It was the cold that James noticed first. It was the first sign that something was not quite right. The stagnant, gelid air drove needles into every inch of his exposed fresh. His breath misted before him, wallowing about in the lack of any sort of breeze.

He clamped his teeth shut to keep them from chattering as he surveyed the area he'd entered. This was no antechamber in the Department – of that he was certain. There was not a door in sight. Even the one he had entered through had faded away to nothing the moment it slammed shut in his wake. All around him was a flat, expansive plain. A slate grey sky offered a dull, source-less light. It left the landscape bathed in a monochromatic wash emanating from everywhere at once.

Permafrost soil crunched beneath James' feet as he spun on the spot. In every direction, the horizon melded into the iron-hued sky in a blurry, muted smudge that his eye couldn't quite discern. There was no sense of distance, yet at the same time, James knew that the open space all around him was interminable. It stretched on in every direction, flat, featureless, lifeless.

But nothing quite screamed wrongness as much as the movement from the corner of his eye. Wherever he looked, everywhere he turned, something lurked there, just out of reach. It shifted and writhed. A pale, formless, shape. Or shapes. Shimmering softly. A silver-flecked glow against the formless grey that surrounded on all sides. But no matter how hard he looked, or how fast he turned, it was like reaching the end of a rainbow. Each time, it shifted further and further from his grasp.

The pool of softly furling mist gathering a hand's breadth above Rain's lips was the only indication that she still lived. James didn't know how much longer that would last as he cast around for some way out. The realisation of just where they were had dawned on him in a sudden, heart-stopping revelation.

Cassie's words replayed in his mind, a dim echo of her worried tone. 'I wouldn't want to risk it…'

James had walked, wide-eyed stupid, right through Death's Door.

The silence all around him was eerie. No, that was wrong. It went beyond eerie, to the oppressive, all encompassing, and terrifying. There was simply no sound at all. James' own breaths, and the rapid flutter of his heart were all that filled his ears, trying feebly to fill that fathomless void, but succeeding in nothing more than rattling around in the sea of nothing, the sounds all the more conspicuous in their loneliness for the size of the hole they failed to fill.

A gradual coalescing of mist at Rain's feet caught James' attention. This time, the shape did not disappear under scrutiny. James felt a chilling sensation sweep over him, and took a fearful step backwards before he could stop himself. A figure stood behind him, born of mist but now undeniably solid, looming more than two times his own height.

The figure seemed to be little more than a hovering amalgamation of faded, roughspun black robes, upon first glance. A deep, shadowed hood precluded any chance at discerning a face from within the swirling, shrouded depths. Where the fabric dragged along the ground, the edges were frayed, and faded to a grey-brown by mud and wear. What passed for the creature's arms were folded at its waist – a laughably demure posture for something so menacing.

'W-who are you?' James stammered. Though he had a fair idea.

'If I do not answer, will it make this any less real to your mind?'

The voice was the rasp of ash blowing across bones. It came from within the hood, with a sibilant hiss, but echoed through James' skull, as if the entire air spoke to him.

'What is this place?' James cleared his throat in a feeble attempt to make his voice sound less plaintive. He tried again. 'Where are we?'

'It has many names among Muggle and Wizard, alike. Many attribute meaning to its existence, though there is none to be found. Some say it is a reward, others a penance. You are dead, child Potter, and this is the afterlife.' The creature spread its arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture that still revealed no hands beneath the myriad folds of its drooping cloak. 'Or lack thereof.'

'It can't be. I am- we are alive.'

'Your presence in my realm suggests otherwise.'

'Your realm?' James' suspicions were confirmed, and the knowledge settled on him like a heavy shroud.

'I alone, am cursed to walk these plains for eternity and shepherd these listless souls. It is a task fit to drive any to despair. No more than my sins deserve, I suppose. And besides, it's not like there's anyone around to dispute my claim.'

James thought he heard regret, in Death's voice. Or at least a bone-weary exhaustion.

'If this is your realm, then you can send us back. There must be a way. Surely it's happened before.'

Death was silent for a moment. The hooded gaze turned away from James in a gesture that was overtly pensive. When he spoke again, his raspy, grating voice was slow and thoughtful.

'You are… the first.'

Great. So James had finally achieved something his father hadn't – and it was dying.

Death moved towards Rain's recumbent form. He didn't take a step, so much as he glided across the ground. The distance between them just seemed to suddenly be shrinking. The tattered ends of his cloak trailed behind. He left no footprints or discernible impression in the earth.

James positioned himself firmly between Rain and Death, acutely aware of the feeble grasp the former currently had on her life. He gripped his wand tightly, gathering strength from its familiar feel beneath is fingers.

'You can't have her. You'll have to go through me, first.'

'Oh, I will… Death comes for everyone. There is no truth more absolute.'

'Reducto!' The jet of red light burst from James' wand and tore clean through Death's figure. The spell didn't even stir the thick weave of his cloak.

Death didn't move, but a sibilant, wheezing sound filled James' ears, like wind stirring dust on a barren plain. It took James a while to realise that Death was laughing.

'Some whimper in fear, some are indignant, some spit in my face long after they are within my embrace. But they die all the same, in the end: alone, and fearful.'

James was terrified. He took a step backwards, but found himself backed up against Rain's unconscious form.

'S-send us back. Please. I'll do anything.'

'Ah, bargaining. It always comes back to bargaining.'

James' mind was racing. There was no sign of the door he'd come through. No sign of anything on this flat, lifeless wasteland. As if there would be anything laying around that he could use as a weapon against Death.

But something Death had said returned to him. He was the first. James latched on to that.

'And just how many opportunities have you had to bargain with someone who is actually still living?'

This paused Death for a moment. The figure crossed his arms once more. That eyeless regard was fixated on James. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but James thought he could read piqued curiosity in the pose.

'Once. As you well know. I smell one of them on you still. You carry his Cloak. My Cloak.'

'That's right,' James said, pushing the point. 'We are of the same blood, he and I.'

'Blood means nothing, here. It dries to dust and ashes and blows away with the wind.'

There was sweat slicking James' palms now. So much so, that it made gripping his wand difficult. His throat felt dry. He licked his lips nervously, finding them chapped and parched.

'Yet still, I have not heard a rejection.'

'You think that a life lived in my service is preferable to death? The naiveté of the living ever staggers me. Your willingness to hang on to your fleeting existence will drive you to unspeakable acts. If only you all knew… then you'd be cursing me, rather than bartering with me.'

'Send us back,' James said through gritted teeth. 'And I'll be in your debt. A debt you can call on whenever you see fit.'

James fought to keep his voice level. He wrestled with his terror to keep his eyes locked on the swirling darkness in the centre of Death's hood. When in truth, the fear ran wild within him. Like a beast unleashed, it rattled against the confines of his body, and everything it touched, it turned to ice. Frozen and brittle and oh, so close to breaking.

'The price is everything to you, but as nothing to me. Very well, then, it is done,' Death spoke. There was laughter again, the sound of scattered bones rattling upon one another. Without warning, Death held out an arm. The sleeve of his robe fell away revealing a hand of dried, desiccated skin that was more bone than flesh. Tattered strips of skin hung loose like streamers of ragged leather. The joints of fingers were clearly visible. Tendons like tight, corded strings contracted as he beckoned with one finger.

James' wand slipped out of his hand before he could react. He lunged at it, but came short, and he could only watch in horror as Death took it in his cursed grip.

'No!'

He watched in horror as it crumbled to dust beneath Death's touch. His wand. It had chosen him, in what had been the most exciting day of James' life, at the time. It had seen him through everything that life had thrown at him so far. Rescuing Rain, fighting Atlanteans, holding back the Maleficent Malady, and it was gone. Now little more than so much dust littering the floor of this blasted land.

Though Death had no features that James could discern, he felt the impassive, emotionless regard like a physical weight upon him.

'A token of your new loyalty.'

For the first time, a breeze stirred the ragged ends of James' shirt. Though it didn't seem to touch Death's cloak, it built in intensity until it was tugging and teasing James' hair. It was cut with the scent of rotting ice, and the rich, sweet smell of decay. From between his feet and Death's, a fine powdery substance of iron grey began to rise. Within it, sparkling traces of something brighter. An incandescent white, that glittered like so many stars in the swirling nightscape.

The swirling dust built in intensity, roughly abrading the bare skin of his forearms, until a single drop of blood was teased free. It joined the maelstrom, snatched away hungrily to partake in the chaotic dance that slowly, gradually resided as the particles flowed together towards Death's outstretched hand.

When the wind died down, and the dust had vanished, Death held in his hand a wand.

'Ash and bone. Yours now, and forever. No other wand will work for you. You are bound to it, and it to you. A reminder of your promise. Your debt.'

James reached out to take the ash and bone wand. It sat heavy in his hand, but it was a familiar kind of weight, as if his grip didn't feel complete without it. He knew instantly that the wand was made for him.

'Th-thank you,' he stammered, uncertain.

This time, there was no mistaking the rasp of Death's laughter. He threw his hooded head back and clutched his stomach. The humanity of the gesture was striking. The eerie sound filled James' head, rattling around inside his skull to the exclusion of all else. As Death faded from James' vision, and the wasteland around them along with it, he caught a trace of Death's parting words.

'If you knew what I had in mind, you wouldn't thank me at all…'

And then there was darkness. Disorientation punctuated by the sound of familiar voices. A gentle touch. A soothing word, and then, nothing.

Fatigue hit Fred like a physical blow, as the children were bundled through the door of the Potter household. Even their frenzied, stumbling flight from the Ministry was beginning to feel like a dream. The crack and pop of spellfire merely the echo of a memory. It was only the pain in his chest that remained sharp and clear as broken glass.

The night was a still one, and clear. Fred gladly left its cool embrace for the warmth and light of the Potters' house. He stumbled over the threshold, his footsteps stilted and mechanical, his movements somehow disconnected from his brain.

The children filed in first. Then the adults, then those who were unconscious. Or worse. Three figures floated behind Uncle Ron. James, Rain and Teddy. Teddy had Ron's jacket draped over his face and chest. Nobody would look at him, and yet, Fred found his eyes drawn again and again, iron to a lodestone on that unmoving, lifeless form.

A cup of hot chocolate was pressed into his hands, steaming and sweet. Warmth flowed slowly through his fingers, arms and into his chest. He was in the kitchen. Aunt Hermione had been awaiting them. She flung herself at Ron and Ginny, and even pulled Professor Longbottom into her fierce, tear-streaked hug when he tried to stand back a ways, obviously uncomfortable.

The children gravitated towards one another. They formed a loose group, all silent introspection and distant stares as they sought answers for the terrible things they'd witnessed that night in the bottoms of their cups of hot chocolate. None spoke. Their gazes returned again and again to James and Rain's bodies.

'The children, are they-?' Hermione turned towards them. Her wide brown eyes, usually so earnest and open, housed a flickering golden fire thinly veiled behind a wave of tender concern.

'We're fine,' Fred croaked. He looked around at the ashen faces of the group. Cuts and scratches, nothing more. There were spells that could mend cuts to the flesh, but for wounds of the soul, they would have to fashion their own healing, alone.

'It's Teddy, Hermione. You must look-' Ginny urged, a quaver of fear edging in to her voice. Hermione nodded, and squeezed Ginny's upper arm.

'To the lounge then, kids,' Hermione ushered kindly. 'There's plenty of blankets. You'll sleep well, now. The drinks will help with that. A dreamless sleep.'

Fred looked down and found his mug emptied. A soft, gentle warmth was beginning to spread caressing fingers outwards from the pit of his stomach. He felt his brain slowing, and his eyelids becoming heavy already.

The group shuffled in to the lounge as directed. Mattresses and blankets littered the floor. Not wanting to be alone, the five of them huddled together, and Fred sensed sleep stealing over each of them, one by one, as they drifted off, each holding the hand of another, huddled in the centre of the room near the softly crackling fire.

But though sleep loomed over Fred's foggy mind, it arrived only fitfully, and in small doses. The pain in his chest from the spell he'd been hit with still lingered, making every breath an agony, and leaving him gazing up at the ceiling overhead, hushed, frantic conversations from the adults in the kitchen drifting through to his ears.

'…need to find Harry,' Ron whispered, not long after the kids had bedded down. 'If things escalate, we'll need him.'

There were murmured sounds of assent, and not long after that, the muted pop of Ron's apparition sounded. Cassie stirred in her sleep, in response. Fred levered himself up into a sitting position. Even in sleep, Cat wouldn't release the fierce grip she had on his hand, so he shifted around to accommodate her, ending up facing back towards the kitchen. Light leaked through the gap under the door, punctuated by shifting, darting shadows as Ginny, Hermione and Professor Longbottom moved hurriedly about beyond, tending to those more seriously wounded.

'Can't find anything wrong with James, or the red-haired one,' Ginny said. 'But they won't wake up…'

'…could be their bodies recovering,' Professor Longbottom answered.

'They both have the scent of… of-'

'I know,' cut in Hermione. 'But they're not. They're alive. They're here. They're breathing. They'll make it through.'

'And Teddy? We need St Mungo's, Hermione.'

'We can't risk St Mungo's, Ginny. Not now. If things escalate… the Ministry could be preparing to wage a punitive war on us as we speak. Usurping what was clearly a Ministry-sanctioned decision regarding Galatea Renshaw, in tandem with the attack on the Ministry. There were deaths, you said-'

'Only Steelhearts – nothing human.'

'Nevertheless. They could be knocking down our doors any minute. We can't let anyone out of our sight.'

There was apology in Hermione's voice, even Fred could make it out through the door and the haze that gripped his mind. He couldn't' quite grasp the significance of what Aunt Hermione had been saying. War? Was retaliation by the ministry that big of a threat…? Then he recalled the blood-spattered stone as Ron crushed the life from the Steelhearts, and the sight of another riven through by a spell from Ginny, clutching feebly at a throat that barely held a head onto its shoulders…

Cold fear slid into the blankets beside him, and he felt it slip a chilling hand up his shirt to grip his heart and whisper soft promises of despair as he finally succumbed to the sleep and drifted off. Though there were no dreams, there was a constant, lurking terror that chased him through blackness unending.

When he awoke again, it was to a gentle tapping at the window. There was still movement in the kitchen. He could hear Hermione mumbling a string of incantations, and Professor Longbottom clinking and shuffling what must have been vials and glassware. At the window to the room, a regal looking owl tapped on the glass with its beak. It bore a bundle of letters strapped to one leg.

Extricating himself softly from Cat's grip, Fred shuffled across the room, wrapped in a blanket, to let the bird in. It didn't wait around after he released the letters – clearly, no response was required. He watched it take off into the night, disappearing through the opaque haze splashed across the night sky by the wards that Ginny was even now reinforcing, her figure discernible out on the back lawn with her wand in the air, suffused by a soft, pale glow.

The envelopes were thick, cream parchment of premier quality. He turned the top one over, and found it addressed to himself.

Mr. F. Weasley, II

Lounge Floor, Mattress Nearest the Fireplace

Potter Residence,

Godric's Hollow

He knew before he even saw the stamp that the letters would bear the Hogwarts crest. He slipped his thumb under the wax seal and broke it, his hands shaking as he did so. For a moment, electric fear won out over the fugue state of his mind, and Fred's eyes darted through the letter, skimming the text written in precise, neat handwriting.

…expulsion effective immediately… assault on Ministry official… flight from justice revokes right to a trial… Azkaban… Calantha Merriweather.

Eventually, Fred could take no more. He cast his eyes over the rest of the group, still sleeping peacefully. He turned to the fireplace and tossed the stack of letters into the flames, watching with a grim satisfaction as they curled and blackened. The wax seals bubbled and melted, contorting into a mien of death as they seeped through the logs and became buried in the ashes.

'Shit.'

Fred turned at Professor Longbottom's curse coming through from the kitchen. He made his own way back down to the floor, and levered himself back into position next to Cat, wincing as the movement sent aches through his chest.

'…need to go,' the professor was saying. 'Or else we're at risk of losing Hogwarts. Between Zoe and myself, we should be able to hold them at bay. For the moment. But we need Harry to succeed. It all comes down to him.'

There was a long wait before Hermione replied. Fred strained his ears, thinking he might have missed it.

'Somehow,' she whispered. 'It always does.'

With another faint pop, the sounds of conversation died out through the door, and Fred could hold sleep at bay no longer.

'…yours is not the only light burning through the night, this evening.'

A new voice. Deep, calming, implacable. Like the gentle rumble of distant thunder. Fred rolled over on his mattress, facing once more the faint glow under door to the kitchen. He was careful not to disturb any of the others. Before him, the last flames of the fire had died. A low light smouldered from the heart of the ashes still left in the grate, giving off a pale semblance of its previous warmth.

'But what can we do, Kingsley? We don't want a fight. Merlin, we've still got the kids in the house!'

Fred saw the shadows shifting through the crack in the door. The clink of glasses sounded, and the gentle sloshing of a liquid being poured. Kingsley was ruminating on his answer before replying.

'They're as scared as you are, Ginny. There's not a Wardsmith in the country that is sleeping tonight. Ministry officials all over are preparing as if this was the first blow in an all-out war.'

'But it was nothing of the sort-'

'And we know that. They will too, eventually. It is their own secrecy that hurts them. The layers of bureaucracy that hide the truth in their convoluted shadows. So deftly hidden that for each one peeled back, another takes its place, and each time, they become more filled with uncertainty and fear until all within are too paralysed with terror to do anything but exactly what they are told. The left hand fears retribution from the right.

'In short, none at the Ministry – save maybe a handful – knew what was going on in those dark stone basements. Their response now is a mere frightened knee-jerk.'

'Then you must speak to them, Kingsley,' Fred heard Hermione urge. A solid thunk sounded as a glass was set down heavily. 'There's a peace to be brokered here, I can feel it. Albeit an ugly one. One that'll leave both sides unhappy with the outcome.'

A low, gravelly sound that Fred realised was Kingsley chuckling came through the door. 'Then that probably means it's a good compromise, doesn't it?'

'Please, Kingsley.'

'Aye, I'll see what I can do. I've a few contacts left still. Come the morning, you'll have your peace.'

Another pop, and a pair of sighs sounded from the kitchen. Fred could practically see Hermione and Ginny sagging against the benchtop. Another clink sounded, followed by the sloshing of liquid.

'Fuck it,' Fred heard Ginny hiss. 'Just pass me the damn bottle….'

There was a faint greying of the sky off to the east, when Fred arose for the final time. The dreamless sleep potion that had been laced in his hot chocolate had worn off, and had abandoned him to a fitful sleep filled with dreams where he was pursued by figures made of broken glass. They chassed him through dark corridors, over and over. And every time, they caught him, brought him in to their jagged embrace. Jammed fists down his throat to tear out his lungs, leaving him choking on blood, coughing, his world one of red-laced agony…

He awoke to see a spattering of foamy blood on the pillow he'd been using. He scrubbed hard with his sleeve, but succeeded only in smearing it further into the fabric. He flipped it over to the cleaner side, and stretched, arcing his back and rolling his shoulders.

Through the window, the bruised purple-blue sky was riven with cracks of gold showing through the gaps in the clouds. The grainy grey outline of trees could be made out, shivering in the gentle breeze. The first and most eager of the birds were coming to life, rejoicing in night's release and welcoming the rising sun.

A few of the others were similarly stirring when the front door crashed open, sending Fred diving for his wand, his ragged nerves still in tatters. Cat jerked awake, elbowing Cassie in the process. Tristan sat upright, aiming a wild punch at nothing in particular. Clip just gave a snore and rolled over, wrapping the blankets tighter around himself. The boy could sleep through a hurricane.

But out in the kitchen, Fred heard exclamations of joy. Exhalations that were tinged with relief. Like the grim anticipation that had built up throughout the whole night was let out in the soft whisper of Ginny and Hermione's sighs.

Harry had returned.

Fred heard Ron's muffled voice cut short as Hermione gave a very un-Hermione-like squeal of joy. But it was James' voice that Fred heard through the door – stretched and brittle, though it was – that had him bolting upright and lunging towards the kitchen in a heartbeat. He didn't need to look behind him to know that all of the others – even Clip, this time – were right behind.

Fred threw the door open and was greeted by the wide-eyed stares of the adults, and Ron and Hermione locked in a fierce embrace.

The kitchen had been entirely repurposed over the course of the night, and was now looking like a triage ward at St Mungo's – that was, if the medi-witches all had serious drinking problems. The table had been Transfigured into a comfortable stretcher, and Teddy's form lay upon it. His face was entirely covered in bandages, so that Fred could see nothing but for his lips and nose, but his chest was rising and falling gently – he was going to make it. Another figure lay curled up on a makeshift bed in a bay window overlooking the back yard. Strands of red-gold hair tumbled out from under the covers, spilling over the floor and catching the first rays of the morning sunlight like a pool of liquid gold.

No fewer than three empty wine bottles, and one that had once held Firewhiskey, littered the benchtops. Ginny still clutched a half-full glass in one hand. She held fiercely onto her husband's shirt with the other.

Quick as a flash, James bolted from where he'd been busy hugging his parents and barrelled into Fred with a whoop of joy. Pretty soon, all six of them were slowly sinking to the floor in one laughing, sobbing tangle of arms and legs and emotions.

Standing around them, the four adults looked down at the children, and saw themselves reflected in the inexorable strength of spirit that was on display. And though the greater part of them knew they'd never wanted this life for the next generation, they couldn't help but be fiercely proud, as they witnessed them stepping out from the long shadows they all had cast.

'Well, I dunno about the rest of you,' Ron finally said. 'But I need a drink. I damn well know I'm getting to old for all of this.'

There was a round of laughter, and a moment of sheepish glances exchanged between the children at their open and emotive display in front of the adults.

Glasses were handed around – even the children were allowed a small nip of Firewhiskey – 'they've bloody well earned it,' said Ron – just as the sound of more figures entering through the open door reached them.

Fred wasn't the only one who went for his wand. He saw Tristan and Cat both do the same, but a calming gesture from Harry stayed their hands.

'One would think,' came an exasperatingly-familiar voice. 'That a lady might get a little help climbing all of these cursed stairs!'

'I was rather hoping that you were a vampire, Miss Sayre,' Harry called out, flashing the children a cheeky grin as he did so. 'And that without my invitation you'd be forced to wait outside, and we'd be spared the burden of your company. Besides, you're the one who chose to wear heeled boots.'

It was with an almost comically-exaggerated sigh that Wren Sayre – Professor Sayre, Fred had to remind himself – entered in through the front door, supporting, upon her arm, a very much worse-for-wear Headmistress Renshaw.

As the closest to them, Fred set down his drink and darted in to help.

'Away with you!' Wren hissed. 'I'm perfectly capable of doing this myself.'

Harry caught Fred's eye across the room, and somehow managed to convey see what I've had to put up with through his gaze alone.

Headmistress Renshaw – Fred had no problem think of her as still being a teacher – brushed off Wren's ministrations and made her way over to one of the chairs which had been pushed up against the wall of the dining room. She eased herself into it with a groan, and gestured for Ginny to keep pouring no fewer than three times as she offered her a drink.

The once-Headmistress of Hogwarts certainly looked as if she had fallen on hard times. Her skin was stretched and taught, like faded parchment over the angled, jutting bones of her cheeks and eye sockets. Her eyes themselves were sunken and hollow, the whites now more of a faded yellow. She had a cloak wrapped around her body, as she was clothed in little more than tattered rags. Fred had known she wasn't young, but the wear made her look far older than he'd ever envisaged.

But despite that, she still sat straight-backed in her chair, she still met the eyes of everyone in the room. She still sat with her shoulders back and her chin up, a veritable picture of the term unbroken.

'A productive night all around, then,' Fred spoke into the silence that followed.

'Ahem,' sulked Wren. 'I should think I deserve a drink as well.'

It seemed Harry was enjoying this. Fred once again found himself in the line of fire as the closest one to the bottle, and shuffled over to pour one for Professor Sayre.

'At least someone here has found their manners,' Wren huffed.

'Careful Fred,' Harry warned. 'If you get too close she'll bite you, and suck out your soul.'

'I am not a vampire!' This time, Wren actually went so far as to stamp her foot in anger. Even Headmistress Renshaw gave a tired smile as the group chuckled.

Fred handed Wren the drink, noting the nasty mesh of half-healed scars that now criss-crossed the pale skin of her forearms. The dried blood in the corner of her mouth. Perhaps her assertion that she'd earned it wasn't too far from the truth. By way of peace offering, he offered her a smile as he held the drink out.

As thanks, she snatched it from him and sneered, perhaps mistaking the smile as being at her expense.

'If it's a soul she's after, she might have a hard time with Fred,' Tristan quipped from where he stood – a safe distance away – by the window.

'Careful now son,' Ron warned with a smile. 'You're almost outnumbered here.'

He, Ginny and Fred all glared menacingly at Tristan for a moment, before the entire room burst out laughing.

This time, the smiles made it all the way to their eyes. And thus, the healing from the night's horrors began in earnest.

'So… what's next?' Ron eventually asked as he drained the last of his drink.

'We should hear from Neville soon,' Harry said, checking his watch. 'When news of Galatea's vindication breaks, the Ministry control over Hogwarts will fall away. In taking so long to choose a predecessor, they've left the door wide open for the Headmistress to return to her role unimpeded.'

'I think,' Headmistress Renshaw added in a rasping imitation of her usual imperious tone. 'That the unfortunate death of a student while under Ministry watch should be enough of a black mark to ensure that they never get their power-hungry claws around my school ever again. Why, I can practically see the public outcry already.'

Fred saw James' mouth twist uncomfortably at mention of that. He could see the weight that bowed his friends back. That he thought himself at least partly responsible was clear to Fred's well-tuned eyes.

'That news is out, then?' Harry asked, raising a brow.

'I should think not. Not beyond the poor child's family. But if you lend me the use of your owl, I'll make sure the right people are the first to know.'

A devious little smile stole across the headmistress' features for a moment, and Fred was under no illusions that Galatea Renshaw wouldn't be back to her old, formidable self in no time.

'Merlin, but I love getting one over on the French,' Ron sighed, draining his glass and setting it back upon the kitchen bench. Hermione, you should have seen their faces! Sacré fucking bleu, alright. It was brilliant.'

'That won't be the last we hear from Valerie Dufour,' Renshaw warned. 'She'll hunt me to the ends of the earth, mark my words.'

Fred noted Harry looking like he was about to speak up and ask a question, but he quieted himself at the last moment. Fred shared a knowing glance with James – they'd seen a little more than they'd have liked to of just how fiery the relationship between the two Headmistresses really was, on a night that right now felt like a lifetime ago.

'Alright,' Harry announced suddenly, clapping his hands together. 'Rest. First watch is mine. Ron, I'll wake you in a few hours.'

There were a few complaints, but it was clear to Fred's eyes that all of the adults were in bad need of some sleep.

'Have faith in Kingsley,' Harry assured them. 'He's as good a politician now as he was an Auror in his youth. He'll make it very clear to enough people that the tale of the kidnapping and torture of a fourteen-year-old girl getting out would be far more trouble than its worth for the chance to silence us for good.

'We're not a bunch of scared thirteen-year-olds any more. Our word against theirs actually means something. We can do now, what we couldn't back then. What Dumbledore couldn't do for us to save Sirius.'

There was a round of bleary nods as the adults shuffled off one by one. They all found beds or mattresses within the Potter house – none wanted to be alone, despite Harry's assurances of their safety.

The children milled about in the kitchen. James seemed eager to stay near Rain. Harry shuffled off to sink into his armchair in the lounge and stare into the burning coals, as if seeking some deep, meaningful answer among the dying ashes.

'It feels like an empty victory,' James eventually said. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, instead staring at a point on the floor towards the centre of the group, who remained scattered around the kitchen, leaning upon benches or seated on stools and chairs.

Fred had only been in the presence of his cousin and best friend for a handful of minutes while both of them were conscious, but he was acutely aware that there was something… different, about James. Something had happened to him and Rain when they'd been split up in the flight from the Ministry. It was something, Fred felt, that they'd have a hard time getting out of him. For all his good intentions, and desire to help his friends, James Potter had a habit of keeping a few, precious secrets very close to his chest. Especially where Rain was concerned.

Nonetheless, it pained Fred to see him so. As if James had been hollowed-out, somehow. And he was now missing something. Or perhaps that wasn't quite right. Perhaps there was something else there. Something that enshrouded him, placing itself between the real James, and the rest of them. It was something cold and ashen and lifeless.

'We did all we could, mate,' Tristan offered, absentmindedly polishing a scuff out of his wand. 'We were lucky to get out of there alive.'

'They took a year of her life,' James retorted. 'They did… who even knows what to her. We're not even sure if she'll wake up again. And we're supposed to be happy that they can just walk away? Be grateful that they don't come after us?'

'But we beat them,' Fred echoed. 'We did what we came for. I don't think we could ask for any more than that.'

'It's not enough,' James urged. Fred could see his fist balled in his pocket – gripping on to his wand, no doubt. Fred had yet to see him draw it since they'd returned.

'It's more than enough, James.'

Harry had reappeared in the doorway. Grainy-eyed and tousle-haired, but nevertheless alert, he surveyed the group with something that Fred could only call sympathy.

'One man can't seek to right every single wrong in the world,' Harry continued. 'It would leave him broken, spent, ruined by the sheer, soul-rending scale of it. Work on what you can control. Leave what you can't to the hands of others. We fought our wars, James, so you wouldn't have to.'

'But they-'

'Aye, James, they did wrong. It seems the Ministry is always cursed to do wrong in our eyes. Or perhaps the curse lays on us. Either way… Think on this: If I'd spent my efforts fighting perceived injustices of the Ministry instead of working to end Voldemort, the world would be a very different place, today. And I don't think we'd be better for it. Spend the effort where you're most needed, James. And right now, it's at the side of a girl who's just lost a year of her life. You – all of you – need to help her move past it. Help her forget.'

James had no reply. His mouth twisted in a way that said he was still disgruntled, but he'd worn himself out. The whole group lapsed into a quiet, pensive silence that stretched on. And little else was said for the remainder of the day, as each and every one of them sought – in their own, private way – to move out from the shadow of what had passed. To move on.

A/N: Just one final chapter to go to finish off book four. And in it, there's one final revelation left for our little gang of heroes. I'd love to hear your feedback if you're enjoying the story so drop your boy a review and let me know how you felt.