She heard the sound of rail squealing as the wheels scrapped it. She felt the collision, and the impact threw her over the wagon. She was sitting on the snow, and the white cold field was marred by red. People were fighting, but more were dying. Corpses, there were many corpses. Men wearing pale leather robes were nailing the quartered body of a child. She shuddered, but she couldn't move.

Suddenly, flames approached her as a wagon fell. She barely escaped it, throwing herself against the ground, when she reached safety. But she knew who was inside of it. She saw by the window as a girl she knew, hazel eyes and pale skin, threw her body against the glass, trying to break it. She tried to run in the others girl's direction, but her feet didn't move. The girl couldn't break it, and she watched the girl pass out with her hands splashed against the window.

A sandy blonde boy came to her, and grabbed her in his arms. She felt secure for a moment, as he lead her away from the train, away from the fight. Their hands swayed as they ran, and her feet stumbled in the deep snow. She wore high-heeled mary-janes. Why the hell she had wore them? The snow in front of her feet was painted by blood once again, and she looked up. The boy had slashes deeply housed in his chest, that was barely rising. No, no, no. God, he couldn't die. Not him.

She kneeled by his side, the snow already burying his body. She tried to melt it away; she tried to dig the boy out. But her hands found a feminine face, eyes open with fear and mouth frozen in a frightened position. Short dark hair and ocean blue eyes. Dead. No more than a beheaded face. She took it in her lap, tears in her eyes as she hugged it closely.

"Anya!" There was only one person who called her that.

And there was him, fighting against ten wizards with pure skill and a wand. But then, the ten wizards threw ten red curses at him, and his face writhed in pain. A green coloured curse hit him, and his body fell over the ground.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

She woke up.

Her body in the middle of the sheets, panting with the thing she knew was only a dream – not a vision. It hadn't felt like one. She drew the green hangings of her bed open, and took comfort in the image of the circular dormitory, that was illuminated by the dim lights that entered through the draped curtains.

She knew there were two beds by her side, both occupied. And she knew that it was too early but she was also perfectly aware she wouldn't be able to return to sleep. And so she rose.

Wrapped in her uniform's houppelande, Anya moved the hangings of Dorea's bed – just to be sure – and released a relieved breath when she saw the girl's body sleeping peacefully beneath the furs the older witch always carried with her. Her next stop was the third year boys' room. Anyone in the school knew that if one girl got caught roaming around the male dormitories, she would be severely punished. But the intruder wasn't in a very reasonable state of mind, and even if she was, she wouldn't have backed down.

She hissed to the hangings of Tom's bed – which was the only way they could be opened.

"Anya?" Tom said, stirring from his sleep and recognising the feminine form in front of his bed. His partner looked unwell. Her skin was deathly pale, and her usually silky hair was a mess. What was more disturbing, though, was the lost look in her eyes, and the way she shivered even if she was covered by many layers of wool. "Did you have a vision?" She had had five visions in the last month, two about unrelated incidents but three were about the incident that would come in December.

She shook her head. He sighed.

"Can I stay?"

He barely managed to restrain his surprise. "Here? Are you insane?"

"Just like when we were children. I will leave in an hour."

"Very well."

He felt the couch shift to accommodate her. Her body cuddled against him, and he breathed in the scent of lilies invading his senses.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

Dorea wasn't usually an early-riser, but that day in October, she greeted the sun with open eyes. Nastya was already gone, but that wasn't that rare. Her raven-haired friend had the worst sleeping habits. It was too early for going to the Great Hall, but her owl Vega had delivered a letter from her brother the day before, one she still had to answer.

The Black girl frowned, thinking back about the letter. She felt…apprehensive. Pollux had settled Irma, Cygnus and himself on Great Ganilly Castle. Her father, mother and sister would be the next to move out. Her uncle Sirius and aunt Hesper were supposedly safe in Cornwall, cousin Arcturus and Melania were hesitant about leaving Wiltshire (she could understand that, Wiltshire and Hampshire were the two most sociably active counties to pure-bloods). Her first cousin Regulus would never leave his isolation on Isle of Wight even to save himself, and her more distant cousin Regulus would never leave his partner Gaius Rosier and their house in Lincolnshire. But what really worried her brother was uncle Arcturus and Lysandra's refusal of leaving Blackthorn State, and the consequent endangerment of Lycoris – who refused to be parted from the couple after what happened in London.

The Dark Lord's forces were watching the property's borders every day, according the house-elves reports. Never trespassing, of course, but the fact was that the Black family remained neutral in this war. Many British pure-blood families had taken this stance. Grindelwald seemed to foreign to their tastes, and if he were to win this war, a pedestal of power would be built in Germany – and the British pedestal would crumble. Nevertheless, the ministry lacked the tolerance for dark magic that most pure-bloods would find acceptable, and was too including of muggle-borns to blood-supremacists' liking. These houses had no wish of being obliged to choose sides, but they also knew they could be forced and/or intimidated in making a decision. Lord Pollux Black feared their family might be backed against the wall if Blackthorn State remained occupied. Master Arcturus Black, however, argued with his nephew that abandoning one's property to the enemy was a symbol of weakness – and he wasn't wrong in that.

As she left their bedroom, Dorea met with the image of Anastasia Donbyre, her outter uniform slightly wrinkled as she sneaked back. The older girl raised her eyebrows, not falling to notice that she was returning from the male dormitories. "Use only your inner robes." She counselled, and the other nodded. "Tell me latter."

"Not what you are thinking."

"I am not thinking." She assured her. She felt good for her friend. The war had left a permanent mark in the green-eyed witch – now she was parentless, deemed as an unbeatable heroine, when in truth being brave and proactive did not equal not-scared .

If Dorea was a Hufflepuff, she would have comforted her friend's pain.

If Dorea was a Ravenclaw, she would have accepted her friend's fears.

If Dorea was a Gryffindor, she would have been by her friend's side in battle.

But Dorea was just a Slytherin, and while snakes were better at reading other's emotions than others, they respected their peers too much to acknowledge them.

Sometimes, Dorea questioned if this notion of respect morally correct. If being pure of blood really did make someone more deserving of being part of wizardkind. If family was more important than humanity.

But she knew she wasn't fit to ask such questions, so she turned her back and ignored them.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

"The Gaunts…I don't know much about them. They were well-known some centuries ago, I believe. But a countless amount of unsuccessful business and over-ambitious envoys sealed their disgraceful fate. It's shameful, actually." Caelum Nott pondered. "We don't talk about them." He added hastily, and Tom could assume that the House of Gaunt was a taboo subject in pure-blood circles. No surprise there, wizardkind was very hesitant to acknowledge what was right in front of their noses.

Tom returned his eyes to his book, an obvious dismiss. No need to sound too curious. He sat in one of the black armchairs in the middle of the common room, and to the observant eyes, his object of read was a sixth-year Transfiguration book. In truth, the book subject was that innocent, and most of his housemates were aware of this fact. They, of course, had no proves, and had no wish to acquire one.

As most students left for the breakfast in that Saturday day, one of those sat on the loveseat opposite his seat. Tom did not stop reading until the common room was fairly empty. Only then, he faced the person awaiting to speak with him.

It was Dorea Black.

He didn't give much of his attention to Anya's acquaintances. They were usually annoying, shallow or oblivious. He regarded the sister of Lord Black as more intelligent than others of Anya's group, but her overbearing attitude hadn't been a great motivator in pursuing a closer acquaintance.

"You wanted to know about the Gaunts." He didn't answer, it wasn't a question. "Very well. The name you are searching for is Corvinus Gaunt. A beautiful man, according my great-aunt's diary, but very proud and arrogant. He swore to brew a hydra, and wasted his family fortune in this attempt. Two hundred years later, we have the last registered Gaunt, Marvon or something like that. He was imprisoned before I was born, I think. It was a scandal. How the mighty have fallen and all." The girl waved a hand. "Nobody will tell you more about that. It was a rather hush-hush affair."

"Could he-" He hesitated for a moment, but that was an unbecoming behaviour. "-be called Marvolo?" It would make sense, quite similar to Marvon, and it would fit the age.

A suspicious glint was visible in her eyes. "He could."

"Is he still in prison?"

"I don't know."

Tom nodded, and dismissed her with a wave of hand. The girl walked through the doorway, her heels clicking.

The information the Black girl had provided was astonishing. A Gaunt. He must be a Gaunt. Son of a child of Marvolo Gaunt, after all, his grandfather name was Marvolo – his middle name. He should be a pure-blood, probably with some muggle-blood mixed somewhere, as Riddle wasn't a pure-blood name. He came from a disgraced family. His grandfather had been imprisoned, he needed those ministry records.

"Sometimes, I worry about you Riddle. Surrounded by bossy bitches and fiery birds. Your dame is increasingly rebellious." The broad and dark figure of Antonin Dolohov grew from the shadows, in all its arrogant glory.

"Dolohov, what can I do for you?"

"Teach your book. And not the Transfiguration side of it. Pyrites cannot stop singing you praises. Oh, and don't kill the boy, much like a jobberknoll, only special ears can hear his lullaby." His roommate said, approaching his armchair in his trudging manner.

"Assuming I can, how did you say? Teach you my book – why would I do it? In my book, I have little to learn from you."

"You have a fantastic body, Riddle." He had grabbed one of the armchair's arms, and his hand was flicking close to the Dark Arts book, some fingers extending to ghostly touch his chin. Tom did not move, not because he was intimidated (that wasn't the case, in the orphanage many times his personal space had been breached, but never someone had committed that mistake twice) but because his impassive stance shouldn't be broken to mind this minor bother. "Why not make full use of it?"

Tom raised an inquiring eyebrow, daring the other to continue with such suggestive speech.

"House of Dolohov is renowned for producing great duellers." The boy stated, removing his fingers from the indigo-eyed wizard's lips.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

Laws Cadogan had always found her Slytherin friend unique. Anastasia Donbyre had fascinated her since their first meeting, with her beauty and maturity. She didn't feel like the other girls (or boys) – no, she had a spirit that screamed woman, an adult woman per se. Her presence demanded glances, and her proficiency with magic asserted her uniqueness. She wasn't the most powerful student in school, or the best – but Riddle, arguably the holder of both this titles, wasn't as fair or as unquestionable as her.

"Are you going tomorrow?" She asked the green-eyed witch in the middle of their Herbology class on Friday.

"To where?"

"Hogsmeade, of course. You can't have forgotten about it." The upcoming weekend was the first Hogsmeade weekend since the attack last year. The village, they had been assured, was fully secured by aurors and totally rebuilt. There was much excitement behind the castle walls for that Saturday.

"I don't believe I would be able to, with everyone talking about it. I am not sure I should, Laws." Nastya sighed. "After what happened last year, perhaps I should just stay in the castle, you know? People will keep glancing at me."

"Come with me, my father used to take me there when I was little, I know all the short-cuts. Nobody will see you if you don't wish." She pouted. "Please, come with me."

She laughed. "If it is so important to you. I will talk to the girls." She said, catching the attention of Dorea (who was sitting together with Gagwilde) and mouthing I need to talk. The other Slytherin nodded, indicating she would wait for them after class, and Nastya turned back in her seat. Laws wanted to groan, Dorea was always with Nastya! It wasn't fair that they had most of their classes together. She glanced at the head of red-hair that was sitting at the side of Henrietta Fronsac.

"Maeve can go?"

"I don't think so. She is going on a date with Sean."

Nastya spluttered. "Really?"

"Yes, after becoming a chaser he finally took courage to ask her out. As a couple they seem to fit the lazy and comfortable category, is sugary cute."

"What about you, Laws? Any love interest to this year?"

It was Laws's time to splutter. And then to blush.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

When Charlus had read the Daily Prophet in the morning of 29 October, he made his promise to write a letter to his father's friends. Callender Urquarth and Theseus Scamander were men to be admired.

It was bittersweet feeling, knowing his father had been avenged. It did not soothe the pain of losing him. It did not lessen his fears or his hesitance. But the example of a promise being fulfilled so swiftly inspired him. Inspired him to be great and to follow his father's footsteps.

That day, he had rejoiced at Britain's victory. Perhaps he should be ashamed, after all many had died. But now part Durham had been freed from Grindelwald's clutches and the Potter family had its manor back again – just like several others families.

He had felt the night before a rush of magic, and now he could identify it as a magic vow being fulfilled. It had been the first time he felt at ease, after his parents' deaths. But such feeling was not made to last, because the following morning after receiving such news, the Daily Prophet announced in its headlines:

HEAD OF DMLE MURDERED AT HOME

Callender Urquarth, age 36, and his youngest daughter Petronia Urquarth, age 8, were found dead inside Urquarth Manor this dawn. Everything indicates a follower of Grindelwald as the assassin. His post was immediately assumed by Caligula Carrow, age 29. Mr. Urquarth has served the Ministry since 1924, and in his career he has successfully imprisoned many criminals and most recently won the battles of Wilkins's Hill, Coteau de Sylphide, Stein von Fossegrimen and Nimue's Grimoire. He is survived by two children: Elphinstone Urquarth, age 13, and Augusta Urquarth, age 11.

For more information on Caligula Carrow and the Departament of Magical Law Enforcement, see page 3.

For more information on the murder's investigation, see page 5.

For more information on Callender Urquarth's life, see page 6.

The newspaper in his hands caught fire, and he felt something very unsettling rising through his throat. Fear and sorrow were once again more than present. His eyes looked around the Great Hall in search for Elphinstone, a fellow yearmate in ravenclaw, and Augusta, that would be found at his table – if she was there. But they obviously weren't. Theseus Scamander, Elphinstone's godfather and Urquarth's right-hand, should have picked them in school. And brought them home.

To the corpses of their father and baby sister.

Wilhelmina and Brutus Scrimgeour, Natalie and Euphemia Twonk, Elphinstone and Augusta Urquarth, Alastor Moody, himself and his brother Fleamont. They had played together in childhood. Out of his father's friends, only Scamander was a bachelor. But their friendship hadn't lasted – Euphemia Twonk was still Augusta's best friend but otherwise he had seen none of them interacting. Brutus, Natalie and Elphinstone were in his year – Merlin, Natalie was his housemate! – but they had never talked in the grounds of Hogwarts. Alastor was a first year just like Euphemia and Augusta, a Slytherin, but he had never approached them, not even Fleamont, that used to be his best mate. He wanted to give his condolences to the children of such honourable man, but he doubted he would find the opportunity to.

And then was Petronia. She had been a baby the last time he saw her, and they had all found her bothersome. Nevertheless, they had nicknamed her Pet, and he had been very fascinated by those little hands. She had been the only baby he met until now. A very fat baby, with a crown of dark hair and eyes. Her mother Helene had died giving birth to her. They were together, right now.

Charlus went in search for his brother this time.