Otherwise known as: How Luna tore apart the fabric of reality so that her friends could get decently laid, and accidentally saved the world in the process.

A/N: Hello! Welcome to Chapter Fifty-Three! Swears! Big bad swears! I don't know what happened here. Stuff? Often I write things that I feel out of context (AKA my head) make no sense but I think you're probably used to that by now.

Enjoy!

Love Always,

Eli x

Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.

Warnings: Rated M for situations, SO MUCH swearing, violence, sexual scenes... The whole lot, basically.


Iacta Alea Est

Chapter Fifty-Three


Luna appeared, alone, on the familiar pathway she'd trodden every day for seventeen years. The day was a bright one – unseasonably hot, the air muggy and thick, as though the world was on pause. Something was coming, she recognised. Something stronger than the storm that brewed off beyond the horizon.

In the distance stood her house, strong and proud against the sky. People had often described it as odd, deriding it for its eccentricity, but Luna couldn't see it as anything other than home. The seat of generations upon generations of Lovegoods, and at that very moment, the place that housed her mother and father in the first years of their marriage.

Hermione had objected to Luna taking this mission, of course. And then she'd objected to her doing it alone. But Luna, though dippy and sometimes detached, couldn't stand the thought of someone else bringing this request to her parents. Even she could identify all the myriad problems that could crop up here, but she couldn't help herself. The lure of seeing her mother on this side of the grave was too strong.

The sun was shining, not at all giving the appearance of a day in which she was likely to make a huge, world-ending mistake, and she trusted the weather's opinion on the matter. Around her, flowers bloomed, the path littered with cherry blossom that felt like cushions under her bare feet. She liked that; liked the sensations she could detect. Her dislike for shoes wasn't simply an eccentricity, it was a necessity – a girl such as herself who existed between worlds needed something to hold her down, to remind herself that she yet lived. The scratch, stroke, crunch of textures beneath her sole and between her toes brought her awareness back where it should be gently, without endangering her sanity.

It was the same with Regulus, now. Whenever she thought she was floating away, being absorbed into the greater world, he was there to hold her down. His fingers linked with hers, the soft brush of his lips against her skin, his voice as he spoke her name; all of these kept her in her body, and kept her wanting to be in her body, too. She couldn't be lured by the awesome alternate realities of existence if she loved him, wanted to return to him.

Behind her, she noticed smoke spiralling upwards over the hills. The Burrow. Something flickered in her mind, a dancing temptation, whispering coaxing words to her brain. Her feet moved before she could think to stop them, carrying her back down the hill towards Ottery St. Catchpole, and she went with it, not really understanding why she shouldn't.

"Greetings, Luna," softly chastising, the voice broke the siren's call, bringing her back to earth. She dug her toes into the petals beneath her until she could feel the sharp sting of the gravel beneath, so hard it broke her skin. Turning, she spotted a woman lurking beneath a tree.

"Hello," she said cautiously, tilting her head to better observe her. She was a pretty woman, with porcelain skin and ruby-red hair, and eyes so pale the iris was nearly indistinguishable from the whites. She was draped from head to foot in a translucent peach-coloured gauze, only her face and hands fully visible, though the sunlight was bright enough to take away any mystery. Something about her was familiar, scratching at Luna's brain, wanting to get out.

"Ah," the woman said, a faint smile crossing her lips. "I forget how malleable the mortal brain is. Perhaps this will help." She tipped her hand upwards, pursing her lips and blowing a short breath in Luna's direction. All at once, her memories returned.

"You're her – One," Luna muttered, eyes wide. Pressure pressed against her skin as she wandered forwards; the woman's power – Godly, devastating. It surged against her so hard as to make her pale skin paler, cutting off the flow of blood to her extremities, not unlike if she'd ran into a wall. It smothered her breath, cutting off air-flow, but she moved on. Survival instincts had been bred out of her bloodline generations back.

Struggling, she drew closer to the woman until the bubble seemed to burst, the power dissipating harmlessly into the air.

Another smile, warmer, lit One's visage. Up close, Luna could see how smudged her features were, as though she couldn't decide exactly how she wanted to look that day. Her nose appeared at once button and aquiline, her lips plush and flat, her eyes oval and slanted. Despite this, her emotions were still vibrant, written over her face. "One? That's new. But yes, indeed I am. And you are Luna, Pandora's daughter – one of the Gifted."

Nodding, Luna briefly considered curtsying then dismissed the possibility out of hand. "I am gifted." She said instead, brightly.

One chuckled warmly, and gestured towards the copse she stood sheltered in. "Come. Walk with me, my child."

Luna nodded and followed, the two of them keeping company in silence for minutes as One led her deep into the familiar woodland. Then, after a while, something occurred to Luna. "Your child?" Obviously, she knew that her mother was Pandora Lovegood, who dwelled in the house just beyond the trees, but this was bigger than that; Gods had been interfering with human existence for millenia, as her entire trip to the past proved.

One paused. "You are one of my children; Fate's children, which is why you are here," she said slowly. There was a fallen tree to one side, and she brushed blossom off of it and indicated that they should sit. "I don't think that's what you're asking, though, is it?"

Luna shook her head. "No, I didn't think so." Gazing up at sun-dappled leaves, One gave a wistful smile. "You have a gift and a curse – you knew that. It dates back… oh, so far. The women of your family have always been connected to the Other, whether through Prophecy or Necromancy or Spellcraft or…"

Shaking her head, she turned to peer at Luna out of the corner of her eyes. Luna gazed back guilelessly, just taking it all in. "Of course, your line dates back to Cassandra of Troy. It is… how do you say – mutated? Yes, the gift has mutated, with its curse. While Cassandra was cursed never to be believed, that price is paid elsewhere. No, your bloodline's cost is your… somewhat tenuous grasp on sanity."

"I'm perfectly sane," Luna retorted with a sigh. Truly, it got so tiring to constantly defend one's mental stability.

One waved her off easily. "Of course you are, dear. In fact, you are perfection – all of my children are. You, your friends, your young man. Tragic, but perfect. Well," she cocked her head to one side. "Except for the little werewolf girl. She wasn't one of mine. But she's doing so well, I might just have to adopt her.

"But, no. You are as natural as any magic child can be, if one disregards your roots. Which is rather the point of this activity, some might say."

There was a natural lull in the conversation as they both took in the environment, attuned themselves with nature. They could have been anywhere in the world except for where they were, on the brink of something that could not be undone.

"Are you certain of this?" One asked finally, not looking at Luna.

"No," she replied honestly, watching the hemlock glimmer as wrackspurts danced from flower to flower. She thought of Ginny, and her mother – warm, welcoming Molly Weasley. She thought of Hermione, and the lengths she'd gone to, the sacrifices she'd made for the war, including sending her own parents away. She thought of Lavender, who had left her father behind, a father she'd adored like the air she breathed. "It's not fair."

"You've never been one to care for fair," One hummed. "You care for the natural, for what is right. And Pandora is, as ever, required." She let out a tight laugh that seemed to coax wildlife closer, one sparrow alighting on her shoulder. "Truly, my sisters and I have never forgiven her for her past actions – they are impetuous, my sisters, but your mother is unpredictable. And she has the most wonderfully selective hearing – "don't open the box" becomes "please, open the box" and so on, so forth throughout her incarnations." One shrugged. "You are much more sensible."

Luna smiled. She loved her mother, but she'd never been someone you'd want to model yourself after – too flighty by half, easily distracted, unable to finish anything she started. And those qualities had gotten her killed, tragically, and deprived Luna of her mother, forcing the family gifts to be passed down to an unprepared, unanchored eight-year-old. Resentment wasn't an emotion she was capable of, but she understood the concept, and was glad she couldn't pull that veil over her memories of her mother. Instead, she felt a rarely used protective instinct stir. "Is this the right thing?" she said, because one didn't scold a goddess. Not even one who appeared as benign as One – Gods were never benign, and the Fates in particular were famed for their ability to detect offense in the mildest of actions.

"I cannot say," One replied mildly. "There appears to be no other course of action."

Luna squinted as the sun came out from behind a cloud, bathing their little clearing in thick, gold light, turning the air into syrup. "Hermione thinks we'll make a paradox."

"Nonsense," One scoffed. "One would have to exist in two places to create a paradox. You – or, their first child which, in the future, was you – have not yet been conceived. As well with the rest of you."

She frowned suddenly, and it was as though a storm cloud had gathered overhead, the birds falling silent, the gold-tint to the world seeping away. In the new grey dinginess, she sighed. "The problem with the Gifted is that they cannot be so easily overwritten. It is much simpler with the others – they will never be born, therefore they simply exist. They have no parents; we have gifted them with family. Their home is now here, and if their parents passed them in the street there would only be the faintest hint of recognition. The redhead – Ginevra – should she come across her mother, her mother would recognise her as a distant cousin of her husband, recently returned from the – is it the Colonies? I often forget, you humans rename things so frequently. She fits. Family is still family, just not in the same way. You understand this?"

Luna nodded. It made sense, in a way.

"You, however. There is no way in which we could manipulate the world, with what limited power as we have remaining, that would make your mother forget you. And how frustrating – to not be able to make a woman forget that which she has never known! She lives up to her reputation, Pandora." She sighed again, a hissing of air through her teeth. "I doubt much harm will be done by revealing you to your mother." One stood to her full height again, and glared through the trees in the direction of the Lovegood house. "If she must be continually reincarnated in this way, she might as well make herself useful. Especially," One gave a wry smile that blew the cloud away, "if the other option is waiting fifteen years for another reliable talent to mature."

It was clear then that One was preparing to leave, and Luna hopped up from her perch. "Will I remember this?" she asked with curiosity. She thought it only fair. If the Fates were going to keep popping into her life, at some point she'd have to be allowed her memories.

One shrugged eloquently. "That's hardly my decision to make," she said, a tiny string of bitterness in her tone.

Another nod. The hierarchy of the Gods was not something she was privy to, nor understood. She'd remember if it was necessary.

"Until next time, little one," One blew her a kiss before melting into dust. The day was back to normal again; sun shining, birds singing cheerily.

Luna turned back towards her house, and wandered through the trees, lost in her own head. It was such an odd sensation, to not exist. She had no hold on the earth aside from the bonds she'd made in her time here. She was real only to her friends and Regulus, and were she to die, she'd have left no indelible mark.

Even to Luna this was a horrifying concept. All the more reason to win the war, then.


"This is nice," Ginny hummed as they drove, her head back against the rest as she gazed drowsily out of the window. "We never get to do anything together anymore."

Lavender, behind them, scoffed. "Never? This morning you woke us up at five a.m. and dragged us out to 'survey the landscape'. At high speed. That was together."

"That was different," Ginny said firmly. "You complained the whole time. This is something we can do together without any of us being forced to do something we don't want to."

"Yes, it's wonderful, if you can get past the ever looming threat of sudden death," Hermione commented drily, checking the road in the rear-view mirror. Lavender caught her eye, her own dancing with supressed laughter, and Hermione had to choke back a chuckle of her own. "But, aside from that, I agree. Spending some time together in a situation that doesn't require me to inhumanely bind my chest is nice."

"I really don't understand your hatred for sports bras," Ginny muttered sulkily. "I think they're quite comfortable."

"You would," Lavender said darkly, shooting an unsubtle glare at the other girl's miniscule chest. "I bet you've got no problem with these clothes, either." She plucked at the white trousers she'd been shoved into by a nearly delirious Lily that morning ("Oh, but you've got boobs," she'd declared with glee. "I've always wanted to dress someone with boobs!"), which constricted quite painfully around her waist. Added to that, there were suspenders – suspenders – attached which pinched the flesh of her shoulders beneath some polyester monstrosity the redhead had had the audacity to call a blouse.

"You look nice," Hermione and Ginny insisted as one, sharing amused glances. Not to be pacified, Lavender plucked at her shirt again, scowling.

"No I don't – none of us do. Honestly, Hermione – you can't possibly think that colour suits you. What shade of vomit is that, again? Baby food?"

Feeling a little set-upon despite her determination not to let Lavender get to her, she checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Ginny tutted exasperatedly. "Honestly, you two! Hermione – leave it. You look gorgeous. And the colour, Lavender, is taupe, as well you know. Now, are we really going to be those girls, who the second we get together start talking about clothes and shoes and make-up? Next you'll be asking if our periods have synced."

"They haven't," Lavender replied irritably. "Otherwise your sweaty, dirty sex with the puppy would be even more gross than I imagine it already is."

Ginny made a strangled noise in her throat before she turned in her seat to regard Lavender. "At the risk of betraying the sisterhood," she said slowly, "that explains so much."

Tightening her grip on the steering wheel so as not to smack them or, maybe, throw up, Hermione murmured, "I think I preferred the clothes conversation. Can we go back to that, or is it too late? Because I think that – whatever it is – is lovely, Gin."

Brightening, Ginny ran a self-conscious hand over the dark green jumpsuit Lily had provided for her to wear (somehow, despite her excitement at dressing "you curvy girls!", Ginny had still come out the best, what with having the same hair colour and figure as Lily). "Do you really?"

"No, it's ugly." Lavender drawled from the back. "Don't worry, though – I'll be happy to swap with you. No need to thank me, I'm just selfless like that."

Gin rolled her eyes, leaning back to snatch at a strand of Lavender's hair. "I don't think it'd suit these, Lav, or I'd love to," she smirked, shaking the handful so that the little blue-and-white beads she'd added to her braids clicked together. Scowling, Lavender snatched it away, a splash of pink highlighting her cheeks.

"I like beads, okay?" she snapped defensively. "Merlin forbid you do anything nice with your hair."

Hermione hid a laugh in a cough, nimbly switching gears as she moved onto a roundabout. "I think," she said loudly over whatever Ginny was about to say, "that when Lavender starts to sound like Mrs. Weasley, it becomes time to change the subject."

"Oh, gods, yes please," Lavender recoiled sharply.

"Alright, then. How far, Gin?"

Ginny pulled a sheet of parchment from Hermione's bag, which she kept safe in her lap. The writing on this one, however, was Ginny's. It contained a series of important addresses; those Harry had collected during the future war, which Ginny remembered. She didn't have the address for the Gaunt house, but she did have the one for Riddle's, which they followed now. "Maybe a half mile?" she thought aloud, consulting the map she'd spread across the dashboard. "Keep following this road."

Hermione nodded, lifting a hand to thank a driver when they gave way. "You remember the plan, don't you?"

"Find the ring. Don't touch it. Don't put it on." Lavender scoffed quietly. "It's not exactly rocket science, 'Miney."

"Don't call me that," Hermione snapped reflexively. "I remember plotting out something a bit more complex."

"Not overly." Lavender's mass of hair bobbed in the background. "Can we put the radio on, please?"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione flipped the switch and the car was filled with a familiar chirpy song. She stifled a groan, hearing Ginny do the same as the lorry – not heavy enough to balance itself – began to rock with Lavender bopping around in the backseat. "ABBA!" The blonde shrieked, raising her hands in the air and wiggling her whole body as much as she could within the constraints of the seatbelt. "Turn it up! Turn it up!"

"Don't you dare," Hermione growled when Ginny's hand crept forward. She could see the tune infecting her redheaded friend as it played on, her fingers twitching with the urge to dance. "I'm warning you, Ginevra!"

Round brown eyes met hers helplessly before she spun the knob.

"WELL I CAN DANCE WITH YOU HONEY, IF YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY, DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW THAT YOU'RE OUT!"

She only barely resisted the urge to smash her head against the window until it bled. Ginny was flicking her hair around madly in tune to the music, while Lavender sang – loudly, tunelessly, more in line with shouting – her little heart out. Maybe if she crashed the car, they would stop this nonsense?

Watching Lavender bounce nearly out of her seat like a small child, Hermione discarded that plan. Nothing, nothing on earth could keep Lavender from singing this god-awful song.

Ten minutes, three more songs – Siouxsie might think she knew Banshees, but she hadn't yet heard Lav's attempts at harmonising – and a splitting headache later, a hush crept over them. They had reached the boundary of Little Hangleton. It was a sleepy village, so much so that Hermione reached automatically to turn the radio off completely, feeling instinctually that playing it would disturb these people's lives in an unforgivable way. They drifted into the centre slowly, in first gear so that even in this old van their passage was muted. None of them said a word, instead slipping seamlessly into their persona's for when Hermione pulled up at the curb.

Somehow, Hermione had thought there would be something about Little Hangleton that betrayed the darkness that had grown here – a sinister vibe in whatever small way; glaring old crones, out-of-control children throwing rocks, bankrupted shops – and it was unpleasant to realise she was wrong. In her prejudice she'd been tense their whole ride in, a ridiculous waste of energy. The main street was lined with pleasant community shops – a grocers, a confectioners, a butchers, even a florists that seemed to be doing a brisk trade, all pretty boxes in windows and pleasant brightly-striped canopies. The quiet atmosphere wasn't about a lack of people – indeed, there were a fair few out and about, some old, some young – but more a sort of respect for the environment in which they lived. People greeted one another as they passed with smiles and pleasant words, stopping for whole conversations, carried out at a low volume on the streets.

Hermione was pleased to note that the younger population were dressed similarly to the three of them, though the native's clothes were more worn, and some of them had a distinctly home-made air about them. A seamstress had a tiny shopfront at the edge of the street, and a homeless charity had set up one of their own a few doors down, but there was no place a person might buy clothes new.

She'd parked outside the sweet shop, and Ginny swanned inside, gaining appreciative looks from a pair of stocky men stood talking outside of the butcher's. Hermione took note of them as she scanned the street in preparation for her part. One of them, from his apron and youth, must have been the butcher's apprentice, and that was who she targeted, smiling benignly as she wandered closer.

"Hello," she said, affecting shyness to cover her nerves. She was always nervous around new people, and as that could manifest in either bossiness or stuttering, they'd all decided shy was the better way to go. 'These are small-town people,' Ginny had said, the voice of experience. 'It's 1979. You can't bring your big-city ideas and your feminist ideology there. Better to play it weak and feminine.' So she did, because she liked to think she'd learned when to defer to other's expertise. "Is this Little Hangleton?"

The butcher's apprentice raked a leer over her figure, and she bit her lip to keep from scolding him. Up close, he was probably a year or two younger than her, his friend a year older. Both of them were smoking foul-smelling roll-ups. "Aye, lass," the older one said, nudging his friend when his eyes appeared to stall on her cloth-covered breasts. Because the Gods forbid they lost that thin veneer of respectability. "What about it?"

She held onto her smile for dear life. "Ah, see – my friends and I drove out from York for a picnic, and someone said there was a lovely spot around here someplace." She waved gaily at the two hills that bracketed the village, visible rising high over the steeple of the church. "But it turned out it's all uphill!" Eyeing his expression, she decided to try a giggle on for size, see if that sold it. It came out sounding thin and odd, slightly strangled, and she could feel her braincells bailing out.

The young one still appeared mildly interested (in her tits) but the older one was eyeing her with suspicion. "Y'came all the way out 'ere for a picnic?" he asked dubiously. "Could'a gone t' seaside instead."

Blood heated the inside of her cheeks as she spread her hands helplessly. "I don't like sand?"

Thankfully, before she could humiliate herself any further, rescue arrived in the form of an arm linking through hers from behind.

"Hermione," Lavender said in the mildly husky voice she'd obtained from the damage to her vocal cords during the attack. Suddenly, in this scenario, Hermione could see its benefits. "Gin wondered if you want lemon or cherry." She tossed a smile at the two men, who looked as if Christmas had come early. Hermione noticed that her friend had opened three of the five buttons on her shirt, showing off an obscene amount of cleavage and scarlet bra, and she'd arranged her hair so that it covered the majority of her scars. Clever.

Suddenly Hermione felt exhausted and frumpy. Really, flirting wasn't for her. She should have left it to Lavender from the start, but they'd been concerned that her scars would detract from the image, so they'd both argued her down. Really, she needed to stop underestimating that girl. "Lemon," she replied with a sweet smile, but Lavender wasn't listening.

"Who might you be?" she was purring, tapping the apprentice on the arm (playfully? Hermione honestly had no idea).

"Ben," the apprentice sighed. His mate identified himself as 'Dave'.

"Ah, Ben and Dave. And you're a butcher? Wow. Isn't that… icky?" Lavender gave a delicate shudder. "It's not for me, I think. I'd never be able to look my poor puppy in the eyes again." She shifted to meet Dave's eyes, and continued as if he'd asked, "his name's Moony, and he's the sweetest little thing. About – oh, say, this big?"

Hermione swallowed back a retch at the obvious gesture.

"I bet," Dave murmured, mesmerised by Lavender's swaying hips. She could probably make a fortune if she went on tour with that trick.

"It's so lucky she found you," Lavender breathed next, clutching Ben's arm excitedly. "We could do with more meat." She leaned in conspiratorially, and Ben leaned in too – Hermione had no idea what he was expecting, her to snog him on the street? He looked disappointed when she went for his ear, instead, and said "Ginny's a veggie, you know, and she makes the worst sandwiches. We always have to smuggle in some chicken, don't we, 'Mione!"

"Don't call me that," Hermione mumbled, though it went ignored.

"We do have chicken," Ben nodded, "and beef. Sausages, if you want them."

"A veritable feast!" Lavender cried. "You've saved us from a slow death of boring food!"

Really, it was horrible to watch Lavender flirt so outrageously, so Hermione stayed outside the shop as Lavender was taken in on Ben's arm. He fell over himself to please her, and she repaid him with endless touches – to his arm, his chest, a hip-bump once. Eventually, Ginny wandered over, sucking on a glass bottle of lemonade. "Where's Lav – oh."

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, taking the drink she was offered. "Does that really work?"

"I don't know," Ginny shrugged. "I don't bother with all that fluff. Generally, Harry was the flirter. I'm rubbish at it."

Hermione went to nod, then froze. "Ginny," she began, feeling like an awful person. "Why don't I miss him?"

"Who, Harry?" Her eyes widened as she thought it through. "Oh – fucking hell."

"You don't either, do you?"

She shook her head thoughtfully. "No. I don't think I've even thought about missing him for days. And I've – oh, I'm horrible, aren't I?"

"What?" Hermione turned to her in confusion, seeing the colour drain from her. "Why? Because of Sirius?"

"Yeah." Biting her lip, she went on, "it just doesn't seem right – I'm shagging his Godfather, surely I should be feeling guilty?"

"Well, if you think you should, maybe that's as good as feeling guilty?" Hermione suggested, her brow furrowed. "Like, you're feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, so in the absence of the first amount of guilt, the second – and worst – might make up for it?"

Ginny peered at her doubtfully. "I don't know… do you feel guilty?"

"I was raised a Protestant, Gin. I always feel guilty."

Lavender danced out of the shop, calling goodbyes to her new friends as she thrust two bags into Hermione's hands. "Mission accomplished!" she cheered.

"Is this necessary?" Ginny asked, peering into the bag. "Ooh – sausage rolls! I take that back, of course it was necessary."

Hermione snorted and yanked them back. "We're not going to eat them," she scolded, adding a "yet" when Lavender looked stricken. "We came here on a mission, remember?"

"I remember." Lavender hummed, though it didn't stop her from sneaking a finger into the bag closest her as they returned to the car. "You don't know how painful that was, though – I went for flirting level '70's porn star', and now I feel dirty. A bacon bap would really help with that."

"You'll have to make do with lemonade," Hermione handed her own bottle back over the seat as she strapped in. "Please tell me one of you got directions, at least?"

"Yep," Ginny nodded, tossing a mint from the glove compartment back to Lavender when the girl continued to attempt grand-theft-pastry. "Two options for 'scenic picnic spots'; just below the graveyard, or there's a snicket on the southern edge of the village that lets out in a patch of woodland."

"There, then," Hermione nodded, already heading out in that direction.

"Not the graveyard, definitely," Lavender said through a mouthful of mint. "Dave says it's haunted."

"Again, Lav – not here for a picnic."

"And here I thought you'd gotten fun," she pouted.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I fear you've been severely misled."


They parked on a street of smaller cottages and Ginny led them to the snicket, a tiny one-man-wide passageway between two sweet little ivy-covered homes. It was dark even in the sunlight, and stretched on much further than either house or garden, before ending abruptly where wilderness had taken over and the old passageway crumbled into dust. They were shaded by trees as they wandered out, the ground covered in snapped branches and bracken.

"He said kids often come this way to prat about after school," Ginny informed them as they stepped gingerly over the ground. "But they never go further than a mile's walk. He didn't say why, but his face got all funny, so I think we're on the right track."

They were indeed, for after about ten minutes the debris of human remains – bottle caps, broken toys and the like – tapered off into nothing, and a sense of foreboding stole over them. Hermione couldn't feel any magical influence in it, but it was creepy all the same, especially as a cloud drifted over the sun and they were plunged into a grey half-light. She batted away midgies that came to feast on the rotting plants and glanced around for the origin of the feeling.

"There," Lavender said, pointing off to the side. "I can see – is that a hut?"

It was a hut; once a house that had been assimilated into the surrounding bush, all that was visible at first sight were a few tiny, grimy windows and an ivy-eaten door. There was something hanging from it, something dried up and scaley. "Snake-skin," she said aloud, nauseous all over again. "I reckon this is the right place."

"But there aren't any wards," Ginny murmured. "Surely if he'd hidden a horcrux here, there would be wards?"

Hermione was certain though; the foreboding was getting stronger, and she realised with a jolt that it was familiar. It was the same anxious feeling she'd gotten with the locket around her neck during her time on the run, only weaker, but then she was much further away. "It's stronger than the others," she observed as she walked up to the front door and unsheathed her wand.

Diagnostic scans revealed a nasty curse on the door-handle, but it was old, weather-beaten and weak, and she cracked it easily. The second she did, it swung inwards as if she were expected. "Be careful," she warned the others, not that they needed it.

Inside hung the smell of dirt, dessication and despair. The room was pitiful – a curtain in the corner only half-hid a toilet, which didn't appear to have been cleaned since Merope Gaunt had abdicated her role as house-maid. The kitchen comprised of a few rotting cupboards and a pantry, and a sink stood alone on the back wall. The floor beneath their feet had been eaten by insects and rats, and what remained were strewn with droppings.

"Gin, you start with this room; Lavender, we'll go-"

"What's that?" Lavender cut in abruptly. They all fell silent to listen, and Hermione frowned, about to continue when it came to her.

There was a scuttling in the walls that she attributed to rats and mice. The bushes on the outside of the hut brushed against the wall with a light hushing noise. And quietly, from a few yards away at the most, there came a dragging. A scraping, as though something was being pulled across the floor, came from upstairs too. A prickling shivered down Hermione's spine as the discordant noises triggered a memory, and at the same time, a light hissing travelled down the stairs –

"Fuck," Ginny swore, backing up and pulling out her wand. Lavender's lips were pulled back in a silent snarl as she prepared to fight, the pretty girl looking suddenly more bestial than ever before. Hermione's memories froze her in fright, but Ginny looked entirely different – more irritated than anything.

She caught Hermione's eye and gave a sharp, bitter smile. "Fucking snakes," she spat, conjuring a ball of fire and shifting into a battle-stance. "Always with the motherfucking snakes."


A/N: I fervently believe that come 2006 in this AU Lavender will drag Ginny (and Sirius because dogs don't like to be left home alone) to the cinema to see Snakes on a Plane. Ginny will spend the whole time scowling ferociously while Lavender and Sirius point continually at the screen going "that's you!"