A/N: I can't tell you how many times I started writing this chapter.
If you're still interested, a long way down the line through a lot of complications and changes, I'm back to finish this b/c I hate unfinished stories- it isn't fair. Admittedly I'm forging towards a conclusion which I really wasn't before- I was in full out let's-write-a-never-ending-epic swing in those days, but first off I've learned to tell what I want to tell in a briefer way, which is much harder, and though the loose ends aren't so much loose ends as large balls of yarn, I think I know how I can bring them all together and get this done- well. The (tentative) goal is to finish at 25 (ish) chapters, as soon as possible since I'm kind of in a good groove by now without letting my work (now college work) slide. Quite a bit of time put in there, and I'll probably do it anyway, but any reviews would mean a ton (though clearly, I so don't deserve any- so much for a month between updates, try years…..) So though my writing style has changed and I'm trying to get re-in touch with the characters, and stick w/ writing the canon I was in then instead of the canon since HBP, I think this story's going to haunt me a little until I finish it. And for a while there I really just wasn't writing, and then I was writing too many things, but I've never been as productive (we're passing 200,000 words here) as I was on this and I'm shooting for that again.
If you want to see what I wrote over the last year, the only non-original posted-on-the-internet thing I've done in a while, I tackled the Prewett brothers in a current-canon way (because they, particularly, I could not get out of my head) that sort of flowed out of this story, but which- I personally- like better. Check out Fools under lyin' if you want and pleaaaaase review.
Because, honestly, that's why I'm doing this. Especially for those of you who stuck with me from the start, writing to an audience other than my little brother pushed me to write better, to think better. It was a challenge and pleasure, and I owe it to you all- and myself- to tie this one up. The next chapter's more than half way there and for the first time since weeeeelll before I knocked off Fred (that one surprised me, too) I know where I'm going again.
Basically, please review!!
So once more- with feeling- here we go:
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It hurt.
Someone had shoved a spear through her rib cage. Her breath exhaled in one great gasp and she was struck with a shivering of leaden cold through her, like iron in her veins holding her fast and upright and immobile.
She couldn't see, nothing but blurry impressions of shapes and him, and he was oh so clear.
She saw her arm shake and raise but did not feel it, couldn't feel the wand in her hand. She wished desperately in a vaguely aware corner of her mind that she was a better witch than she was.
What the hell was she supposed to use on this sort of a person? The Conjunctivitis Curse? Jelly Legs? Nothing she knew was enough…
It was all well and good for someone like Harry Potter. He could use the Disarming Spell against You-Know-Who and come out all right, but he was a hero. He was born to it.
The dark-haired woman, back stiff and straight, whirled towards Angelina with her arm raised and nearly touching her. The whites of her eyes seemed to retreat against her wild dark irises.
Angelina did not know or care what she was trying to do. "Impedimenta," said a voice, and the woman froze with her mouth open revealing stained teeth.
Her mouth began to work again almost instantaneously but suddenly fell as the legs of a woman holding a doll punched through the legs of the woman who'd k- hurt Fred. The dark woman toppled to the ground, head striking the rocks, and it was only then Angelina realized the burst of light had come from her own wand.
The woman with the long curling hair met her eyes for a moment before being the first to look away. Her booted foot pressed against the snow white throat of the lady on the ground and she kept her wand hand raised at the corner behind the straw-haired man with Fred.
Idly Angelina noticed the rocks the woman had slid along had left a liquid like deep-red wine oozing against the jagged tear on the left side of her robes.
The woman shouted a name that made the straw-haired man's face grow grim and suddenly dangerous, that made him step away from Fred. "Dolohov!"
Angelina didn't know who these people were. She recognized the one woman's picture from the paper as an escapee from Azkaban, but she didn't know her name or what she'd done. She only knew that the hate she suddenly felt for this dark wraith of a woman diminished every negative emotion she'd felt in her life to petty meaninglessness.
The murderer's hand, a blue-veined skeletal thing, reached up with a faint glow about it, unnoticed by the woman whose foot was choking her. Thoughtlessly Angelina moved closer and stepped down on it with all the force in her Quidditch-playing legs.
There was a crunch and the woman looked briefly at the girl beside her as a bestial snarl of pain ripped from her pressured throat.
Then there was a man, long features contorted in an ugly sneer, and the square-jawed wizard who'd helped her, Podmore, was bellowing curses at him, an intermingling of insults and enchantments that the man blew off with a curse in Russian that sent off a jet of purple flame. Podmore dropped with a yelp, leaving it heading for Angelina.
Quidditch instinct and reflexes lead her to flatten herself on the ground although the flame never reached her; the other stranger spoke a flurrying mouthful of a word in what Johnson thought was Greek and the flame halted in the air.
Dolohov halted, lifting his wand with a grin. Looking down as his toe hit something, the grin broadened as he noticed the body at his feet.
The sharp pain in Angelina's chest nearly doubled her over as she fought to breathe.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Podmore bellowed, jumping up to hurl himself on Dolohov even as the woman fired off a red Stunning Spell from her wand. She stepped off the subdued killer, kicking her once in the head to insure she was out and charged forward.
The man backhanded Podmore and blocked the spell simultaneously, sending the latter man reeling even as the Death Eater shook his head in laughing amusement at the woman in front of him.
Podmore landed hard on the ground but stumbled back to his feet, determinedly pulling the boy's body away from Dolohov, whose wand was striking at the woman before him with sabers of purple flame she seemed successful in blocking or avoiding with agility.
One struck her heavily scraped leg and it crumpled beneath her at a bad angle even as she rolled away, bringing up her wand to Silence him. Another purple flame streaked from his wand but its shade was more lilac than violet and its size diminished.
The Russian man stepped back, intending to reverse the spell, but became embroiled in silently blocking the flurry of spells Podmore and the woman between them were hurling at him.
Angelina looked over at Dolohov, who had taken no heed of her, and the apparently unconscious Lestrange.
She remembered the spell the Moody-imposter had shown them, the death spell that rolled off the tongue with such ease.
His voice was in her head as if he was there.
'Oh but killing him would be easy,' he'd said darkly to Katie when she'd asked how they planned to off Malfoy.
'And dull," George added, waggling his finger scoldingly, 'disappointingly dull.' He paused. 'Would be briefly satisfying, though. Like chocolate.' He'd tossed Fred a Frog pulled miraculously from his pocket for emphasis.
'Killing people's for sods,' he'd continued, munching thoughtfully and gesturing with the squirming headless frog. 'Humiliating said sods, that, now that…'
'Requires genius,' George continued. His eyes gleamed 'And is far more satiating, like, for instance other recreational-'
Alicia's hand clamped over his mouth.
'Don't finish that sentence, Weasley,' Katie'd warned Fred evenly, as the twin's lips parted in what could be a sentence or a smile, and Angelina had leaned across the table to shove an extra piece of chocolate in his mouth.
She wondered if he'd still think that, staring at the unconscious woman for a moment before a yelp from Podmore interrupted her reverie. Carefully she muttered, "Petrificus Totalus."
Angelina Johnson wanted to insure George Weasley would have the opportunity to test every Skiving Snack he possessed and then some on the woman.
Furiously she rubbed the tears from her eyes and blinked hard, her eye catching on the rubber ferret on the ground. Her lips twitched painfully and she forced her weighty eyelids to move up and down until her eyes were clear.
Vindictively she searched the ground around her, watching out of the corner of her eye the big Russian man again throw the leaping Podmore off him, and his recovered voice boomed "Imperio."
"Accio," Angelina bit, beckoning with her wand.
The straw-haired man jerked and shuddered, turning on the injured woman beside him, wand lifting slowly.
The woman ignored him, concentration fixed utterly on Dolohov and sending lines of fire from her own wand, clashing in the air with his dousing spell.
Johnson weighted the rock that came to her hand grimly and drew back her arm, carefully toned by practice twice a day since they'd signed her.
The movement was familiar and easy, her aim perfect. The amount of force and drive she threw into it was enough to wrench her arm out of practicing shape.
She knew she was no great trick as a witch, but Angelina Johnson was a helluva Quidditch player.
Podmore, shuddering and with a pained noise wrenching from his throat, dropped his wand and fell to his knees. Dolohov turned his head in slight consternation, deflecting a Shattering Curse from the grim woman before him and silently gauging if he had enough time to permanently obliterate the nuisance of Sturgis Podmore.
It arced gracefully, a strangely beautiful movement, and thwacked against the spot slightly above where a right ear had been before the night Dolohov had murdered Gideon Prewett and his brother.
The sneering grin remained in place as he gently swayed, the rock tumbling and bouncing back to the earth at the feet of his opponents. His eyes flickered once and went blank and the grin became stupid in appearance as he toppled backward.
"Holy," said Podmore, swearing. He clambered off his knees, turning and gaping at Angelina, who was sprinting towards Fred's… Fred. Sturgis repeated the sentiment before continuing. "Bleeding Mungo. Bleeding blessed Mungo. Have you got an arm. Holy- have you got an arm! Is- Philips, is he dead?"
"Dunno," she returned curtly, voice mechanical. She aimed her wand at Dolohov. "Incarcerous. Don't care. He's down." Ropes appeared from nowhere and knotted themselves tightly around the fallen man. Pressing her hands against the ground, she attempted to stand, but her leg gave out the instant she attempted to put pressure on it.
Podmore eyed the angle. "It's bro-"
He cut off at the look in Philips' eyes. "Ferula," she spat, and a splint appeared around her leg, which snapped back to the angle a leg should be at with a crack. She took a breath, feeling as if the air was screaming into her lungs, then held out her hand demandingly to Podmore. He leaned down and draped her arm over his shoulder, raising her with him as he stood.
They turned together at a strangled sound
"Rennervate," Angelina tried, voice hopeless as she sank to her knees beside her former teammate, one hand on his unmoving chest as the other aimed her wand at his heart.
A red light flashed but he did not move, his chest did not lift, and she shook, voice wobbling as the world began to swim around her again, everything blurring around the flame of Fred's red hair. "Re- re-"
Podmore exhaled softly and her head turned to find them.
She climbed to her feet, drawing herself up and tilting her chin. Softly, demandingly, she ordered, "Fix this."
Both were pale with shock and perhaps blood loss, Podmore's upper sleeve with sticky red. They did not exchange looks as she'd half-expected, but the man simply chewed his lips and the woman, Philips, closed her eyes.
When she opened them again Angelina saw for the first time they were a bright light blue that seemed oddly familiar, and she thought the woman looked suddenly old, her tanned skin lined and bags sagging from underneath her bright eyes, the only part of her that did not appear tired. She had a look on her face like she wanted to smile or cry but couldn't do either.
"Angelina… She's tried," Sturgis said raspily, and Angelina didn't know what he meant until he nodded at the woman he was supporting. His mouth twisted. "How'd that go for ya, Philips?"
Angelina was almost surprised his entrails weren't expelled from the sheer force of rancor in her look. Ducking from under his arm, she pushed herself upright and limped over to him.
"You're his Angelina Johnson?" she asked dully, bending to examine him. "Rennervate," the woman muttered, and there was a flash of red light, brighter and broader than the one Angelina's wand had pulsed, but no sign of any movement from the pale boy. She blinked and spoke to the man. "Tie up Lestrange, Podmore."
He shook his head, giving her a look that was half resentment and half pity. "Same ol' Jenny." He walked slowly, shoulders slumped, to the woman's prone form to cast the spell tying her with ropes.
"It hit him dead on," Angelina managed, voice rising in a hysterical gulp she hated. "I- and, I- I'm Angelina- did he mention me then?"
"Yes," Jenny Philips said slowly. "He did."
"A-an-and just who the hell are you people and w-wh- WHY?"
Philips blinked, and her jaw clenched, her back straightening a bit. "Because she's her and because he's him and maybe a little 'cause he was with me."
She felt her spine go stiff. "Oh?" she tried to say coolly, hating the woman on sheer principle, but it came out as more of a muffled sob. "And who are you?"
The woman looked over her shoulder at her, face pained as she seemed to consider the question. "I, uh… I baby-sat for the Weasleys, back- back before either of you were born." Her face told Angelina the pointlessness of trying to resurrect Fred even as she sent out a succession of red bursts into his chest with her wand, but even that had no effect.
"Clearly you were a real hand at that," Podmore threw in.
Her pale eyes flickered angrily, something fierce and old in them.
"We have to get him to Mungo's," Angelina gasped, shaking her head in denial.
"Not Mungo's," she said darkly, shaking her head. "No. We're into time-travel or resurrection spells now…"
"D-does that work?"
Philips met her eyes, her own water-bright and steady. "Mayb- somet… no."
"I- I want him back. He's George's and Ron's and Ginny's and Mrs. Weasley's and mine too and they can't take him. Sh-she can't," she said, hating herself for beginning to blubber, hating the way Philips' eyes seemed to know, understand when she couldn't, she shouldn't, and most of all hating Fred for dying and George for not being there to save him.
Crack!
"Blarmy," managed Podmore, covering his face as he spotted the dark-robed, masked figure appear in the slight distance.
Philips was up and standing on her leg as if it wasn't splinted, although Angelina caught the grimace on her face.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Get gone," Podmore hissed, coming up behind her.
"No," she answered just as quickly, grip tightening on her wand, ready to kill or be killed.
He shoved her back towards Fred, almost roughly. "Take him and get gone!"
"W-"
"Don't be daft," Podmore answered gruffly. "He died to save you, you have to live, like it or not- eh, Philips?"
"Get him out of here," she said quietly. "To- his brother."
She opened her mouth to protest, her eyes ceasing to stream from sheer anger and disbelief, but Podmore pushed her back again even as she took a step forward. "Why d'you think Diggory wanted Potter to take the body?" he said fiercely, and his eyes, too, were too bright. "They- go, girl. Go."
The numbers were increasing, the black-robed figures gathering, and red streams of light were shooting in their direction, brilliant and oddly beautiful in the black Azkaban night.
A word was ringing in Angelina's mind with horror as she saw the pain in Podmore's eyes, the stiff rigor of Philips' too-thin frame.
Inferi.
"Where?" she asked desperately, "where's safe?"
An awareness shot into Jenny's eyes and she fumbled into her pocket for a piece of paper. Turning with a wince, she thrust it into Angelina's hand. "Go there," she insisted, ignoring Podmore's look of horror as he realized what it was even as he cast the Shield Spell. He mouthed a nasty insult not only attacking her brain capacity but suggesting her mother had done something quite unlikely with the Giant Squid.
Angelina nodded. She had passed Apparition with flying colors on her birthday, months before Fred and George were able to take their tests. She swallowed, dove for Fred's wrist and almost cried out as it was already chilled by the night air. Swiftly she unraveled the paper.
Philips, with a wave of her wand, broke the Anti-Apparition Spell in time for Angelina to vanish with a crack! along with the still form of Fred Weasley.
"Good on you, Philips," Sturgis managed bleakly. "Wonder what Gideon'd think, that being his lil' cousin and all….."
She took a deep breath that barely restrained a shudder. "Podmore," Philips said wearily, deflecting a Stunning Spell as the Apparating Death Eaters drew near. He glanced over at her, even as both simultaneously sized up how best to defend themselves, keep captive Lestrange and Dolohov, and prevent Azkaban from being taken. "Up yours."
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He flinched.
The tremor spread and he found to his half-bemused uncertainty he couldn't stand. Lee grabbed him by the elbow as his knees gave out.
To their knowledge, they'd never had any odd connection that they'd heard was applied to some twins. George had broken his foot once during the period when Bill was trying to teach himself to dance and Fred had failed to experience so much as a twinge in his little toe. They finished each other's sentences, but then they had always understood so perfectly the mind of the other that there was no need for any telepathy between them, however wicked cool and enjoyable that would have been. The pair experimented frequently in attempts to spark such mental rapport, but this more often than not resulted in the twins backed frantically against walls, gesturing at each other with increasingly panicked and rude hand signals as the dim circle of Filch's lamp drew nearer and Mrs. Norris continued to sit between them caterwauling loudly.
In a small pocket of his mind, George Weasley heard his friend Lee Jordan ask him in a faraway voice whether he was alright but it didn't register anymore than the grip of the hands that began to shake his shoulders.
They'd always slept in the same room.
It was one of the many things he always knew with positive certainty he could count on. If he woke up in the middle of the night, it only took an "OY, FRED!" or the chucking of a handy object to rouse his brother from his bed on the other side of the room. Whether dragging him along to get a glass of water or to attack Ron in his sleep or for a very late in the night game of Quidditch with Charlie before he went off to chase bleating dragons, Fred, while typically asleep, was always there. Upon the rare occasion when some bothersome thought kept him awake against his wishes, it was a simple enough thing to fall into his brother's breathing pattern and drop into slumber himself.
Ginny swore up and down they snored in harmony.
He was occupied in trying to comprehend the utter absence of what he could best define, relate to, as the sound of his brother's breath across the room they'd shared all their childhood in.
There was a horrid chasm, a gaping hole that screamed across the mind he modestly called brilliant that none of the words in his rather unlimited vocabulary could begin to describe. The pain gripping his chest could not be compared to anything he had experienced before in his admittedly thus brief life.
Faraway threads of his mind already grasped vainly for the escape valve. The back door.
They always left themselves a back door.
The trouble was, it was usually George who made sure there was one.
With numbed and distant fingers that felt as if they were covered in gloves, he raised a hand haltingly to his eyes to find they were tearing. Before he quite knew what was going on, his wand was in his hand and he was on his feet, deaf and blind to all around him and in front of him.
He raised his wand and turned in the wizarding manner of departure, in something of a pirouette, oblivious to Lee yanking on his arm and bellowing for his attention, with only two thoughts in his stunned mind.
He needed to get to Fred.
And someone was going to die in the most excruciatingly painful way his creative mind could devise.
He was unconscious to the scream tearing with feral violence from his throat, though the pain it carried and retribution it promised were as transparent to his mind as any wisp of spirit could hope to be.
Something had gone terribly, horribly, excruciatingly wrong.
With no clear destination in mind, the potentially most dangerous man in the British Isles at the moment shook his friend off with alarming ease as he Disapparated.
He would fix this.
They hadn't had enough adventures yet for Fred to embark…alone… on his last.
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It could mean only one thing.
His hand nervously twirled one of his dreadlocks, brilliantly white teeth visible in his gaping open mouth.
George had been screaming bloody murder.
Lee, shuddering as he headed away to avoid the glances of Muggles peering down the alley to see what was going on, knew he would never be able to use the expression cavalierly again. Presumably in his life.
He wasn't sure when tears began leaking down his broad nose, carving a path to his chin.
He wasn't sure of anything at the moment.
The deadened look in George Weasley's jovial whiskey-foam eyes had been more frightening than Lee would have believed possible.
He could only stick his wand out and wait for the Knight Bus to arrive because he didn't trust himself to Apparate. His only hope was St. Mungo's, the location of the only remotely helpful person he knew the location of, Ginny, who seemed to have a knack at doing things when they were called for.
The difficulty was in stopping the tears long enough to gasp out his destination to the purple-garbed conductor.
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It was a mere glimpse of loopy handwriting.
Mr. Wood,
You will find the Order of the Phoenix currently residing at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
It spoke nothing of the dingy dark hall or the house elves head's lining the wall, the remains of a Christmas garland on the banister they landed up against, or how weighty Fred's form felt and how she would bite through her lip holding onto his hand, keeping him with her through Apparation.
It did not warn her Ron Weasley would be standing right in front of her, wand raised and eyes growing slowly wider, or that Mad-Eye Moody would have her by the scruff of her neck in second's flat.
"Since when," the old man growled, eyeing her up and down, "do Death Eaters wear green and gold?"
"Off her, Prof- er, Moody, she's not a murderous nutjob, she's my Qudditch captain," Ron said defensively, nervously prying Moody off her. "What's wrong with Fred?" he said abruptly, then met her eyes as he looked up.
She couldn't speak and she couldn't look away. Her hand stayed clutched to Fred's wrist, her arm cradling his shoulders as his form sagged.
He halted in his tracks, growing progressively paler till his freckles nearly jumped off his skin.
He gulped and snapped his head back towards the stairs. "HERMIONE!!" he hollered up with the ringing force of every breath in his body.
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Their faces were bobbing beside his, and his elbows brushed against them as he moved. He half-cringed.
For the first time in a long time, Remus Lupin felt crowded.
"You can sit down," he offered, as casually as possible.
"We're fine," Wood said shortly, grimacing.
"We really can't anyhow," Ginny said bluntly.
The former professor turned his head in her direction enough that she could see his raised eyebrow.
"We were chased by Stingers, right?" Wood offered expectantly. "They favor certain sorts of spells, yea?" At Lupin's noncommittal expression, he shrugged. "Ah, well, I wouldn't suppose you'd know a thing like-"
"They have ointments for that sort of thing," he interjected, shaking his head as he measured out the quantity of Crup's blood into a narrow bottle.
The two young people exchanged looks over the crackling brew, as it made unpleasant squidgy noises with the popping of each bubble. The amount of noise seemed to be steadily increasing.
"And, ah, you really know what you're doing, Professor?" Oliver asked skeptically, leaning over the cauldron,
"Yes, though your concern is appreciated, Oliver," Lupin said politely, teeth gritted.
"Not a problem, Professor," he affirmed cheerily, before pausing to reconsider his instinctive response.
Ginny surreptitiously kept her hand poised in thought over her mouth and, conveniently, her nose. "You're sure about the linnet's wings?"
"Yes, Ginny," he said patiently. He was not a great hand at Potions, admittedly, but this was bordering on ridiculous. He was being second-guessed by a backup Quidditch player and a fifth year girl, despite all age and accreditation suggesting he knew full well … "No," he said with a frown, peering at the simmering liquid of the powerful awakening potion, "no, ahm, I think you were right about the linnet's wings, my apologies, Ginny- Oliver, the strainer- ahh-"
The potion puffed out purple haze into their faces, but Lupin coolly dispelled it with a swift flick of his wand.
He took a breath to give him time to repair his dignity and broke into a coughing fit, echoed by the young wizard and witch but with less of a gasp in their throats.
"Messier Lupin?"
Wood felt his ruddy cheeks flare crimson, but luckily no one was looking in his direction.
Fleur Delacour sashayed into the fading remnants of fog, silvery hair swishing and expression eagerly helpful. Her lips puckered prettily for a moment as she took in the sight of the wheezing trio. "A man iz 'ere to see you."
"He's very busy," Ginny answered for him, before Lupin quite got control of his voice back.
She frowned, her perfect lips puckering. "'E seems a beet, ah, dishabille."
"Oh?" said Lupin lightly.
"'Ow you say," Fleur considered, noticing the blank expressions, "dis- dis- well, 'e ees cut all over and speeking very loudly and een a most deesturbin' manner. A crazy man 'oo says 'e needs must speak wit' you, Monsieur Lupin."
His gaze sharpened. "Does he have a name?"
Fleur sniffed, lifting her shoulders slightly in a movement too elegant to be called a shrug. "'E eez tall and dark and zere ees a great deal of blood- I do not like 'im," she elaborated helpfully. "And by ze way, Ginevra, your face, eet iz violet."
The puff of purple had left plenty of residue. Grimly, she wiped at it with the sleeve of her robe, glaring at the purple streaks that appeared against the black.
"Eet does not suit," Fleur mused. "I will 'ave to keep that in mind. Purple ees out for ze dresses, zen. Mmm..."
Remus managed a weak smile. "Fleur? The man." She blinked at him, nodding. "Send him in," he said in a gentle tone more suggestion than command. Her description left him wary. It fit too many people he used to know.
"'E eez humming and 'e frightens me," she warned, gliding out of the room in Mungo's Potions Chambers she had secured for them with her dazzling smile.
Wood cleared his throat, a bit hoarse after Fleur's presence, and uttered a bemused, "Ginevra?"
She was too busy staring after Fleur to scowl. "Dresses?" she wondered in horror, voice rising. "What dresses?" She pushed by Wood and even steered Remus aside as she scampered after the half-veela. "Fleur! What dresses?"
Remus churned his rising laugh into a subtle cough and calmly, turned back to the steaming cauldron.
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She was not ready for this.
For Diggle appearing at her house at a strange hour, tipping his green top hat apologetically, yes. To be whisked back to the wizarding world while her parents were escorted via Floo to the country home of a friend of her father's from secondary school, yes. She had planned and waited. She was prepared.
She had not prepared enough.
Her thumb rested briefly against the hollow of Fred Weasley's neck.
"Try again," Ron ordered hoarsely.
Briskly she stepped back, her lower lip pressed fiercely between her teeth. She started to say something but managed only a gasp. "Oh, Ron…"
"Hermione!" he snapped back, eyes red and panicked. "Can you fix him or not??"
Moody was pacing, peering out the window.
She took a tentative step toward him. "Ron-"
"THEN WHAT THE BLOODY GOOD ARE YOU!" he bellowed, forcibly shoving her aside. His face was wet and flaming. She stepped back into his path as he reached to grab his brother's wrist.
"Get out of my way," he threatened in a lower voice, cursing at her.
"Stop it," she told him in a low, thick voice, eyes on Angelina. The older girl was seated on the bare wood floor, Quidditch robes puddled about her feet.
"If you can't do it, I'll find someone who can," Ron said fiercely. "He's Fred. He's alright. He's got to be alright. Some prank- WHERE'S GEORGE?"
"She doesn't know, Ron!" Hermione shouted back. She tasted saltwater against her tongue and took in stride that she was crying.
"AND YOU- WHAT'RE YOU LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AT? You're an Auror!!! You're supposed to SAVE him!!"
"Get it out, boy," said Moody, nodding his ravaged face at him. "Rage at it. Not at her, though. Nothing the girl can do."
"But- but there's something," he said brokenly, physically shaking. "There's always something- Gerroff me, 'Mione! We-"
"Welcome to war," he said sweepingly.
"It's not my war!" Ron snapped, bitterly. "HARRY'S war, NOT Fred's, n-"
"RON!" bit Hermione, who seemed voice to strike him.
"ABOUT TIME!" a voice screeched from the wall behind the curtain. The piercing caterwaul of Sirius' mother in her waning haggy days boomed through the hall. "MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD-TR-"
Hermione whirled before Ron could, wand arm out rigid and bushy hair circling her like a halo. There was a roll and a swift clap, like thunder snared in an hourglass striking the time, and the curtains turned to little more than rags.
The hall was filled with the empty sound of an echo's end.
The frame was still firmly affixed to the wall, the canvas intact, but most of the paint remained only in a dark swirl of oil based color on the floor, only a steady drip-drip revealing it had ever once been on the canvas.
Moody whistled once, long and low through scarred lips.
Her face crumpled. "I- I've been reading u-uh-uppp…" The sob escaped her throat for only a moment, but she gasped a deep breath of air and regained composure. Her wand was slipped back into her robe pocket, and her hand whirled out, stopping just shy of Ron's cheek and a slap.
"You don't blame Harry," she told him harshly. "Don't say it, then. I know, Ron, I know, but please, please, don't make me hit you. I will if I have to, though." She hesitated, eyes brimming, but choked it out. "Fred would've already slapped you silly."
"Hermione," Ron managed, tears bunching in his eyes. "He isn't supposed to die. He isn't-" His knees gave out and he stumbled, but righted himself. "How'm I- wha- how do I tell Mum?" he asked weakly.
Angelina looked up from the floor and from Fred for the first time, eyes cloudy. "I don't understand why no one's here. I don't- where are all of you? This Order? There's two people at Azkaban and- and- where are you all?"
Moody's staff clanged against the wood. "Sweet Circe," he breathed. "Buck up," he barked at Ron. "Guts, now, quick Weasley. You, Granger, Floo Powder if you can find it, ways around anti-Apparition wards if you don't."
"What's wrong?" Granger replied sharply.
"Conundrums," Moody said, spitting the word. "Strategy. I told Albus we should have moved on already, told him it's no good staying in one place, headquarters itself is a damn fool idea- never in one place, Albus, never all in one place or the enemy'll wet itself trying to decide who to whack first, see, why the whole Order's such a damn fool notion, but, no he wanted another week to settle things at the next headquarters. That we were all right as the place is Potter's, now-"
"What're you on about?" Ron demanded darkly, with a forceful interruption.
"Harry's?" Angelina exclaimed bleakly, looking around at the grim surroundings in amazement. "I- I don't understand-"
"You with the brains," he growled at Hermione, "where's the gain in sending us all about and knocking Muggles Mungo's way?"
She looked around her and swallowed. "Oh," she choked. She grabbed onto Ron's sleeve. "We have to go, Ron."
He wiped frantically at his eyes.
Moody's mouth twisted. "Hastily," he added, gesturing. "Move, move-"
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Remus had excellent ears.
Until the man spoke, he never heard him.
"You're doing that wrong."
"Messier -," Fleur cut in, entering out of breath as Remus straightened from the cauldron he was bent over and turned around to see who had entered their confiscated room. "Sorry," she gasped, "'e moves faster zen I t'ought."
Wood had his wand out, just in case.
"It's alright, Fleur," said Remus, gesturing lightly that she could leave. She did, a bit huffily, though Ginny, who had reappeared behind her, did not.
"Said you're doing it wrong, mate, by the smell alone, and jeez, what's with the kidlets? Will the rest scamper if you tell 'em?"
"No," piped up Ginny evenly, folding her arms. "Don't do scampering. Terribly sorry."
The stranger was very tall, and he gazed down on her. He had strange ointment of a yellowish shade slapped on his right cheek, over what appeared to be deep gouges. "Hmm. Well don't you remind me o' somebody." He grinned through a bloody lip over her head at Lupin, flashing disturbingly white teeth. "Cute retinue, mate. Anyhow," he continued, stepping forward. He had a long-legged stride, smooth and lazy, a sort of rambling walk. "You want some valerian in that. And licorice. Heavy duty awakening potion, yeah?"
"Possibly," Remus allowed, frowning. "What worth should I hold your word at it?"
The man grinned still broader, then winced. It looked painful, as his skin was extremely red, and a faint burn was peeling on his cheek. "Fancy way o' asking who the hell I'm, right? And in case you mean how'd I know what I'm talking about, well, believe you me, I know my way around awakening potions. Leftover from my days high on Floo Powder."
He stuck out his hand. "Doyle Fitzgerald. I know who you are, Lupin."
Remus, studying his features, took it. "And you're Jenny's man."
He pulled a face. "'Sway a'putting it, yeah. On a good day. Where is she?"
He had a good height on Remus, but then so had Sirius and Gideon. He was broad in the hand, slim in the face, and not quite as good-looking as the men in her past, though in Remus' limited experience women seemed to find something attractive in slightly asymmetrical looks like this Irishman's. A once-broken twist to the nose and a sharp smile suggested a dangerous man, as did the calloused knuckles and thin white scars tracing all about his pale hands, a detail the werewolf acutely observed immediately. His hair was a dusty nondescript brown, flopping from a prominent widow's peak.
Remus Lupin hadn't met a predator's gaze in a long time. He avoided the company of werewolves, when possible, when Dumbledore didn't need him to venture to their haunts to gather whispers, which soon enough he would again.
His eyes were frosted green, so pale it was barely a color, but piercingly direct nevertheless. It might have been hard to pin where the whites of this Fitzgerald's eyes began but for the darker rim around them. They showed the lie to his humanity.
Lupin knew few vampires. Of what he knew of them, he knew little to like.
"She'll show," he offered simply.
The bloke scoffed. "'S what she always tells me. As always, there's a jam she doesn't know about and I don't want her walking into it, so I need to know. And quick." He seemed earnest.
Remus found himself reminded, disturbingly, of James.
"What problem?" Lupin asked swiftly.
His face creased and he stretched his hand, cracking his knuckles. "There some kinda roost around here this Dark Lord might be after?"
The words rolled about in his mind for a moment, and as they clicked, Lupin lunged for his mirror. "Wood!" he ordered out the side of his mouth. "Add some valerian and licorice!"
"Two-tenths a vial and five pinches should do," Fitz offered helpfully.
Wood, who had attacked the nearby cabinet with a vigor, looked over with some bewilderment. The cupboard was filled with bottles. "What size vial might that be, now?"
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She was still a fool.
The briny air bit her face, but she was moving too quickly to be cold. She ignored the leg. Couldn't do anything more about it. Could feel it, though. Shame she'd never taken to the Healing arts, not in the slightest, but then that had never been her style.
The slender robed man in the lead was not slinking enough to be Avery nor lumpy enough to be a Carrow. Lestrange, then. Rodolphus hesitated when he moved on his left leg and he favored Stunning Spells. She did not know how he would fight without Bellatrix, or how he would fight for her. The towering figure had to be Yaxley, seeing as Crabbe and Goyle were locked up. She vaguely remembered he had a powerful grasp of shielding charms.
She did not know them well enough. These men and the sketchy robed figures alongside them, these were no Rosier or Travers who she could have read as plain as Pythagoras. A few Knockturn recruits and two of the Inner Circle. It could be worse. She vaguely wondered on the whereabouts of McNair and Mulciber, who she'd have rather taken anyday, but neither of them showed any sign.
Most of those she had grown fighting against, and fighting alongside, were dead, or in the prison behind her.
Still, she could probably take them.
The odds weren't bad, not as bad as they might have been, and they expected the Ministry to show, the patrolmen. Hestia was on her way. Maybe others.
No Greyback, thank gods.
She could probably take them.
What worried her was the probably.
Jenny Philips hadn't dealt in probablies for a good long while.
The man at her back did not care for her enough to hate her. She was at one of the few places on earth that still frightened her.
It was her fault that Gideon's-
No.
It was her fault Fred was dead.
Worse still.
"Stupe-"
They came, then.
"Dementors," hissed Sturgis, voice ragged. The word seeped like a curse from his clenched teeth.
Her face twisted in exasperation, though she scarcely looked in his direction. Jenny'd noticed.
"They're not on – Impedimenta! - our side, are they?"
She brandished her wand. "Expecto Patronum!"
"Yup, didn't think so. Colloportus!! Huh, you always have a phoenix, Philips?"
She responded with a curt demand. "Patronus, Podmore!"
"Can't!" he spat back. "I'm shit with Charms!"
She blinked. "There's a lot of them." She brought up a shielding spell silently to block upcoming jinxes. It didn't hold very well. She'd practiced for enough years, but she'd never done well with unspoken spells.
"I can see that, I'm not a Muggle!" he hurled at her, tossing her a furious glance. His straw-like hair was stringy against his strong-boned face, eyes rabid.
She wished it was Fitzgerald at her back.
"Jen," he sputtered, after a moment of retreating and advancing again to regain position near the prone forms of Bellatrix and Dolohov, sending a flurry of streaking red spells and frantically blocking Summoning Spells from the Death Eaters for their unconscious brethren.
Idly, she frowned at Bellatrix's form. She'd have sworn she tied her… Distracted by a sudden deep chill, she looked up and barely held back a gasp.
Like beaten ragged black sails, the dementors spread around them. The Death Eaters fell back, and the silvery shimmer of Philips' phoenix Patronus cycled around them. If anything, it seemed to be shining dimmer. It had ceased barreling the dark ethereal figures down and managed only to push them back, rushing around to keep them in line.
"We got to go," Podmore said, teeth chattering.
Her lips curled. "Lestra-"
"We're talking worse than death- worse than death-"
"Exspecto Patroni!!"
He heard a thud of bone on stone as her kneecaps hit the ground hard, a squickier sound from her splinted leg, but he couldn't see it, the white light was too bright. He grabbed her arm, which he found in his hand to be startlingly thin, terribly firm, and yanked her upright. "Years away and all you pick up's a little crap Latin spell variation and the inability to retreat. Charming, Guineviere. Diffindo! Try and pull something like that before someone dies next time, alright?"
She half-groaned and he thought she cursed at him, but he was too busy casting the Severing Spell through the dense shininess in front of him and the general dementor-goring he assumed to be going on. There was ringing pop! and somebody screamed; Sturgis cheered for his apparent good aim. It turned into a sputter as Bellatrix Lestrange rose to her feet and pointed her wand at Jenny, and, coincidentally, at Sturgis.
She looked queerly demented in this light. More so than usual, mad-eyed and mouth stilled.
Sturgis was distinctly disturbed.
He raised his wand and started thinking hard but knew, knew she would be too fast for him.
A poorly executed left hook with considerable force slammed into the dark witch's thin face.
She crumpled.
"Cheers, bitch," said a cold, familiar voice.
For a moment Sturgis' spirits rose as he stared at the features of the boy Lestrange had killed so recently, and then it registered. The young man was trembling, burning, but his wand hand was steady and his expression grim as the ghost.
George Weasley may have looked like death, but he was all too alive for his own liking. His eyes flashed.
"Where's my brother?"