Falling Chapter 11: Mask, a harry potter fanfic

Mask

Grace must prove her loyalty. Instead, she proves her worth and her tolerance and her love.

Grace appeared by the craggy shore of Falmouth. Her trunk—hastily stuffed with clothes and books and only half-shut—landed beside her, thudding against the dark rock. The sun was setting slowly behind her. A thin halo of light wavered over the rolling ocean. It had been many years since she had last visited Falmouth, and the place seemed distant enough that she would not be readily reminded of her family.

She was reminded all the same. It wasn't because of the cliffside James used to roam by despite their mother's warnings or the swimming lessons her father had given her by the seashore. It was because of herself. She was Grace Potter, and it did not matter where she went. She carried her family in her heart and in her head. She carried her mother in her sly smiles and her father in her flurried hair and James in her bright eyes. It was impossible not to think of what she was a part of—of what was a part of her.

She sat heavily atop her trunk, cradling her head in her hands. Her eyes scanned across the surface of the ocean emptily. She could not forget the night Lily had barged into her room, the empty cot at St. Mungo's, the black stone of her parent's graves, the wild snarl that tore across James's face as he flung word after word at her. She wondered how long it would take for the ache in her heart to ease. She still remembered when she had gotten the news about Ollie's death—how tight her throat had been, how her eyes had seared—but time had diluted the memory, softened it. Remembering Ollie felt little more than remembering a dream. She did not want to forget her parents, but she did not want to remember them, either—not now, at least. It hurt too much. It felt selfish, this want of hers, like she was condemning her parents to some deep, dark corner of her mind, but she could not help it. Her heart stung viciously. She wished she could pluck it out of her chest and throw it into the sea.

The sun disappeared into the cliffside, and Grace was swept into darkness. Wind whistled through the distant rock ridge, and she shivered against the cold. After a few more minutes by the swaying sea, she rose shakily and grabbed her trunk by its silver handle, lugging it along the black rock of the shore. It scraped against the ground noisily, and Grace found herself thankful for the screech of metal against stone. The silence had been stifling.

She arrived at the top of the hillside, where the old summer house lay. She had not been here in nearly five years—ever since the war had picked up and Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea had become too busy to entertain guests—and it had grown shabby from disuse. Paint was peeling off sides of the house, and the golden doorknob was rusty. Sighing, she set her trunk down by the porch and forced open the door. With a quick flick of her wand, light flooded the interior of the home.

It was still cluttered. Old pails and shovels had been hastily corralled into the corner. All of James's childhood treasures—his seashells and abandoned Muggle toys—had been carefully arranged in a dusty box. She kicked them aside, padding further into the house. The pull-out was dusty and seemed much smaller than she remembered. James's old blanket was still there, nestled amongst the throw pillows. She reached for it despite herself, fingers ghosting over the fuzzy material that had been patterned with Golden Snitches. Her own blanket was dotted with stars—constellations and comets—because Merlin forbid she own anything that was even remotely related to Quidditch, right?

Her hand curled over James's blanket, and she threw it against the floor. A cloud of dust flew up from the impact, and she rapidly blinked away tears as it stung her eyes. She kicked at the blanket, sending it flying into James's collection of seashells. Her throat was tight. The whole of her ached.

"Prat," she choked out, and clawed at the boxes, pulling out the dainty cowrie shells and throwing them against the walls. "You—fucking—prat—!"

She kept going until she had shattered every single one, until there wasn't anything left of his to break. She scrambled further into the mess of the summer home, trying to find more of James's things, trying to find more to twist and tear. She wanted to ruin him. She wanted to show him how her heart felt. She knocked away the plastic pails and shovels, upturned the couch. She raided the kitchen, flinging old pots and pans, letting them ring and clatter against the floor. She emptied the cabinets one by one, almost methodical in her fury. She tore the curtains down from their rails, shattered the lamps that adorned the walls, and kicked aside her trunk, letting its contains spill and spool over the floor.

Her eyes caught onto her pack of tarot cards—flimsy and pale. Her rampage stilled and stopped, and she found herself dropping to the floor, hands skimming over the fallen cards. One by one, she picked them up, letting the cards slip quietly into place, before beginning to shuffle.

Will I have a family again? Her heart stuttered in her chest. The cards fell over each other in her haste to find an answer. Tell me I'll have a family again. Let me have a family again.

Her hand slammed a card down against the floor. It was the Chariot, reversed, again. It was chaos and confusion. It was her heart's painful crawl up her throat. It was the way the deck dropped from her hands, cards scattering across her lap. It was the strangled noise in the back of her throat and the tears slipping down her cheeks and her hand reaching for that Snitch-patterned blanket.

She could not go to sleep.

She was slumped against the upturned pull-out, hands fisted into James's old blanket, trying to swallow down her anger and anguish—but she found she could not let go. She was exhausted, weary to the bone, eyes dry and burning, lips cracked, but could not allow herself to curl into a ball, close her eyes, and drift away. Sleep was shadows and dreams. Sleep was rest. Sleep was peace, and nothing in Grace was at peace. She was spent, but still something in her raged. Something in her still twisted and turned, screamed and sobbed, although she didn't have the strength to let it out anymore.

She was huddled into herself, still as stone, trying to distract herself from the toss and turn of her heart by blankly examining the fibers of the hardwood floor. Her eyes traced over the spilled contents of her trunk—the robes and nightwear she'd gathered hurriedly from her bedroom, old books from atop her dresser, even the old stuffed owl James had given her so long ago had found its way in there. It had probably gotten mixed up amongst her sheets.

In a heap were her school supplies: textbooks and potions ingredients and—and a curious bit of spare parchment littered with text. It was not her own handwriting that was spread across the parchment; it was Regulus's. Frowning, Grace shifted for the first time in what must have been hours and reached for the sheet of paper. It was not just any spare roll of parchment. It was her half of the spellbound sheet, and it was filled with frantic messages from Regulus over the past few days.

Guilt rose in the back of her throat like bile. She had almost forgotten about him. She had not quite forgotten the plan, because that was the whole reason she was here in Falmouth to begin with, but she had very nearly forgotten the reason for it.

Grace brought the parchment close to her and began to read:

Hello—I just wanted to check in and see how you're holding up. Are your parents doing any better?

Grace, I know you're going through a lot, but we really do have to talk. I'm worried about meeting Bellatrix. She can get rather temperamental, and I'm beginning to think we should have some sort of backup plan when we're meeting her. What do you think?

I got to a weird section of Vablatsky's journal. It's tough to translate, and I think I should re-read what I've already translated just to be sure, but she noticed something about you in fifth year. I don't think it's good. We really have to talk.

Could you Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron sometime soon? I know it's tough to get away from everyone at St. Mungo's, but we really ought to talk. I got through what Vablatsky's written—and it's really not good at all. She didn't want you to See. I don't think we should go through with our plan. Grace, I need to talk to you.

Please write to me. Are you okay? Are you there?

Grace—please talk to me. Please tell me you're okay. Did something happen? Are you safe?

There was more, but it was all the same—desperate, messy messages asking if Grace was there, if she would please talk to him, if she was safe, if something had happened, if she was okay, if he had done something wrong.

Grace swallowed thickly and moved towards her trunk. She dug around for a fresh quill and inkpot. When she'd finally found one, she vanished the previous messages from the spellbound sheet and began to write her own:

I'm okay. I need to talk to you, too. I'm at Falmouth, at the Potter summer home. There's a fireplace here. You can Floo over whenever you want. There's no one else here.

She watched as the ink faded away. Her hand stilled over the parchment. After the last of the words disappeared, she pressed the nib of her quill against the sheet once more and added:

I'm sorry.

With that, she threw aside her quill and settled against the flipped pull-out. She didn't know exactly what she was sorry for, just that she was. It was the best way to describe the unsettling tug-of-war going on in the center of her chest. She might have been sorry about ignoring Regulus or sorry about the fight with James or sorry about her parent's deaths or sorry about the war going on beyond the four walls of the house she was huddled inside or all of the above—and much, much more. She might have been sorry for nothing except for herself, except for how awful and alone she felt.

She sighed and lifted her head. Her eyes traced over the cobwebbed ceiling of the old house. She wondered how long it would take for Regulus to arrive. She wouldn't be surprised if he never came. She hadn't replied to him in a few days. He might have tossed aside the sheet entirely. He might have given up on her. From the tone of his messages, he seemed to be on the verge of giving up on their plan entirely.

The disused fireplace suddenly roared with life. Grace scrambled up in shock, hugging James's old blanket tightly around her shoulders. She watched, wide-eyed, as the emerald flames arched up from the old grate. Out of the throng of fire stepped Regulus Black—neatly dressed and well put-together. There wasn't a wrinkle on him, apart from the crease between his brows and tight pull of his jaw.

His grey eyes flew around the utterly trashed room before finally settling on Grace. And despite her disheveled hair and the dusty, dirty blanket wrapped around her, despite the broken bits of cowrie and glass embedded in her robes, despite the harrowed look in her eye, he crossed over to her in two great strides and took her into her arms. He pressed her close to him, and Grace's white-hot rage—that sharp, unyielding part of her, that terribly prickly thing that sat heavy in her chest, that made it impossible for her to relax and rest—softened and melted. She buried her head into the crook of his neck and breathed deeply. He smelled of broomstick polish and ash.

"You're okay," he said, more to himself than to her. "You're… Salazar, what happened? Were you attacked?"

She lifted her head and saw that he was surveying the disarray of the summer home. "Er—no," she coughed out. "That was… I did that. I was a bit angry."

"Oh." His brows rose as he surveyed the torn curtains, the overturned pull-out, the shards of glass. "How long have you been staying here?"

"A few hours."

He nodded absently, releasing his hold on her. He strode over to the door and opened it, briefly peeking outside to survey the rolling hills, the distant shore, the dark rock of the cliffside.

"Are there any wards up?" he asked as he shut the door behind him.

"I dunno."

An uneasy expression crossed over him. "Okay… Well, we should set up some wards as soon as possible. We'll fix—er—this—" his eyes passed over the mess distastefully, "—up, too. And we've got to close the Floo. It's not safe to have it open. You said you're the only one here, right? Your brother won't stop by or—"

She didn't know why it was that sentence that had done it, but it was. She promptly burst into tears. Regulus's words came to an abrupt halt. A terrible feeling clawed up from the pit of her stomach and settled into her heart. It was something like dread and grief and rage mixed all into one. It was the uncertainty of what was to come, the shadowed reflection that looked back at her when she saw her parent's tomb, the stinging words she had thrown at James. It was the whole world pressing onto her back.

"I'm sorry," Regulus said immediately, running his hands over her arms, eyes flickering over her, trying to find the root of her despair. "I'm sorry—I didn't—" but he didn't know what was wrong, so he couldn't say anything except for, "—I'm sorry, Grace. I'm—"

"N—no," she said, biting down hard to stop herself from unraveling. "No, it's not you. It's that… It's that…"

She didn't know how to say it. She collapsed back down against the pull-out and pressed the hilt of her palms against her eyes. Regulus followed quickly, kneeling beside her, cautious, hesitant. He was the only unbroken thing in the house.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"Mum and Dad are—" She couldn't say the word out loud. She dropped her hands from her face and stared emptily at the floor. "They've passed on."

"Oh, Grace…"

And that was enough. The way he said her name was enough. The past few days had dragged on and on. It felt like it had been decades since anyone had said her name like that—softly, with infinite tenderness, with all the love and care anyone could humanly muster.

He shuffled closer to her. His pressed robes brushed against her. "I'm sorry," he repeated, but now he understood. "Do you want me to do anything? I can set up the wards around the house. And I can have Kreacher help with the furniture around here. Have you eaten yet? Is there anything you'd like?"

She saw it in the earnest furrow of his brow, in the devoted silver of his eyes: Regulus would have gotten her anything she wanted. Somehow, this realization did little to untangle the knotted mess that was her heart. It only served to make her feel worse. How could he be this wonderful? How could he be this soft-hearted? She had not been there for him when he needed her most, and despite that, he came here tonight—and he had brought all his love and loyalty with him.

Fresh tears gathered in her eyes. "Th—this is how you felt," Grace started, rubbing at her eyes. "Godric, Regulus, I'm so sorry—"

"You're sorry?" he said, alarmed. "You don't need to be. Why in—"

"When your dad died, and your mum and Bellatrix were shoving all that pure-blood crap right under your nose, and Sirius wasn't there, and it was just you, and you had no idea what to do—that's—that's like what this is. And it's—it's horrible. I'm so sorry; I didn't understand before, and—"

"It's okay," he said, stopping her gently. "It's okay. I've never held that against you. You know that, right? I never told you. It's not your fault you didn't know when I didn't tell you."

"But still..."

She shut her eyes again. It felt like it was her fault. It felt like everything wrong with the world was her fault. It's your fault, she had screamed at James just a few hours ago. What if it was your fault? he had screamed right back.

"It's not," Regulus said resolutely. "I'm fine now. Let's worry about you, okay? Where is James?"

She stiffened. "James and I…we're not…we fought, Regulus."

Regulus froze. His panicked eyes caught onto hers. "You don't mean that—"

"Yeah." The word was short and clipped. "It was…bad. But at least it's over now. I think—I think he'd still listen to me if I went to him and explained, but he wouldn't come here on his own. Not after…that."

Regulus was shaking his head. "No—oh, Salazar—Grace, I should have found my way to you earlier. We should drop this plan. I finished trans—"

Grace's lips twisted into a deep frown. "We can't drop this plan, Regulus." She had given up so much for it. She had given up so much for him. "There's no way we can drop this plan."

"Just—just listen to me first, okay?" he said. "In the beginning, Vablatsky was trying to nudge your progress along. She was doing it because she recognized great potential in you, and because she thought if you were acclimated to your Inner Eye, your condition might be cured. But by the end of fourth year, she realized you weren't getting better. And she did some research, and she found that nobody ever gets better."

Dread clawed its way up her throat. "What're you saying?"

"In fifth year, she wanted to slow your progress. She wanted to cut you off from your Inner Eye, because she figured that was the only way you wouldn't go the same way every other true Seer has gone. She was trying to stop you from Seeing."

Grace shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. How could she do that?"

"It does make sense," Regulus insisted. "Didn't you think it was strange that you caught onto Occlumency as quick as you did?"

"Yeah, but maybe that's just the way my mind is."

"Maybe it is, but it also has to do with the fact that Vablatsky was secretly teaching you Occlumency ever since fifth year."

Grace's brows flew up. "What?"

"Every Seeing trick she taught you that year and the next was actually just an Occlumency technique. She wrote about them: still the waters of your mind—"

"Keep your thoughts calm and clear," Grace completed tonelessly. "Those weren't…for Seeing?"

"No, it was for Occlumency. She thought it was the only way to cut your mind off from its Inner Eye, to disconnect you from it. She was worried if you didn't learn and use Occlumency, your Inner Eye would eventually adjust on its own and consume you. That's how it's gone for every other witch or wizard with true Sight. You can't See—you shouldn't. It'll make your condition worse. It'll drive you mad. It could destroy you."

"I…"

She shut her eyes again and leaned against the pull-out. If only there was more time—for everything. More time for her parents. More time for her to figure out this bump in the road. More time to prepare for her meeting with Bellatrix.

But there wasn't more time. There was only this moment, and Grace needed to catch hold of it quickly.

"Okay, fine," Grace breathed. "So I won't See. I'll just do the tarot readings or—"

"You know that won't work. You-Know-Who wants a Seer. A real Seer with real prophecies—"

"Then I'll convince him I can do that," she snapped.

"How?" he said, stricken. "How in Merlin's name could we possibly convince him of that?"

"I—I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out. We'll—"

"Grace, we can't just march into this blindly. We still have a day and a half before we meet Bellatrix. I can feed her some excuse, like maybe you've gone out of the country, and at least postpone—"

"No, we've got to meet with Bellatrix. If you tell her I'm not coming, she's going to be suspicious of you. We should just stick to the plan."

"But you can't—"

"We can't drop the plan, Regulus!" She turned her wild eyes on him. "I didn't just narrowly avoid dueling my brother for nothing! I didn't just upset my parent's funeral for nothing!"

She took a staggered, shallow breath and retreated into herself.

"Grace," Regulus said softly, "I know what you've given up. I know what you've done. But it's reversible. We can explain to James. Maybe just having me as a spy will be enough. I don't—I don't want you to have to risk your life and your sanity trying to See."

But it wouldn't work the way Regulus wanted it to. It wouldn't work if she wasn't there. James would blame her behavior over the holiday on Regulus, and his distaste for the younger Black would only grow stronger. Sirius would be proven right. Regulus would be thrown into Azkaban. Or—or even if James took pity on them, even if he managed to convince the Order to use Regulus as a spy—could Regulus do it on his own? Could he keep his nerve? All by himself?

Grace didn't know. She didn't know. Her head was scrambled. It had only been a few hours since she had buried her parents.

"Regulus—" she said, and her voice was so strained, so distraught, "—I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't want to—I don't want to think about this anymore."

He swallowed down his reservations and nodded. "Okay," he said gently. "You don't have to. I can do the thinking for both of us."

"Okay," she agreed and slumped against the pull-out. She traced over the scattered books and trampled boxes that littered the summer home. "I feel awful."

Regulus settled down beside her and put his arms around her. She let herself fall into him. His dark, neatly brushed curls brushed against her forehead.

"Have you eaten?" he asked again.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

Not particularly, but she knew Regulus wanted her to.

"I kind of want some soup."

"Kreacher," Regulus called.

A loud crack tore through the air. A hunched, slight house-elf appeared before them. He was dressed in a nice, if not somewhat threadbare, tea towel toga. He was far older than any house-elf Grace had ever seen—with more wrinkles and sagging skin than an elephant—but this didn't stop him from throwing himself at Regulus's feet.

"Master Regulus!" the house-elf cried out jubilantly. "Mistress is wondering why Master Regulus left dinner early. Mistress is very upset—"

"Er—right—well, you can just tell her that the Dark Lord called for me if she asks again."

Kreacher's eyes flickered to Grace, and then to the disorderly room, and then back to Regulus. If he was upset about being given such a blatant lie, he certainly didn't show it. He merely nodded.

"Thank you," Regulus said appreciatively. "This is Grace, by the way."

The mention of her name carried some sort of weight because recognition flitted across Kreacher's bulbous eyes. He snuck an unsure glance at Regulus before turning towards Grace and bowing deeply, although he didn't seem very happy about it.

"Er—no, that's okay," Grace said uncomfortably. "You don't need to do that."

Kreacher straightened up. His lips were pressed into a tight grimace. His large eyes studied Grace with distaste.

"Hello…?" Grace tried after it was clear he was not going to look away anytime soon.

"Master Regulus!" the house-elf suddenly burst, wheeling towards Regulus and collapsing by his feet. "The Potter girl is far below your station!"

"Kreacher—!"

"You mustn't leave Mistress for the Potter girl, Master Regulus!"

"I'm not—"

"It would break Mistress's heart! Kreacher is begging you, Master—"

"We could have gotten food from the Muggle town," Grace muttered under her breath.

"Kreacher, I am not leaving Grimmauld Place!" Regulus said. "Grace just needed my help. Please—please try to calm down."

Kreacher took a few shuddering gasps for air before clamping his mouth shut.

"I'll return to Mother shortly," Regulus promised. "In the meantime, do you mind making us some food? Or, if there are leftovers at Grimmauld Place, could you bring those over?"

"Food?" Kreacher repeated. His eyes narrowed at Grace. "For…her?"

"Yes. Some soup, preferably." Regulus glanced back at Grace before leaning towards Kreacher. In a lowered voice, he said, "Come on… Please, Kreacher?"

Kreacher softened under Regulus's gaze. He nodded. "Yes, Master Regulus."

Grace would have been baffled by the interaction had it been anyone but Regulus. Of course Regulus didn't order around Kreacher. Of course he said Do you mind? and Could you? and Please? It was a far cry from the forceful I want and give me that Grace and James fed their own house-elf growing up.

Kreacher disappeared with a loud pop! and reappeared in a few minutes with some French onion soup and bread. After Grace had finished every last drop of the soup and had a nibble of bread, Regulus forced her into the bathroom to have a steaming hot shower. When Grace stepped out a half-hour later, she found Kreacher was gone and the entire summer home had been cleaned. The pull-out had been righted and dusted, the pillows and blankets had been Scourgified, the curtains were strung from the windows, the contents of the kitchen were back in their rightful places, and all of James's old things had been neatly packed and shoved into a corner.

Grace's shoulders relaxed. A small smile flickered across her face.

"Oh, you're out," Regulus said. He was fluttering by the kitchen. "I've been searching for spare sheets. Are they in here?"

He reached for the door off to the side, and Grace's heart dropped down to her feet. She surged forward.

"Stop! Regulus—no, stop," she cried out.

His hand dropped from the doorknob, and he looked up in panic. "What? What is it?"

"You can't go in there," she told him, chin trembling. "That's—that's Mum and Dad's room."

It wasn't really, of course. It hadn't been their room in roughly five years, but Grace didn't care. That was the room her parents had slept in, once. That was the room they had breathed in and lived in and loved in. She could not open it, not yet.

"Oh," he said softly, and retreated from the door. "I'll just conjure you some sheets, then? Are you sleeping on the pull-out?"

She nodded numbly and followed him over to the pull-out. Regulus tugged out the makeshift bed and dusted it off. Grace hovered by the bed. Regulus handed her the plumpest pillow he could find and her old star-patterned blanket. She watched quietly as his hands skirted over the end of the bed, fitting the sheet into place.

"Are you staying?"

His hand froze on the edge of the pull-out. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll stay."

She settled into the bed while Regulus put out the lights. It wasn't very comfortable. Grace could feel the springs of the mattress every time she moved, and her feet were hanging off the edge of the bed—but it was better than nothing. It was better than being alone. Regulus slipped in beside her, and she waited until his breathing evened out before rolling over to face him.

She studied the curl of his dark hair, the curve of his thick lashes, the sharp turn of his jaw. She still did not feel very good about herself, but she felt better with him here. She knew they had dreamt up this plan together, that they were in this together and would be until the very end, but this knowledge did little to ease the sting of loneliness when she was at St. Mungo's and the funeral. She had been ignored and abandoned and hurt. And somewhere in the mess of the past few days, she had begun to lose herself. She was glad Regulus was here now. If anyone could remind her of herself, it was him.

In the dark, her hand found his.

"We still don't know what to do about the Seeing thing," Regulus reminded her for what might have been the hundredth time.

"She won't ask me for a demonstration. No one can spit out a prophecy on command. If she wants me to prove my worth, I'll just do a tarot reading." Grace stabbed at her scrambled eggs. "Can you pass me the ketchup?"

Regulus dutifully handed her the bottle. He had finished his own breakfast a while ago, back at Grimmauld Place, and was sitting pensively across from Grace in the kitchen of her summer home. He was dressed in fine silk robes, quietly battling the storm of anxiety overcoming his features.

"Bellatrix wouldn't ask for a tarot reading," Regulus said after a moment. "She thinks they're rubbish."

"Good. Then we don't have anything to worry about." Grace polished off the rest of her food and rose to set her plate in the sink.

Regulus's eyes followed her. "Divination aside, I still think this is a bad idea. We should wait."

"We've already been over this."

"You're still grieving—"

"I'm fine," she said with a little more force than necessary. She swallowed thickly.

Regulus's face fell. "Grace…"

"I'm fine," she repeated, this time drawing out the word. "I am."

And maybe that was a lie, but it was a damn good one. She could convince herself she was fine even if she wasn't. She could hold herself together, at least for this, and—and—so what if she fell apart at the last second? So what if Bellatrix believed her or not? If Bellatrix was intrigued or irritated by her? They were still in the early stages of the plan. There was room for error. If Bellatrix did not like her, then Grace would move on. Then they'd find a different way.

"We're doing this," she said firmly. "What have we got to lose?"

"You," Regulus said, very clearly heartbroken at the prospect. "You don't know Bellatrix. She's suspicious by nature, and combative, and—"

"I can handle Bellatrix," Grace assured. "I survived Sirius living in my house for two and a half years. It can't be much worse than that."

Regulus shook his head. "It's so much worse."

"It'll be fine," Grace said. She shrugged on her cloak and headed towards the door. "Besides, we can't cancel now. It's too late."

She was right on that count. Regulus sighed in defeat and followed after her. They meandered down the hillside. When they were past the point of the wards, Regulus took Grace's hand in his own and Apparated them to Knockturn Alley. They landed on a patch of cobblestone, squeezed between two tall, thin buildings. Despite the fact it was morning, the entire alleyway was shrouded in shadows.

"Here," Regulus said, squeezing out of the nook.

They entered a somewhat busy area. Witches and wizards clamored around questionable shops. Some were hauling around bags and carts, trying to convince hapless passersby to purchase their wares. Grace wrinkled her nose as she saw a weedy witch pull aside a passing wizard and show him a row of shrunken head charms.

Regulus pulled out a silver pocket watch from his robes. "She should be here by now…"

"Maybe she got held up?"

Regulus snapped the watch shut and put it away. "I doubt that. It's not like she's particularly busy."

"Is she always—"

Regulus suddenly surged forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the way of a self-moving cart filled to the brim with what was either old pots and pans or dark artifacts charmed to look like old pots and pans. The wizard behind the cart scowled angrily at them. Grace shot him a rude hand gesture with her free hand.

"Grace…" he sighed.

"What?" she said defensively.

He didn't say anything, choosing to lead her to a remote corner of the alley. His hand didn't leave hers; if anything, he held on tighter.

"I was going to ask if your cousin is always late," Grace asked once they came to a stop.

"She's only ever late if she's not interested in what she's attending." Regulus's lips were twisted into a nervous grimace. "But meeting you is something she's doing on behalf of You-Know-Who. She wouldn't be late for this."

"Then maybe we're in the wrong place?"

He shook his head. "No, she told me—"

He never got to finish, because he was hit by a blasting charm. He was thrown back a few meters, his back thudding roughly against the far end of the alcove they were clustered in. Grace's wand was out in a flash. She whipped around to face the attacker, a particularly nasty curse just on the tip of her tongue, but as soon as she caught sight of the person—a slight woman with thick dark hair and wide eyes—she faltered.

"Andromeda?" she gaped.

As soon as she said it, she realized how wrong she was. This woman was not Andromeda at all. At the mention of the name, her lips puckered into a tight, revolted frown. Her eyes darkened and flitted over Grace like she was a particularly irksome pest. There was something rough about her, something wicked that clung to the sharp lines and harsh planes of her face.

This was Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Don't you dare speak that name in my—"

"Why in Merlin's name did you hex me?" Regulus cried out, having collected himself from the other end of the alcove. He rolled back his shoulder and winced at a brief flash of pain.

Heavy irritation fell over Bellatrix. She glanced at Regulus briefly. "Because you're an easy target," she said flatly.

"You were supposed to meet us at—"

She smiled suddenly, and Regulus stopped speaking at once. Grace understood why. The smile Bellatrix wore wasn't a smile at all. There was something cutting and disturbing lurking within that smile, and—paired with the wild hair and heavy-lidded eyes—she seemed almost deranged.

"Do you want me to hex you again, Reggie?" Bellatrix said sweetly.

"N—no," he stammered out.

"Then stop nagging me." She turned her frightful gaze back to Grace. She raised a thin brow. "So you're it?"

"Yes…?"

Bellatrix's eyes flickered back to Regulus. "I was surprised when you told me about her, Reggie." Her words were light and teasing enough, but there was something dangerous hidden beneath. "I didn't think you would advertise the fact that you're sleeping with muck."

Grace's brows flew up. Regulus choked on nothing but air.

And then, like she had said nothing at all, Bellatrix turned around and began to walk away. "Come," she called back loftily, "I know a place we can talk."

Grace followed warily. Regulus had been right. This was far worse than living under the same roof as Sirius for two and a half years.

"She's not—I mean, I didn't say—" Regulus started under her breath.

"I know," Grace sighed quietly.

They accompanied Bellatrix to a seedy tavern at the other end of the alleyway. The bar, called The Hanging Man, seemed almost on the edge of ruin. The shutters were falling off the window panes and every surface was covered with a thick layer of grime. The bar's only redeeming quality was the fact that no one was there—not even a bartender. Whatever was discussed here would remain secret.

"Sit," Bellatrix ordered, pointing to a particularly dusty seat by the door.

Grace sat down. Regulus settled beside her woodenly. Bellatrix pulled out the chair across from them and collapsed into it. Her eyes danced between the two of them hungrily before landing on Grace.

"You're a Seer, is it?"

Grace perked up. "Yes. I was trained under Cassandra Vablatsky since—"

"Right. I met her."

Grace's brows furrowed. "You did?"

"Oh, yes. It was a brief meeting. Didn't last more than a few minutes before she started reaching for that vial of poison around her neck." Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you what—I thought the old bat would have more fight in her. One round of the Cruciatus, and she was already begging. I suppose some people are just born weak."

Grace bit her tongue to stop herself from speaking. Underneath the filthy table, Regulus's hand found hers again, and he squeezed tightly—a comfort. A warning.

"All in all, she was still a decent Seer, I hear," Bellatrix continued. "If you trained under her, I suppose you must be, too."

"I am."

"So—" Bellatrix leaned forward, "—why are you here? If you're as good as you are, why're you coming to us? Why aren't you offering yourself up to the Ministry?"

"Why would I ever offer myself up to the Ministry?" Grace countered viciously. "What good have they ever done for us? If they weren't so concerned with keeping Muggles and Mudbloods happy, they could have devoted the much-needed time and energy to helping actual wizards. They could have found a cure for Dragon Pox by now. They could have—"

"If you're going to lead into an impassioned speech about your parents, I'd rather you didn't. I've already heard all about what happened there."

Grace faltered. "You have?"

"Yes. Your little strop at the funeral made the Prophet." Bellatrix grinned at Grace's surprise. "You didn't know? Oh, it was such a delightful read. 'Youngest Potter Disgraces the Family Name' is what it's called, if I recall correctly. Fantastic article. I think it might be Skeeter's best work."

"I disgraced the family name?" Grace bit. "When James was the one who pulled me aside? When he was the one who insulted me?" She didn't know where this rage was coming from, but it was coming out thick and fast and sudden, and she was not sure if she could stop it. "When he was blaming me for their—"

"Grace," Regulus hissed lowly, bringing her to a stop.

"Oh, Salazar," Bellatrix drawled. "I don't want to hear about your family issues. They're quite tame as far as pure-blood drama goes."

"Then what do you want to hear about?" Grace asked, voice tight and drawn.

"You still haven't told me why you want to join us."

"I was taught by Vablatsky, and I believe my—"

"Yes, yes," Bellatrix groaned. "I've heard all this drivel from Regulus already. I'll tell you the truth: I don't particularly care if you can See or not. I don't want to know what you can offer us. I want to know why you're coming to us to begin with it." Bellatrix's eyes searched her. They were as dark and bottomless as an abyss. "Why do you want to join us?"

The answer came easier than expected: "Because I'm angry."

Bellatrix cocked her head. "Why?"

"I don't know," she ground out. "I just am. I always have been. This seems as good an outlet as any."

Bellatrix held her gaze for a moment longer before breaking out into wild, shrill laughter. She rose, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. "I don't know if you have what it takes to join our ranks, but, if anything, the Dark Lord is sure to get a rise out of you." She extended a hand to Grace. "Let's go."

"Go?"

"Yes," she said impatiently. "The Dark Lord has been waiting. We ought to leave now."

"Wait—what?" Regulus stood up so fast his chair was knocked back. "What do you mean now? Right now?"

Bellatrix's hand—a slight, wicked thing—reached forward and snatched Grace's wrist. She shot her younger cousin a cutting smile. "Oh, I'll get her back to you in one piece, Reggie—more or less."

His wand was out. "This isn't what we discuss—"

Bellatrix tugged Grace towards her. The older witch took one step forward and Apparated. Grace struggled to turn her head as the atmosphere warped around them. The wind whistled and tore at her. The air bit into her. When at last she managed to look back, she only saw that Regulus was gone.

Grace collapsed onto a dirt path, panting and wheezing. Apparating with Bellatrix was like being flung into the sky without a broomstick. The trip had taken longer than expected, and the turns and twists seemed sharper and crueler than Grace was used to. It was a miracle she hadn't been splinched somewhere along the journey.

"Get up," the older witch commanded.

With one last trembling breath, Grace forced herself up. She dusted her hands against her robes and looked around. They were at some sort of estate. Rows of neatly trimmed, verdant hedges surrounded them. A great, iron-wrought gate stood only a few meters away and just beyond it was an enormous manor. Dawdling by the doorstep were a couple of white-feathered peacocks. Amidst the morning mist, they seemed little more than phantoms.

Bellatrix surged forward.

"Er—where are we?" Grace asked, scurrying after her.

The older witch shot her a displeased look and didn't answer. She chose, instead, to increase the length of her stride, borderline dashing towards the arched entranceway of the manor. Grace followed her hastily; the beat of her heart matched the strike of her feet against the ground. There was a pinprick of dread beginning to unravel in the center of her chest, but there was nothing Grace could do about it, not now.

The double doors banged open, and Grace was greeted by a luxuriously decorated parlor: silver-edged tapestries and gilded portraits hung from the walls, plush armchairs and loveseats dotted the room, and a roaring hearth washed the whole thing in a soft glow. Bellatrix barreled through the room and was stopped just as she reached the hallway by another witch—a tall woman with hair so fine and pale it seemed like platinum.

Grace's brows knitted together as she drank in the woman's sharp features and grey eyes. She had seen this witch before, when she was much younger, with plumper cheeks and brighter eyes. This was Narcissa Black—now Malfoy. What in Merlin's name was she doing here?

"Bella?" Narcissa said with clear surprise. Her eyes darted over her sister's shoulders and flickered over Grace's flustered form. Her lips pinched together into a tight frown. "What is she doing here?"

"A new recruit," Bellatrix said shortly, side-stepping Narcissa. "He already knows of her."

Narcissa's brows furrowed. "But she's—"

"The Dark Lord is well aware, Cissy."

Something sharp lurked underneath Bellatrix's words, and Narcissa's lips clamped shut. She nodded dumbly and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. Bellatrix made a sudden left, hurtling down a different section of the enormous house. Grace followed at a slower pace, finding herself preoccupied with testing the strength of her mental shield. If You-Know-Who was lurking somewhere in this opulent house, she ought to make sure she was ready.

Bellatrix led her to a plain door. She twisted the knob and stepped inside. Grace took a deep breath and stepped in after her. The room was small and shadowed. The curtains were drawn, and there were only a few lit candles in one corner. At the other end was a large, plush armchair. Seated in it was a shrouded figure.

Bellatrix shuffled closer to the figure, and the change in her was remarkable. Gone was the tall, proud Bellatrix who had ambushed Grace and Regulus in Knockturn Alley. In her place was a stooped witch with shining eyes and a doting smile. She reached for the hem of You-Know-Who's robes.

"My Lord," Bellatrix said sweetly, "I've brought the girl my cousin informed us of. The Seer."

Grace followed after Bellatrix. The longer she spent in the dim room and the closer she got to the chair, the more she could see. The man in the chair was very tall. His skin was taut, pale, and waxy. There was an almost blurry quality to him, and the longer Grace stared, the less she was able to focus on any particular feature of his face. The only thing that stuck out was the harsh red of his eyes.

"Kneel," Bellatrix hissed suddenly, breaking Grace out of her stupor.

She began to bend forward, but evidently she was too slow, because Bellatrix let out an irritated growl and jabbed her wand forward. A terrible numbness climbed the length of Grace's spine, and she soon found herself sprawled forward on the floor, arms splayed, forehead pressed against the wood. She tried to move, but her limbs refused to cooperate.

"This is the Potter girl?" You-Know-Who hummed quietly. His voice was little more than a whisper—a shadow, soft and sibilant. "I expected more."

"Forgive my cousin, my Lord," Bellatrix said instantly, although there wasn't a shred of sympathy in her voice for Regulus. "He often exaggerates the—"

You-Know-Who raised a hand, and Bellatrix's words died in her throat. "Let her rise."

The spell on Grace's body retreated, and she exhaled quietly as she regained control over herself. She hauled herself up and met You-Know-Who's eyes once more. He stared at her unabashedly and, for a moment, Grace wondered if this was some sort of test of willpower. Perhaps they were entering a staring contest of some sort?

But then she felt the faintest prod against her mind—like a flat stone skipping over the surface of a lake—and panic flooded her. Her mental shield was as strong as ever, but in her haste, in her hurry, she had completely forgotten to project a false layer of thought. To You-Know-Who, it seemed as if the girl who entered hadn't a single thought in her head. Quickly, Grace conjured up some flimsy false layer—something involving reverence and awe, something about how dumbstruck she was—and felt the curious prodding retreat.

She nearly sighed in relief.

"Bellatrix has told me much about you," You-Know-Who said after a moment. "She tells me you were trained under Vablatsky."

"Yes, my Lord," Grace said smoothly, mimicking Bellatrix's cloying voice. "Vablatsky considered me her protégé, and passed down every trick she knew to me."

"Have you had genuine visions of the future?"

"Yes, my Lord."

You-Know-Who leaned back. "And have prophecies accompanied these visions?"

"No, my Lord. I am still learning. But I have true Sight, and—"

He raised a hand. "I have heard this already. Is there anything new you have to add?"

"No, my Lord." Regulus had likely told Bellatrix everything Grace planned to say.

A steely silence followed. Grace's eyes flickered to the side, where Bellatrix was watching eagerly. She seemed to be waiting for something.

"Have you experience with the Dark Arts?" You-Know-Who asked after a moment.

"Not in practice, my Lord."

"Dueling?"

"I've dueled a few times at Hogwarts, but—"

"I don't mean petty squabbles. Have you ever engaged in a true duel?"

Grace felt this was hardly a fair question to ask her. When had Yaxley or Rosier or Regulus ever engaged in a real duel?

She swallowed her irritation and answered: "No, my Lord."

"Do you have any Ministry connections?"

"No, my Lord."

"So, if I understand correctly, you know nothing of the Dark Arts. You cannot duel. You have no connections in the Ministry. As it stands, you have little use to me beyond your ability to See," You-Know-Who surmised. "But…you are the sister of one of Dumbledore's most prized soldiers."

Grace's lips pursed.

"You may prove useful in procuring the Potter boy and his wife."

Bellatrix breathed in sharply. "My Lord," she said, "you mean to say the Mudblood is still—"

"That Mudblood has bested many of our own," You-Know-Who intoned deeply, silencing Bellatrix at once. "Severus believes there may be more to her blood than we're aware. If she can be persuaded to join our ranks, so be it. She would be a powerful resource against Dumbledore and his band of fools."

"But, my Lord, we have already waste—"

"Bellatrix." He flung the name like a whip. "Leave us."

Bellatrix's face fell. She nodded mutely and ducked out of the room, but not without shooting Grace a dark glance. Once the door clicked shut, Grace looked to You-Know-Who.

"My Lord," she began reverently, "I know it seems I don't—"

"Crucio," he said, and his voice was so soft that Grace barely heard it at all.

A jet of harsh red light burst from the tip of the You-Know-Who's wand and hit Grace square in the chest. She crumpled to the floor in an instant, a scream ripping from her throat. An invisible fire trailed over her skin, licking every fiber of flesh. She felt it burrow itself into her body, tracing the lining of her organs, searing away her nerves, clawing up her throat, stinging her eyes, clustering at her heart. She was being burned alive. Thought fled her completely. There was no room in her head to form a coherent idea, to come up with a plan to escape, to stop this. There was only the pain, large and unavoidable, devouring her completely. There was only her body writhing senselessly on the floor, her limbs contorting, her cries—pleading and sobbing and unintelligible—puncturing the air. There was only this moment, and it was never-ending.

"Do you think me a fool?" he said, lifting the curse after what felt like centuries. "Did you think I wouldn't notice the mental shield you're flaunting?"

"My Lord," she tried desperately, terrified that he might lift his wand and cast another Cruciatus, "I have true Sight. I use Occlumency to cut myself off from my Inner Eye. Otherwise, I'm—"

"Silence," he hissed.

With a flick of his wand, Grace's voice was stolen from her mouth. Another jet of red light hit her, and she twisted as fresh pain ripped through her. She screamed—screamed herself hoarse, screamed until she could feel the back of her throat splintering from the force of it—but there was no sound coming out. She thrashed and turned, pleading wildly, sobbing silently, wishing for anything but this. Anything—anything—but this. Having the nails shucked from her fingers, having her tongue severed from her mouth, having paroxysm after paroxysm rock her body—any of these, all of these, would be better than this. Would always be better than this.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it came. Grace shuddered and gasped, trying to collect herself, trying to stop her trembling. She willed herself to rise from the hardwood floor, but she couldn't summon the strength. Did she even want to get up? No, not really. If it were at all possible, she would have preferred to dissolve into the cracks of the wood, seep into the minuscule fibers of each plank. She would have loved to melt into nonexistence.

"I have need for a Seer." His eyes studied her shivering form. "But do not presume my need is so great it would leave me blind to the potential repercussions of inviting someone like you into my fold. You do not come from a respected family. You have little to offer me in the way of the Dark Arts. You are but a novice in the realm of Divination." His wand swished in the air, releasing her from the hold of the Silencing spell. "Tell me—why shouldn't I just kill you right here and now?"

"It's—you said—" her tongue felt thick and clumsy, her head was ringing, "—my brother and his wife. You wanted them—to join—I can do that. You said I can do that. I can get them."

"The best thing you can offer me…" he hummed quietly, "…is your brother and his wife?"

Shame drowned her desperation. She scrambled for something, anything, that might save her. "I can—I can—"

"We have already tried to recruit them—alongside Bellatrix's wayward cousin. They made their answer clear. What makes you think you might succeed where I have not?"

"Because—because—I'm his sister."

"And from what Bellatrix has told me, you are at odds with him. You were Sorted into separate Houses. You were never close to him. Why should he follow you here?"

There wasn't a single reason why James should ever follow Grace, and she knew it.

You-Know-Who's eyes searched her. "The time to recruit members of Dumbledore's Order has long passed. If we cannot persuade them to switch sides, then we must get rid of them. Do you understand me?"

She nodded numbly. The harsh reality of You-Know-Who's world began to set in. It was dark and shadowed here, yes, but that did not make it any easier to slip inside. This world was sprung with traps, with sharp tacks and pitfalls. She realized, with a horrible shiver, that anything You-Know-Who had said when Bellatrix was in the room was a trick, was bait, was a test to see how stupid she really was.

"Could you kill your brother?"

"No."

His eyes flashed. "Why not?"

"Because he's better than me. He would kill me first."

She had surprised him. A tense silence settled between them. Grace crept forward cautiously. She had to convince him. There was too much at stake.

"I want to join," she pleaded. The words fell from her mouth like cinderblocks. "I'm not well-versed in the Dark Arts and I haven't dueled much. But I can still See. And—and I'm loyal. I swear it. I'm loyal. I wouldn't betray you for anything."

"For anything?" His voice was quiet but enormous.

"Yes. Yes—anything."

"What about this?" he asked.

He raised his wand once more, and another burst of red light hit her. She crumpled against the floor. Fire licked at her flesh, at her organs, at her bones. And, somehow, in the midst of this unending pain, she felt something else—a prod at the edge of her mind, a brutal push into her head. Horror gripped Grace. She at last understood what he was trying to do. It was nearly impossible to keep up her shield in the throes of such torture—but she tried anyway. She tried to separate herself from the torment. She tried to latch onto the words Death Eaters spat. I'm doing this because Muggles are scum. She tried to believe every lie she ever said. I'm doing this because Muggle-borns stole magic from us. Her mind was buckling, but, still, she tried—relentless, stubborn, desperate. I'm doing this because pure-bloods are better. Will always be better.

But it did not matter how desperate or determined she was. There was a crack in her mask, and You-Know-Who slid right in. At the very center of her mind lay the true reason, and no matter how much she struggled, how much she tried to convince herself of the opposite, how much she tried to smother this reason, how much she tried to drown it and bury it, it still persevered: I'm doing this for Regulus.

She made one last, vain effort to throw him out. But it was impossible, like blotting the sun out of the sky, like emptying out the sea. The weight of You-Know-Who was unbearable. Her body was turning to ash. Her mind was being crushed.

The whole of her shattered.

It was the middle of sixth year, just a week after Grace had ignored what she had mistakenly thought was a simple tension headache and collapsed in the middle of Charms. She had begun screaming and fitting—the usual for one of her episodes—and the crowd of students had watched, and watched, and watched…

They were still watching. Grace caught the furtive glances and slight distaste in the curl of students' lips whenever she walked by. Most students didn't seem to want anything to do with her. They avoided her, shifted away from her whenever she approached, like the magi-neurological disease she had could be contagious.

Grace was fine with that. She didn't want anything to do with them either.

"It's like I'm with a celebrity," Dirk commented lightly as they left the library. They hadn't managed to get much of their project done, what with all the whispering and pointing.

"You and I have different concepts of what a celebrity is," Grace grumbled as they veered into the next hallway.

To her surprise, the path to the stairwell was blocked by a throng of cheering students. Grace frowned as she surveyed the tightly-knit group.

"What's going on?"

Dirk stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck over the crowd. "Oh, nothing, really. Black's dueling someone."

Grace rolled her eyes and shouldered her knapsack roughly. "Merlin, why is everyone so obsessed with him? Sirius duels someone new every other day—"

"No, it's the other one."

"He—hold on, what?"

"It's Regulus."

Grace stared at Dirk, bewildered, before shaking her head. "Sorry, I think I just misheard you. It sounded like you said Regulus was dueling someone."

"Yeah…" Dirk said slowly. "Because he is. Dueling someone, that is. Over there."

He pointed lamely at the growing crowd of students. Grace followed his finger, and, without another word, tore into the throng. What in Merlin's name was Regulus thinking? Dueling out in the open like this? He must have been Confunded or something. He would never—not even if he were being threatened—duel in a Hogwarts corridor in broad daylight, not when a professor could pass by, not when he was obsessed with keeping his record spotless so he could snag Head Boy next year.

By the time she had managed to pierce through the cluster of students, she found the fight had already ended. Students were being dispersed rapidly by an irate James, who was fluttering over Regulus and the student he had been dueling, a fair-haired boy with sharp eyes and an upturned nose. Neither of them seemed particularly out-of-sorts, although there was an angry red blotch on the fair-haired boy's cheeks and a singe on the front of Regulus's robes.

"Bugger off!" James groaned, flapping his hands at any lingering students.

Grace stalled by a pillar, uncertain if her presence would help or hurt Regulus in this particular situation.

"Go on, now! Nothing to see here!" James continued. When the last of the curious students had been scared away, he wheeled around to face the two disarmed boys. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Black attacked me out of nowhere," the fair-haired boy said immediately. He followed—"

"Jenkins insulted your sister," Regulus interrupted. "I told him to stop. He wouldn't."

Jenkins paled. "I didn't—I didn't mean it. It was just a bit of fun is all. He didn't have to hex me for it!"

"It was a bit of fun?" James repeated. His eyes were narrowed in distaste at the younger Gryffindor. "Insulting my sister after she's been stuck in the Hospital Wing for three days is a bit of fun to you? I've got to know what else you do for a bit of fun, Jenkins. Steal candy from children? Kick puppies into busy streets?"

"Look, it didn't mean any—"

"Fifty points from Gryffindor," James cut in.

Jenkins gaped at him. "Fifty—that's your own House!"

"And a fortnight of detention. With Filch. No—wait—with McGonagall."

"A—a fortnight of—" Jenkins sputtered. He jabbed a thumb towards Regulus. "What about him?"

"He gets a very begrudging thank you. Now get lost."

"But—but—"

"Would you like to duel me, Jenkins? I'm a much more formidable opponent than Black, I guarantee you that."

Jenkins's lips pressed together tightly. He snatched his wand back from James and threw a spiteful glare in Regulus's direction before hurtling down the hallway, disappearing from sight. Regulus's shoulders relaxed.

James handed Regulus his wand back. "Thanks," he said begrudgingly.

Regulus gave a stiff nod, and the two boys separated. As Regulus made his way past the pillar, Grace grabbed onto the back of his robes and drew him to her.

"You prat," she said immediately. "Where do you get off doing reckless things like that?"

"It wasn't reckless," Regulus protested. "I had it planned out very carefully. He'd been spouting nonsense about you since we left Ancient Runes, and I told him if he kept it up I'd duel him."

"You don't need to duel people for me."

"I know I don't, but you weren't there to do it yourself, so the responsibility naturally fell to me."

"I mean—you don't need to get yourself in trouble over me." She tried to make herself sound stern, but the words were already coming out half-amused.

"I didn't get in trouble," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well James's favoritism is a different issue entirely. Suppose it wasn't him who broke up the fight?"

"But it was him."

"It… Look—you won't be picked for Head Boy if you're dueling random students in the corridor," she tried half-heartedly.

There was a smile slipping across Regulus's face. "I can't believe you're the one lecturing me right now. Did that one hour in the library really do that much damage to you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Shove off."

Regulus herded her away from the pillar. "Come on—it's nearly lunchtime."

They set down the hallway in companionable silence. Grace wasn't upset about the dueling, not really, but suppose Jenkins started going around to different students and telling them that Grace Potter was having her friends hex anyone who badmouthed her? Instead of doing it herself? Merlin, she'd just about die of shame.

"What did he say?" she asked as they reached the Great Hall.

"Who?"

"Jenkins."

"Nothing worth repeating."

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Come on. I want to know."

He came to a stop and turned to her. "It doesn't matter what he's got to say about you because he's a pillock. Hearing what other people are whispering about you behind your back won't make you feel better."

Grace swallowed thickly. "It's just… You don't understand. People won't even look at me now, like they're afraid I might collapse into their arms or I might spread it to them or—or—or even if they do look at me, it's always with pity and—and—it's awful!"

"It'll blow over in another week," he promised.

"No, it won't," she said miserably.

His eyes traced over her sullen form. "I won't tell you what Jenkins said," he murmured, "but do you want to know what I said to him?"

She glanced at him. "What?"

"I said, 'You try going through half of what she has. You try living the life she has. You wouldn't be able to make it a month. Because she's much stronger and much cleverer and much better than you could ever hope to be.'"

A warm feeling burst in her chest. She smiled at him.

"And then I shot him with a Stinging Hex."

She snorted.

She was trying to gain control again, trying to veer the memories in a safe direction, but it was so difficult to concentrate. You-Know-Who pushed through the sharp edges of her mind ruthlessly, a wild animal tearing into prey. She could feel herself splintering, could feel the memories breaking and reforming, and—and—under the shards of the past was something else entirely.

The moon was little more than an ember in the sky. The whole of the forest was shrouded in pitch black. Cloaked figures searched through the nearby thicket nervously. They raised their wands, flooding the area with white light.

A figure leapt from the brush. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a thick torso. His hair was dirty and matted against his scalp. His eyes were as dark as the night and strangely elongated. His ears were pointed. His nose was little more than a snub, pushed against his face. He did not seem entirely human. He certainly didn't act human; there was a wild, feral quality to him.

"What do you want?" he snarled. "I already told your lot to fuck off!"

The nearest wizards yelped and retreated, further away from the edge of the forest, until they were back under the protection of the man who had led them here—a towering wizard with bone-white skin and blood-red eyes.

"It was my mistake the last negotiation fell through," the wizard said. "I did not think the envoys I sent would be so…incompetent."

The disheveled man across from him sneered. "And you thought I'd be more than happy to talk to you, is it?"

"I have ways of forcing your cooperation if you will not give it willingly."

The threat hung heavy in the air. The filthy man trembled with fury.

"You think you can just order me around?" he roared. "Torture me if you want. You don't know how many of us are here. Curse me, and you'll have a dozen of us on you within seconds. You'll be one of us before you know it."

"There are only four of you here."

The man's rage dropped in surprise. It was quickly replaced with a scowl. "You don't—"

"I do." The wizard revealed his wand from the depths of his robes and twirled it through his long fingers. "We need not be enemies, Greyback. We can help one another."

"No good ever came from helping a wizard."

"What if the wizard in question has the same goal as you?"

Greyback's black eyes flickered over the wizard. "What do you mean?"

"Do not take this to mean you and I are the same." His lips curled in revulsion as he took in Greyback's sullied state. "But, as it stands, our plans align. I want to usurp the wizarding world. You are welcome to join the crusade. You will only be helping yourself."

"I won't be a wizard's servant."

"You will not be a servant. You will be a soldier. You will fight with our kind to help destroy our kind."

The thought appealed to him. A hungry, wolfish smile overcame his features. "Alright—but I want something, too. I won't just fight. If we're overthrowing the wizarding world, there's something I want to collect in the process."

"What is it you want?"

"Children."

It was fifth year. Grace had initially been very excited for O.W.L.-level Divination, but she had soon found that the advanced techniques Vablatsky was teaching her were rather boring. The latest one involved nothing more than staring at a blank piece of paper and trying to imitate that 'blankness' in her own head.

Most of the branches of Divination weren't very exciting. Last year, Vablatsky had introduced Grace to the realm of geomancy, which was a fancy way of saying she did nothing more than trace patterns in dirt for hours on end. But this—this blank sheet of parchment—was far worse.

Grace let out a quiet sigh of relief when the grandfather clock in the far corner chimed, signaling the end of class. She hurriedly gathered her materials into her knapsack and bolted towards the trapdoor. But before she could make it, she was stopped.

"How has your progress been, Grace?"

Grace's shoulders fell. She turned around and found Vablatsky, perfectly serene, her pale blue eyes twinkling under the sparse light, approaching her.

"Er—good."

"No difficulties?"

Grace shrugged half-heartedly. "I mean—it's just staring at paper. Not very difficult, if you ask me."

Vablatsky's eyes lingered on her student. "You're displeased with me."

"What? No," Grace waved off, but she sounded unconvincing even to herself. She debated quietly with herself before finally throwing caution to the wind and bursting, "I know you said it's important to cultivate focus, but isn't there another way to do that? One that does involve wasting an hour staring at nothing?"

"Well…"

She leaned forward eagerly. "Yes…?"

"No, there isn't another way."

She groaned in disappointment.

"But, if you master this, I will teach you acultomancy."

"What's that?"

"Divination using needles."

Her brows shot up. "What? Really? We get to poke people with needles?"

Vablatsky frowned slightly. "No. You merely gather needles and drop them on special surfaces. The divinatory aspect lies in being able to read and interpret any patterns that may appear."

"No offense, professor, but that sounds pretty boring, too."

Dimly, she felt the searing hurt of the Cruciatus retreat. She wished she could summon the strength to force out You-Know-Who, but she could hardly feel her limbs. She could hardly feel her mind. It was being pulled in a thousand and one directions.

It was fourth year. Everyone else was huddled in pairs, scrying with enchanted mirrors. Grace, unfortunately, was barred from taking part in this particular method of Divination, on account of her condition. She was cloistered away near the back of the room, thumbing through her textbook, bored out of her mind.

"Thinking hard?"

Grace whipped around, and found Vablatsky making her way to the little corner. The ancient witch seemed rather bored herself. She sat down heavily in the chair across from Grace's and carefully adjusted the many bangles adorning her wrists.

"I just didn't realize how long an hour can be when you don't have anything to do."

"What do you mean?" Vablatsky said, alarmed. "Just because you cannot scry doesn't mean you cannot divine using other methods." She reached into the depths of her robes and pulled out a familiar pack of cards. "Here—shall I do a reading for you?"

Grace perked up and nodded. She watched with fascination as Vablatsky spread and shuffled the cards swiftly. She fanned the deck out between her hands and offered them to Grace. The younger witch quickly picked out three and laid them against the table: eight of swords, king of wands, ten of pentacles.

"What were you thinking of?"

Grace shifted in her seat. "Well—er—I was just wondering if…" She took a deep breath. "I wanted to know if I'd ever be cured."

Vablatsky frowned as she surveyed the cards. She stayed quiet for several moments.

"Er—professor?" Grace pressed.

She glanced up, startled. "Oh, yes—my apologies. This one is… Well, it says…"

"Yes?" Grace said anxiously.

"It will get worse before it gets better."

They levitated the bound man onto the long, wooden table in the center of the parlor. He scrambled across the surface, trying to right himself, trying to kick away the many Death Eaters that flocked over him.

"Would you like to do the honors, my Lord?"

The shaggy-haired man made a low, choked-off sound in the back of his throat, and attempted to scurry away from the table. He only managed to move an inch or so before one of the surrounding wizards incapacitated him.

"No. Leave him for now."

The excited chatter came to a halt.

"Leave him?"

"Yes—but cover his face first. We will deal with him when the others arrive."

She was in Vablatsky's backroom, a tight little space hidden behind her classroom. She had been invited over for afternoon tea, and while the conversation had started off lighthearted enough, it had soon devolved into a mess of uncertainty on Grace's part.

"I just feel like I'm just getting worse and worse at this," Grace lamented. "I'll be honest, professor, I don't think I'm cut out for Seeing."

Vablatsky smiled gently over the rim of her teacup. "My dear," she assured, "you have great potential."

Grace chomped viciously on a ginger biscuit. "But I haven't had a real vision since that one time in first year—and that wasn't even a vision. It was a menu!"

"Would it help if I told you what the key to becoming a great Seer is?"

Grace's noisy chewing stopped. She stared at Vablatsky. "Yeah, that would help a lot! What is it?"

"Never doubt yourself."

None of this was what You-Know-Who wanted to see. He surged past these trivial memories, ripping further into the annals of her mind.

Yaxley loomed over her. His eyes, pale as ice, pierced her sharply. "If you'd like to keep your tongue," he spat, "I suggest you stop using it."

Every fiber of her burned with rage. Quick as a flash, she pressed the tip of her wand against the base of Yaxley's throat. "Threaten me again, and I'll hex you within an inch of your life."

"Hex me?" Yaxley said. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, you insolent little b—"

"Stop." Regulus's voice was so tight and curt that Grace didn't think he had said the word at all. But he did. He did, and he wasn't even looking at her. He did, and his hand was around Yaxley's shoulder, pulling him away. "She's not worth it."

Something in her fractured.

"Follow me, Bellatrix."

He brought them to a secluded little room by one of the many parlors in the manor. Bellatrix followed keenly, a smug little smile gracing her lips as she entered the candlelit room.

"What is it, my Lord?"

He settled into one of the armchairs. "That prophecy… It has been weighing on my mind. What did you make of it?"

"It seems you will succeed in your mission, my Lord. You will begin a legacy far greater than anything the world has ever seen."

"You take it as an endorsement? Not as a warning?"

She frowned. "A…warning?"

"Yes." He glanced at her. "I feel I must make a decisive choice—one that you will be a part of."

"I would be honored to assist you, my Lord."

He hummed in approval.

She was in a classroom. Faint wisps of silver swirled around her. Across from her was Ophelia Greengrass, auburn hair shining like copper, lips twisted into a pitying frown.

"If he's abandoned you, then there's no point lending him another moment's thought, is there?"

Grace's head snapped up. "No," she said automatically, reflexively. "No—that's not right. There's more to this. He wouldn't just…"

She didn't know what she was trying to say. Ophelia continued to look at her with that knowing glint in her eye, chin lifted, brows raised loftily. She did not understand.

"You don't know him," Grace said at last, "not like I know him."

They were in a long, shadowed hallway. A lean man with platinum blond hair cowered before the taller, red-eyed wizard in front of him.

"You cannot stop them?"

"No, my Lord."

The red-eyed man made a displeased sound in the back of the throat. The blond man jumped in alarm.

"But—but we can move what you've given me," he added desperately. "My wife still has access to her family home. There are a number of—"

"That is a foolhardy move. They will have anticipated this." He turned away from the other man. "He has figured me out. I do not know how…but he knows."

The blond man leaned forward in interest. "Knows what, my Lord?"

He cast a disinterested glance at the man before him. "It matters not. There is still a way out of this. I have a task for you."

"Anything, my Lord."

"Fetch me Wormtail."

They were in the Room. It had taken the form of a small library. The torchlights were faint—pinpricks of light in the swelling shadows of the room. Some terrible, roiling mixture of hurt and guilt sat in Grace's chest.

"What will it take?"

She frowned. "What?"

"What will it take for you to give up?" Regulus's eyes were as soft and grey as ash. "What will it take for you to hate me?"

Her mouth snapped shut. She did not know if she could ever hate him.

No. No—she couldn't allow him to see this. She tried to skip over these memories, tried to bring them back to something safer. He could not see anything that involved Regulus.

It was third year, and Grace was getting tired of forcing down Vablatsky's awful tea. She glanced around the classroom surreptitiously before dumping it into the planter behind her.

"You ought to stop doing that," the girl across from her scolded.

Grace scowled at her. "Why?"

"You're killing that poor plant."

He screamed in rage. The cluster of dark-robed witches and wizards cowered before him.

"My Lord, forgive me! Mercy—please, my—"

"CRUCIO!"

It was second year. She was in the kitchens, stuffing her face with apple pie. Faint tear tracks glistened down her cheeks.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it," Regulus tried gently.

"He said I was a snake!" she said hotly. "Just because I'm in Slytherin! It's not—it's not fair. He always does this! He did it during summer, too, even though Mum and Dad told him not to!"

"He just says it because he knows it bothers you."

"It doesn't matter! He still—"

It did not matter. It did not matter how many dull, useless memories she threw his way. He knew there was one she was trying desperately to hide, and he would not rest until he reached it.

There was a crack in the door. A dagger of light pierced through the dark of the room, lighting the back of the lone boy's robes.

"You called for me, my Lord?"

The glow of the hearth flared behind his head like a halo. He gave her a tender smile, and she felt a warmth wash over her.

"I can't believe you came up with all this just for me."

"Regulus—"

"—I require a house-elf."

"—I would go to the ends of the earth for you."

And with that last surge of pure affection—that last shred of goodness—she felt You-Know-Who withdraw from her mind. Her eyes caught his as she was thrust back into the present, into reality, and she was struck by the raw red of his eyes. They seemed brighter than before. Crueler. It reminded Grace of the red rash of her mother's illness, of the scorching red of desert sand, of dying embers, of every terrible thing on this earth—of death.

No, no, no… The word tore through her heart relentlessly. A flood of guilt and regret drowned her. She had not practiced enough, had not cared enough, had not listened enough, had been caught in the mess of herself, and now You-Know-Who had found her out. Now she would be killed—and without ever saving Regulus, without ever telling James. No, no, no. It was all over. She had ruined herself.

She lifted herself from the floor, but her arms gave out almost immediately. She had known pain her whole life. She had stumbled down stairs and scraped her knees. She had been cursed with raging headaches and violent seizures. But none of that compared to the Cruciatus. None of her old wounds or aches had ever stuck to her limbs like the torture You-Know-Who had inflicted. She tried to gather herself once more, but she only managed to twist her body over. She lifted her head, and her eyes briefly met You-Know-Who's again. His eyes flashed with disgust, as if Grace were nothing more than some cockroach writhing on the ground, waiting to be stamped and swept away.

"How sentimental," he sneered. "How foolish."

She stilled, eyes fixed on his form. He was not angry, just repulsed, just…disappointed. He was looking down at her like her blood had suddenly become less pure, like she was nothing more than dirt beneath his feet, like she had shown him that she was less than she actually was. And within this revulsion of his, Grace realized something: You-Know-Who had not found her out, because he had not understood what he'd seen.

He had seen Regulus through her eyes. He had seen Regulus's gentle hands and tender smile and soft eyes. He had seen the way Grace had chased after Regulus—desperate, falling all over herself just to be near him. He had seen her desire and devotion. He had seen her love—bright and burning—at every corner of every memory with Regulus, and he did not understand it. He thought the only reason she had come here was to follow after Regulus.

Grace remembered the way Bellatrix had knelt in front of You-Know-Who, the way she had clawed at the hem of his robes, the way she had looked up at him—eyes dazed and shining. That was the sort of love You-Know-Who understood—blind devotion—but it was not the love Grace held. A devotion like Bellatrix's was like water. It was precious. It was pliable. It was fought over. It would be taken greedily, guzzled down. It could not hurt the person it was given to.

But what Grace had could hurt.

Grace's love was little more than an inferno. It was not weak or pitiful. It was terrifying—how quickly her love could consume, how swiftly it could reduce everything to ash. She loved Regulus enough to withstand torture. She loved him enough to hurt her own brother. She loved him enough to scream at him and cut him off. If You-Know-Who believed Grace wasn't a threat simply because she was in love, then he was the fool, not her. Grace was at her most dangerous when she was in love.

"You would put your life at risk on a whim?" You-Know-Who said disparagingly. "Simply to follow after some weak-willed boy?"

She could feel every hard beat of her heart against her chest. She had been given one last chance. She could not ruin this.

"Regulus has told me that this is the future. That—that what you're doing will shape the wizarding world for generations to come. I believe him. I want to join. I want to be with him. I just—" her voice cracked, warbled, "—want to be with him."

"You are pitiful."

It was the first time Grace had ever been happy to be insulted. Pitiful was a good thing to be in You-Know-Who's world. What was pitied could never be considered a threat. What was pitied was passed over, was quickly forgotten, was safe.

"But you have some use for me," You-Know-Who continued. "You will See for me."

"Yes," Grace agreed immediately. Anything, anything. "Yes, my Lord."

"You will not make contact with anyone in Dumbledore's Order unless it is on my instructions. Regulus Black will be responsible for you. If it is found your loyalties do not lie with me, both of you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

You-Know-Who held her gaze for what felt like eons before finally saying, "Give me your arm."

She shambled along the floor and gave him her left hand. He dug the tip of his white wand into her wrist. A dark, inky black slithered from the tip of it, sinking deep into the smooth gold of her arm. She hissed quietly as it seared against her skin, like poison slipping into her veins. The dark tendrils of the spell climbed up and up, until it reached her forearm, and slowly shifted and settled into a familiar shape: a curving snake and a jagged skull.

"Welcome." His voice was chilling. In the red of his eyes, Grace saw fire and blood. "You are one of us now."

Regulus was pacing in front of the Falmouth house when she arrived. As soon as she appeared over the hilltop, the setting sun flaring behind her, washing her in gold, Regulus turned and ran to her. He met her halfway, hair flurried, grey eyes anxious, the skin of lip bitten raw and red.

"What happened?" he asked, folding her into him. "Did you actually meet—"

"Yeah," she said hoarsely.

She lifted her left arm and pulled up the sleeve, showing him the inky black of the Dark Mark. Regulus stared at it for a long moment before gently pulling the sleeve of her robe back down. He didn't say anything, and neither did she. They completed the rest of the walk to the summer home in silence. As soon as they crossed through the door, Grace threw down her cloak and collapsed into the pull-out, savoring the feel of something other than hardwood under her body.

Regulus perched beside her. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was hit with the Cruciatus three times."

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Like you were—what? What do you mean? What happened?"

"I was hit with the Cruciatus three times."

His face went ashen. "You were…you mean actually cursed with—"

"Yeah," she said flatly. "Can we not make a big deal out of this?"

"Not make a big deal—" he wheezed.

"It's awful when you're experiencing it—worse than anything I've ever felt—but after it's over, it's sort of just like a paroxysm." She settled deeper into the pull-out. "The throbbing and aching. It's not so bad anymore."

"Not so bad?" Regulus repeated, voice tight and choked. "You endured an Unforgivable three times. You—"

"Yeah, I know, Regulus. I was there." She kneaded her temples with her fingers. "Do you mind getting me some Draught of Peace? There should be a vial in my trunk. I nicked some from the cottage before I left."

He darted towards her trunk and rummaged around for a minute or two before emerging with the vial and handing it to Grace. The shimmering potion swayed within the confines of the bottle. Grace uncorked it and swallowed down the whole thing in one go. She let out a breath of relief as the worst of the aches faded from her limbs. She stretched out her feet and let her head loll back against the couch.

"Better?" Regulus asked, sitting beside her.

She nodded. Her eyes flickered over the smooth ceiling. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

"Only if you can. If you want to."

She wanted to. She started from the very beginning, from when Bellatrix had Apparated them to the lush grounds of that large, white manor. (Malfoy Manor, Regulus recalled. Narcissa lives there with her husband.) She recounted how Bellatrix had forced her to kneel before You-Know-Who and all the questions You-Know-Who had asked her and how You-Know-Who had realized she was using Occlumency and how he dove deep into her mind, deeper than either of them had ever gone in the Room, deeper than Grace thought was humanly possible. (Visions? Regulus had said in a strangled voice when Grace mentioned she had Seen something between the memories, although she couldn't remember what. You're not supposed to have visions.) When she was at last done, Regulus was staring emptily at the wooden floor, face pale and withdrawn, hands clasped tightly together.

"This is bad. This is so, so bad," Regulus rattled to himself. "I mean—as awful as what happened to you today was—it was still lucky. Impossibly, horribly lucky. I can't believe he got into your head and—and—still let you join. I can't believe he didn't realize. This is… This is mental. This is just…"

On and on Regulus went, the words pouring out of his mouth like a torrent. Grace lay beside him, still as stone, eyes flickering to a close. She was too spent to lend Regulus any attention, too tired to even begin to untangle his worry. She only knew that he was right. This was mental, but what could they do about it now? If Grace could have aborted the plan, she would have. She would have done it after the first hit of Cruciatus. She had realized, then, how real this was. How dark it was. But she had been trapped in that moment, and convincing You-Know-Who—joining him—was the only way to escape.

"—oh, Salazar!" Regulus yelped suddenly. "What if he did realize? What if he knows and he's just stringing you along, waiting for the right moment? What if—"

"Regulus," she sighed.

He turned to her, and his face was so distraught, his eyes were so wide and pitiful, his lips were pulled into such a dreadful pout, that she couldn't find it in herself to snap at him and tell him to shut it. She turned away and leaned further into the pull-out.

"I'm hungry," she finished after a moment.

Kreacher was called, and as the old house-elf bustled around the kitchen, Grace settled deeper into the pull-out, winding her blanket around herself. Regulus was still perched on the edge of the couch, rigid as ever, anxiously wringing his hands, deep in thought. The moment was only broken when a sharp rapping came from the window. Grace startled, and Regulus rose like a whip, wand already out.

"It's an owl," she said, frowning as she caught sight of a pair of speckled wings flapping outside the window. "I thought you put up wards?"

Regulus strolled towards the window. "Yes, but only the basic ones. I can't make this area undetectable. Suppose a Death Eater wants to send you an owl?"

"You can't be serious," Grace protested as Regulus opened the window and let the owl in. "Am I really going to get letters from Death Eaters? What in Merlin's name are they going to send me? Don't tell me you lot have got a weekly newsletter going on or something. If I've got to read think pieces on—er—Regulus, are you alright?"

He was staring at the letter the owl had delivered. "It's for me," he said, voice fragile and hollow. "From Dumbledore."

Grace shot out of her seat and bounded over to him. She stared at the letter clutched tightly in his hands. He was not mistaken. Written with green ink, clear as day, was his name. Underneath it was the Hogwarts insignia.

"You don't know it's from Dumbledore," she said weakly. "It could just be from Slughorn. Maybe he's got a Slug Club party planned for the first day back."

Regulus shook his head numbly. "No—it's from the Headmaster's desk. It's got the stamp." He pointed to a little symbol on the corner of the envelope, and then looked to Grace. "He's found me out. Dumbledore's found me out. Oh—oh, Salazar. Oh, fuck. He knows, and he's—"

"You don't know that he—"

"Why else would he send me a letter out of the blue?" Regulus argued. "He's never sent me a letter before. It's always been Slughorn or McGonagall whenever it's something school-related. That means that this is a personal matter. That means—"

"You're working yourself up over something that could be nothing," Grace cut in sharply. "Why don't you read the letter—"

"I can't just read this!" Regulus said shrilly, waving the envelope in front of him. "This is going to be a summons to the Wizengamot! How can I just open and read—"

Grace plucked the envelope from his hand and tore it open. She took out the single piece of parchment and unfolded it.

Dear Mr. Black,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to serve as Head Boy for the remainder of the term. Unfortunately, our previous Head Boy cannot return to Hogwarts. You have been chosen to take up the mantle due to your dedication to scholastic endeavors, your thoughtful and thorough nature, and your impeccable record as a Prefect for Slytherin.

Upon your return to Hogwarts, you will meet with me in my office along with the Head Girl to go over your responsibilities and expectations. Enclosed is your Head Boy badge, which should be worn on your robes at all times. Congratulations!

Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster

The Office of Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chief Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Grace stared at the letter in shock. Her eyes flickered back to the envelope. She reached inside and, sure enough, there was a badge.

"Well?" Regulus said anxiously.

"Congratulations." She took the badge out and handed it to him. It flashed bright under the torchlight. "You're the new Head Boy."

"I—you mean—what?"

He grabbed the letter and read it ferociously. When he reached the end, he read it again. And then a third time. When he was at last satisfied, he looked up at Grace in a daze and gingerly took the pin from her hands. His fingers traced over the emerald green lacquer.

"I can't believe this," he breathed.

Grace gnawed at her lower lip. "What do you think happened?"

"What?"

"To Dirk," she clarified. "What happened that he's not coming back?"

"I don't know. He probably went into hiding."

"Hiding?" Grace repeated. "But why now? It's not like—wait… Do you know if your Death Eater lot have gone down to Tutshill?"

"First of all, it's our Death Eater lot now," he said. "Second…I don't know. Maybe. If it's got a heavy Muggle presence, probably."

She gnawed at her lip. "They probably did. That'd be the only reason he wouldn't come back—if something happened to him. If…"

Her stomach curdled at the idea of Dirk enduring torture at the hands of the Death Eaters. She had only endured the Cruciatus three times. Dirk would have been hit with the curse far more, and with no chance of rest or respite between rounds.

She didn't realize she was reaching for a spare roll of parchment until Regulus stopped her.

"You can't write him," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because if you write him a letter here, you'll have to use my owl. And if my owl is intercepted or being watched by one of our lot, it'll be very hard to explain why we were sending a letter to a Muggle-born asking if he's okay."

"I can't not write Dirk," Grace said fiercely. "He could be in trouble!"

"You can write him once we're back at Hogwarts," Regulus assured. "You only have to wait a day. Then, you can use a Hogwarts owl and write him. Okay?"

She sat down heavily on the pull-out. "Okay," she said, even though it wasn't. She threw her head back and traced the curve of the ceiling. "I can't believe you're Head Boy."

He sat down beside her, rolling the badge between his hands. "Me either. I didn't think that—I mean, after Kennedy left, I thought maybe I'd have a shot. But then Cresswell was chosen… And now… Merlin, this is—this is…"

"Bad," she finished for him.

Regulus turned to her in surprise. "Bad? But if I'm Head Boy, it'll be easier for us. This means Dumbledore doesn't suspect."

"Regulus, do you honestly believe Dumbledore chose you because of your track record?"

Hurt flashed across his face. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't he?"

"Because—okay, look—yes, you're a wonderful student. You got all O's on your O.W.L.s and you're respectful to teachers and whatnot. You're the perfect student. But surely Dumbledore has noticed the company you've been keeping. He must have noticed that you were hanging around Yaxley and Rosier more than me."

"I'm not sure I mean enough for Dumbledore to pay such close attention to me."

"Are you certain? Sirius is a part of his Order. What if he asked Dumbledore to keep an eye on you?"

"That's impossible. That's—" he shook his head wildly, "—if it turns out Sirius is concerned about me, I'll eat my left shoe, Grace. When has he ever asked about me?"

Realization hit her like a lightning bolt. "During holiday! He asked me about you when he was dropping me off at—"

"He did what?"

"—the Potter cottage, and if he asked me, he must have asked others! And I overheard him at the tea shop at St. Mungo's, too. He thinks you might be a Death Eater—"

"He thinks what?"

"—and if he told it to James and the others, he must have told Dumbledore, too." Grace's brain was in overdrive. "And if Dumbledore knows all of this, then of course he'd make you Head Boy. What better way to keep an eye on you when you're meeting with him or McGonagall every other day? How can you be expected to carry out your nefarious Death Eater activities when you're supposed to be organizing patrols and handing out detentions and—and—I don't really know what else it is Head Boys do… Er—make the lunch menu?"

The badge fell from Regulus's hands and clattered against the floor. "Oh, Salazar," he said faintly. "You're right. I can't—I can't go back to Hogwarts! He'll be watching my every move. He'll—"

"You have to go back to Hogwarts, Regulus."

"How?" he cried out. "How can I go back if Dumbledore is on my case? This is horrible. This is a nightmare."

"It'll be okay—"

"No, it won't!" he said with mounting hysteria.

"—because you just have to fool him until we convince James to let us into the Order as spies. You just have to not draw attention to yourself until then. Once we're on the same side as Dumbledore, we won't have anything to worry about."

Regulus deflated. "We'll only be fine so long as I manage to fool Dumbledore and you manage to fool You-Know-Who."

She nodded. "Exactly. See? The plan is coming together."

"It's not. It's decidedly not coming together. How can I be expected to mislead Dumbledore? He's one of the greatest wizards that ever lived." Regulus collapsed heavily beside Grace. "And we still don't know how you're going to manage to convince You-Know-Who that you can See."

"We'll figure it out. You-Know-Who didn't seem particularly concerned about my Seeing abilities, just whether or not I was—" a traitor, "—a liability. Maybe I can get away with reporting false visions, or maybe he won't even ask." She shifted against him, pushing herself deeper into the cushion of the pull-out. "What we've got to do now is the hardest part—just wait. Wait to find out something useful to pass on to the Order. And then I'll find James, and we'll apologize to each other, and I'll explain everything to him. And then James will vouch for me to the Order. And then I'll vouch for you. And then we're saved."

She had this all planned out in her head, like she was an actor going over her lines. Wait a while. Find out something useful. Go to James. Spy for the Order. Save Regulus. She dreamt about this sequence at night: the anxious tap of fingers, the listening, ears pressed against doors, the gleam of the Death Eaters' silver-lined masks, how James might take the news, how they would fall into one another, apologizing, weeping, taking the other into their arms, how the Order would react, exultant and joyful, how relieved Regulus would be when this was all over. Wait. Find. James. Spy. Save. These five words seemed to dictate the whole of her life; they consumed her. These were the five most important words Grace knew.

"Are you sure?" Regulus asked.

"Don't you trust me?"

The answer came immediately: "Of course."

She smiled at him and took his hand in her own. "It's going to go exactly like I said, Regulus. I promise you. In a month, this'll all be over. We'll be saved."

He held her gaze for a long moment—silver bleeding into gold, the moon dancing across from the sun—before nodding.

"We'll be saved," he agreed, and leaned towards her.

He kissed her, and it was like flower petals brushing against her lips, the soft melt of snow curling against her flesh. He kissed her, and she calmed, for a moment, stilled under those tender hands. He kissed her, and she did not think of the dark tomb her parents were sleeping in. She did not think of the break in atmosphere when she Apparated away from James. She did not think of her own grief, large as it was, or the phantom aches running down her limbs from the torture she endured, or how on earth she was supposed to convince You-Know-Who she could See.

She did not think of any of that. Instead, she thought of Regulus, and—slowly, steadily—her heart softened and relaxed. If she could get him out of this alive, then all of this would be worth it. If they had a chance now, then how could she regret anything she had ever done?

Wait. Find. James. Spy. Save.

A/N : So sorry for the long wait! This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write simply because there is a LOT happening.

Also, just a little note regarding Voldemort: Since it's pre-resurrection, I'm leaning towards that weird, slightly blurred/warped face he had when he met Dumbledore to interview for the post of DADA professor. He's definitely still messed around with dark magic or whatever, but I don't think it's gotten *super* bad yet.

As always, thank you for the faves, follows, and reviews. Please keep letting me know your thoughts!

Reticulated : Thank you! Oh, Grace is definitely being VERY hasty. She doesn't really believe things can go wrong for her, and her grief is driving her to be more reckless than she usually is. Her hubris is something we'll be exploring in the next few chapters.

LoveFiction2019 : Thank you!

Autumn Rabbit : Thank you so much for all the sweet reviews and compliments! We'll eventually see if it was Grace who's with him in that vision. I think the way that the Harry Potter Universe works is that the visions are roughly accurate. Even if you're trying to prevent it (like how Voldemort tried to kill Harry to prevent the Chosen One prophecy from taking place), you just end up ensuring it.

Guest (2) : Thank you so much! Yes, the double agent stuff is sort of nerve-wracking, but they'll get through it!

Guest (1) : Thank you for reading! Ahhh, I'm sorry the Marauders pissed you off; it wasn't my intention for everyone to come across as super rude. It's just that everyone happens to be going through some shit at the moment :(

Exotence : Ahhh, thank you so much! I love that the the hydrangea bush bit stuck out to you!

The Goode Ravenclaw : Thank you!

QueenAnarchy2.0 : I wrote a super long response to both your wonderful reviews, and I PM'd them to you! Thank you so much for reading :)

Piffthemagicdragon21 : thank you so much!

puppyduckster : Thank you so much for the thoughtful review! Yes, I totally agree; this is a big step towards Grace being independent/making her own decisions. James and Grace definitely have a lot to discuss later, when they're able to calm down and discuss, of course. I like how you said "a future Grace/everyone else reconciliation scene," because that's definitely how it is at the moment, LOL. She got back Regulus, but at the cost of pretty much everyone else in her life.