Angelfish Lane was the sort of place you sent your grandmother to die.

Every house was squat and painted a cheery shade of yellow. Every front yard was a tad bit overgrown, as none of the elders could figure out how to work the lawn mower. Every window frame was overflowing with flowers choked by excessive watering. The kitchens were filled with mismatched pots and pans. The houses were inhabited by every grandparent known to man. The yeller. The racist. The cookie-baker. The professional. The crab.

Well, every house except for one.

When the Grangers moved in, they had not expected to end up living in the equivalent of a retirement home. Their real estate agent had not explained that detail to them; they had not thought to ask.

Not that they minded. Oh, no. They were not really the minding type. It had been a bit of an odd surprise, but they took it all in stride. They tended to do that.

As for the seniors, well, for the most part they adored the little family at the end of the block. Particularly their clever, helpful little girl. That Hermione. Always ready to lend a hand, never complaining. When they needed a light bulb replaced or an oven fixed, it was she they called. Though the tasks never took more than a minute or two, often the elders would invite her to tea, to coffee, to sample that pie they were planning on sending to their bothersome son-in-law. It was a pity the Granger girl spent the better part of the year off at that school year in the countryside.

That's what's on Mr. Munoz's mind as he watches the Granger's house from his porch. Or what used to be the Granger's house. The moving van came, without warning, at the end of the summer. Within a matter of weeks the Grangers were packed up and moved, house sitting neat and empty at the corner of the block. Sad, really. He'll miss the family. They've always been so kind, and their daughter so polite.

In the Granger's backyard, a raccoon slips out from under the fence, tiny nose twitching. Mr. Munoz frowns. Not another infestation. He'd thought they'd seen the last of those creatures.

But apparently not. With a sigh, he gets up from his folding chair, stepping back inside the cool of his house, shutting the screen door with a click behind him.

The raccoon freezes, watching the house. Its tiny nose twitches, and it would have been almost endearing had it not been smeared with a noxious, slimy green substance.

The sun has begun to sink below the horizon. The crickets have come out, and their chirps echo up and down the street, providing a nice white noise to the distant rumble of cars from the nearby highway.

All is still.

All is, for the most part, quiet.

Until a loud popping sound punctuates the calm.

The dark figure tumbles, seemingly from mid-air. It lands on all fours, like a cat, though it is clearly human. For a half-second, it lays there on the asphalt of the street, dark and strangely ominous, until, muttering silent curses, it picks itself up. With a quick straightening of robes, the slender woman-for it is a woman-starts off down the street. It's a good thing most of the neighbors have already tucked in; she'd surely set off all sorts of internal alarms. And no wonder. She's a strange sight. She wears a fitted dark dress and a cloak with silver fastenings. Save for a few curly tendrils of dark hair and the tip of a slightly crooked pale nose, her face and hair are obscured by the cloak's large hood. She clutches a long stick of wood, curved like a bird's talon, in her right hand. The heels of her boots click on the pavement as she walks down the street, determination in her step.

In a few long strides, she reaches the end of the street, where two great elms stand like sentinels, one short and fat, one tall with a scar across its middle where two lovers carved their initials long ago. This is where she pauses, throwing a careful look over one shoulder before raising the stick in her right hand. "Summersby?"

Her voice is sibilant, light, but with an underlying tone of urgency. She leans forward, intent dark gaze cutting through the shadows.

"I know you're there." The assurance of her tone wavers just slightly. "You can't hide."

Something stirs in the inky darkness. "Summersby?"

A pause, as though the thing-whatever it is-is thinking. Then-

"Expelliarmus!"
With a muted shriek, the woman is thrown against the trunk of the tree. Her talon-like stick leaps from her fingers into a waiting hand. The thing in the shadows examines the weapon, then pockets it. Slowly, pieces of the man emerge to make a bigger picture-a slight jaw, aquiline nose, thick, dark mess of curls, and scars, oh so many scars-as he steps from the shadows. "I would've thought you'd be more vigilant, Lestrange."
"I-" Shaken, she picks herself off the ground with as much dignity as she can muster. "I wasn't expecting you to hex me. I thought we agreed this relationship would be a nonviolent one?"
He shrugs, twirling her wand in his fingers. "I wouldn't call expelliarmus a violent spell."
She frowns. The fall has knocked off her hood, and under the folds of fabric, she is lovely. A sharper kind of beautiful, all hard, dark lines and bony corners-but beautiful all the same. "I didn't think we were here to bicker about curses, Summersby."
His lips twitch in something like amusement. "You're right. A thousand apologies." He hesitates the barest moment-teasing me, he's teasing me, she thinks-before handing her the wand. She grasps it tight, like a mother reunited with her child. "Have you thought about our deal?"

She nods.

"And your answer is…?" he prompts.

She rubs her chapped lips together and fingers the wand. More out of instinct than anything, Summersby grips his own even tighter.

"...Yes."

She lets the word slither off her lips and sit between them, cracking a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon. Summersby lifts one eyebrow but says nothing.

"You realize you can't tell anyone of this." Her voice, still light, carries an underlying threat that would make most wizards wet their trousers.

Summersby only shrugs. "So long as you do the same."
She nods, a quick, jerking movement. "Of course."

"Tomorrow, then. Nockturn Alley, ten o' clock sharp." It is not a question.

Another nod from Lestrange. With a crack, Summersby disappears into thin air, leaving the raven-haired woman behind.