. “I’m sorry we’re not living up to your expectations. Were you expecting a five-star hotel? Hot meals?”

“I was expecting you to know what you're doing.”

“Ron,” Hermione pleaded. “Take the locket off and we can talk this out.”

Ron ignored her, as did Harry. The rain fell harder outside, heavy drops pounding against the tent. The wind howled, rustling through the scarcely decorated tree branches.

“You’ve been thinking that this whole time, haven't you?” Harry said. He turned with an accusatory look at Hermione. “I know what you two have been talking about behind my back. Do you think I don't notice the way you whisper and stop talking as soon as I come in?”

“Harry, that's not it. We-”

“Yes, it is,” Ron cut her off. “We all know that you don't know what you're doing, but you won't admit it.”

“I do admit it! I don't know why you expect me to know everything? I'm just as lost and confused as you are. I told you not to come, you made that choice. I thought you knew what you were signing up for.”

What happened to ‘I'd follow you anywhere’ and ‘your right-hand side?’ Ron gave him a hard look, and Harry knew he'd changed his mind.

“Yeah. I thought I did, too.”

“Why don't you leave then?”

“Harry!”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll go back to my family and see if they're okay. Do you even care what happens to them? Because you don't seem at all concerned. But it doesn't matter, so long as you win in the end, right?”

“You think I don't understand?” Harry’s voice rose with the sound of the rainfall. “You think I don't have the same fears as you?”

He knew why Ron always had the radio in, listening to it late into the night during his watch shifts. He was making sure he never heard Ginny’s name listed among the dead. Or one of his brothers. Or his parents. Only a few days ago, Harry had nearly felt his heart stop when he heard the name George only to have it followed by an unknown last name.

Tears streamed down Hermione’s face, but she was no longer begging them to stop.

“It’s easy for you,” Ron said hotly. “To have your parents tucked safely away-”

“My parents are dead! They're dead, Ron. Nothing about it is easy!”

“Then you don't know how it feels! You don’t know what it's like to lose people.”

“Go, just go!”

Harry tried to rip the locket off Ron’s neck. Ron shoved him off, pulling the chain off and tossing it to the ground where Harry now sat. Harry stared up at him, and though he didn't recognize the face staring back, it still felt like a mirror. Both were looking at each other as if they were looking at someone they didn't recognize.

Ron turned to leave. Hermione’s sobs only made him hesitate. They weren't enough to make him stop.

“Ron, please, don't leave. We need you.”

“Right,” he huffed. “What was it you called me earlier? Useless? If you need something, go ahead and ask your chosen one.”

With that, Ron left. Hermione followed him out, but he seemed to have been swept away in the night rain. Harry remained seated on the ground, staring blankly at the locket beside him. Everything felt blurry, like he was about to fall asleep, only he wasn't tired. He heard Hermione calling Ron’s name, but the previous moment was having trouble settling in.

Letting the daze consume him instead of trying to figure it out, he put on the locket and sat there until Hermione came back. Rain-soaked and tear-stained, she sank into the makeshift bed. Harry, feeling a numbness that spread down to his fingertips, grabbed Ron’s blanket and covered her with it.

Chapter Text

Fallen leaves crunched beneath Ron’s feet, the forest grounds dried out for the coming of winter. It was silent, as forests became in the winter. Cold and empty. Dead. Everything around him was dead. The only thing still living was whatever kept him walking forward, moving toward some escape from the endless dead trees surrounding him.

It hadn't taken very long for him to realize the locket was muddling his mind and act up, just long enough that he wasn't sure which turns he took to get away from that fight. He was such an idiot. Like usual, he was the one to cause unnecessary trouble. He wished he hadn't left like that, but it was better that he kept walking. They didn't need the extra weight.

He didn't know where he was going, but it didn't matter. Everyone would be better off if he just got lost in the woods. Here, he couldn't bother anyone. He couldn't start fights. He couldn't bring his fear and cowardice and complaints on an important mission. They were trying to defeat a dark lord and he was complaining that they didn't have toast with their breakfast.

He wasn't cut out for this. He was weak. And he was, as much as it killed him to admit, a coward. He was a coward for leaving, locket or not. He'd been scared the whole time. He couldn't even say that name. Harry and Hermione had no problem saying it. They had no problem carrying on with a seemingly aimless and undoubtedly fruitless task. They didn't give up like he did.

Part of him wanted to go back, to try and search for them. But even if he could find them again, he wouldn't be accepted back. He shouldn't be, not after what he said to Harry. He shouldn’t have doubted Harry. Harry couldn't possibly know everything. It wasn't as if this was his idea. Dumbledore was the one who sent them out here, and they couldn't very well ask him what to do.

He'd only blamed Harry because he was the closest target. He was impatient at their lack of progress, something that was just as much on him as it was Harry or Hermione. He was scared out of his mind of something happening to his family while he was away. He had no way of knowing where anyone was or checking in on them. And he was hungry.

Harry probably understood that more than Ron gave him credit for. Sure, Harry didn't have a family, but that didn't mean he wasn't afraid of losing people. As far as Ron was concerned, his family was Harry’s, too. He felt terrible for treating him otherwise. He wished he could take back every word he said, but he couldn't, so he kept walking.

He had no idea where he was going to go, he just needed to get out of the woods. He couldn't go home. They would ask him why he'd left, and then he'd have to admit he was both a coward and a jerk. Not to mention a liar. He said he would see this through, he promised he would be by Harry’s side. And he'd left.

He felt bad for it, but he knew they didn't need him. Hermione and Harry had done everything on their own. They did the work, they decided where they would go next, they formed plans and came up with ideas while he sat around offering nothing. He wasn't as smart as them. He wasn't as quick thinking. He wasn't as helpful. Hermione was right, he was useless. It would be best to stay out of everyone’s way.

He roamed the forest for what felt like forever, stopping several times to question whether or not he was actually going the way he intended to. He was pretty sure he was, but what did he know? He wondered where Hermione and Harry were right now. Where did they say they were going? He couldn't remember. Hopefully, they found a horcrux. Oh, right, the sword. They were looking for that.

For what it was worth, which was probably not much now, he hoped they found it. He hoped they got their hands on that sword and destroyed that stupid locket. Then they would only have god knows how many more horcruxes to find. Harry said there were seven. Probably. Dumbledore thought there were seven. It was the safest bet, what with seven being a powerful number for wizards who believed in that number stuff. His dad always said that's why they had seven children, but Ron was pretty sure that was just a joke.

Ron wasn't sure how much he believed it himself– how could a number hold power? –but the significance wasn't lost on him, and it always crossed his mind when he saw a seven. It was said to be the number of completion, which was why a soul split seven ways made most sense. Several fairytales, ones Hermione had read through night after night, included things like the Seven Sisters or the Seven Talismans. And it was generally considered lucky.

He turned his head to the ground and counted seven brown leaves. He wondered when it would start snowing. Hopefully, it was a mostly bare winter. It would be easier for Harry and Hermione. He hoped they stayed warm. Hermione was good at heating charms. She was good at everything. He hoped she wasn't too upset with him, but at the same time, he knew he deserved it. She should be upset with him.

His self-deprecation was halted when he heard a rustling to his left, something moving within the trees. Stealthily, he slipped his wand out and cast a silent notice-me-not. Was it someone after Harry? If so, he'd have to stop them before they got there. Was it Death Eaters? Did they know where they were hiding? Had that careless apparition come back to bite them? Maybe it was just a hiker.

It wasn't anything of the sort. Stumbling through tangled shrubbery, looking both as frightened and as determined as one could, was Dean Thomas. Ron was so excited he almost forgot to lift the charm from himself. Dean stepped back, startled, when Ron appeared seemingly from thin air.

“Dean!”

“Ron, hey. Are you okay? Where are Harry and Hermione?”

“They’re, uh, they’re kind of-”

“Are they okay?” Dean asked, more concerned this time.

“Yeah, they’re fine. It’s just, they're not with me.”

“Oh.” Dean visibly relaxed, but confusion replaced his fear. “Why not?”

“I’ll explain later. What are you doing out here? I heard on the radio that you were on that muggle-born wanted list or whatever.”

Dean nodded. “I’m kind of a fugitive now.”

“Oh. Same.”

Dean smiled, and it sparked a warmth Ron hadn't felt in too long.

“Are you alone?” Ron asked.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but a goblin ruffling through the bushes provided answer first.

“Griphook,” Dean said, introducing him. “This is Ron.”

“I know,” Griphook said, none too kindly.

“We were with some others,” Dean said, looking down. “But they, well-”

“It’s okay,” Ron said, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder that was probably not near comforting enough. “You were with Tonks’ dad, weren't you? Ted?”

“How did you know that?”

“Long story, not important. He…”

“Yeah. There wasn't anything we could do.”

“I know.” Ron patted his shoulder, then glanced around at their surroundings. “We have to get out of the woods.”

“Why?” Dean asked, sending a frantic look around.

“We don’t have to,” Ron said. “I just meant we should. My brother lives not too far away. Once we get out of here, we can head to his place.”

“I can get us outta here,” Griphook said, already starting on his way.

Ron looked skeptically at Dean, who shrugged.

“He seems to know what he's doing.”

“You comin’ or not?”

Ron and Dean set off after him. Their trip was silent, the only noise to accompany their steps being the loud thoughts filling Ron’s head. Ted Tonks was gone. Ron didn't know the man personally, but it was his own grief he was worried about. Tonks had lost her father. That was a shockingly real truth. This was something that happened, and it could happen to anyone.

It could happen to him. Everyday, he hoped his dad was okay. He had to go to work every day in a Death Eater-infested ministry. And he worked with muggle stuff. What if he lost his job? What if he was accused of being a muggle sympathizer? He already was, but that was not yet a punishable offense. It was just the kind of thing that people like Umbridge and Yaxley would want to pass as a law.

“Ron?”

Ron snapped his head toward Dean. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing. I just asked what you've heard about muggleborns lately.”

“Oh, uh, not much. They're rounding them up like animals, but I guess you know that. I think that’s all they can do for now while public scrutiny is still against them.”

“Could be worse.”

“Yeah,” Ron mumbled. It could be a lot worse. “How’s Ginny? When did you last see her?”

“Not for a couple of months now. She’s keeping the others’ heads up. I bet she's still doing that.”

Of course, she was. Leave it to Ginny to step up and lead. She was better than him, facing challenges head on instead of running away. Leaving friends behind. Ginny would never.

Dean filled him in on the rest of what he knew while they walked for what Ron thought was hours. Seeing as he was the only one ready to pass out when they reached the edge of the forest, he guessed that was a wrong assumption. Or maybe he was just really tired. He hoped Bill would let him crash on the sofa. He also hoped he was leading them in the right direction as they headed toward the beach Bill and Fleur lived on.

He knew they were there when the jagged cliffs came into sight, the scent of the ocean greeting them. They crossed sand and stony paths to reach Shell Cottage, the quaint beach house Bill and Fleur called home. Despite being on the beach, the place looked cold and bare, at least from the outside. Ron would like to visit them sometime in the summer when it was sunny and flowering.

Ron climbed over the short wooden fence and undid the latch, welcoming his guests in as if it were his own home. He tapped on the door. He waited hardly a minute before tapping again. He got a third one in before Bill answered.

“What are you doing?” Ron exclaimed. “You can’t just answer the door like that. I could’ve been a Death Eater.”

“I knew it was you from the obnoxious way you knock.”

“You didn’t,” Ron accused as they were guided inside.

“What’s going on?” Fleur asked, immediately going around the small group to make sure they weren’t hurt.

“I found Dean and Griphook wandering the forest,” Ron explained. “Is it alright if we stay here for a bit?”

Bill gave him a look, a question in his tongue, but Fleur spoke first.

“As long as you need,” Fleur said. “Bill, he’s hurt.”

Fleur was practically tugging Dean’s shirt off.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean said, but both Fleur and Bill were already guiding him to a seat.

While Fleur tended to Dean’s wounds, Bill made them something to eat.

“You’re probably starving,” he said.

“You have no idea,” Ron said, plopping into a kitchen chair.

Bill sat down beside him. “What would you like to eat? I was thinking stew.”

“Anything. I’m so hungry.”

Bill reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

Ron gave him a look. “What are you doing to me?”

“Ron, buddy, can I ask you a question?”

Ron slowly withdrew his hand, eyeing Bill nervously. He really didn't want to talk about what happened. Not yet. Not ever, really, but not yet.

“Yeah?”

“Did something happen?” His words came out slowly, like he was trying to prolong the answer as much as Ron was. “To Harry. Or Hermione.”

“What? Oh, no. They're fine. We’re just not together.”

“You got separated?”

Ron bit his lip, and Bill knew. He didn't know the extent of what Ron had done, but there was no point in lying to him. Bill could always tell when he was keeping secrets.

“I left,” he admitted, hanging his head. “And I already feel bad enough. I don't need the lecture.”

“Why did you leave?”

Ron could tell Bill didn't approve already. Luckily, he had a quality rare among Weasleys. Patience. Even if he didn't understand, which Ron was sure he wouldn't, he would at least hear him out. Fred and George would just laugh at him. His parents would be disappointed. He didn't even want to imagine the choice words Ginny would have. He wondered, fleetingly, what Percy would think. Unfortunately, he would understand the most.

“We were in the middle of nowhere, we didn't have any food, and Harry– we had no idea what we were doing. We didn't even know what we were looking for.”

Bill said nothing, lips pressed tight as he waited for a better explanation Ron couldn't give.

“I thought Harry had a plan,” he said. “But he didn't. At all. It wasn't his fault, I guess Dumbledore didn't get the chance to tell him everything. I was scared, and worried that we weren’t doing enough, and I let it get to my head. I sort of snapped at Harry and said a bunch of things I shouldn't have. You can say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m a coward. I already know.”

“It crossed my mind,” Bill admitted, though not cruelly. “Harry needs you no more than ever. He's fighting for all of us, he’s putting the world on his shoulders willingly. But you seem to know that already. And you could have run home and hid away, feeling sorry for yourself, but you're not doing that.”

“I am kind of.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do about it?”

“I don't know,” Ron sighed. “I wanted to go back, but I don't think they want me now. They don't need me anyway. I’m not like them, I don't have anything to give. I was probably the thing holding them back.”

“Ron.” Bill’s voice was so serious it forced Ron to meet his eyes. “I would think you know your own friend better than I do, but I guess not. Harry Potter would walk through fire for you. He could be in the dead center of this crazy fight, and he would be looking for you. He needs you by his side.”

“Why?”

“Because you make him strong.”

“I think I made him feel something else back there.”

“You made a mistake,” Bill said. “A pretty big one. But the Ron I know doesn't quit so easily.”

The Ron he knew. The one he taught how to fly a broom, pushing him forward even as he fell and fell and fell. Bill brushed the dirt off his cheeks and told him to try again. Bill told him not to cry, because that wouldn't make him a better flyer. Bill told him to be brave.

“You think I should go back?”

“I think you have to.”

“I don't know where they are. I think, maybe, I know where they're going, but our enchantments made sure no one could find us.”

He didn't actually know where they were going next, only a bunch of places they wanted to go.

“We’ll figure something out,” Bill said, standing up. “You can stay here until then, get a bit of rest. I’ll make dinner.”

Ron stayed with Bill and Fleur for a while after that. He didn't have much choice, and he was still torn between staying put and comfortable, and going back out to find his friends. He couldn't shake the thought that they were doing better now that he was gone. They would complete their mission, save the world, and probably get married after, forgetting that he ever existed.

And wouldn't that be better for the two of them, to leave him behind? To not have someone jealous and angry and useless always trailing behind them? Harry and Hermione were two of the smartest, most beautiful, and all-around perfect people he'd ever met. Every time they sat together in their cold, cramped tent talking through plans, Ron realized how much better their lives would be without a certain additional factor.

They deserved all the happiness in the world, and it was likely they'd find it in one another. It used to make him angry, it still did sometimes, but right now, he thought he might accept it. He wasn't good enough for either of them. He couldn't possibly measure up. They deserved the best, and so they should have one another. He could step back for their sake. Bill said he had to go back to them, but maybe he was wrong.

And even if he found them, what would he say? What could make up for all he already said? He couldn't blame the locket for everything. He had been upset, even when he wasn't wearing it. It just clawed those passing thoughts out before they could slip away, forcing them out of shadowy corners and into the light. But Ron had been the one doubting Harry, blaming him for the mess they were in. He’d been upset that they weren’t getting anywhere, and he was terrified of what it meant.

There was one thing Harry didn't understand. Ron wasn't sure he ever would. He was too good, too stupid, and too careless with himself to get it. He didn't understand the fear of dying. It didn't cross his mind that they might lose, and it would mean his life. And if he did think it from time to time, he didn't dwell on it. He didn't get that. He didn't care about his own life.

That’s why he needed Ron. He would throw himself into way too many reckless situations without him. Hermione was logical, and she could make better plans, but Harry didn't always listen to her. She didn't have that special technique for knocking sense into Harry like he did. Maybe Ron did have some strengths of his own, small as they were. If Harry needed him, he knew where he needed to be.

He spent the next two months going back and forth in his head. He talked to Bill a lot, but his elderly wisdom only went so far when he didn't understand the true root of the problem. Which was that Ron was worthless. Bill didn't believe that for some reason, so Ron didn't bother bringing it up. He wouldn't understand.

The thing that finally made up his mind was not his own conclusion. It wasn't some grand realization that led him to the exact place he needed to be. It was more like that push he needed, that call for help he could never ignore, no matter how scared or down on himself he was feeling. Because Ron was, if anything, always willing to help.

It came as a flicker of light that caught Ron’s eye, bouncing off the wall and landing on the ceiling above where he lay in bed. He turned on his back, blinking up at the sundrop dot. It wavered and blinked back at him. He took his eyes off it only to glance at the deluminator, the one lying on the bedside table. As soon as he averted his gaze, the spot of light became a beam. It slipped through him, translucent and intangible, right past the left side of his chest.

A whispered voice rose around him, like the wispy murmur of a passing ghost. It sounded all too similar to Hermione’s voice, beckoning him. It didn't feel like the kind of thing he deemed his imagination and went on. It felt like something was pulling him, something very real. The deluminator was calling to him, it was telling him something. It shot another beam of light out, landing in the doorway.

It wanted him to follow. He didn't know how he knew it, but he just had that feeling that the light would take him where he needed to go. So he followed it.

***

“I don't think we’re going to find it here,” Hermione said, eyes fixed on the abandoned, semi-crumbled orphanage.

The attachment that Harry had once felt toward this place was replaced by a vehement repulsion. Hermione took a step forward for a closer look, but Harry wanted nothing more than to run the other way. It had been his idea to come here, but he thought he genuinely might be sick if he looked at this place for too long.

He would never leave something as precious as a piece of his soul here. The atmosphere alone was vile, the memories were even worse. It was undeserving and it was no home. It was a place of that past, the kind of regret you locked away and never looked back on except in rare moments of disgust.

“He wanted to escape,” Harry said. “He hated it here. It wasn't a home to him.”

“How do you know?” she asked, though she didn't look the slightest bit doubtful.

“I just do.”

“So much for this, then,” she said with a huff.”

“He hid something at Hogwarts, I’m sure of that.”

“Why would he keep one somewhere as well protected as the castle?”

“That’s just why. And who would ever look for a horcrux there? The safest place in the world.”

“Do you think he'd have more than one there? Doesn't seem likely. Was Hogwarts awfully important to him? I can't see him caring much about anything.”

“He cared,” Harry said. “Hogwarts was his home. It freed him from this cage. It made him something special. He never felt special before.”

Hermione let out a breath through her nose, lips pressed together. Harry thought she looked concerned, but right then, he didn't care. He knew he was right. She knew it, too, she was just afraid of what made him so sure.

Godric’s Hollow.

It came like a whisper, slippery and quick.

We must go to the Hollow. The boy, he’ll need to be there. After all, it’s where his dear parents lie to rest. Won’t Mummy and Daddy like a visit?

“We should go to Godric’s Hollow.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, tired of this repeated conversation. “He’ll expect you there. He probably has Snatchers patrolling the place at all times.”

“I just have a feeling about it. I feel like we have to go.”

“I’m trusting you, Harry, so you better be right about this.”

“If we get jumped by Death Eaters, it’s on me.”

“Don’t say that!”

Harry put his hands up in defense. “I just want to have a look around, alright? We’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Okay,” she said, with a firm nod. She knew why he really wanted to go, and it wasn't something she was going to deny him. “Let’s go to Godric’s Hollow.”

***

They arrived in the center of the street, hands clasped and invisibility cloak rolling off their shoulders. The sky was a miserable grey, the ground beneath their feet made up of mostly dust, and every shrub around them was dried and brown.

A group of young, raven-haired children followed their mother down the street, all bundled up in shabby coats and hand-knit scarves. One of them was whining, and it irritated Harry, something he wasn't usually bothered by. They disappeared into a house that looked like every other house, a quaint cottage that probably housed freshly baked bread and a back garden full of animals. Harry imagined a butter churn sat in the corner of their kitchen. Did wizards churn butter?

A church stood small, but overbearingly proud as churches did. Its stained-glass windows glowed with warm, colored light, the sound of bells and a less-than-angelic choir rising from the building.

Something landed on Harry’s glasses, and Hermione turned her head up at the same time to watch the sudden, snow white flurry falling around them. Concurrently, the choir seemed to melt into a Christmas carol.

“Harry,” Hermione said, voice soft as the falling snow. “I think it’s Christmas Eve.”

She slipped her hand into Harry’s, and he held her tightly. He wished Ron were here. And Ginny. He kept checking the Marauders’ Map to find her name, alongside Neville, Luna, Seamus, anyone he suddenly found himself missing. It made him feel only slightly less lonely, watching those names and pretending he was closer to them.

Sometimes, very occasionally, he checked for Draco’s name, knowing full well he wasn't there. He wondered what he was doing, if he was enjoying his little Death Eater life. He remembered Draco’s face clearly, the fear on it, and the pity it made him feel. He knew it was ridiculous to feel bad for Draco, but he couldn't help it when he found himself wishing he would see him in another vision.

“You want to see the churchyard, don’t you?” Hermione asked.

She tugged him forward, which he was thankful for because he didn't think his feet would move otherwise. They passed through the light dusting of snow, illuminated by dangling lights. Christmas trees glowed through every window, and a faint jingling of bells followed them. They crept silently behind the church, ducking low near the windows, and into the churchyard.

They wandered the stone maze, eyes scanning names they didn't recognize until finally landing on a familiar one. It wasn't Potter, but Dumbledore. Kendra Dumbledore with no extra frills, and beside her, Ariana Dumbledore. The little sister.

Harry wondered if Dumbledore ever paid this graveyard a visit, if the pain of it ran so deep he couldn’t utter a word about it. Perhaps that's why he found it unimportant to let Harry know that their families lay beside each other, that their roots ran beneath the same dirt. Or maybe it was just a personal, friend-like, irrelevant thing to mention to the person you needed assistance from.

They moved around once more, wandering close enough to one another that an easy escape could be made, though they didn’t say that. Hermione called out to Harry, pointing out something carved into a rudimentary headstone. She was smiling, so he assumed it wasn’t his parents.

“Harry, this stone has a seventeen on it.” She stressed the seventeen, as if no one had ever been born in the ancient days of the seventeen hundreds.

Harry stared at her a moment, then let out a laugh. “You’re an idiot, sometimes, you know that?”

Harry thought Ron would have laughed, and Hermione must have thought the same because she got quiet.

Harry walked off, continuing his search for his parents. He found them sitting side by side, James and Lily. Heroes. Parents. So dearly loved. Harry wished he could have gotten to love them. He wished he had grown up here, in this tiny town. He could have returned here for the Christmas holidays, wrapped up in parents’ hugs and eating their homemade puddings.

It was good, at least, that they weren't here to witness what a terrible disappointment he'd become. They couldn't see how lost he was. How utterly hopeless and stupid, the main thing occupying his mind not his world-saving mission, but a man who had hurt his feelings and a friend who’d given up on him. He wondered every so often how soon it would be until Hermione left him, too.

Hot tears stung his eyes, ones he didn't bother wiping away. What did it matter? What did it matter if Hermione saw him cry? Or if his parents’ bones felt tears drop through the dirt to wash them. They wouldn't feel it, could never feel a thing from him. They would never know him, would never get to decide whether or not they liked him. Would never hug, scold, or miss him.

Hermione pressed up against his side, laying her head on his shoulder. He wouldn't have known it, but she shared his grief as his chest ached for parents who didn't get to know him. She knew they loved him once, just as hers did. And she knew how little comfort it would bring to say.

“They would love to know you now,” Hermione said.

“You don't know that.”

“Well,” she crouched by the headstones, drawing her wand, “I love knowing you.”

She sprouted a bouquet of different colored anemones, an out-of-place offering in the barren winter grounds of the Hollow. She wandered off again, letting him breathe in the cold air and let out his tangled grief alone. She couldn't give him too much peace, though, because she found something he needed to see.

“Harry,” she said in a tone that made Harry come running. “What is this?”

He looked at the grave she was bent over. It had that symbol on it, the one Mr. Lovegood was wearing. Before Harry could explain, Hermione was rummaging through her bag and pulled out her storybook. She flipped it open and pointed out an inked drawing of that same symbol.

“This was Dumbledore’s book,” she said, almost like a question as she flipped to the front page. Just like every other time she saw it, the name Albus was written on the bottom corner. “What is this symbol? It’s not a rune.”

“It’s Grindelwald’s symbol. Krum told me about it. Did you know Grindelwald went to Durmstrang? Carved that symbol into the wall, apparently.”

“I didn't realize Grindelwald had his own symbol. Why’s it on Dumbledore’s book?”

Harry shrugged. “There when he bought it, maybe. Krum said Grindelwald’s fans still use it.”

Hermione stuffed the book away and shook as if she'd gotten a chill. “Odd. Should we-”

Hermione froze mid-sentence, and Harry followed her eyes as they slid sideways.

Someone was watching them.

Hunched over and cloaked in black, looking rather like a dementor, only less wispy, was a stranger standing near the gate of the graveyard.

“It’s just an old lady,” Harry said, not entirely sure it wasn’t a ghost come up from the graveyard. “I think.”

The figure came hobbling toward them, sending them stumbling to step back. Though her pace was so slow they could walk leisurely and she likely wouldn't catch them. Hermione tugged Harry through the get, hoping to make a stealthy escape that was not stealthy at all when they passed over a patch of frosted ground and tumbled over one another.

The woman, who could be seen somewhat more clearly as she neared, beckoned them forward. She said nothing, only waved her hand for them to follow. And Harry just knew. This was Bathilda Bagshot, Dumbledore’s old neighbor. She wanted something from them. Perhaps Dumbledore had given her some piece of information they needed.

“Are you Bathilda Bagshot?” The locket around his neck burned against his skin.

She nodded and started in the other direction. Harry grabbed Hermione by the wrist and followed Bathilda. Her cottage was a bit bigger than the others, but the inside was dirty and disheveled. The mildewy scent that clung to her shawls had come from her home, and the floors groaned and creaked like they were as weary as she. Something seemed to groan and quiver beneath the floorboards, something silent but ever-present.

Beneath the damp must that clung to the peeling wallpaper was a horrible smell. Like meat gone bad. Neither Harry nor Hermione had ever smelled a rotted animal before, but they could both agree it probably smelled like this. Stumps of melted wax flickered shadows across the walls.

Bathilda moved around the house, fumbling with things as though she couldn't control her fingers. Harry and Hermione glanced around, taking in what looked like the makings of a great horror film. Harry noticed several photographs on the wall, covered in dust and filled with the same blonde, grinning little boy. A grandson, maybe.

One particular photo made him pause. The blonde boy was older, still smiling, but in a way that seemed more mischievous than happy. His hair fell in long waves over his shoulders. It was him, the thief. The one Harry kept seeing in his dreams. How had he not realized before? That was the same boy Dumbledore was with in that photo. That was Grindelwald. His hands trembled, and the locket seemed to shake as well.

“Miss Bagshot? Who is this?”

Bathilda didn't answer. Harry assumed she couldn't talk. She gestured for him to follow him upstairs, putting a wrinkled hand up to stop Hermione when she tried to follow. Harry offered a weak reassurance to Hermione, and climbed the narrow, spiraling staircase that spun and twirled underneath them. The locket raced like a heartbeat against his chest. He might have been more worried if not for the sudden joy bubbling inside him.

Hermione wandered through the house, finding the same photos that had earlier occupied Harry. She smiled at the small boy. She noticed his eyes, how they were two different colors. One a regular blue eye, the other much lighter, his entire left eye clouded as though with fog. There were fewer pictures of him as he got older, but one made her stop and stare for a moment.

When she gave up her ogling of Bagshot’s great something or other, she moved to the bookshelf, examining the texts. The woman had a wonderful collection, though it seemed the moths had gotten to them. Hermione picked up the book sitting on an end table, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. She wondered how much Bathilda would miss this? Harry would hate her for it, but she was curious to see what was written.

She continued her brief examination of the house, pausing when the smell became particularly putrid. Something had to have died near the house, in a cellar, maybe. From where she stood, she could smell it like it was right beside her, whatever the culprit. It was foul, almost too much to bear. Her mind went to peeling back floorboards and finding some animal corpse.

Her eyes flicked to a cupboard, two doors shut closed. The buzz of flies came from inside it and she knew that must be where the stench was coming from. As much as she didn't want to see animal remains, someone ought to help the old woman out. It was clear she couldn't do much on her own.

Slowly, Hermione opened the cupboard doors just a crack, bracing herself. With her head turned downward, she noticed the stains covering the floor. Dried crimson crust took the place of what was once pools of fresh blood. The doors opened the rest of the way on there own, and Hermione lifted her gaze to see the body of a woman hanging from the ceiling.

Her scream echoed through the house, but it was accompanied by a loud thud from upstairs. She took off running, her body already on edge and waiting for the moment Harry needed her to jump in. The corpse could wait. She ran up the narrow staircase, bursting into the room where the noise was coming from. Her own shrieks were lost to her ears, and she wasn't sure how she shouted curses through it, but she did.

A giant snake was wrapped around Harry, curling tighter around his body. It let go to dodge Hermione’s defenses, and Harry’s when he got up. She was quick on her feet, avoiding the snake's thick, heavy coils as it slipped around the room. Harry clutched her arm, screaming at her.

“He’s coming! Hermione, we have to go!”

He dove atop her, rolling across the bed as the snake’s body slammed against the walls. She sent spell after spell, smashing mirrors, decorative china, and a wardrobe in the corner. Splintered shards flew, slicing Harry’s face. Harry’s grip on her never released, his fingers clawing at her shirt sleeve.

Hermione sent an attack that had both the snake and the two of them flying backward. They crashed through the window, glass slicing their skin. Church bells rang in the distance. They landed on the ground, but Hermione didn't feel it. She looked to Harry, and found she was not unique in being unaffected by their fall. Harry stared blankly at the night sky, but he was alive.

Hermione grabbed hold of him, dragging him away. She jumped the fence, Harry stumbling after her, but he seemed as though he wasn't fully present. Had he hit his head? She crossed the lawn of Bathilda’s neighbors, ones who must have moved out many years ago, and dipped inside the house so they could apparate unseen. She prayed Voldemort wouldn't somehow follow them, wherever he was right now.

The house was cluttered with things, all worn from time and forgotten. Whoever used to live here loved decorating. She had no time to admire the antiquities, apparating them as far as she could.

“Harry!” she screamed, hoping to break through his trance. “Harry! Wake up, Harry, you're okay. I've got you, Harry. Harry!”

Please, she begged anyone or anything who would listen. Please, Harry, wake up.

Chapter Text

Neville had always thought Harry, Hermione, and Ron formed plans so easily. They always knew what to say, what to do, always had a trick up their sleeves. Since their first year together they had this whole hero thing down. He thought back to the time they snuck into the Ministry, how they had all looked to Harry to let them know the next step. He thought of Harry now, off on some obviously important secret mission, and he felt useless.

He had no idea what he was doing. He had Ginny, who was as fearless as Harry, and Luna, who was always ready with a suggestion if not a practical plan. He had Seamus, who would do anything for anyone to keep them safe. But he himself was frightened. He was afraid when he walked past one of the Carrows or caught Snape’s eye in the Great Hall. He wanted to fight back, but he wasn't sure he was actually ready or equipped to.

He didn't know what to do when Ginny said they should start recruiting the way they used to. He didn't know what to say when Luna read off her father’s rambles in The Quibbler, the only news that wasn't absolute nonsense, surprising as that was. He had no idea how to react when he heard Seamus crawling into Dean’s empty bed and sniffling himself to sleep.

He had always stood in the back, silent, and only stepping up when he thought someone could use some advice. He had gone with Harry to the Ministry, but that was one time. He had only been there to help. Harry was the one carrying the weight. He wasn't a leader. He wasn't even a fighter. He was any other unqualified person who wanted to do what was right.

He did, at least, find it easier to spring into action when one of the younger students needed help. It was a lot easier to dry tears and whisper comforts meant to chase away the fear of others than of himself. They looked up to him. They needed him. He couldn't let them down.

He wasn't the only one frightened. The long list of participants looking to fight the power lessened significantly this time around. They were terrified of being discovered. Neville couldn't blame them. It made Ginny upset, though. She didn't think it was right to stay silent and well behaved when such injustice was affecting all of them. Neville agreed, but he was a bit more empathetic to their fear.

Dumbledore’s Army, a name Neville saw as an honour toward their former headmaster, was very small. So small, in fact, that Neville would have no trouble listing their members off the top of his head. It was all Gryffindors he knew, a few Ravenclaws Luna had managed to convince, and a Hufflepuff or two that Susan had brought with her.

They met up in the Room of Requirement. Another thing Neville had no idea but many questions about was this room. Sure, the door opened for him, and that was really all he needed for the time being, but what else could it do? How was he supposed to make it give them what they needed? Would it just happen?

He spent too much of his free time in that room, trying to solve its many mysteries. Sometimes he wasn't trying. Sometimes he just stayed in there and felt its woven tapestry of magic stitch threads through him. He paced the floor, reading through The Quibbler or a Defense book, worrying about Harry or his friends, and failing to not feel anxious.

And he practiced his magic. The DA did that together, strengthened their defenses, but Neville worked harder when he was alone. The room responded to his magic, pulling it from his body and hugging it to its walls. It asked him questions, sent rivers of whispers streaming into his ears. It wanted to know him as much as he did it.

Ginny said she didn't understand it. She couldn't feel it as well as he could. Luna said the magic inside the room was more potent than anywhere else in the castle, but she didn't understand it any better than Ginny did. It was difficult to decipher, all of those voiceless requests and thoughts the room buzzed with. It couldn't be seen, the webs that ran through the walls like the work of thousands of spiders.

Neville’s hiding out was a help in keeping him out of trouble, but it wasn't needed. He had always been good at being invisible. The others not so much. But they didn't seem to be at risk of being found out the way they were when Umbridge patrolled the halls. They weren't being watched constantly, not like that. Probably because they didn't need to be caught out. They got in trouble for just about anything these days.

Classes were downright awful. Classes being Muggle Studies and Defense, as the others were still as normal as they'd always been. The Cruciatus curse wasn't simply thrown about for the fun of it. Well, maybe it was, but not on a daily basis. Usually, when they said something rude during class or seemed like they weren't paying attention, they received a stinging lash across the back of their hands.

Neville hated to say it, probably never would out loud, but he wasn't going to purposely stick his neck out and get into trouble. Ginny would hate him for it, would insist that was exactly what they ought to be doing. She could have the heroics. He'd done it once, and though he would stand up for those kids over again as many times as he needed to, he wasn't going to do anything that wasn't absolutely necessary.

He woke throughout the night with horrific images seared into his mind. Bellatrix Black with a wicked grin, lipstick smudged across her bottom lip, and a cruel cackle ringing from her lips. His parents writhing on the ground, blood pooling from their mouths and ears, and screams that sounded a bit like those of classmates fill the empty void they rested in. He couldn't help but imagine.

What if that became him. What if he lost his mind? What if he went too far and he was tortured, again and again, until his sentences were incoherent and his head caught in a cloudy daze? He imagined his friends coming to visit him in a hospital, those of them who could stand the sight of him, and giving him the same sad smiles he gave his parents.

But then he thought of his parents, how brave they had been. They didn't shy away from a situation because they were scared. And they must have been, being tortured like that. What he got was nothing compared to what it could be. And they had endured it. They gave themselves up to protect him. How could he give anything less than that?

And would he? If it came down to it, would he give his life to protect someone else? Maybe he wouldn't know unless he was put in the situation, but he looked at Ginny and knew there would be no question if he were to ask her. He imagined his parents would have done anything to protect not only their son, but anyone in need. They were protectors.

He wanted to be a protector, too. He wanted to be the kind of person people could count on. Maybe one day, he could be the one they looked up to. He had a long way to go until then, but he could try. With the stories of his parents in his mind, Harry’s guiding light ahead of him, and Ginny by his side, he could try.

He kept his head up every day. He gave others a reason to feel safe. He wanted to, anyway. He wasn't sure anyone was looking up to him. But if they needed someone to look up to, he would be that.

***

Seamus groaned, tossing a book down on his bed. He stretched his arms out and fell backward onto his pillows.

“I'm going to fail this whole semester. The whole year, probably, if it keeps on this way. We shouldn't have to fight evil forces and turn in history assignments on time.”

“That’s a typical year at Hogwarts,” Neville chuckled, his haze not leaving his own homework.

Seamus stared at the velvety curtain draped over his bed frame, tracing the patterns of it with his tired eyes.

“It’s too quiet here.”

“I know.”

“Have you been having bad dreams?”

Neville looked up in surprise.

“You keep waking up at night, don't you?” Seamus said. “You're always quiet about it, I wasn't sure you wanted to talk or anything. I just, I don't know, want to make sure you're alright and that.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I'm fine, Seamus.”

“Have you, though? Been having bad dreams?”

Neville picked at the edge of a book page before flipping it over. “I've been thinking about my parents.”

Seamus gave him a brief nod.

What else was he supposed to say? Neville didn't have to explain why he was thinking about his parents. Most people knew exactly what happened to them, the damaged stages their minds had been left in. He felt guilty sometimes, because it devastated him. It left him hopeless. It was as painful as visiting a grave, walking through those white halls. But his parents were alive. They just weren't still here.

He wanted to make them proud, whether they would ever know it or not. He didn't only want to be someone they would be proud of, he wanted to be someone they would have liked to know. Someone they would get along with. Someone they would enjoy talking to. Someone they loved.

“What are we doing?” Seamus said suddenly, sitting up in bed.

Neville wasn't sure what exactly he was referring to, but he didn't know the answer.

“We've been practicing defenses, but we’re not actually doing anything.”

“Because we’ll get in terrible trouble, Seamus,” Neville reminded him. “All we can do is make sure we’re ready when trouble comes our way.”

“Did you know they took another kid in for questioning?” Seamus asked, anger twisting his features. “A muggle-born kid. It’s only been a month and things keep getting worse. Whatever you're waiting for is already happening.”

It was, wasn't it? There was no terror waiting around the corner, it was already staring him in the face. But if that was true, then maybe he really was useless. Maybe fighting wasn't going to do them any good when they were fighting a battle already lost. He didn't want to think that way, but what if it was the only realistic option?

“I'm not sure there's anything more we can do.”

Seamus looked at him with something rather close to contempt. He didn't agree. And he was, no doubt, ashamed of Neville. Rightfully, Neville supposed. Seamus didn't push it further, but he wasn't the only one having these thoughts.

“What are we doing?” Ginny asked.

The echo rang through Neville’s head. What were they expecting him to do? Riot? Save everyone?

“I don't know,” he said, a bit testily. “What is everyone expecting? Last time I checked we had about five people in the DA. I know you're restless, Gin, but we can't go around causing trouble until there's a reason.”

“I’m not trying to cause trouble, in trying to do anything but sit still and let things happen.”

They stepped outside, passing a group of Hufflepuffs. Neville caught Ernie’s eye and he couldn't help but imagine he was asking him the same question everyone else was. Well, he would have to be disappointed, too. Neville didn't have an answer.

“Why are you putting it on me?” Neville didn't mean to sound so selfish, of course, he wanted to help, too. But Ginny was asking things of him that he didn't know how to give.

“Because I thought you agreed. Do you know that there was another-”

“Another kid taken, yes, I know.”

“And you don't care?”

Neville didn't answer. Of course, he cared. How could she even believe he didn't? That wasn't the problem at all. Whatever the problem was, neither of them tried to bring it up. Ginny turned her eyes upward and fiddled with the scarf she was wearing despite the September weather not usually cold enough for one. Neville followed her eyes upward to the dementors that floated above the school.

They hadn't been given a real reason for this new addition to their school staff, but that wasn't a thing they needed anymore. They weren't supposed to ask questions. They did as they were told. The dementors were what Neville and Ginny had both assumed was a way to dampen their spirits. They couldn't perform the Patronus Charm under any watchful eyes, but they kept up their practice.

Ginny huffed and Neville thought he saw a puff of her breath. She stalked off, giving him no more of her thoughts just as Seamus had done. Everyone was disappointed in him.

Ginny wasn’t actually disappointed, she was only frustrated. Not even with Neville especially. She was frustrated with this entire situation. What upset her further was that no one else seemed to be as upset as she was. Didn't they care? There was injustice going on all around them and nobody was willing to fight it. Practicing spells did them no good when their muggle-born friends still feared going to Defense class. They weren't fighting back, they were hiding.

Ginny rubbed her hands together, wishing she had a pair of gloves. This cold and it was only early October, it was ridiculous. What would the winter be like? What would even become of them by then? Would they be rid of any muggle-infected blood? Come next year, when Ginny was no longer around to protect them, would muggle-borns even be allowed to attend Hogwarts?

Hogwarts, the school that prided itself on being the safest place in the world. The place that welcomed everyone, no matter where you came from or who you had been there. She had grown up within these walls. It had been a home to her. It deserved her protection. It longed for it. She could feel it in every dreadful step she took. The castle was hurting, glowing gloomier by the day just like they were, and it needed their help.

Ginny heard someone crossing the grounds behind her and thought it must be Neville chasing after her. She should talk to him instead of storming off whenever they disagreed. She should talk some sense into him, actually. But it wasn't Neville, it was Luna bearing a stack of what looked like class notes.

“Why did you miss Astronomy?” Luna asked. “I took notes for you.”

“Sorry. I know how you hate taking notes.”

“I love taking notes. I don't like taking extra notes for other people. It’s too confusing.”

Ginny smiled. “You didn't have to be so considerate. I would have been fine reading yours. And I wasn't there because I wanted to see what Neville’s been up to with the Room of Requirement.”

“It really speaks to him, doesn't it,” Luna mused. “He’s good at it. I wonder if it has to do with a person’s magic or their understanding.”

Luna’s mind wandered off, her words becoming muttered thoughts.

Ginny wrapped her arms around herself, letting a sigh drift away in the chilled air. Did she mention this was ridiculous? They had to stop this. Neville was biding his time, trying to form a safe plan. But they were already running out of time. Why wouldn't he understand that? What was he waiting for?

Luna took Ginny’s hands, surprising her out of her frustration. She slipped a pair of purple knit fingerless gloves over her hands, then laced their fingers together and guided Ginny inside.

“Let’s go inside. I have Herbology.”

“Luna, could you talk to Neville? You seem to be good at getting people on your side.”

“That is a very inaccurate presumption. But why does he need talking to? Is it about the DA?”

“I know he's trying, I don't mean to say he's doing nothing, but what if we’re not doing enough? Neville doesn't seem to understand how badly we need this.”

“Need what?” Luna asked, her walk falling into more of a skip. “He’s rallying members. And he's taking care of the younger students, isn't he?”

“It’s more than that. We haven't made any changes.”

Luna squeezed Ginny’s hand. “We’re all trying. And we shouldn't cause nearly as much trouble as we have been. Perhaps a quieter approach is best.”

Ginny gave her a tight-lipped nod.

“You’re upset,” Luna said.

Ginny sighed. “I’m not upset. I'm just frustrated.”

“I don't want you to be upset with me.” Luna took hold of Ginny’s hands, swinging them lightly.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m not going to class until I know you're not upset.”

Ginny couldn't help the smile that crept up her face. “I’m not upset with you. And I'm not upset with Neville either. Just the general injustice we’re currently living under.”

“We can have a conversation with Neville later, alright? The three of us.”

“Sure.”

Maybe they could make an actual plan.

Throughout the rest of the day, much like every other day, plans and ideas ran through her head. They weren't going to get through this by spilling juice and setting off fireworks. But they didn't get any bigger ideas than that. Not for a while.

October went by dreary and upsetting. But not hopeless. Ginny’s fighting spirit only built up. As did the DA. Suddenly even more people wanted to join than they did the first time around. It was odd having newcomers, but it was welcome. Everyone hated this and they knew the same thing that Ginny did, the only way to stop it was by joining the fight.

She wasn't surprised to see that none of the Slytherins were looking for a way out. Those who didn't take pride in this new regime kept their heads turned shamefully downward. Cowards, the lot of them. There certainly weren't any in the DA. Ginny wondered how they could all be like that.

Maybe it was a loyalty thing. They couldn't betray their darling Slytherin Headmaster. But that was the least of Ginny’s worries. She didn't need their help. They could keep their scaly selves away from her. She had everyone else.

And it might have taken a few months, but she made a plan. An idea, mostly. But it was a good one. She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it sooner. She had been sulking about their lack of action, going through motion after frustrating motion with nothing but half-thoughts and maybes. But this, they could do this.

“I know what to do,” Ginny announced.

Luna and Neville, the only ones who remained after the DA filed out of the Room of Requirement, looked to her with equal parts surprise and hope.

“We need the sword.”

“What sword?” Neville asked.

“The sword of Godric Gryffindor. Dumbledore left it to Harry in his will, but the Ministry wouldn't hand it over.”

“We can’t get it though,” Luna said. “It’s kept in the Headmaster’s office, isn't it?”

“Snape has no right to keep it from Harry. I’ll find out the password and we’ll sneak in and grab it.”

Ginny looked to Neville for disagreement, but she found none. It was her turn to be taken by surprise when he gave her a determined nod.

“I thought you might put up a fight,” she said.

“If Dumbledore wanted Harry to have the sword, there must have been a reason. We’ll take it and keep it for him. I wish we could get it to him, but I'd expect him to show up here sooner or later.”

“Right, then,” Ginny said, pleased but still surprised at how easily Neville's agreement came. Maybe this was the go he was waiting for. “Luna, you’ll help?”

“Yes, but it will be tricky. Snape rarely even joins meals. We’ll have to be well-prepared and swift.”

Swift, they could be. Well-prepared, they were on it. But none could truly be prepared enough to deal with Severus Snape. It was easy enough for Ginny to find out the password. They agreed to sneak away during lunch, heading to the Headmaster’s office rather than the Great Hall. Ginny and Luna had Transfiguration class before lunch, while Neville had Herbology. They knew the sword hung on the wall, decorative and easy to slip in and out. If it hadn't been moved, anyway.

Neville headed out of the greenhouse, having just finished Herbology class, and made his way toward the spot he and the girls agreed to meet. Professor Sprout was one of the few whose spirit hadn't been dampened by these trying times. Neville suspected it was her way of keeping the students’ morale up. He looked up to her because of that, and tried to take a bit of it for himself.

Neville passed through the throng of students shuffling toward the Great Hall, wandering aimlessly until the crowd dissipated. He glanced around and gave himself a few moments to make sure no one was onto him. Someone, of course, was. Lurking in a corner, giving him a hard, fixed stare, was Pansy Parkinson.

“What are you doing?” she inquired.

“What’s it to you, Parkinson?" he said, quite boldly.

“You’re up to something, aren't you?”

“There’s not much I could do, is there?”

“No, I don't think there is.”

Pansy crossed her arms, still eyeing Neville with more interest than suspicion.

“You think Potter’s coming back to save you?” she said.

The tone of her voice wasn't nearly as harsh as her expression. If Neville didn't know better, if it weren't an entirely crazy thing to assume, he'd think she might be waiting for Harry’s return, too.

“I don't know where he is,” Neville said honestly.

“I suppose without Dumbledore around this school isn't so precious to him, is it? Why should the great hero Harry Potter bother with those lesser?”

“Harry’s not like that,” Neville said a bit too defensively. Why should he care what Parkinson thinks?

“Oh, sure. Then where is he?”

“He’s fighting for all of us. For the whole wizarding world. He's got more bravery and honour in him than you and your crew have combined.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “So, you do have a plan?”

“Uh, that’s none of your business.”

“Uh-huh. Well, good luck.”

It was supposed to be sarcastic, some kind of insult, but she looked more at ease when she walked away. That girl couldn't be any more confusing. Neville ignored it, continuing on his way to find Luna and Ginny.

Luna and Ginny were waiting impatient and nervous, distanced enough from the office entrance to not look suspicious were anyone to find them.

“Where is he?” Luna asked, peering around. “Do you suppose he was caught?”

“Caught doing what? He's only a few minutes late.”

Technicalities didn't mean much around here. Neville could easily get in trouble for seemingly trying to skip a meal, even if he was only late by minutes. After three more passed and he didn't show, Ginny was ready to give Luna the go ahead. They could find Neville later. But as she was about to say if, she saw him hurrying over to them.

They didn't stop to greet one another. Ginny spoke the password, her words barely above a whisper. The door didn't open.

“Say it louder,” Luna whispered.

Ginny gave her a sideways glance, then uttered it again, more clearly this time.

“Lily of the valley.”

The door changed to reveal the lift to the office. They rushed inside as quietly as they could. Ginny’s body flushed with the kind of excitement you got when you knew trouble was right around the corner, waiting to see if you could beat the clock before it reached you.

Under her breath, Luna kept repeating the plan. She had been doing that for days, ever since they had formed the final version of it. Neville fidgeted with his hands, his eyes searching every corner of the room in one swoop. The room was blank and drab, something Neville guessed was due to their new Headmaster’s redecorating.

The sword was not hanging on the wall as they expected it would be. It was sitting in a glass case, resting on a bed of velvet. They gazed at it as if it were a relic they had only now discovered. It glistened at them, begging them to set it free. No one dared touch it.

Ginny gave Neville a nudge forward with her shoulder. “Go on, Neville. You're the man, you pick it up.”

Neville rolled his eyes and opened the case. Carefully, as though it might sear his skin to touch, he placed his fingers on the handle. Ginny and Luna watched with bated breath as he picked it up. The three stared at each other for a moment, time seeming to freeze them in place. And then they ran.

They only made it to the door when it opened, sending them stumbling backward over one another. Neville’s grip on the sword tightened. Standing before them, looming like one of the shadowy Dementors above the school, was Severus Snape.

Snape took the sword easily from Neville’s grip, which had gone suddenly weak when faced with the first sign of aggression.

“That’s Harry’s!” Ginny shouted, scrambling up from the floor.

“This,” Snape hissed. “Is property of this school. And this office, if you remember, is mine. You have no place entering without permission and taking what is not yours.”

“Dumbledore gave that sword to Harry,” Ginny said, fists clenching at her sides.

“And where is Harry Potter now? Foolish girl, do you truly expect him to save you?”

“He’ll be back. You know he will. And so does your master.”

Snape gave her an unfeeling look. Whether that meant he didn't believe her or simply that he did not care, she couldn't decide.

“Five nights,” he said. “You three will assist Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest for the rest of this week.”

The three chanced confused glances at one another. Was that all? That wasn't so bad. Not nearly what they would expect for their crime. No one said a word about being let off easy.

“Out,” Snape ordered. “Now.”

They rushed from the office, leaving him alone. He placed the sword back in its case and turned toward Dumbledore’s portrait. The old man blinked at him over his half-moon spectacles, adjusting them slightly on the crook of his painted nose.

“Can you trust the boy entirely?” Severus asked. He'd said it too many times and yet he still couldn't accept the answer that always came.

“Entirely, Severus,” Dumbledore replied. “He is more clever than you in your resentment are willing to see.”

“What else am I supposed to do for him? He is not here. Did you expect him to show up to this? To be easy to find?”

“This burden was never promised as an easy one.”

If only Severus had understood that years ago when he was making promises to men who promised him the world and all its wonders. Or inconsequential things like protection.

“I can not protect him if I can not see him. He is on his own. If he is as clever as you say, he should be fine.”

Snape walked to the window, leaning against the wall and peering down over the gloom-covered courtyard. He spotted a student, a red-haired girl sitting alone. She wasn't supposed to be outside at his time, but if it went unnoticed he would not be the one to bring it up.

“You are giving him time,” Dumbledore said. “That he needs much of, though it seems he has so little.”

“Time,” Severus scoffed. “And this is all? Potter is gone, he is unarmed, scattered, and blind. You ask too much.”

“I ask what is necessary.”

“Potter needs our assistance, not more of your riddles. I can find him, tell him what he needs to do.”

“Not yet,” Dumbledore said calmly. Too calm for Severus’ liking. “It is not so simple as that.”

“It never is with you.”

“Find him,” Dumbledore instructed. “Leave the sword somewhere he will find it. Do not reveal yourself yet. Harry will know what to do.”

Would he truly? Severus’ faith in the boy was considerably less than Dumbledore’s.

His doubt didn't lessen the more he pondered it, something he did much of when he found himself making his way through a wooded land. He ended up finding Harry by no means of his own. Apparently, Nigellus had been traveling alongside them, having been kidnapped by the girl for whatever reasons she had. Another twisting path he had to walk to reach the end goal. It was not, he could admit, without necessity. It couldn't be too simple or they would all be in danger.

The Dark Lord was many things, some more so than Dumbledore himself, but he was not as clever. He expected things to fall into his grasp simply because he held his hand out. He did not expect Potter to outsmart him. He never expected anyone could outsmart him.

Severus played into that. He set himself in those outstretched hands and let Lord Voldemort hold him. Just as he had done as a naive, arrogant boy. Just as he did with Dumbledore, throwing himself into the hands of the first person offering to catch him. Dumbledore promised him something and Severus gave his life as payment.

Wasn't that what he had done with everyone? Hadn't he done it to the older, more experienced Slytherin boy who took him under his wing? Who showed him how those high society purebloods behaved and spoke and got what they wanted. In exchange for what? Sex? Friendship? Someone to rely on?

He never had to do that with Lily. Not when they were only children, before he knew about the games people played to get you to need them. He thought his father must have played such games with his mother, coaxing her like a spider in between a glass and a dinner plate to trap her there forever.

Severus had been as cruel, as manipulative and mean as his father had been. He wanted Lily to be his, but he would not be hers. He refused to change, to be someone she could call her own. He had been one half of her, but it was a corruptive, sickening part, and she could not live unless she cut it out.

And here he was now, loyal to the dead. Following plans that should have died along with the old man. Searching for green eyes among these trees because they were the only good he had left. The last good he could do. And when this war killed him as he felt it would do, he would know he had done something to amend his wrongs.

Snape left the sword, enchanted with protections, in a lake. He sent his Patronus, the one that complemented the boy’s, to guide Harry toward it. He watched the painful retrieval, cursing both Dumbledore and the Potter genes. But Harry got the sword. He had what he needed. So Snape left the shivering boy in the arms of his friend and went on his way.

His faith was little, his fear of Potter’s foolishness great. It was, however surprising, his hope that got him through.

Chapter Text

He got away. Again. He always got away. What was that boy made of? There was no reason, no explanation but pure luck that he was getting away. He could not outsmart him, he would not. Not forever. He was only running, but one day, he would stumble. And when he did, Voldemort would be there.

Voldemort stood at the window, the shutters pushed open to let a stream of cool air in. He let it sink beneath his skin, freezing a layer of ice over him to act as a barrier for further cold. He was made of ice, it could not bother him as it would anyone else. He was born cold, and he was born blue, made to live in an eternal winter.

He blew a puff of smoke out into the air, letting it drift out into the dim morning sky. He thought of Lucius Malfoy, how that silly man would so dislike the thought of someone lighting a cigarette in his pretty house. And how he would grovel knowing it was his master. How fearful, how remorseful, he would be. And wasn't that an idea worthy of kindling a fire within him?

Power was many things, many viewpoints, and ideas. But not many knew what it truly was. At its core, the power one had lay in the number of people who recognized it. You could be the most skilled of duelists, the bravest in the room, have an untapped power swimming in your veins, but what would that matter if you had no army at your feet, no mouths to boast it for you? Voldemort had legions who did it willingly, and that was the greatest show of the power he held.

Albus Dumbledore knew not of this power. He believed that he did, and many others were under the same false impression. But Dumbledore’s ranks fell as people lost faith in him. He was no longer there to offer his protection, their symbol of strength and foolishly well-intentioned determination was gone. They had nothing, and how easily loyalty was lost when none stood above you.

He could give them something new to look up to. His world was one of perfection, where only the powerful survived. He had spent years showing them that he was something to be feared, a force you would be a fool to doubt, and he would continue to show them for years to come. He would be their master, and his power would never be unknown. He would stand above them, placed upon an unreachable pedestal. And he would never be more powerful than they made him, but they would never think him less than he was.

Voldemort flicked ashes over the window ledge. He still remembered, perhaps always would the same way he remembered every most gory detail of growing up, the time he tasted his first cigarette. Wizards had their fancy pipes, sending rings of colored smoke circling above their fanciful heads. Muggles were much more crude than that. Their choice of mind-numbing bliss came in a small, vile scented stick.

The first two or three were disgusting. Concentrated smoke filled his lungs, burning through tissue and scratching the skin of his throat raw. It was the worst thing he'd ever smelled and ever tasted. Worse, even, than the unholy concoctions they called food at Wool’s. Smelling worse than the molded walls and dirty children he sat next to.

That throat kick became better the more he kept doing it. Something about being thirteen and sneaking to the back of the building, a pocketful of stolen goods at his disposal, made it an exciting habit. And there was so little to be excited about back then. Being able to swallow down that smoke, to choke back the sensation like it meant nothing, was more proof of all he could accomplish. Those who thought themselves high and holy because they chose to abstain from rotting themselves from the inside out were not better. They had a weakness they did not wish to admit.

After all of these years that he did not wish to count, the passing of time a villain he chose not acknowledge, this habit of his had become any other staple of his day. He did it only when he was alone, but he was so often alone. Out of the tens and twenties that he brought to his lips, only five were satisfying. The rest were maintenance, a necessary filler, but nothing more than that. The taste brought no pleasure, the sensation was dull, but he had no interest in putting it down.

He wanted for nothing, nothing but additions to his already unparalleled power. But he wanted, too, for those around him to want him. He took great pleasure in the fact that they did. And pleasure was something he deserved. Pleasure and power went hand in hand, which was why he sought after both. To be craved, hungered for, needed, and desired, to hold power over those who yearned for you in such a way, it was a simple perfection.

Of all the people connected to him in some way, through the press of skin or the haze of a subservient mind, there was one in particular he could never stop thinking about. The reason being the special bond he had, albeit unwillingly, created between the two. It was one that inspired hatred, vile disgust, and other intensities he did not wish to escape. Harry’s mind was a maelstrom and Voldemort sat pleasantly in the middle of the pool.

There was something undeniably thrilling in knowing that Harry Potter was his. His and no one else’s. He was not Dumbledore’s, not anymore. Voldemort might even dare say he never was. The old man didn't understand Harry, could not control him the way he desperately tried to control everything else. Voldemort had seen the mess in Harry’s mind, he'd snipped at threads and pressed on sounds. He knew him in a way no other possibly could.

Harry Potter belonged to him. And the boy knew it. There was an odd, sharp pull between them, a string stretched too tight. Voldemort wanted to tug on it, to pluck it like a harp cord and send its sounds reverberating around Harry’s brain. He thought, he could feel, that Harry wanted that, too. Harry wanted, he needed, to be strung along. The boy had something inside him, a shard of darkness in his heart. He didn't know it, but Voldemort could sense it as if it were a part of himself.

There was something there, something inside Harry. Some part of him calling to Voldemort. Calling out to be touched, known, and snuffed out like an indomitable flame. Some people were born with darkness in them. Voldemort had been. From that cold winter night when Tom Riddle was born into this world, his small heart pumped with a darkened river of blood. He'd survived on that alone. Perhaps Harry Potter had as well.

Voldemort let hours pass by, spending them locked in this room untangling the riddles of Harry’s mind. He pulled at every thread, cut through where he could, rearranged pieces like broken glass that hid a secret in its restored form. Harry Potter had something Voldemort wanted. Something he needed to know. Something he would find.

It was a shame he would have to kill it. Whatever was simmering beneath Harry’s surface was strong, too strong to be kept alive. It deserved to be nurtured, it yearned for its own day in the sun. And if Harry were anyone else, if his latent power didn't pose a threat to Voldemort’s own, he could get that. But if the boy were ever to have a hand of darkness reach out to him, there was little telling where it might take him.

He pondered the idea of Harry being one of his own. What would he do with the boy? Would Harry prosper under his tutelage? No doubt, but far too much. Taking him in, weaving such a web, would only end up with Voldemort ensnared by his own creation. And he would have to kill the child anyway. It truly was a shame that he would have to. Harry could be something marvelous.

Voldemort looked out onto the snow-dusted courtyard below him. He had always preferred the winter to warmer days. When he was a child growing up in that bug-infested orphanage, all the insects died from the cold. His room became akin to an icebox, the paper-thin blanket doing nothing. That chilled reached past his prickling skin, coated his weak bones, and it had been there ever since.

The winter was quiet. There was no bustle of crying, sticky children, or the laughter that accompanied juvenile games. He despised children. He always had, even when he was a child himself. He never felt that he was one. There had always been something in his way, an insurmountable wall that blocked him from those of a similar age. He thought Harry Potter must understand what that’s like.

For some reason, that thought angered him. Not because he cared anything about the difficulties of Harry’s life. But because he had felt something all too similar to Harry’s plagues. There was a brief moment only days ago, where he'd been struck by images of Wool’s, that foul place that claimed to care for the abandoned. It roused anger and dormant but never forgotten hatred in him. And, again, for a reason unknown to him, thoughts of Harry.

Harry, who was an orphan like himself. An orphan Voldemort had made. If he could, he would make everyone an orphan. Let them all know the sour taste of being forgotten, feel the spit against your face when you want more. Tom Riddle used to want more. He was a pathetic, weak child, afraid of the world he hated. Voldemort saved his life. He taught him to be cruel. To be strong. He showed him there was so much in store for him. They could lift their heel above this vicious world and crush it the way they had been crushed.

Voldemort noticed footprints ruining the picture of snow on the lawn. He imagined they were Draco’s. He saw him sometimes, wandering the ground with his birds or practicing magic. He was a talented boy, but he was weak and cowardly. He was like little Tom Riddle. He needed someone to tear him apart, to show him just how painful life could get. And then they would fill him up and redo the stitches, making something new. Something better.

Perhaps he should make Draco an orphan. The idea had crossed his mind on more than one occasion. Lucius was as useless a father as they come, a disturbing excuse of a parent. As most fathers tended to be. Draco’s loss wouldn't be much of a loss at all. He would realize that in time, but with the current state of things, he would only cry. Voldemort hated crying.

And Lucius, even as a worthless father, wasn't entirely void of use as a Death Eater. He had connections Voldemort needed. He had knowledge of ancient customs and the world of true, pure wizards that Voldemort needed to know. It was why he'd granted him a spot among his ranks in the first place. Lucius seemed to have lost some of this importance, but he was not yet completely empty. When he was, then perhaps Draco could be an orphan. His mother was already nothing, as all mothers were.

Draco was useless. But Voldemort was not void of all feeling, only weakness. He could find pleasure where it suited him. Such as watching fear kindle in the younger Malfoy’s eyes. The weakness in him was disgusting, but until he could be rid of it, it would serve as an easy entertainment. And an easy servant. Building them up was a satisfaction in itself, allowing them to flourish under his guidance only to blossom and realize they still had a shadow looming over them. They could not be stronger than he. They could not dream of surpassing him.

They knew this, and it kept the fear that they came in with, back when they were bright-eyed and youthful, alive and burning within them. A mere whispering wind that sounded like his name would send a drop of ice sliding down their spines. They bruised their knees for him to earn so much as a spot to listen at his table. He held a power greater than all. He’d taken right from Dumbledore’s plate because of it.

Dumbledore needed an army and he recruited with that in mind. That was his first error. Voldemort knew what his precious Death Eaters needed. He drew out their deepest desires, the dark secrets this holier-than-thou world had taught them to shut up inside themselves. He found out what they wanted and showed them that he could give it. They could have anything they wanted, their most vile and misunderstood of desires, if they only paid with their souls.

His loyal servants were quite clingy as a result, but that was his own meager price. That was the type of devotion he wanted, the type he earned. They knew their place, and they would do anything to keep from losing that coveted spot. The ones higher up became groveling fools, willing to do anything he asked, no matter how absurd, in order to stay there. And the lower clawed at any handhold to try and climb to the top. Dumbledore had an army behind him, but Voldemort had a congregation at his feet.

It was ridiculous the way they fawned over him, fighting for the smallest of scraps simply because they fell from his hands. They believed he wanted that, the sugar talk and the affection. The way they crawled like spineless cowards, giving all of themselves to him. For anything. For everything. They believed it touched him in any way. The only thing it did was prove to him that they would always be there.

Even after they were punished, as they often had to be. It was troublesome having such incompetent servants. It was frustrating, having to constantly lose because of their shortcomings. Time and time again, they stole from him what was meant to be a glorious moment. He had felt glee that night, excitement, a rush of determination for what he was about to achieve. He was going to win.

He felt Harry’s fear that night, just as he did quite often. He felt his determination, the way it spiked in his chest, and moved his feet forward. He felt many of Harry’s troubles, and yet he couldn't collect anything important. He needed locations, ideas, and plans, he needed anything of use. All that he received was pangs of hunger and irritation.

Harry’s turmoil was very similar to the days Tom Riddle spent in aching hunger, sleeping on a bed no better than the floor, and itching from dirty clothes and discomfort. Harry was lonely, despite having his two foolishly loyal sidekicks. He was angry, and afraid that things would not go as he desired them to. He feared failing, and he was losing his head for it. That was something Voldemort needed.

Harry's determination, his unwillingness to give up, was an unpleasant twist in Voldemort’s mind. The boy refused to give up. He was bold, and he was foolish. Foolish if he truly believed that he would succeed against Voldemort. He kept trying, but he kept running, as well. A part of him must know he could not stand against the Dark Lord himself, and so the boy ran.

Voldemort had been unsettled since that night, but there was something in particular that would not stop running through his mind. He hadn't thought of it since it happened, that October night that tied his fate to the boy’s. It had flashed through his mind as if watching a portrait being painted.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑠. 𝑊𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠, 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑡𝑜 𝑀𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑢𝑛, 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑗𝑜𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠.

𝑅𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡, 𝑎 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒, 𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒. 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑡.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛, 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑. 𝐴𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡, ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑-𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑘𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑’𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑡𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑’𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑠. 𝐻𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑢𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑, 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡. 𝐼𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑒𝑠, 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑢𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝐶𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐴 𝑏𝑢𝑚𝑝 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝐻𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑜𝑠, 𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦’𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦’𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠. 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡’𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒, 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦’𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛.

𝐽𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐻𝑒'𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐽𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑝. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑠. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛, 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑛 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦.

𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑑. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔, ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡, 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑚. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑. 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝. 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚, 𝑛𝑜 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐹𝑜𝑜𝑙𝑠.

𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝐻𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛, 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑥𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟. 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠, ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑑, 𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑒𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚.

“𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒,” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑. “𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦! 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦!”

𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒, 𝑖𝑓 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝑆𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦. 𝐼𝑓 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡.

“𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒,” 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑔. “𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒. 𝐻𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦.”

𝑀𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑜 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑟𝑦. 𝐻𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏, 𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑑𝑔𝑒.

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑎𝑙 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑝𝑠. 𝐴 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑢𝑚𝑝ℎ 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑝 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦’𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑. 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑘𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝐻𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑟𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑘𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡’𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦, 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑠ℎ, 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑁𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑁𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑁𝑜. 𝐻𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠. 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑢𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑. 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑜𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑐’𝑠 𝐻𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦.

Something happened that night. The strike intended to kill instead tied Voldemort to Harry. The only way to break this foul curse was to strike Harry again, killing him for good. All he had to do was find the boy, something his incompetent followers were useless at doing. To think, he sent hunters out, he had people in the Ministry tracking and watching, he had eyes everywhere, and still Harry managed to evade his gaze.

The boy was too resourceful. He reminded Voldemort rather of himself when as a young man. He had been determined like that, too, cunning and deceitful as a means of attaining goals. But he had been foolish back then, lost in his own desires. He thought himself clever, but he knew so little. He had a speck of Lord Voldemort’s powers and thought that was the most of it. He imagined Harry thought similarly.

What Voldemort had to do was figure out where Harry was headed, and meet him there. He must tap into his mind, weave his way through the gaps, and reach out to him. Perhaps trick him again. Would Harry know? Would he be able to feel his other roaming inside him? Would he suspect another trick?

Voldemort stilled his mind, let it sift and reach. To find. To grab hold of Harry wherever he may be. To feel him. Come here, come home. We are one and the same, are we not? Do not be afraid, for you have nothing to fear here. Let me see you. Let me in.

He was not, much to his frustration, let into anything. All he felt was a sudden pang of hunger, one of the rare human pains he could not be entirely free from. There must be some way to build up more of a tolerance to hunger. Eating was such a chore, time spent on sustaining himself when he could be working.

He despised the very feeling of hunger, the sensation always accompanied by the cold bite of wind seeping through walls and the whine of empty-bellied children. It was one of many feelings, the curse of humanity, that took him back there. He had dedicated his life to ridding himself of these weaknesses. He felt nothing but contempt toward pitiful children, and nothing but utter loathing for dirty-faced teenage boys with anger and passion in their souls. He would kill them all, and Harry Potter would be the prize of them.

A patter started up on the windowsill, rain darting against the side of the house. It spilled over the courtyard, washing away the little snow that had fallen there. He extended an arm out the window, catching droplets on his fingertips. They turned to ice on his hand, hanging like crystals from his fingers until he shook them off.

He left the window open, not minding the way the rain swept in. It mattered not to him. The rain did not bother him, and these chambers were only temporary. Lucius had so graciously given up his bedchambers, the best room in the house for their honored guest. The room, the bed, his bath, and his food. Anything his Lord could want. The Malfoys were devoted to him.

Malfoy Manor served him well. It was an honor to have the Dark Lord, the most feared and revered legend, choose your home to call his dwelling place. This place reeked with the stench of nobility, a display of purity known by so many as something only highly coveted. Voldemort left his room to sweep past high windows shadowed by heavy velvet drapes. His fingers ghosted along the walls, every bump and groove an itch under his touch.

Dusk was settling over the Wiltshire hills, ashy darkness dropping down with the rain. There was no land Voldemort preferred, no place he would choose to stay for any purpose other than convenience. He had no such attachments. Houses, grounds, things, and people, they meant nothing to him. His only goal was a throne, it mattered not where it sat or who sat beside him.

Crystals glistened above him, refracting dim candlelight through the hall. An imitation of radiance, much like the family under this roof. When Voldemort had first met Lucius, the young man strutted about like one of his precious peacocks. Now, he slunk through these corridors, tail between his legs. Narcissa and Draco, the beauties of the Malfoy family, had been reduced to ghostly whispers, shadows of their former selves.

Good. Fearful was how they ought to be. It was how Voldemort liked them. But it was not mere deference he wanted. He demanded their awe. He walked the length of the hall, past portraits that shrank into their frames at his passing. Even dead Malfoys knew better than to look him in the eye.

This place, with its dust-covered heritage and over-polished opulence, was a cage shaped by the finest craftsmen. The very bricks it was built of resented themselves. They trembled around him as if they, too, feared his presence. The Manor itself understood it housed a power too great for its four walls.

He slipped into one of Draco’s more occupied rooms, the one that housed a glossy grand piano he was fond of playing. Voldemort traced the curve of its lacquered lid. Lucius used to play as well. He must have passed the skill on to Draco. Even with the times he'd requested Lucius play for him, Voldemort did not see the appeal in music. He only did it to see that the boy would. He didn't do it now.

The notion was strange enough to amuse him, that art was sentiment. And what was sentiment? Not control, but rather the surrender of it. He was above sentiment. What piece could be played so perfectly, so boldly, that it would match his ambition? He did not belong among music and fanciful aristocrats. Among inherited tapestries and old money.

There was a reason he was not born into grandeur. None of these people knew there was a world outside of their decorated rooms. He was meant to surpass it. He was the only one who could. His legacy would be carved with his own hands, not those of his father. Not in carried on traditions or bloodlines. It was his and his alone. Once he found the wand, that would be his. The world would be his own.

“Greatness,” he murmured. It tasted like the finest wine on his tongue. It was a sweet nectar he was born to drink.

He had shed Tom Riddle’s skin like a snake, opening himself up to something new. Something great. The world would see what true magic was. True power. Tom Riddle was not beautiful, despite the many he had been told would disagree. What he was now, this was the kind of beauty they would weep at.

This house could not contain him, and he could feel it did not want to. The rooms were deathly silent, as though the creak of a floorboard would disturb him, but they were never silent. He could feel the walls breathing, in and out with an unsteady heartbeat.

He did not like this house. He did not like it at all. Something in the bones of this place, something older than the serpents curled around the banisters, more ancient even than the Malfoys who had once inhabited it, was foul. It lay beneath the floorboards, seeping through cracks and screeching at those who passed. He swore he could feel it whispering behind his back.

It unnerved even his poor Nagini, who was stirring in her sleep. It was a foolish house. Not sentient, no, not of feeling, but cursed by the vanity of its masters. Steeped in undeserved pretension. It was no wonder it was rotting. But he was the house’s master now, he was master of all, and it would do good to listen to him.

He had considered making Malfoy Manor his permanent residence once the war was done. It was of considerable size, fit for the pure-blooded, and respected. But the longer he stayed, the more certain he became, this house would never belong to him. The kind of magic that grew here, it was born, rooted, soaked into the stones. No, he would build his own place, create something fit only for him.

Nagini stirred again, his tense presence unsettling her. She was connected to him like the house was to its roots. She was of him, and she could not be removed lest a piece of him was, too. She woke from her slumber, slithering toward him. He extended a bony hand to her head.

The moved through the house together, Nagini gliding behind him with the train of his robes. The made it to the dining room, Voldemort pausing in the doorway. He let Nagini slip past first, her massive body curling around the table and poking her head at those dining.

Narcissa’s body tensed, her face gone rigid. He could practically hear the fluttering skips of her heart. Draco flinched when Nagini spilled over his feet. The clink of silverware halted, apologizing to him for the noise. He approached the head of the table, watching Lucius diligently move to offer his seat.

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, a weak, fluttering thing like the rest of the home’s inhabitants. Nagini had slithered up to curl around his chair, resting her head beside his feet. The elves served Voldemort, taking great care that his plate was an astonishing display. He cared little for it. Lucius lifted his wine glass, knocking it against his plate. The clink, ever small, rang through the silence. Slowly, Voldemort turned his head to face him. Every muscle in Lucius’ body froze.

Narcissa spoke, but she did not face her master as she did so. “Would you care for bread, my Lord? It’s fresh.”

He looked at her. The offer withered like petals dropping to the floor.

“Tell me,” he said, picking up Narcissa’s hand. “How long have you lived in this house?”

“Twenty years, my Lord.”

“An awfully long time, isn't it? And tell me, do you enjoy it here?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He turned his attention to Draco, nervous eyes darting away from him. Nagini lifted her head, wanting to eye Draco, too. Her tongue flicked out of her mouth.

“Tell me, boy. Do you feel it?

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out.

The snake’s coils slid around the table, moving toward Draco’s chair. His body went stiff as stone, his eyes blinking. Not a breath escaped him. Her head rose slowly beside his chair.

“You’re not eating,” Voldemort said, eyeing Draco’s untouched plate.

Draco said nothing.

Voldemort dipped a spoon into his soup, bringing it to his lips.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t let me upset your appetite. Eat.”

They all followed the request as though it were a demand. Voldemort put on a pleased smile and finished his soup.

Chapter Text

Harry’s heavy eyes opened sluggishly to find Hermione’s watery ones staring at him.

“Harry? Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” he said, giving her head a light push away from him.

“Harry! You're up! You've been ill for days, I was so worried.”

Harry kicked the blanket off him, brushing a hand through sweaty hair.

“I’ve cleaned up all your wounds, but there was one, well, I’m not sure what exactly happened but-”

At his confused expression, she thought it better to just show him. She tapped the front of her shirt, right in the middle of her chest. He was still confused as he watched this until he realized she was referring to him. He tugged his shirt up to find an angry red, circular scar sitting on his sternum. He didn't have to ask where it had come from. He didn't particularly want to discuss his bond to the locket with Hermione.

“Do you feel alright?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah.” He wasn't even sure why he shouldn't. He had no idea what had been happening the last few days.

Answering his thoughts, Hermione said, “You’ve been sick with a fever. Or something like a fever. You kept waking up, but it was like you weren't really there. And you were having terrible dreams, I think, shouting curses and sobbing like a baby.”

Harry rubbed the scarred spot on his chest, not wanting to give Hermione’s words much thought.

“Where’s the locket?”

“In my bag.” It was right around her waist, and they weren't on the move. It wasn't going anywhere. But not holding it close gave Harry a sense of anxiety anyway.

“So, what happened in Godric’s Hollow? I remember the snake, and then we were flying, er, falling, I guess.” It had felt like flying.

“Bathilda Bagshot, the real one, was dead,” Hermione said, shivering at the words. “I found her corpse. That's why the house smelled that way.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth, looking like she might vomit.

“So, what? The snake’s a shapeshifter now?”

“I think the snake might be a Maledictus, I've read about it. It’s an ancient magic, a curse that slowly transforms a human into a beast. I assume it can still turn back.”

“But how did it look like Bagshot?”

“Harry.” Hermione looked again like she would be sick. “It was wearing her skin.”

Harry’s face twisted into a frown of disgust. They'd followed stupid, heart-guided delusions that led them into a trap. He’d done exactly what Voldemort expected him to, played right into his hands. He thought Dumbledore must have left something in the Hallow for them to find, but thinking about it now, of course, he hadn't. Dumbledore had never even shared with Harry that he used to live there, it wasn't something of any importance to their mission.

That was all Dumbledore cared about. The mission, the prophecy Harry was meant to fulfill. This had all been nothing more than a game plan from the beginning. Even then, he hadn't given Harry enough thought to leave him anything that would actually be of use. He expected him to figure something out on his own. To do this by himself.

Harry flopped down on his cot. “I suppose old Voldy didn't have any Christmas Eve plans. I was the only worthy gift.”

Hermione didn't find this situation a humorous one.

“I dropped that picture," Harry realized. “Hermione, I found him.”

“Who? What picture?”

“The thief, the blonde thief I keep dreaming about. I saw a picture of him in Bagshot’s house. And, Hermione, he was the boy with Dumbledore.”

“What boy? Harry, what are you talking about?”

“Didn't I tell you?” Maybe he hadn't. “When I was in Umbridge’s office, I found a picture of Dumbledore with this guy, it was in Rita Skeeter’s book. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was the thief. And he was in Bathilda Bagshot’s house.”

Hurriedly, Hermione dug something from her bag. It was the book, Rita Skeeter’s account of Dumbledore’s life. The photo would be in there.

“I found this in Bagshot’s house and, maybe I shouldn't have, but I grabbed it. I mean, it’s not as though she’ll need it now-”

“Hermione, you're brilliant.”

Harry snatched the book from her, flipping through the pages for a glimpse of a photo. She curled up on the cot with him, reading over his shoulder. They found the photo they'd been searching for, the one with a teenaged Dumbledore and his wild-eyed companion. Hermione’s gasp was the only reassurance that Harry hadn't read that wrong. At the bottom of the page, something he hadn't gotten the chance to see during his rush through Umbridge’s office, was the blonde boy’s name.

Gellert Grindelwald.

“Grindelwald is the thief?” That means he had the wand Voldemort was looking for. “Is Grindelwald still alive?”

“Who cares? Grindelwald and Dumbledore were friends? Can you even imagine? Wait, I want to read more.”

They read through the chapter dedicated to the boys’ relationship, how they met under unpleasant circumstances one summer and struck up a surprisingly strong bond. On one page was a copy of a letter Dumbledore had addressed to Grindelwald, dating back to that fateful summer.

Gellert–

You are proving to be a convincing diplomat after all. I knew you had it in you. You might want to keep to yourself a bit more, though. People prefer those who don't speak as much as they perform. Better for business, you should know. Your point about wizard dominance being for the muggles’ own good is a crucial point in this plan, one you must promise me you will never forget. We were birthed for glory, as you said, and we have been given a power they have not. It is our right and our responsibility to rule, to guide, not to oppress. For the greater good, yes? Change will always be met with resistance, so it is vital that we stress the good of our mission, and fight back with no more violence than absolutely necessary. This was your mistake at Durmstrang, but I am glad you have made the mistakes that led you to me.

Your dearest, Albus

They finished the chapter, the tale of that summer’s events, the death of Ariana Dumbledore, and the mysterious falling out between the two boys. Hermione took the book from Harry’s grip, tossing it to the ground with a carelessness she’d never shown a book before.

“Listen, Harry, I know it sounds bad, but this is Rita Skeeter. Why should we believe anything she says? We knew Dumbledore–”

“Did we?” Harry said, hopping off the cot to pace the tent. “Or did we know the version of himself he put on for us? For you, a muggle-born, and me, birthed for glory. Did we know him better than Grindelwald?”

Hermione stood up, looking ready to soothe him, but she couldn't protest. She didn't even believe her own words. She felt the same pain, the ashes of a fire long gone settling around her feet. Try as she might, it could not be relit. It was a burnt-out flame, one that had destroyed everything it touched until it was satisfied, and then it disappeared. They had been too foolish, too caught in the glow, to realize it was a danger to them.

“Look at how he’s talking in that letter,” Harry said. “He’s giving him advice. What if Grindelwald’s ideas were Dumbledore’s ideas?”

Harry had no idea what any of Grindelwald’s ideas were, besides the obvious muggle oppression. He didn't know what his rise to power had been like, if he kept his mouth shut like Dumbledore had advised. How many more letters like that were sent back and forth all summer, conversations of conquest taking place daily? How had that been something to pull Dumbledore in?

Hermione looked nervous, like she wanted to say something, but couldn't. Wouldn't.

“What is it?”

“It’s, em,” she twisted the hem of her shirt, “the greater good. That’s Grindelwald’s slogan.”

The greater good. The very words Dumbledore had written. It seemed less like Dumbledore had been influenced by Grindelwald, and rather that the latter had changed under Dumbledore’s guidance.

“He was young-”

“We’re young.”

“People change. He felt bad, that's why he dedicated his life to advocating for muggle-borns and fighting the Dark Arts.”

“Why are you defending him?” he shouted. “Aren't you angry?”

Why wasn't she angry? Why wasn't she hurt? She made excuses for everything, she always wanted to believe the best. She trusted Dumbledore blindly, just as he once had. But the wool was off his eyes, he could see who Dumbledore truly was. And still, he had no idea. He didn't know what Dumbledore thought of the things he'd done, if he sat with guilt in his heart, or if he simply cared not for things that didn't touch him.

“I am angry.” Tears poured over Hermione’s cheeks and Harry felt bad for yelling at her. “I’m upset and confused. Maybe Dumbledore wasn't a good guy, maybe he was a liar. Maybe he's just a useless, muggle hating old man. But if he is, then what are we doing?”

“I don't know,” he said, the fight leaving him with a breath. “Stopping Vold– er, You-Know-Who.”

The change wasn't necessary, Ron was the only one afraid of saying his name. This reminder worsened the already sullen mood. Hermione sank back onto the small bed, pulling Harry’s blanket over her shoulders.

Harry knelt beside his backpack, searching through its contents with no particular aim. He had Sirius’ jacket and Regulus’ letter, two things that were completely worthless. And those cassette tapes he couldn't even listen to. He didn't know why he'd taken them. Around his neck in Hagrid’s mokeskin pouch hung plenty more useless, broken items.

“Hey, Hermione? Where’d you put my wand?”

“Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it was my fault. The spell I cast, I was trying to help, but it, well…”

She brought his wand, the two pieces of it. It splintered where it had been snapped in half. He stared at it, mouth unintentionally hanging open. She fumbled through a string of apologies, and Harry took the wand pieces from her hands.

“It’s okay,” he said blankly, though it wasn't okay at all. That was his wand. His wand. He might as well have lost an arm. Maybe that was over exaggerating, but it didn't feel like it.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Hermione, it’s fine.” He just wanted her to stop talking about it.

“I tried to fix it.”

“I said it’s–” Harry’s words were cut off by the sound of his own scream. He clutched his head as pain stabbed through it.

Hermione scrambled to the ground to sit beside him, her hands clutching his arms.

“Block it out, Harry. Stay with me.”

She repeated those words until it passed, and Harry was left as embarrassed as he always was when Hermione, or anyone else, saw him in these moments of weakness. He wished she wouldn't say anything. He wanted nothing more than to just drop it, pretend nothing had happened. Pretend he wasn't affected.

Rain started to fall outside, an icy downpour come to wash away the light dusting of days-old snow on the ground. Harry picked himself up off the ground, brushing dirt from his already grimy trousers, and lay down on his cot. He turned on his side so that he could peer out between the flapping tent door and watch the rain fall. He'd always liked watching the rain.

Hermione sat by his feet, staring out at the same spot. She didn't care anything for the rain, but the steady sound of it offered a distraction from everything else. She could get lost in the rhythm of water droplets beating against the tent walls. She let the rain sweep her away, carrying her down some stream where she could just float. She didn't have to worry about Voldemort or where their next meal would come from. She just let the rain fall.

“Harry,” she said after a while of silence.

“Hm?”

“Why did Dumbledore end his letter with ‘Your dearest, Albus?’”

“What? I don't know. What does that matter?”

Hermione’s eyes found the book she'd carelessly tossed to the floor. There was dirt on the cover, the corner of which had already been bent somehow. She thought it might have been from the throw, but more likely it had come from the rough way Harry handled every book he held.

“Well, think about it. They were friends a long time ago, boys didn't really address one another like that. I don't think anyone did unless they were romantically involved.”

Harry shifted in bed, bringing himself up in a sitting position. He looked at her with a face full of confusion, like he was trying to make sense of the absurd thing she'd just said.

“Nobody was ever going to see those letters. It’s not like they were afraid of being judged. Maybe they were just a little dramatic. Dumbledore’s the sort.”

“That’s what I'm saying. Nobody was ever supposed to see those. So they were free to speak to each other however they wanted. And call each other dearest.”

“He called himself dearest.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but he wouldn't say that for no reason. Certainly not if it hadn't come up before. Can't you see, Harry? They had romantic feelings for one another.”

“Excuse me?” Harry said, taken aback like she'd said something to offend him.

“I’m just saying, when you think about it, it makes sense.”

“No, it doesn't.”

Hermione frowned. It made sense to her.

“Think about it, Harry. That was only one of the letters they wrote each other, the only one Bagshot was willing to hand over. Imagine what kind of stuff they wrote in the rest of them.”

“I don't really want to.”

“You can see what I'm saying, can't you?”

Harry gave her a look. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, giving the ground a stare of hard consideration.

“I do, but I don't agree. You really think that Dumbledore dated the evil dark lord Grindelwald?”

“He was friends with him! How is that different?”

“I s’pose it isn't.”

“You don't think Dumbledore could be gay?”

Harry shrugged. He couldn't say it was something he’d ever given any thought.

“He did say your dearest,” Hermione added.

However reluctantly, Harry nodded. “He did say your dearest.”

“I’m just saying.”

“If you don't mind, I’d actually like to never think about this again.”

Hermione laughed, and Harry did, too.

“It would be interesting, though,” she said, still laughing. “Falling in love one summer, a whirlwind romance, tragic ending.”

“You’ve literally just made all of that up.”

“You don't think Grindelwald killed the sister, do you?”

Harry sighed, shaking his head in a way that meant he had no idea what to think. Where would they even begin to make something of this situation? They had no way of knowing which parts were true, if any, and which were the fabrications of Rita’s own pen. Perhaps Dumbledore had killed his own sister. It would make sense why he never mentioned her.

But it would also make sense that he would never want to bring up the fact he'd had a relationship, whirlwind or not, with the brutal dictator of the 1940s wizarding world. Harry knew so little about Grindelwald, yet he saw him for the cruel monster everyone else did. People who had grown up in the wizarding world had even worse things to say about him. Then again, Harry probably knew as much truth about Dumbledore as he did Grindelwald. Who knew what kind of a man he'd been?

“What a way to break up,” Hermione said solemnly.

Harry gave her a look, then started laughing again. It really wasn't something to laugh about, dead girls and romance with criminals, but it had happened so long ago, and it was all so absurd. It was insane to think about, Dumbledore and the torments of his youth. Grindelwald and his mad love. Your dearest, have my most wicked of plans. He had to laugh.

He laid his head on Hermione’s shoulder. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

She let out a small laugh.

They sat like that for a while, the world silent despite the rain hitting the taint and the chaos raging on outside. They didn't laugh, didn't talk, didn't hear the loud thoughts running through one another’s heads. Not until Hermione again broke through the silence.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“I don't know.”

Hermione opened her bag, shuffling around in there for what felt like minutes before finally pulling out her music player.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“You don't have a favorite song?”

“Not really.”

“You should listen to my mixtape. I mean, you can, if you want. Maybe you won't like it, but if you want to expand your taste a bit.”

She pulled the cord of her headphones, wrapping it up so it was out of the way. She handed it to Harry and stood up, moving toward the radio they spent every night now listening to. She turned it on to the familiar sound of Lee Jordan’s voice on Potterwatch. It wasn't what she was looking for, but she left it on that for a moment to see if he had anything new to say. Like most of the time, he didn't.

She switched between stations, listening for a good snippet of music, until she found something she liked. She turned back to Harry, who was standing now, looking at her. Almost curious. Still a bit sad. She gave him a small, genuine smile, and held her hand out. He took it, letting her be the one to guide him in a dance. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his head coming to rest against hers. They danced to the music and the sound of rain, swaying to slow songs and spinning around in laughter to the upbeat ones.

***

It had finally stopped raining after three straight days of it. This gloomy weather had brought Ron’s plans to a temporary halt. Which wasn't a terrible inconvenience. He wanted to get back to Harry and Hermione as soon as he could, but he could do with a break. He was freezing, exhausted, and he had no idea how long it would take to find them. He could be walking for weeks. Maybe months.

The deluminator’s light was guiding him, he could just feel that it was. That was one thing he didn't doubt. He couldn't afford to, not now. It was the only chance he had to get back to them and fix what he'd done. He just wished it could give a little more information. Like where in the world they'd gone. It stopped flickering for a few days, resting with Ron as the rain fell. The sky needed a moment to grieve, and wash away this earth’s sins, so Ron sat still and let it.

When he started off again, the rain had been replaced by snow. It snowed heavily for days, burying the hard earth with heaps of powder for Ron to trudge through. Cold winds swept past him, intent on gnawing through the threads layered clothes piled onto him. This must be his punishment. Forced to freeze to pay for his sins. Hopefully, he didn't turn into a solid block of ice before he reached them.

He wondered how Harry and Hermione were doing, if they were okay. He hoped so. Had they made any progress without him? He doubted it. Not because of any lack of faith in their respective abilities, only because they'd made such little progress for so long that it'd be astonishing to know anything had happened in his absence. Still, he wondered what had gone down. Where had they gone? Did they learn anything interesting? Did they miss him?

What if they didn't want him to come back? They could turn him away, he wouldn't hold it against them. They could decide they were much better without him, that he didn't deserve to be forgiven, and send him back where he'd come from. He'd have to trek back through the cold. He'd probably succumb to it, just let it take him. Just sit down and not move, letting snow bury him like dead leaves on the ground.

What was he going to do if he couldn't find them? No, he shook those thoughts away. He would find them. He had to. He would figure this out somehow, he had to. He would find them and they would figure something out. Despite the freezing cold weather, his soggy socks, and the unknown journey ahead of him, his hope wasn't lessening. His determination was stronger than it had ever been.

He was going to do this. He was going to make it. They were going to make it. The three of them would pull through. They'd find those stupid horcruxes and destroy every last one of them. And then, though this was even more daunting a thought, they would find Voldemort. And they would kill him. This wasn't Harry’s burden alone. It wasn't Hermione’s. And it wasn't Ron’s. It was theirs, and they were going to fight as such.

So Ron kept walking through the snow, following the light that shone like a spot of golden sun on the white ground. It bounced over snow, jumped from trees, and hopped along the road to its destination. Wherever that was. Ron wished he could ask it, but all he could do was trust that it was right. It felt right. Deep in his chest, down to his core, it felt right. He knew it would take him exactly where he needed to go.

As he followed it down a winding path of trees stretching their bare limbs out overhead, another glimmer of light caught his eye. It passed by quickly, too quickly for him to get a proper look at it. But he knew what it was. He recognized that glow, and the shape of the creature. He was certain it was a deer. It had to be Harry’s stag. It was there to help guide him.

Ron broke into a run, chasing after it. He couldn't see it anymore, almost like it had vanished. But he knew he hadn't imagined it. He was sure of that. More sure than he'd ever been of anything. He knew it would lead him to Harry. And maybe he had imagined it, maybe it was some figment of his imagination, or some bit of magic he didn't fully understand, but he knew he needed to follow it.

He slipped on an icy patch of ground, the snow cushioning his fall, but wetting his clothes. He kept running, climbing through snow, and narrowly avoiding tree trunks. The cold biting his face and ears was ignored. The numbness in his feet didn't stop him from running. Little could stop him now. He gripped his wand, prepared for a skirmish if there were to be one. Harry wouldn't conquer a Patronus without reason.

He didn't find a fight, but definitely a struggle. He came across a pool just as someone plunged below the dark surface. He ran over, peering into it just in time to see that person thrashing around in the water. It took a split second to know it was Harry, and half of one for him to throw his jacket into a snow mound and dive beneath the water. He saw the glisten of a sword hilt, and he knew what that was, too. He grabbed it, then wrapped his arms around Harry’s chest, stilling his frantic movements.

All he could think in that moment was getting out of there, but as soon as they were on the bank again, sputtering, coughing, and shivering from the cold winds, he had a slew of other thoughts. Harry was choking. Being choked, rather. That bloody locket had him in its grasp, the chain tightening around his throat. Harry’s eyes drooped slowly shut, his unconscious eyes and ragged gasps of breath sending fear coiling in Ron’s chest.

He pushed Harry face-first into the ground, one hand on the back of his head. Clutching the sword’s ruby-encrusted hilt, he pointed it as carefully as he could in his hurry at the chain, and with one clean cut, broke it in half. He snatched the locket, the broken chain crawling weakly over his wrist like it wanted to cut off his circulation, too, but he was rid of the foul thing with a swift shake.

Hardly had Harry picked his head up that Ron’s questions came pouring out.

“Are you mental? It’s bloody freezing, were you trying to get yourself killed?”

He wrapped Harry in his dry jacket, covering his mostly naked form, and tucked him into his side. He pushed wet curls off his face.

“W-why,” Ron’s teeth chattered from the cold, “didn't you take that thing off first?”

“I didn't think…” Harry’s eyes aimlessly scanned the ground for the locket.

Ron grabbed the pair of glasses sitting atop the pile of discarded clothes, and slid them onto Harry’s face. Harry adjusted them, blinking bleary eyes at Ron.

“You came back,” Harry said, disbelief coloring his hoarse voice.

“Well, yeah. I meant what I said, that I’d find it at your side.”

Harry recalled the words Ron was referencing. “You were…losing your mind?”

“Without you? Definitely.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, looking down. He grabbed Harry’s clothes, handing them over so he could dress.

“You cast that doe?”

“Me? No. I thought that was you.”

“My Patronus is a stag.”

“Oh, yeah. I didn't get a good look at it. It was a bit of chaos, getting here, and then I saw you drowning, and I just, I don't know, had to help.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it was me,” Harry said, looking out into the distance as if he would spot something out there. “Remember when Hermione and I went back in time and I saved myself. Maybe we did something like that, but we just don't know it yet.”

“That still wasn't your patronus.”

“No, but who knows what kind of mad things future us can do.”

“Right, yeah, but present us still need to do something about this.” Ron picked up the locket from the snow, holding both ends of the broken chain.

“You cut the chain,” Harry stated. He'd expected the sword to work, but he was still surprised to see that it had. He snatched the locket from Ron’s hands, laying it back onto the ground and kneeling beside it. “I have an idea. I’ll open it, and as soon as I do, you’ll stab it with the sword.”

“Me? Harry, I can't do that. I don't know…”

“Just use the sword. You got it, it’s in your hands. It’s called you, Ron, you've got to be the one to do it.”

“I can't- why don't you do it?”

Harry looked down at the locket, at the S that curled like a snake over the front. It reared its head at him, eyes like two tiny emeralds. Much like his own. Its tongue poked out of its mouth, whispering in a secret language only the two of them could understand. Whatever was inside this locket, it wanted Harry. It wanted to hold him tightly, locking its fingers around his throat in a warm embrace, one he wouldn't admit was violent until it took him under.

“I don't think I can.”

Ron nodded, though he didn't look any more convinced that he was the one who was supposed to do it. He just knew Harry meant it. So he raised the sword and waited for Harry’s command.

“Open,” Harry hissed.

Harry had expected something to jump out at him, figuratively or literally. He'd expected the attack to focus on him, to feel like a snake creeping around his neck, tightening like the locket itself had. But it didn't come. Rather, it didn't come for him. It came for Ron in the form of a slippery serpentine whisper.

Your heart. I see it. I know you, Ronald Weasley. You are mine.

“Ron! Don't listen to it!”

Ron froze, the sword shaking in his hand.

Always the last chosen, the least loved. By your mother who desired a daughter. You were a disappointment, a discarded pity. And now you are the least loved among your friends, who prefer one another.

“Ron, kill it! It’s lying to you!”

Is this the life you want? To be second best to those who claim they love you? Do you truly believe that they love you?

Out of the locket bloomed two figures, distorted images of Hermione and Harry. Harry stopped shouting, staring in shock at the characters that were somehow him and Hermione, yet something else entirely. Their faces were white, sharpened and twisted, their eyes shining red. He felt it then, the dark coil of magic looping around him. Ron must have felt the same thing because all he could do was stare.

Why even bother coming back? We were happier without you. We laughed at your foolishness, your cowardice. Do you believe you hold any worth here? Compared to who? A brilliant mind and the chosen one. Who would spare you a single glance beside Harry Potter? Who would love you then?

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Ron!”

Maybe it was the sound of his name, the desperate plea in Harry’s voice, or Ron’s own sudden surge of courage, but the sword came down to stab the locket. Its blade plunged deep inside, black blood leaking out and pooling in the snow. The voices and the coils of magic were pulled back, leaving with a shiver of cold before disappearing entirely. Harry screamed as it left, falling to his knees. But when it was over, he was perfectly fine, as though nothing had happened.

Harry crawled through the snow to sit beside Ron.

“Hey, that was amazing. You destroyed it. All of that stuff, you know that's not true, yeah? When you were gone, we had no idea what to do with ourselves. There were nights we didn't even talk to one another. And Hermione cried all the time.”

Ron wiped his sleeve across his damp eyes.

“And,” Harry continued. “Hermione and I aren't like that. At all. I didn't know you thought that.”

“I’m sorry,” Ron said. “For everything. For being a coward.”

“What you just did wasn't cowardly. And you saved my life. Ron, you're brilliant.” Harry pulled him into a hug. “Come on, now, cheer up. Hermione’s going to scream when she sees you.”

Scream she did, but not in the way Harry had meant. She was furious with Ron for crawling back after the way he'd left. Harry figured she'd be happy with how down she'd been during Ron’s absence. But she had many choice words for Ron, and she wasn't ready to forgive him just like that.

That night, she sat outside by herself, purposefully as far from the tent as she could safely put herself. They were camped out near a lake that hadn't frozen over, and Hermione stood on the bank of it, tossing stones with a forceful throw. She was in her fuzzy pajamas, pants tucked into her boots, and a hoodie peeking out beneath her jacket.

Somewhat frightening by this image, Ron crept cautiously up behind her.

“Hey, Mione.”

She pretended not to have heard him.

“Still mad at me?”

A stone splashed into the water.

“I know I never should have left, I wanted to come back. But I told you, I didn't know where you were.”

“Yes, you said that.”

“And the deluminator, it led me to you. It was mad, I was sulking in my room, it was Christmas day, I think. Yeah, because Fleur was trying to get me to eat but I was too upset. And then I heard your voice.”

“My voice?”

“From the deluminator. You said my name and then the lights went out, but a light appeared in front of me. It was a guide, it was leading me to you.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It just took a long time.”

“Yes, it did,” she said with another crashing stone.

“What else do you want me to do?”

She didn't answer, chucking rocks in rapid succession. He heard a sniffle and crept closer. He caught her arm, his hand running over hers. He took the stone she was clutching angrily.

“You're a bit rough,” he said. “You need a gentle touch. See.”

With a low toss, he sent the stone skipping across the water.

She turned her teary face toward him. Knowing there was little to nothing that he could say to make up for how he'd made her feel, he outstretched his arms instead. She fell into them, shoulders shaking as she cried. He let her let it out, holding her until she pulled away.

“Don’t think this means you're off the hook,” she said, but her voice was lighter.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He found another stone from the bank, brushing snow off it. “Mind if I stay out here with you? Harry’s asleep and his sleep talking is scarier than usual.”

“Yeah, he does that a lot. He sounds possessed.”

They both shuddered at the thought and the likelihood of Harry actually being possessed.

“Hey, Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to hear something weird about Dumbledore and Grindelwald?”