As sunlight began to filter into the guest bedroom, Marcus Flint finally woke. When his eyes opened, he found Ambrose Rookwood performing diagnostic charms on his mutilated arm.

"No healing that, I take it?" Flint asked, weakly.

Ambrose looked up at him, and shook his head regretfully. It was all the confirmation Flint needed, and he let his head sink back into the pillows.

"How are you feeling, Flint?" Ambrose asked his friend.

Marcus Flint closed his eyes. "Like I had my fucking arm lopped off, if you must know."

"You almost lost a kidney as well, Flint," said Ambrose, quietly. "I think you stepped to the side just in the nick of time."

Flint felt a bandage on his side shifting, and realized that Rookwood was right - he had gotten clipped by that cutting hex. He hadn't even noticed it, in the heat of battle.

"Who got you?" asked Ambrose, as he checked the dressing on Flint's side.

Flint opened his eyes and saw Ambrose's intense look. It took Flint only a moment to understand the question - his emergency portkey brought him here, which meant he had been attacked, or that he had been the one attacking. Even if he hadn't been wearing his mask and hood, it meant that the Death Eaters were on the move. Knowing who had taken Flint's arm would tell Ambrose Rookwood damn near everything he might want to know about who was being attacked - and, from that, why.

"You're scary, mate," said Flint, with a sigh.

"So I'm told," replied Rookwood, drily. "Who got you?" he asked again.

Another sigh escaped Flint. "Potter."

"Ah," said Rookwood, nodding to himself.

"That's it, Rookwood? Just 'Ah,'?"

Ambrose shrugged. "He's escalating, but I can't say I didn't expect it from a Gryffindor." Not after Dad, Ambrose continued in his mind.

Now it was Flint who shook his head. "We attacked Director Bones," began Flint.

His host was silent, torn between the demands of the moment. On the one hand, he craved information, and this news hadn't even made the morning's Prophet. Knowing the details was important, but knowing them before anyone else was where Rookwood's father had truly made a name for himself. Ambrose was no different.

On the other hand, though, was the fact that Flint was essentially revealing details about Voldemort's plans and activities. He had told Flint that he supported the Dark Lord's cause, and in general that still held true. But his faith had been shaken by the attack on Pansy Parkinson - an attack from her own uncle, no less. All for a vote and some galleons.

He knew that people acted irrationally, but what had been done to Pansy - and, worse, what had been threatened - was beyond anything he could agree with. If this was the role planned for him when he took the mark, then his decision to delay was possibly the best one he could have made.

So he did the easy thing, the thing his father probably would have done in his place. He stayed silent, and gathered intelligence.

Flint laid out the attack on Bones Manor. He described the blinding flashes of light, the attacks from reinforcements who weren't there. The revealed invisibility cloak following a massive explosion, and the brief duel with Potter that followed.

Even without knowing what happened after Flint escaped, it was not hard to see that Harry Potter had changed the nature of the war. The death eaters, once they lost half their number, should have escaped and attempted to preserve at least some of their forces, but they couldn't - not without incurring the wrath of the Dark Lord. So they pressed on, and nearly doubled their losses. Not the sort of wisdom he had associated with the Dark Lord, if the stories of his father had been anything to go on.

When he finally spoke, Ambrose asked how many effectives Flint still had on side when he escaped. The pale shock on his friend's face told Flint everything he needed to know.

"How many stood with Potter, then?" asked Ambrose.

Flint shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around something that had not even occurred to him in the heat of battle.

"I…. I don't know."

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost to their thoughts, before Flint hissed in pain. Looking down at the stump of his arm, he saw an angry red burn peeking out from the bandages.

Ambrose understood without being told - Pansy had guessed about it the night before. "He's summoning you."

Flint nodded. "I have to go."

"Of course," said Ambrose, absently. "Make sure you have a proper healer look at that," he advised, indicating the arm.

"I will," said Flint. "Pansy did a good job on it, though. I'll be fine."

The empty potion vial Ambrose had been carrying fell from his hand, smashing itself on the floor.

Flint gave his friend a serious look. "I was bleeding to death, and delirious. But I still remember her, Rookwood." Now his eyes found his host's, and Flint willed Ambrose to understand what he was saying - for it was the only warning he could give. "I can have no secrets from the Dark Lord. You know that."

Ambrose nodded once at his friend - the message had been received. They will come for her.

oOoOoOoOo

When she awoke, it took a moment for Amelia Bones to recall the events at Bones Manor. Then her eyes fell on the crest of House Potter emblazoned on the wall, and she remembered. The sight of her niece still peacefully sleeping did nothing to calm the fresh wave of anger she felt as she thought about the battle.

In one stroke, the House of Bones could have been wiped out. It would be impossible for her to ever forgive the events of the previous night.

Previous night, hell, she thought, bitterly. If it's still as early as it seems, then the whole battle was just hours ago.

She did not waste time, wanting to see what - if anything - had been reported, both in the Prophet and within the DMLE. She wanted to know what the captured death eaters told her aurors. She definitely wanted to know the names of the dead.

But above all else, she wanted a cup of coffee.

It was the smell of that much-needed beverage that drew her to the kitchen, and the last person she expected to find in the home of an Ancient and Most Noble house.

Colonel Ramsay looked up as she paused in the doorway. He was in uniform, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the muggle newspaper. With a shock, she realized that it was Monday morning - he would be on his way to his muggle job before long.

He raised his mug toward her, and gave her a cheeky grin. "'Morning," he said.

Amelia could not help but grin right back at him. "Good morning, Colonel," she said, greeting him with mock formality. Pouring herself a coffee of her own, she took the seat across from him. "Busy day for you, then?"

He nodded. "I get to brief the top brass about last night, which should be as delightful as it sounds."

She frowned at that. "Who are you briefing?"

"Brigadier General Miles Warren. He is the top officer in Her Majesty's Army who is authorized to know about magic, and advises Number 10 on the subject. I've been told to report in with him whenever anything major happens." Ramsay had a serious look on his face as he spoke. "Actually, it was General Warren who suggested letting me in on the secret, after he found out that the neighbor kid I had been mentoring was actually the boy-who-lived."

"Interesting," she said, sipping her coffee. She wondered how the General had learned about Harry. Perhaps the General was a squib, or had a magical relative somewhere in the family?

"How are you feeling?"

Amelia turned her eyes to the Colonel, and saw the look of concern on his features. Part of her was surprised, but only a small part. The two had bonded during their evening together, even before the battle - and shared danger has its own way of bringing people together. For good or ill, the two of them had taken up the task of helping Harry plan a war, and both had found - to their delight - that they worked well together.

Belatedly, Amelia remembered that she had promised to go to lunch with him today. She smiled at the thought, which got a smile from him in return.

"Well enough to keep our dinner meeting, Colonel," she said with a smirk.

oOoOoOoOo

Cornelius Fudge collapsed into his chair as the door to his office closed with a slam.

The morning had been exhausting, with reports and meetings about the previous night's battle. Even knowing that You-Know-Who was actually back had not prepared him for an actual attack on a Ministry department head. Fudge had no love for Amelia Bones, true, but it mattered little when the death eaters were willing to attempt to assassinate her.

That could have been me, his mind screamed.

Part of him knew that his allies would not discard him, for he worked hard to remain valuable to them. But those allies were thin on the ground these days, with Lucius still in ICW custody. Lord Malfoy's imprisonment had a ripple effect, and suddenly Cornelius had a much harder time contacting his usual supporters - a worrying sign.

John Parkinson had been his saving grace, these last few days. Where Lord Malfoy's support had disappeared, the newly-minted Regent Parkinson was able to step in. All Fudge had to do was what he had been doing for years - listen to some 'friendly' advice now and again, and act as he saw fit.

It had been Parkinson who pointed out that one of the reports from Bones Manor mentioned a muggle being present. The idea was offensive to Parkinson, for it meant that the regent of a noble house was consorting with muggles as if she were some sort of blood traitor. The muggle had not been on the scene when the aurors arrived, or else he might have been taken into custody while his presence was 'investigated'.

Fudge didn't much care about the fact that a muggle had been there. What did bother him was that the muggle had status as one of the few who - officially - knew about magic. He had been listed as the Muggle Liaison to the muggle armed forces, which told Fudge that Madam Bones was reaching out to the muggles for assistance.

His hold on the office of Minister was weaker than it ever had been, these days. If one of his department heads had to go to the muggles for assistance? No, that would not look good at all.

Fortunately, that was a problem he could deal with.

Decision made, Fudge stood up and walked out of his office. For this, he'd need help.

oOoOoOoOo

That morning, Jamie Potter and Trevor Longbottom had breakfast in Trevor's room at Longbottom Hall.

Trevor had had the same room for nearly his entire life, when he lived in his family's cottage at Falcon's Rest. Moving into a new room, even if it was in his family's ancestral home, was a strange experience. There had already been a room set aside for him, but one look at it told him that it would be a mistake to choose that one.

It was the Longbottom elves who explained what had happened. Augusta Longbottom, once she had mourned her grandson, had ordered the bedroom next to the nursery closed and sealed. Before the attack in 1981, the Longbottoms had planned for Neville and Trevor to have adjoining bedrooms as they grew up together - so the nursery had been set up in what would have become Neville's room. Even when the boys outgrew their shared room, they would still be close to each other - just one door away.

Trevor's crib, his toys, and his clothes had all been moved to the second bedroom, almost as a shrine to the slain toddler. The elves told Trevor that Augusta had never visited the room, but that Neville had snuck in just once, when he was five. That incident had led a tearful Augusta to sit Neville down and tell him the tale of his lost brother.

It was another sign to Trevor that his grandmother would not be as forgiving as his parents had hoped.

So it was that Trevor Longbottom decided to take one of the guest bedrooms down the hall from his brother's. The elves got a description of his old room from his mother, and quickly redecorated the space to make it seem more like home - which, in a way, it was.

They had even added a comfortable couch, just like he had had at Falcon's Rest. The Potters had lived in a cottage less than a thousand feet away from the Longbottoms, but that didn't stop Jamie from sleeping over in Trevor's room, and vice versa. When they did, each would invariably end up sleeping on the other's couch.

It was a little touch of home that Jamie had appreciated the night prior, as both boys had been exhausted when they arrived at Longbottom Hall. Even then, in the comfort of Trevor's new room, neither of them could keep their minds off of the conversation they had had with the Headmaster.

The topic did not come up until they had finished their breakfast. Jamie sat back on the couch, the old familiar look of worry having returned.

Trevor smiled at his friend. "I know that look," he said. "Spit it out, mate, what are you thinking?"

Jamie gave his host a tired grin. "I think we're in over our heads, Longbottom," he replied.

Trevor scoffed at that. "How is that different from any other time, though?"

"Yeah, maybe," conceded Jamie. "But that was sneaking out to the wardline, or skipping training to fly. This is all… it's too big, Trev."

"It's not like they're wanting to make you the crown prince of the Light or anything," teased Trevor. Jamie responded to that by tossing a pillow, which Trevor dodged with a laugh.

Jamie took a moment to collect his thoughts before he continued. "The plan was always that we'd come back to fight Voldemort," he said. "We'd have a coalition of Light families, not to mention the Order itself, as well as our brothers at our sides, and with the weight of both fate and a prophecy behind us. We've trained for it, we know what we're up against. It'd be hard, but it's my job, and I know I can get it done."

"All true," agreed Trevor.

Jamie stood and began pacing. "So we came back. But except for the few shots I got to fire off at the Dark Lord, literally nothing has gone to plan. The Order isn't sure what to think about the whole 'faking our deaths' thing, and we haven't even announced our return to the rest of the Light families. Dad has already alienated Harry, who is as we speak taking the fight to the death eaters - just like we thought we would be doing."

"Neville seems willing to give us a chance," Trevor remarked.

Jamie rolled his eyes. "Maybe so, but that's a long bloody way from standing with his parents." He looked at Trevor, and sighed. "And lest we forget, our parents let your Gran think that you were dead and they were basically comatose for a decade and a half."

That got a sigh from Trevor. "You didn't hear the patronus she sent, Jamie. She tried to summon Neville, but she sent it to her grandson. And it came to me as well." He shook his head, part of him still disbelieving. "I still don't get that, she thought I was dead."

"She did," Jamie agreed. "But you were still in her thoughts. Magic is intent, you know that."

"Yeah, I do." Trevor said, quietly.

Jamie nodded, but said nothing. Trevor watched his friend pace the room, knowing that they both needed to collect their thoughts. After a few moments, it was Jamie who broke the silence, with a pronouncement that said everything and nothing about their situation.

"This is all fucked," Jamie muttered.

As had always been the case, it was Trevor's reply that brought Jamie back into the moment.

"Yeah," agreed Trevor. "So, what are we going to do about it?"

oOoOoOoOo

Ambrose Rookwood should not have been surprised to learn that Pansy had been living out of a small backpack for the two weeks she had spent at his home. But then again, there were quite a few things about Pansy that had surprised him.

As soon as Flint had left, Rookwood had found himself knocking on her bedroom door. When she called him in, he found her already packed and ready to leave.

Pansy saw his eyes on her belongings, and smirked. "No one ever accused me of being slow, Mister Rookwood. I don't need an unspeakable to tell me when there's a nundu in the yard."

"I could accuse you of many things, Miss Parkinson," retorted Ambrose, grinning at her in spite of himself. "Being slow is not among them."

Pansy gave her host an exaggerated curtsey - which set him laughing, as she was wearing jeans at the time. She could not help but laugh along with him. After a moment, the pair calmed down, and she spoke again.

"Thank you, Rookwood, I needed that."

"We both did, I think," he replied.

"We did," she agreed.

The moment stretched between them, until Ambrose spoke again.

"Where are you going, then?" he asked.

The troubled look returned to her face. "Not many options left, I'm afraid."

Ambrose couldn't help but nod at that. Any death eater would take her to the Dark Lord, so that he could solidify her uncle's hold on House Parkinson and its seat in the Wizengamot. Even some of the darker neutral families might give her up if it meant protection from the death eaters. That left only one viable choice. Or two, rather.

"Potter or Longbottom?" he asked.

"Longbottom," Pansy replied. "I don't know where Potter lives, but I do know how to get to Longbottom Hall. Even if Neville isn't there, his Grandmother will be, and she will honor the agreement her house's heir negotiated under Parley."

"So you said," Ambrose replied. "I can't help but worry, though."

"You're sweet," Pansy teased, earning a slight blush from the older Slytherin. "The agreement was witnessed, he can't back out. And think about Neville Longbottom, does he strike you as the kind of person to break an agreement like that?"

Ambrose shook his head. "No, Neville is probably the least Slytherin of any of the lions. You're probably right."

Pansy scoffed. "Probably, he says."

Again, Ambrose found himself rolling his eyes at the witch. Then he reached over and picked up her bag. "At least do me the honor of escorting you to Longbottom Hall, my lady."

Pansy curtseyed again. "Of course, my lord." Neither could keep themselves from laughing after that.

oOoOoOoOo

Brigadier General Miles Warren listened intently to Colonel Ramsay's description of the battle at Bones Manor. He tried as hard as he could to focus on the details of the battle - the tactics used by the young Lord Potter, the close quarters defense the Colonel had employed, the effectiveness of the Colonel's sidearm versus attacking wizards - all of the details he would need to include in his own report to the Prime Minister's office.

And report he would. The few in the muggle government who knew about such things had done what they could to keep a close eye on the growing unrest among the magicals. The policy in place was strictly hands-off, however, as the muggles did not want to give the magicals any cause for concern.

But with open attacks, in force, against a top government official, the conflict seemed to be escalating. It was only a matter of time before it spilled over into the muggle population - and there were only so many ways to cover that up.

Warren had the Colonel repeat his account of the fight with Nagini.

"How long was that snake, Mark?" he asked.

Ramsay shrugged. "Ten feet, easily. Maybe more."

Warren whistled in appreciation. "Five rounds rapid, who would have thought that would work against a huge, magical snake."

Ramsay sipped his coffee before answering. "Honestly, I didn't have much of a chance to think about it until it was all over."

"No, I don't suppose you did," agreed Warren.

Before he could say more, the phone on his desk rang. Warren reached over and pressed the speaker button, seeing that it was his assistant calling. "Yes?"

"Um, the gentlemen are here for your next meeting, sir." It was clear that the young assistant was nervous for some reason.

Warren and Ramsay shared a look. Something was wrong, and both of them knew it. No one was supposed to be able to get anywhere near this office without the proper clearance, and no one with the proper clearance would show up unannounced.

Indeed, anyone important enough to drop in would be important enough for Warren to be the one visiting their office, not the other way around. For Ramsay and Warren both, this was a red flag.

"I didn't have anything until this afternoon, if memory serves," Warren said, cautiously.

"My apologies, sir, but I've got them down in the book right here."

The reply did little to reassure either man. Warren stood up, and gave Ramsay a nod. The Colonel stood as well, and went to the other end of the room. Presumably, the junior officer would bring two chairs for the visitors, so that they could sit down with the Brigadier and have their meeting.

In reality, the movement put Ramsay and Warren on opposite ends of the room, and forced the visitors to divide their attention. If they were not a threat, then no harm done - but otherwise?

No one ever accused Miles Warren of being paranoid - because his instincts were correct far more often than not. They had been that way since before he could remember.

Once Ramsay was in position, Warren spoke again. "Send them in, Patrick."

There was no reply - another red flag - before the door to the office opened. Two army officers walked in, and immediately moved to stand in front of the Brigadier's desk.

Then the shorter of the two made his first mistake. "Mark Ramsay?"

"He works for me, yes," replied Warren, fighting hard to keep his tone neutral. Had they really not noticed the Colonel at the back of the room? "Something I can help you with, gentlemen?"

The taller officer frowned. "He was supposed to be here." He looked at Warren. "You'll have to summon him."

Warren's eyes widened at the man's gall. His uniform had the rank insignia of a Captain, which made the situation that much more ridiculous.

"Why do you need to speak to the Colonel?" Warren asked.

"It doesn't matter," said the shorter officer. "We've been here too long anyway." It was then that Warren noticed the stick in the man's hand. "Please stand still, this won't hurt a bit. Obliv- aaah!"

Whatever spell the wizard was about to cast was interrupted by the chair Ramsay brought down across his back. The other wizard stood there, shocked at the surprise attack - which gave Warren all the time he needed to catch him in the side of the head with a paperweight. The second wizard fell with a shout, and Warren was over his desk and on the man in no time at all.

Ramsay struck the first wizard once more, rendering him unconscious, before examining his false uniform. Had he gotten a better look at it, he would have struck sooner - for it was obviously a replica. The awards were incorrectly placed, the insignia was in an older style - and no officer this young would have fought in the second world war, as his uniform suggested.

"Never again!"

The angry shout from the Brigadier drew Ramsay's attention. When he looked over, he saw Warren repeatedly bashing the downed wizard with a trophy - the closest weapon at hand, it seemed. The look of anger on the man's face surprised Ramsay, for the Brigadier was usually a tightly controlled sort of man. This was a side of him Ramsay had never seen, and it was unnerving.

With his attention on the Brigadier, Ramsay did not notice his own wizard stirring. When the man shouted, it was a surprise.

"Blue, blue, blue!"

With a pop, the two wizards disappeared. Warren stood up, looking around his office as if seeking another target.

"What was that?" he asked.

Ramsay stood as well. "It was a portkey. They're long gone."

Warren huffed at that. "Bastards. I should have known they'd show up, after last night."

The Colonel raised an eyebrow at that. "Really?"

Warren nodded. "Anytime something like this happens, where they think their secret gets out, they send those…. people out and wipe memories." He shook his head, angrily. "We go along with it because it keeps the secrets where they are supposed to be - out of the public eye. But every now and then, they arse it up."

Ramsay set the overturned chair back up, and resumed his seat. "Sounds like you've dealt with this before."

Taking his own seat, Warren nodded again. "I spent the better part of my teenage years caring for my mum, who could barely remember her name, all because some twit at the ministry decided that it was easier to wipe her memory than let her complain."

"Complain?" asked Ramsay.

"What would you do," Warren said quietly, "if your sister went off to Hogwarts to learn how to be a witch, and never came back? They never even gave us her body to bury." He shook his head sadly. "Mum was never the same after Myrtle died. She had barely started to mourn when the obliviators showed up."

"After some of the things Amelia has told me? Yes, yes I can believe that." Ramsay sighed. "I'm sorry, sir."

Warren nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing. His eyes rested on a picture on his desk, one Ramsay could not see from his side of the desk.

After a moment, Ramsay spoke again. "So, I assume that we should probably report this to Number 10."

Warren looked across his desk at his friend and subordinate. "Are you kidding?"

oOoOoOoOo

Pansy Parkinson was not surprised to learn that Ambrose Rookwood had a small book in his study filled with portkey locations across the British Isles. Some were safehouses, some were friends, but a great many were old family homes.

The list had light and dark families alike - which is why Ambrose had known to look up the location of Longbottom Hall. Potter Manor itself was missing, as were several others, but Ambrose explained that they had been there at one point. That they were missing now told him that those homes had gone under the fidelius charm.

He did not need to know that the family seat on the House of Potter was Potter Manor. It was enough to know that the Potters had to have a family seat, and that it had been on the list at one point. It might have been a minor flaw in the charm, but not one that could be exploited to reveal the location.

Of course, as his father had said, knowing that there was a question to ask was a good first step to answering it.

Pansy was saddened to see Parkinson Lodge missing from the list. When Ambrose saw her expression, and where her eyes had fallen on the list, he confirmed her guess.

The Death Eaters had taken up residence in her old home. Which is why I'm running, she thought bitterly, as Ambrose crafted the portkey.

When the pair arrived, it was at a location in sight of the main gate to the Longbottom Estate. Rookwood had not wanted to arrive right next to the gate, and risk triggering a trap of some sort - but nor did he want to approach from too far away. He was mindful that every minute outside wards was a minute that exposed Pansy to danger, and he was not willing to put her at any unnecessary risk.

Fortunately for them, the defensive wards began at the perimeter, and they were able to approach without incident. Ambrose was surprised when Pansy walked with her arm on his elbow. When he gave her a questioning glance, she responded only with one of her enigmatic smiles.

He had not realized, until that moment, how much he would miss having her around his house.

"Here we are," she said with a sigh, as they arrived at the gate.

"Here we are," Ambrose echoed. "Last chance to back out."

Pansy could hear the worry in his voice, and understood what he had not said - Are you sure? She patted his arm in as reassuring a manner as she could, and smiled up at him.

"Neville wouldn't betray his house's honor. Not in a blood feud. Madam Longbottom would never let him hear the end of it." Pansy shook her head, her eyes still on his. "I'll be fine, Rookwood."

Ambrose smiled in spite of his nerves. "I bow to your wisdom, then, Parkinson."

Instead of a reply, he found himself being hugged. It surprised him, as Pansy - and most Slytherin girls, for that matter - were not big on hugging.

"Thank you," she whispered, before giving him a kiss on the cheek. As she stepped back, she smirked at how flustered the normally unflappable Ambrose Rookwood had gotten.

Before he could say anything, Pansy tapped her wand on the Longbottom crest worked into the metal of the gate. It was the only way she had to 'knock' on the wards, and it would identify her to Neville's grandmother, who probably held the wards.

It was barely three minutes before she saw two teenagers approaching from the main house. She sensed Ambrose relax when they came close enough to identify. The tension left her a moment later, when she got a good look.

The boy on the left was clearly Neville Longbottom - though he had clearly been neglecting his greenhouses, for he appeared to be paler than he had at the end of the school term. He was wearing muggle clothes, something that surprised Pansy. Since this was a result of a formal parley, she thought that he would at least wear robes.

Next to him was a Harry Potter who appeared to be more relaxed than Pansy had ever seen him. Harry had grown his hair longer, and had newer (and much nicer) glasses, but it was unmistakably the last Potter.

When they made it to the gate, Pansy began to speak, as the terms of a blood feud required.

"Heir Longbottom," she began. "In accordance with the old ways, I accept your offer of sanctuary on behalf of House Parkinson. I agree to do no harm to you or yours, and to set aside any conflict between our houses." There were other caveats and conditions she might have added, but the feud was not between the Longbottoms and anyone - they were just interceding as an allied house. Any oath of neutrality Harry might require would come later.

Longbottom and Potter shared a look. Then, to Pansy's relief, Longbottom stepped forward and opened the gate. "Heiress Parkinson, no harm will befall you here, as agreed." The typical response would have been to acknowledge the parlay itself, and say 'as we agreed', but Pansy did not notice the omission.

"Pansy says you're a man of your word, Longbottom," Rookwood said, speaking for the first time. "I take her safety very seriously." He turned his eyes to Potter, and fought hard to keep his expression neutral. This boy did not look like a killer, and certainly didn't look like he had been in battle against the forces of the Dark Lord the night before. "Potter," Rookwood continued, "This changes nothing between us."

Ambrose expected some sort of attempt at justification from Potter, or at least a response of some kind. Even within the strict bounds of the sanctuary discussion, surely he would take the opportunity to say something.

Instead, to Ambrose's shock, Potter merely nodded once. The infamously brash Gryffindor held his tongue.

Longbottom, for his part, smiled at him evenly. "We would not want to be accused of mistreating a guest, sir."

Sir? There was something off about Potter and Longbottom both, but Rookwood could not put a finger on what exactly it might be.

"I'll be fine," said Pansy. Rookwood saw in her eyes that she was not worried, and that caused him to relax somewhat. He nodded to acknowledge the comment, and stepped away from the gate, that act saying that he entrusted her to House Longbottom.

With that, Pansy turned and followed the lions up the hill. Once they were well away from the gate, the boys seemed to relax as well.

"He's a bit intense, isn't he?" remarked Potter.

Pansy looked up at him, and began to reply, but her remark caught in her throat when she got a good look at the boy walking on her right. The black-haired boy with green eyes - and no scar on his forehead.

"Potter," she said, urgency in her tone. "What happened to your scar?"

The boy shrugged, and pulled back his collar - revealing a long, jagged scar across his left shoulder. "It's here, on my collarbone, where it's always been."

"Since fucking when?" spat Pansy, her wand already in her hand. "What is this?"

"Miss Parkinson," replied Longbottom, shooting an exasperated look at his companion. "Allow me to introduce my idiot friend, here. May I present James Potter, Junior, of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter, the twin brother of Harry Potter."

Pansy turned her glare from Potter to Longbottom, her wand hand itching to curse both of these wizards… whoever the hell they were. "And you are?"

"I am Trevor Longbottom, Heir Secondary to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Longbottom. You may have met my twin brother, Neville, at Hogwarts." He gestured at the manor house atop the hill, looming overhead. "Welcome to Longbottom Hall. I'm sure our parents will love to meet you."

A/N: Welcome back. As I've said on other updates, my apologies for the long gap between chapters. Suffice it to say, things have been as crazy for me as they likely have for you. But we're going to just ignore all that and keep moving things forward, yeah?

I was surprised to learn that we only know Moaning Myrtle's last name from one of JK Rowling's tweets - but that's good enough for me, however. (At least it's not fanon consensus.) When one factors in a younger brother, the calendar works out nicely.

Thank you to the reviewers who continue to enjoy this story, and the ones who have concerns. I've not been great at responding to reviews these past few months, owing to... well, everything, but rest assured that every word of every review is read by me. Again, thank you.

Thank you especially to The Sinister Man, who recommended this story in an update of Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin. If you're not already reading that work, consider it. I make no secret about the fact that it was one of the stories that got me into the HP fandom, even to the point of taking inspiration for the opening of Keystone Council from the (brilliantly structured) cold open that kicks Prince of Slytherin off. So, to TSM and everyone on the discords who keep me writing - thank you.

Finally, thanks again to Grimjaw for the sanity check on this chapter.

Feedback, as always, is welcome. Stay safe out there.