Author's Note: There are two reasons you're getting this chapter. One, I'm on the east coast and I have my internet back, wahoo! Two, I've finally finished the edits for chapter 18- it took me for-bloody-ever because I had to add so many scenes and even rewrite parts of what I'd already had. So, in celebration of those two facts, here is this chapter for your enjoyment.

This is one of the chapters that underwent a serious amount of editing after I'd finished writing the first draft of the story. The reasons for the edits are numerous- I needed to up the ante for Harry and Alana's relationship, I needed to give Ron and Hermione a bit more screentime [per say], I wanted to let Harry analyze Alana, and it was just badly written. I like it a lot better now. My favorite part is the last line. I hope you enjoy it!

31 July 2019
The sun shone strong and hot, defying the early hour. Harry, pale from years of English and Scottish cold and rain, reveled in the heat. The sun would undoubtedly cause Ron's freckles to multiply alarmingly, and would burn Hermione brown. Harry would, in contrast, remain as pale as he was now, with not even a red burn to mark the time he spent outside. Still, he welcomed the sun, its sultry light and warmth.

He quite contentedly tuned out Ron's grumbling [he never had been a morning person] and Hermione's rambling about history and culture, focusing solely on observation. So, this was Spain. The Moorish architecture made world-famous, the earth-toned stucco buildings, the intermingling mosques and churches, the worn cobblestone streets and riotous colors of the gardens. It seemed strange for the Death Eaters to choose so bright a place as their home base; wrong for such a shadowy group, who traditionally worked in the nighttime, to defile this sunny place. And yet… The seductive, deceptively lazy beauty of the landscape… the violent history of wars and intrigues… England and Spain's traditional enmity… Perhaps this was the perfect choice for the Death Eaters, after all.

And for Alana. Harry was very much aware that Alana had loved Spain, felt more at home here than anywhere else on Earth. Spain suited her, Harry was quick to decide. England was too cold and dreary for her elegance and exotic beauty, France too romantic and genteel for her cunning and intelligence. But Spain? Alana and Spain fit together like a hand in a glove.

Idly, Harry wondered if Alana had ever walked these streets, if she'd paused to pluck a flower from a vine to tuck into her raven hair, or to admire the vignettes displayed before him. Had she ever wandered through the streets, losing herself to the atmosphere and the beautiful merging of land and architecture? Had she ever slipped away to simply bask in the sun? Had she loved it best by morning or evening, by daybreak or darkest night? Could she be enticed to return to this place she loved, persuaded to take up her old cause?

He was distracted by a nudge to the side, which turned out to be Hermione.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," she observed.
"Sorry," he apologized, smiling. "Just thinking."
"About what?" she asked, tucking a hand into the crook of his elbow.
He smiled again, banishing his thoughts. "Ancient history."

Now was not the time to ruminate about his so-called wife, he sternly reminded himself. They were here to investigate a murder, not so Harry could lose himself to the eternal mystery that was Alana Montblanc.

"This is just like the good old days," Ron said with relish, swinging his arms and looking like a teenager again. "The three of us off to save the world, no distractions, no complications."
"Ha!" Hermione laughed. "Someone's memory is faulty. I've never met someone so capable of causing complications as you."
"And you caused plenty of distraction," Ron tossed back good naturedly, linking arms with his wife and kissing her temple.
"Thank you very much," she said complacently.

Harry had to laugh at them; some things truly never changed. For which he was grateful. But Ron was right; this was like the old times. Just the Golden Trio, off on another adventure. No distractions. This was one place where Alana would not be allowed to enter; this tradition was sacred, between the three of them alone. There was no room for more.

Arm in arm, the Trio took off through the streets, off to do what they did best.

13 August 2019
The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as Alana paced back and forth across the wooden floor of Harry's office. She had been pacing like this all afternoon, ever since her owl Myrddin returned with no reply to her letter, and she showed no sign of ceasing her prowl any time soon.

It was ridiculous to feel anxious, Alana admonished herself. Harry was investigating an Auror's murder; he was bound to be busy. Perhaps he'd had no time to read her letters, much less reply. And even if the situation in Spain had gotten worse, Harry was a trained Auror. He knew how to take care of himself; he would return to her.

Why was she feeling so anxious? It had only been two weeks since Harry's departure. Once upon a time it hadn't been unusual for Harry's missions to last at least that long, if not longer, and he'd never been the best at keeping up with his correspondence. There should be no need for her to feel so anxious.

But… Spain had always been a stronghold of the Death Eaters. Ever since Voldemort's defeat (the real defeat), Spain had always been a place of refuge for the Dark Lord's lackeys. Alana had fond memories of the country where she and her first husband had realized their love, and honeymooned, but she held equally unpleasant memories of raids and death squads. She didn't want Harry to be anywhere near those old haunts, those places that represented a part of herself she never wanted him to see again.

There was another question. Why was she so concerned about Harry's safety? Yes, he was her husband, but they weren't in love; sometimes she had to wonder if she even liked him very much. Yet… he was her protector, her boys' guardian, James' father. Sometimes she even thought she could call them friends. And quite honestly, she didn't know what she would do if Harry was hurt, or Merlin forbid killed. Yes, she would be deported back to France, but… what would it do to her, to her thoughts and emotions, if Harry was injured? If he joined Draco in eternal sleep?

Alana frowned; maybe she didn't want to think about that right now.

She glanced at the packet of papers that had been delivered by Ministry owl that morning. Harry's paternity of James had been established, and the adoption finalized. Once she and Harry signed the papers, their son would legally and officially be James Potter.

It was a big step for them, something that would tie them together forever. By signing those papers, Harry would be given all the legal rights of a parent, including as much custody as he wanted. James would become Harry's legal heir, and Harry would become James' father in reality as well as biology.

Alana wondered how they'd adjust. Except for a short while when they were babies, her sons had never had a father figure. They'd also never had two parental figures at once. How would James adjust to having to obey Harry as a father?

And what about her younger son?

She bit her lip. Julian didn't neatly fit into the family that had been formed by the marriage and adoption. Physically, he didn't look like any of them; the white-blond, gray-eyed Julian was the image of his father. And he was every inch the heir to the House of Malfoy, and he knew it. He had already stated that though he respected Harry as his guardian, he would never call him 'Dad' as James did.

"I already have a father," Julian had said. "I was born a Malfoy, and I'm going to stay that way."

So how to integrate Julian into their odd domestic arrangement? She could continue to keep her surname Malfoy, she supposed; as far as she knew she was under no obligation to take Harry's name. Other than that, Alana supposed she'd just have to allow Julian to maintain his identity as a Malfoy. They would make it work, at least until Alana's citizenship was restored and she and Harry could divorce.

Having settled that quandary as far as was possible, Alana returned to the problem of what to do about Harry's absence and prolonged silence.

Asking anyone for help was out of the question. She'd already badgered Shacklebolt, who froze her out by saying that if he got any news, he'd be sure to contact her. Meeting with Moody had been similarly unproductive; he'd flat-out told her that he didn't trust her and wouldn't help her. While she appreciated his blunt honesty after so much polite ambiguity, it had pissed her off. She wanted answers, needed reassurance. And if no one was going to help her, she'd just have to do it herself.

She would send the boys to Narcissa for the rest of the holiday, she decided. It had been a while since they saw their grandmother, and Narcissa could look out for them and get them safely to Hogwarts.

Finding a way out of the country was a bit more difficult. Technically she could leave without notice in the case of immediate danger or medical or legal emergency… Alana eyed the adoption papers thoughtfully. It was admittedly a loose definition of 'emergency,' but… For goodness' sake, she was Lady Alana Montblanc! Since when did she care about others' opinions or explain her actions to anyone? She could just use her Wishgiver magic to get herself to Spain, if worse came to worst. She could vaguely sense that Harry wanted her there, and if he was dealing with a dead Auror and the possibility of a Death Eater resurgence, she of all people needed to be there. And no grudge-holding Ministry officials were going to stop her.

15 August 2019
Harry leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses before refocusing on the room he'd been holed up in for the past three days. The long table before him was covered in official reports and his own notes. The wall opposite him was a web of evidence- crime scene photos, pictures of suspects, maps. It was organized chaos, and Harry was the focus point.

The case in Spain had quickly grown from investigating one death to playing connect-the-dots with 27 murders, 18 shipments of supplies, 56 suspects, and 5 hotbeds of activity. Something was happening in Spain, something big. And the more Harry learned, the more he began to fear that Alana had been right, that the Death Eaters were on the move.

Alana… Harry sighed. Alana had been sending him letters, but he hadn't responded. In fact, every time her owl had come, he'd moved. If he knew the Death Eaters, and he did, they were having him watched. Possibly even trying to intercept his mail. So he'd sent no word to anyone about what he was up to. He created secure Floo networks to receive mail and information from his colleagues in Spain and the Ministry, and he went nowhere near crime scenes himself. Inconvenient, really, but he didn't want to alert the Death Eaters to what he was doing. And he really didn't want them getting Alana in their clutches.

He shouldn't have been so nervous, he chastised himself. He knew that Alana had no part in that existence anymore, that she was firmly on his side. And yet… she had family here, he knew; a paternal aunt she'd always been close to. Spain had been Alana and Draco's place, their favorite retreat. What if Alana returned to the land she loved? If the Death Eaters got her… if they got hold of the magic she had been bred to wield for them… who knew better than he what kind of hell Alana could bring? No, it was better for her to be nowhere near Spain.

He started at a sharp rap on the door, then shook himself. That would be Ron and Hermione with their take-out. An old memory floated into Harry's mind. A small room, even more cluttered than this… long hours working over documents, Chinese cartons in hand… dancing with a beautiful woman before kissing her and stealing her from her world and her fiancé…

He shook himself, grounding himself in the present, then sighed. Yes, he wanted Alana nowhere near the Death Eaters, but… he missed her. Missed her razor-sharp instincts, her analytical mind and the way she caught the smallest details. All their confusing personal issues aside, he really could've used her help with this; professionally, they had always been a good match.

He crossed to the door, opened it, and froze. There in the doorway was the answer to his prayers… and his greatest nightmare.

"Alana?" he spluttered.
"Hello, darling," she replied.