For a Thursday afternoon, the Leaky Cauldron was busier than Marcus Flint had seen it in quite some time. Today was not an ordinary Thursday, of course, given the emergency session of the Wizengamot that had just ended. Even now, the rumors and half-heard stories were filtering through the pub, and probably further still.

It was said that you could grumble about politics in the Leaky, and have Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks scoffing at your complaint before you closed your mouth. No spell could match the speed of a rumor in Wizarding Britain.

Of course, Marcus' father wanted nothing to do with rumors today. He and his associates had taken out a private room upstairs, where they were busily planning how to respond to the day's events. Marcus was tasked with keeping an eye on the comings and goings below, on the off chance that something happened.

The early summons had been a surprise, as had the hastily scrawled note. When Marcus learned what had happened, it made sense. House Flint had not been involved in a blood feud in centuries, but now they were in the thick of it. His father was taking the threat seriously, at least, and Lord Flint was never one to be overly cautious - which told Marcus exactly how worried his father actually was.

"Quite a session, wasn't it?" Marcus looked up to see Ambrose Rookwood taking a seat in his booth, a butterbeer already in his hand.

Flint shook his head. "You never get tired of doing that, do you?"

Ambrose gave his friend an innocent look. "Doing what, exactly?" The former housemates chuckled at the old joke, and shook hands.

"Good to see you, Rookwood," said Marcus. His face fell, as he remembered what had happened the week prior. "Sorry about your father."

"Thanks, Flint," Ambrose replied, sincerely. "I take it things didn't go well today?"

"Not sure," Marcus replied. "Harry Potter declared a blood feud on the Dark Lord - and his allies."

"Did he?" Ambrose's eyes narrowed as he considered the ramifications of such a declaration. Flint smiled at the expression - for it told anyone who knew Ambrose Rookwood that he had sank his teeth into a problem. Many a snake had teased Ambrose about belonging in Ravenclaw, but only until they got to know him.

Marcus knew that Ambrose Rookwood was as cunning as they came. Which was part of why they were meeting today, after all.

"That's why they went to the Ministry," Ambrose said, almost to himself. "How'd Potter know that they'd be there?"

"Above my level, Rookwood," replied Marcus. "Malfoy was supposed to retrieve something from the Department, and didn't come prepared for a fight."

Ambrose frowned at that. "Malfoy, I get, he's always been overconfident. The Lestranges too, according to Father. But it's not like dad to go unprepared."

"I don't know," Marcus said. He hadn't been aware of the operation until it was all over, and he was tasked with cleaning up afterwards. That task was part of why he was here, now, sitting at this table.

The faraway look remained on Ambrose's face, and Marcus smiled in spite of himself. Rather than interrupt his friend's train of thought, he pulled an envelope from his robes. Setting it on the table, he slid it over to Ambrose, who looked at it closely. The fine parchment was sealed with green wax, the snake motif as obvious as it was subtle.

When Ambrose made no move to pick up the letter, Marcus decided to give his pitch. "There is a place for you, Rookwood. There is work to be done. And I know you want to help us get back at Potter for killing your father."

There it is, thought Ambrose. He placed a hand on the envelope, but did not open it.

"You know our house will always stand with the Dark Lord, Flint," Ambrose said.

Marcus nodded. "I wouldn't be here if that weren't so." He leaned forward, bringing his voice as quiet as he dared. Even behind the secrecy charms on the booth, he felt the need to be cautious. "Will you take his Mark, Ambrose Rookwood?"

Ambrose looked up, and met Marcus' gaze. With a heavy sigh, he gave the only answer he could. "With all my heart, no."

That was not the answer Marcus had expected. "I'm sorry?"

It took a moment for Ambrose to decide how to explain - and explain he must, for it was rare indeed to find a wizard who would refuse the Dark Mark when it was offered. Most anyone who got to that point did so knowing where their path would lead. Ambrose, of course, never did anything without thinking it through, and so Marcus was content to wait for his friend's explanation.

After a few moments, Ambrose spoke. "My father took the Mark," he began. "When the first war ended, he was exposed and kicked out of the Ministry. Out of the Department our family has served for generations." He sighed, keeping his eyes on the envelope. "Dumbledore spoke up for some of us, he even rescued Professor Snape by saying he was a spy. So where was he when my father said the same thing? Where was his forgiveness then?" He shook his head. "No, there was never a question as to which side of this war I would be on. Even before Father died, I knew."

His eyes met Marcus', and the conflict in them was obvious. "It would be the greatest honor to take our Lord's Mark, but if I did that - so soon after my father was killed, and especially considering how and when he was killed - then I would immediately become suspect." He shook his head again, almost regretfully. "If I become a marked Death Eater, then I can't do what I need to do to support the Dark Lord. I won't be able to gather information, I won't be able to answer his questions or discover the secrets he wishes to know. I'll certainly never set foot in the Department of Mysteries, not with the Dark Mark, not after last week."

Marcus sipped his drink as he considered that answer. When he thought back to the quiet firstie he had met in the den of snakes years ago, it made sense. That didn't mean that the Dark Lord would approve, of course.

Ambrose saw the frown on Marcus' face, and continued. "The Dark Lord is wise and powerful - that's why Father took his Mark in the first place. If he truly needs me to join his ranks officially, then I will." He inclined his head, as if searching for the right phrase - difficult, when he had rehearsed this speech all week. "He would not be recruiting me if he did not want my counsel, and I have to give him what I think is my best advice. I am more useful to the cause if I remain unmarked."

"I see," said Marcus, quietly. "I suppose you've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

Ambrose rolled his eyes. "Have you met me, Flint?"

The tension broke at that, as Marcus grinned. "True, true." He left a few galleons on the table to pay for his lunch, and stood. Ambrose stood as well.

"Where are you off to now?" he asked. The look of surprise on Marcus' face was worth it.

"How did you know?"

Ambrose returned the grin. "You did say you were on the team cleaning up after the battle. That tells me you're on a rescue mission."

An exasperated sigh escaped Marcus, telling Ambrose that he was right again. "We have brothers in arms wasting away in a new prison in Hungary, according to our source. Our task is to break them out."

Ambrose was thankful that the silencing charm was still in place; he had not expected that much detail. But something Marcus said rang false, and he couldn't let his friend go unprepared.

"Marcus," he said. "There are two threats to the Dark Lord, as I see it. One is Potter and those who follow him. The other is a motivated ICW. Both are firmly within Dumbledore's influence." He leaned closer, covering the motion by shaking Marcus' hand. "Father had extensive contacts on the continent, Marcus. None of them - not one - knew about a wizarding prison anywhere in Hungary."

"What are you telling me?" asked Marcus, noticing the worry in his friend's voice.

"I'm not sure," Ambrose replied. "I guess, just be careful, Flint."

Marcus nodded to his young friend. "Will do, Rookwood."

oOoOoOoOo

Twenty minutes after the Granger family arrived at their new home in Eastbourne, Michelle Granger was forced to drag her daughter away to go get lunch. Had she delayed any further, Hermione would have begun emptying boxes and filling bookshelves - even as her father, uncle, and a team of movers were still unloading the large truck outside.

The Grangers decided to move on Friday to give themselves the entire weekend to get settled. Once the following Monday came around, the Doctors Granger would be setting up their new clinic. The town of Eastbourne was a growing community, with over a thousand new homes planned over the next few years - and a marked lack of dentists. Between the (very high) offer on their old house in Crawley, the retirement of one of the other dentists in their practice, and the opportunity to start fresh, the Grangers couldn't say no.

What they had not mentioned was that Tom Granger had grown up in the nearby city of Brighton, and felt like he was moving closer to home. Crawley was not that far away, if one took the highway, and Eastbourne was not that much closer, when you thought about it. But the feel of living in a coastal town again - that was what finally made the decision an easy one.

So it was that Michelle and Hermione Granger drove off to explore their new town a bit, before bringing back lunch for themselves, Tom Granger, and Michelle's brother Graham, who had come to help unload the truck.

When they returned to the house an hour and a half later, they found the last of the movers locking up an empty truck. They were gone before Hermione made it to the front door. Inside, she found her father and her Uncle Graham sitting in the dining room, each drinking a beer.

It did not escape Hermione's notice that the dining room table had already been assembled. Surely, she had not been gone that long?

Then she paused. The boxes with her books had been stacked in this room, hadn't they?

"Dad?" she began. "Where are my books?"

Her Uncle Graham chuckled to himself, and held out his hand. Tom Granger sighed, before handing over a five pound note. "The movers put them up in your room, sweetie."

"Already?" she said. Turning, she made her way up the steps and down a hallway to the room she had picked out. As she approached, she heard voices - the movers were in her room, it seemed. I thought they had left?

"How many books could one person need?" It was a man's voice, but the accent was familiar somehow.

"How many do you have?" came a light, female voice. Now, that one, Hermione definitely recognized. But that's impossible… She stepped forward and opened the door.

Ron Weasley looked up as she entered, an old textbook in his hands. Harry and Neville were sitting on boxes, unpacking stacks of books and sorting them into piles. Luna and Ginny were sitting on her bed, attempting to assemble her new night table.

Hermione looked from friend to friend, not sure how to react. Finally, her eyes fell on Ron once more, and she spoke without thinking.

"What are you doing to my books?" she asked.

Harry stifled a laugh, just as Neville groaned and began fishing in his pockets for a galleon. Before anyone could answer her question, her eyes fell on the far wall of her bedroom - and the four oaken bookshelves that stood against the wall. Hermione looked at the shelves, and then turned and looked at the door, realizing that none of them would have fit into the room. When she looked at Harry, he was grinning.

"Explain," she said, pointing at the shelves.

"Hi, Hermione." Harry replied. He spread his hands and gestured at the room. "Surprise."

"Did you use magic to put those shelves up, Harry Potter?" she asked. The last thing they needed to do was give the ministry an excuse to get Harry in trouble. Even emancipated, even having taken up his Lordship, some busybody at the Ministry could still question whether he was technically still underage, and questioning that might lead to other questions - ones that James Potter would be all too eager to raise.

Harry clutched his hand to his heart, in mock injury. "I'm hurt, Miss Granger." Then the laugh escaped him. "Lord Black sends his regards - and his shrinking charms."

"Sirius, really? Wow," she said, reminding herself to thank him for the gift. "And you lot, what are you doing here?"

"They knew that if you had to unpack, you'd end up sitting and reading instead," answered Ginny. "And then we'd never see you again."

Hermione wanted to protest, but found herself conceding the point. Her friends really did know her too well.

"Right," she said, taking the book from Ron. "Let's get started, then."

oOoOoOoOo

Later that afternoon, Neville pulled Hermione aside and showed her the robes he had worn to Saint Mungo's. The potion stain on the sleeve, though dried, still held its bright red color.

"The color isn't much of a clue, though," Hermione said, looking closely at the stain. "Some potions change color depending on the purpose, or the recipient, or even the phase of the moon." She looked up. "What did the potion look like in the bottle?"

Neville sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. "If it's the one I picked up, it seemed thick and, I don't know, gloppy?" He almost winced at his own description, but couldn't think of a better word.

"A red, gloppy potion," muttered Hermione. "What happened with your parents, exactly?"

"They switched places," he said, his frustration at the situation clear in his tone. "Mom was on the left, and had a candy wrapper in her hand. When I came back an hour later, she was on the right, and dad was on the left with the wrapper in his hand."

"Hmmm," said Hermione, taking another look at the stain. Neville was content to let her gather her thoughts, for he knew exactly how limited his knowledge of potions was. Potions ingredients, especially the ones that came from the greenhouses, those he could handle. Their interactions, their properties, and what exactly made a potion red and gloppy, all of that was beyond him.

Neville almost jumped when Hermione spoke again. "How did your parents look, Neville? I mean, before, when you visited with them?"

"How did they look?" Neville repeated, confused. "I don't know, they seemed fine."

"Compared to the last time you visited?" Hermione pressed.

"About the same, probably," Neville answered. "Why?"

Hermione ignored his question and continued with her own. "Are they able to walk around the hospital and exercise? Even with help?" Off his bewildered look, Hermione sighed. "Neville, if your parents have laid in hospital beds for fifteen years, they would look like it. Even laying down and moving your legs or your arms won't give you enough exercise to stay in proper shape." She looked at him intently. "So, did your parents look like they had been laying in a bed for fifteen years?"

Neville thought back to the previous day's visit, and to the feel of his parents' hands in his own. He did not have enough experience with life to know what a woman's hand should feel like when held, so the only thing he knew about his mother was that she seemed physically healthy. His father, though, had closed his hand around his son's when Neville grasped it.

His father's hand had felt strong, his grip sure. Even if it had been a reflex, and not some hint of his father in there somewhere, it was a relief at the time. Now, though…

"They seemed healthy." Neville said, quietly. "Dad's grip was strong. Too strong." He shook his head. "How did I miss something like that?"

"Don't feel bad, Neville," Hermione said, taking his hand. "It's not your fault."

"I know," he agreed. "But, still, someone should have noticed something, right?"

"Possibly," said Hermione.

After a moment, Neville sighed again. "So, what does this mean?"

Hermione looked at her friend carefully, seeing the determination on his features. As she watched him, he stood up and walked to the window. His fists were clenching, as if he was fighting the urge to hit someone.

She had seen that look in the Room of Requirement many times, and knew what it meant. The Heir Longbottom was angry.

"We start at the most basic question." Hermione said. She held up the robe. "Why was a nurse walking around with polyjuice potion?"

Neville shook his head. "That's not the most basic question, Hermione." He turned and looked at her. "Polyjuice requires a source for the hair. As an auror and a Gryffindor, there's no question that a polyjuice potion for my father would be red. So somewhere, somehow, they are getting hairs for their potion." He folded his arms across his chest, looking angrily at the discarded robes in her hand. "They can't fake it, not well enough to trick Gran. So, it's real somehow."

"No, Hermione," Neville continued. "The real question is this. Where the fuck are my parents?"


A/N: A shorter chapter, to keep things moving. Thanks again to Grimjaw for the beta work - as usual, the chapter is much improve through their input.

Feedback, as always, is welcome.