Snape spent the afternoon before the Welcoming Feast holed up in the headmaster's office, going over his speech with Dumbledore and flipping through the books on his shelves. He'd pick one up, stare at it a few minutes, realise he hadn't read anything, then pick up another one, hoping he'd hit on something interesting enough to distract him. He didn't. The seconds ticked on and every passing hour left him more on edge until he was nothing but stiff muscles and nerves.

At half-past five he left his office to see the Carrows, venting some his nervous energy through his long strides, ducking through hidden passageways and little-used corridors to avoid running into any of the staff.

Neither of the Carrows had any experience teaching and their lesson plans were as clueless and short-sighted as he thought they'd be. This worked to his advantage, in a way. He could sway them under the guise of giving them advice, making sure that especially dangerous curses like Avada Kedavra and Fiendfyre were restricted to theory and that the assigned text didn't mention Horcruxes.

With that tedious task finished, he went to Filch's office and rapped on the door. He was counting on him to get to the students before the Carrows did. He was a harsh man, he enjoyed punishment, but he wasn't a killer. The same could not be said of his deputies.

"Headmaster," said Filch, lips thin and tight.

"Good evening Filch."

Snape glanced into the office as Filch stood up, at the jars of animals and the little figurines he'd whittled out of wood, hoping perhaps Filch might invite him in and they'd talk fishing and play bridge and bitch about the students the way they used to do, but he even if it weren't for his increased status, he knew Filch had no intention of this. He'd never been overly fond of Dumbledore-the old man was too soft, he used to say. But he'd been just as shocked by his death as the others were.

"As you know, things have changed this year. I'm counting upon you and Mrs. Norris to keep the students in line."

He'd been hoping Filch would warm up to him, but his lip curled and his face twitched and he was looking at Snape as though he were something under his shoe. Filch. Of all people.

"I take it I have your permission to give them a good whipping then?" he said.

Of course the reinstatement of corporal punishment would be Filch's silver lining. Somehow it was less amusing now.

"Well, I suppose I could, but then there'd be no one to help you clean the castle and I can't be bothered giving you a pay rise."

Filch scowled. "As you wish, Headmaster."

Snape turned and walked away without another look at him, lifting up his wrist to check the time. Half past six. The staff would be gathering in the little room off the Great Hall for introductions and small talk, the way they always did.

Snape might've been eleven years old again, dressed in shabby second-hand robes and about to walk into a classroom full of staring children. He absolutely could not bring himself to open that door.

But he had to. He couldn't fail, not something this important. He closed his eyes and imagined their jeering faces, summoned up all his frustration, his anger. So they hated him. He could hate them right back.

He opened his eyes and swept into the room the way he stepped into a crowd of Death Eaters, boots thudding on the stone floor, cloak swishing, candles flickering as he walked past. Everyone except the Carrows was huddled in a far corner, whispering and throwing him venomous looks. Plotting how best to undermine him, he supposed, or even dismantle his regime. Fools. He was the only thing standing between them and the Dark Lord, and they had no idea.

He remembered when he first started teaching, when he thought the rest of the staff had been whispering and muttering about him. Everything had come full circle, only then there'd been some hope that things would change.

Snape didn't even try to approach them, just stood awkwardly with the Carrows, who mercifully babbled on and on so Snape could let his mind wander.

When seven o'clock came Snape made the announcement and the staff filed past him into the Great Hall. Professor Sprout was the last in line. She stopped him just outside the door.

"What happened to Professor Burbage?" she whispered.

"She resigned," said Snape. He couldn't stand the sound of his voice. Or hers.

"Resigned my foot. What really happened?"

"I already told you. Now take your seat."

He'd spent so many evenings in her greenhouses, collecting specimens and talking about new plant breeds, and here she was, staring at him as though she'd never known him, her mouth trembling and her eyes fierce, shocked, bright. She swept past him into the Great Hall.

And with her face still in his mind, Snape took his seat in the Headmaster's chair, still too large and strange for him to sit in comfortably.

The silence at the staff table was so unnerving it was almost a relief when the students started to pour in, filling the hall with their voices, but they were different this year. Hushed, scared, hesitant.

Draco strode up to the Slytherin table, his expression serious, a Head Boy badge pinned to his chest, Nott and Zabini by his side. Miss Parkinson and her friends weren't far behind, smiling and laughing as they took their seats. Snape felt someone watching him and glanced at the Gryffindor table, where Longbottom and Miss Weasley were glaring at him so ferociously he wondered if they were attempting burn a hole through his chest with their eyes. He decided to ignore them.

After ten minutes or so the doors banged open and Minerva strode in, the first-years trailing along behind her, Hagrid at her side. Snape had never discussed this with them, just let them carry on as they always had, thinking they might gain the first-years' trust. The Carrows hadn't questioned it, but he'd been lucky this time. They were clever enough, in their own coarse way.

The Sorting hat opened its brim and Snape tensed, thinking the song might be a two-minute screed against his treachery, complete with references to his appearance, but it was much the same as it'd been the year before, a warning and a call for unity. The hat didn't mention him at all, and Snape supposed it knew his true loyalties, having spent so much time in the headmaster's office. He hoped so, anyway.

Minerva called out a name and one-by-one the first-years shuffled up to the stool, some of them trembling. He recognized a few names-there was a Rosier, a Runcorn, an Avery. He wondered if they were the children of those six-and-seventh years he'd taught when he first started.

The last student was sorted and Snape squeezed his sweaty hands together under the table, because he knew what was coming. He'd spent three hours trying to come up with something clever, writing and rewriting lines and tossing sheets of parchment at the wall. He stood up.

"The feast will now begin."

Obviously, he'd failed.

He scanned the house tables for any stirrings of rebellion, but most of the students were busy filling their plates with food. This was too easy. Clearly something was up. His eyes rested on Longbottom, Weasley and Finnigan, who were whispering together at the Gryffindor table. Longbottom stared right back at him, a bold, defiant gesture that could only mean trouble.

Minerva was sitting stiffly at his right, having apparently decided that the indignity of a Carrow taking her place was worse than having to sit next to him. She looked ready to stab him to death with her fork at the slightest provocation.

Flitwick was at his other side, holding some silent eye-conversation with Minerva as though Snape weren't even there. Snape stabbed at his chicken curry and strained the muscles in his face to keep from showing anything.

All too soon the puddings appeared and Snape knew it was nearly time. He played his napkin between his hands, going over his lines in his head even though he knew them by heart, and when the plates emptied and people started shuffling in their seats he cleared his throat and stood up.

He held up a hand in greeting the way Dumbledore used to do. "Welcome, all of you, to a new year and a new era at Hogwarts School-"

There was an outbreak of angry hissing and indignant muttering from the Gryffindor table, led by Longbottom and Weasley. Hagrid growled from down the staff table and Minerva half-rose from her chair, pleading with them to stop, perhaps.

Snape continued with his speech as though nothing had happened. "Over a thousand years ago, four witches and wizards of great renown raised a fortress of magic out of these windswept mountains, imbuing every stone with the breath of ancient spells so powerful they endure to this day. In so doing they created a sanctuary of magic, a place where their noble traditions could be passed down through the generations, like the magical blood that flowed through their veins-"

Weasley and Longbottom were talking even louder now, and people were turning to stare at them. Minerva was smirking, he was sure of it. Dammit. He'd been rather pleased with how his speech had turned out. Even Dumbledore liked it.

"You are their heirs, here to learn this ancient magic, to control it, to use it for the betterment of wizardkind. It is not my wish that a single one of you be harmed-"

Minerva coughed loudly behind him. Snape ignored her. "Be that as it may, I must warn you that any attempt to undermine the leadership of this school will be dealt with swiftly and severely." The entire Hall was silent now, every eye on him. What he'd said was for their own safety more than his dignity, whatever was left of it, and he could only hope they'd be smart enough to listen.

"I wish you all to work hard this year, to come together in fellowship-"

The cacaphony that Longbottom and Weasley started had spread through the hall like spilled water and now half the students were openly ignoring him, talking and hissing pounding their fists on the table and making as much noise as they possibly could. The Carrows shifted in their seats and glanced up at him, clearly expecting him to do something about it. He had to act, and quickly.

He flicked his wand towards the ceiling and set off an explosion that shocked the hall into a tense silence. He nodded to Filch, who shuffled towards the Gryffindor table grabbing Longbottom and Weasley by an arm and dragging them out of the hall. They were a good three or four inches taller than him, but he was wiry and strong. Minerva let in a sharp breath.

He would sooner harm himself than any of them. But they didn't know that. To them he was a murderer.

He spoke slowly and clearly, trying to regain the flow of his speech. "And together we will build a glorious future." That was it; he couldn't think of anything more to say.

A round of applause broke out from the Slytherin table where Parkinson and Zabini and Nott were cheering. Even Draco was clapping.

But the rest of the Hall was subdued, students whispering to each other or staring down at the table. There was no magic in this.

He made a few announcements-the Quidditch season was still on, about 300 items had been banned, student organizations needed his approval-and then dismissed them, rubbing his forehead and sinking into his chair.

Minerva stayed in her seat and leaned over the table. "What have you done with Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom?"

"How I discipline the students is none of your concern, Minerva."

That was the wrong thing to say. Minerva slapped her hands on the table. "They are in my House and therefore very much my concern, Severus."

She didn't repeat her threat from the day before but it was written all over her face, and it hung in the air between them as her voice faded away. He said nothing to her, just stood up and made his way to Filch's office, Minerva at his heels.

Longbottom and Weasley were sitting in a pair of rickety office chairs and Filch was standing over them with a pair of manacles in his hand and a glint in his eye, just waiting for Snape to give the go-ahead despite his earlier refusal. Snape might've been amused by this, if he hadn't just been humiliated in front of the entire school. He lowered his voice to its most threatening register, and this time he wasn't acting.

"Your behaviour at the Welcoming Feast was nothing short of disgraceful. If I see any more displays like that you will be in serious trouble, do I make myself plain?"

Longbottom and Weasley said nothing, just glared back at him, and he was struck by how very tall they'd become, how much sharper and more adult their features were.

"Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor, and you will spend every evening this week cleaning corridors with Filch. Fail to comply and your punishment will be far worse, do you understand?"

Weasley glanced at Longbottom, who twitched his shoulder an if we must sort of way, and Miss Weasley nodded, her mouth tight.

They shot out of their chairs without a second glance and were ushered out the door by Minerva, who would no doubt congratulate them on their cheek and warn them to never try anything like that again, don't you know the headmaster is a murderer? Snape followed them into the Entrance Hall, where Miss Lovegood was drifting vaguely across the stones.

"Why are you out of your common room, Miss Lovegood?"

"I was just under the Ravenclaw table, looking for my socks."

Snape didn't bother asking what they were doing down there in the first place.

Miss Lovegood tucked a pair of mismatched socks into the pocket of her robes and fixed her rather large eyes on him. "You know, I don't think you're really Professor Snape."

"I-what?"

"The real Professor Snape was kidnapped by Scrimgeour and is being held captive in the Ministry-they've got a whole chamber underneath, you know, filled with cages. You're just a look-alike."

Snape had taught the girl for five years and couldn't bring himself to hate her. She was a talented enough potioneer, and yet there wasn't a shred of arrogance in her, except when she was going on about her bizarre theories. They were amusing, at least, and this one was no exception.

"There's one problem with your theory," said Snape. "Scrimgeour's dead."

"Well it's obvious isn't it? He faked his own death. He's a vampire you know, they're very difficult to kill. It's all part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, that's why I brought along some Nargle wings, they protect against gum disease."

"Very logical of you."

Miss Lovegood's eyes widened and she was wary, as though she'd sensed some sudden danger. "You won't tell anyone I know this, will you?"

"I won't tell a soul."

"Oh good, I really don't want to end up in a cage underneath the Ministry. It's just too bad about Professor Snape, he was a bit mean but I did like him. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She drifted up the marble staircase and Snape followed behind, feeling just a bit lighter than he had before.

Snape was up before dawn the next morning, so no one would see him slip into the kitchens. The elves were already awake and bustling about the place making breakfast and singing, a rhythmic, swaying chant that made him think of the old sea shanties his mother used to sing when she was doing the washing. He'd never asked her where she learned them. From his father maybe, or the neighbour women.

The elves at the front of the room stopped singing and silence spread through the room like ripples in pond water.

"Headmaster," muttered a few at the front, lowering their heads in a bow.

"I have an important task for you all," said Snape. "Do you know the Carrows?"

A few of the elves exchanged nervous glances. The house-elves could be Summoned by the staff whenever they needed them, and he supposed the Carrows were already busy abusing their privilege.

"You will keep a close eye on them-their conversations, their absences from the castle, everything that goes on in their classrooms. If they harm anyone, or threaten anyone, you will report it to me immediately."

"Yes sir," said a few at the front.

"You will also keep watch on the students, particularly the organization calling itself Dumbledore's Army."

"We is doing that sir."

"And I forbid you from telling anyone anything about me, except that I am a harsh master."

"We is saying nothing but that sir."

"You may return to your work."

The elves nodded and went back to whatever it was they were doing. Snape heard a few snatches of song as he left room.

He went back to the Headmaster's office, where six or seven barn owls had dropped letters on his desk, right beside a massive stack of paperwork. What the everloving fuck was all this?

Dumbledore had briefed him on his duties the year before, but he was still shocked by how much there was to do. The old man was always reading or knitting or listening to music, it seemed, and Snape wondered how on earth he'd found the time.

He poured himself a large coffee and ripped open a bag of beef and onion crisps and somehow he got through it. He didn't mind hard work-he needed it, really, to keep his mind off everything-but this was every bit as mind-numbing as marking essays was.

He checked his watch-there were still a few hours until dinner. Perhaps he could sit and read for awhile, escape into another world.

He was used to the elves but he started at the crack in the air. Dobby appeared, gazing past him at the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk.

"Dobby has information on Dumbledore's Army, sir!"

"What is it?"

"They is recruiting sir, and plans to hold more meetings."

Snape sighed. Longbottom had chosen a hell of a time to embrace his Gryffindor recklessness.

The portrait of Dumbledore cleared his throat and Snape craned his neck to look at him.

"You must not let them organize openly," he said. "You will be expected to punish them harshly; not to do so would show weakness."

He wasn't telling Snape anything he didn't already know, but he kept his irritation to a minimum. "Shall I reinstate the ban on student organizations?"

"As much as it pains me to reinstate Umbridge's ban, yes."

"Very well." This would only push them underground, of course, but he could deal with that later. He turned back to the elf. "Anything else?"

The elf shook his head, looking from Snape to the portrait. "You is friends, sir?"

"In a manner of speaking. And I forbid you from telling anyone."

"But why-"

"That's a story for another time. Go."

"Yes sir. Dobby sends his regards to Professor Dumbledore."

"Likewise, Dobby," said Dumbledore's portrait.

The elf bowed to him and left, and when he was gone Snape sat down at his desk and rummaged around for another bag of crisps.

"Have you deciphered that message yet?" said Dumbledore from behind him.

Snape ripped the bag open and answered him without turning around. "Is this your way of telling me I should crack on with it?"

"I don't think you need me to tell you that."

And the old man was right, of course. He'd have done it anyway. He pulled the parchment from his pocket and got to work.

Graihagh hadn't left the hidden room in days. She ate and drank and slept and stared at the ceiling and not much else. She couldn't even bring herself to get up and make some basic potions to sell, though she desperately needed the money.

All she could think about was Milo, and her family, and Snape. She thought she'd known him. He'd saved her life, kept her from becoming a Death Eater like Rowle, and yet he'd gone back to them himself. Nothing made sense.

Her watch said ten, but Aberforth had gotten too busy to bring up her meals and she'd gotten so off track she had no idea if it was morning or night. She Summoned some bread and mead out of the kitchen and she was nearly finished when there was a knock at the door.

"It's Remus."

"Shit," she muttered, setting her plate on the floor. She hadn't washed or changed her robes in days. She could crawl into bed and pretend to be alseep, but it sounded urgent, so she wiped the crumbs off her robes and sprayed herself with some rose water.

She opened the door and stayed a few feet away from Remus, face hot, but his mind was somewhere else, she could see it in his eyes.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but it's an emergency. There've been some serious injuries and I need someone to administer potions. As quickly as you can."

"Is it members of the Order?"

"Not exactly, no."

He was being terribly vague about the whole thing, and Graihagh had a sinking feeling about whatever it was he wasn't saying.

"Where are we going exactly?"

Remus lowered his eyes and Graihagh knew what he was going to say before he'd opened his mouth. "To a camp a ways south. It's a community of sorts. For people with lyncanthropy."

Graihagh bit her lip and glanced away, picking her brain for some way out of it. She liked Remus, but what if he was the exception and the rest of them were every bit as vicious as everyone always said they were?"

"But I'm not a Healer. Can't you take them to St. Mungo's?"

Remus' mouth twitched in a bitter smile. "Do you really think that's an option?"

Graihagh had known perfectly well why he couldn't take them to St. Mungo's, she remembered what Aberforth had said about lax security. She was just playing for time.

"Look, I just don't think I'm the right person to ask-"

Remus scowled and it startled her, the furrows and lines on that affable face. She knew then, that he was under intense strain.

"If you don't want to do it just come out and say so," he snapped. "I know what you really think of me. You've been making that perfectly clear ever since we met."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Remus paced the floor and rubbed his forehead as though it ached. "No, it's fine, it's fine. Let us die, that's what we deserve, isn't it-that's what-filthy, disgusting-"

His voice was strained and his body tense and she'd lived with herself and Milo long enough to know he'd reached his breaking point.

He dropped to his knees and scratched at his face, over and over again, as though he were trying to erase himself.

Graihagh knelt in front of him and touched his arm, the way she did with Milo. "Listen-please, just listen-tell me what they need and I'll get it and I'll go. I'll go right away."

Remus snatched his arm away and rubbed his eyes, breathing hard. Seconds passed, then minutes, as he got himself under control.

"One was hit with a paralysis curse," he said through his hands. "The other was badly scratched, she's bleeding out."

Graihagh Summoned two bottles off the shelf and glanced at Remus, who was still on his knees.

"If you just tell me where to go-"

"I'll go with you," said Remus, but he didn't move.

"You don't have to-"

"I said I'm coming!"

Remus stood up and adjusted his robes as though he'd just sat down for a rest, and Graihagh was careful not to look at him too long. She knew how intensely self-concious he felt, and yet in some strange way she felt more comfortable with him, not less. She preferred the company of people who were as messed up as she was.

She followed him down the back steps into the dark alley behind the Hog's Head. So it was nighttime.

"Grab hold of my arm," he said. "I don't want to say the exact location of the camp out loud, in case Vol-"

"No!"

Remus dropped his arm. "What?"

Graihagh didn't know what she was saying. She only knew she had to say it. "Don't say You-Know-Who's name. It's been Tabooed, the Death Eaters can track your exact location."

Remus gave her a quizzical look. "How do you know this?"

The answer was on the edge of her mind, like a dream she barely remembered. How the hell did she know? What if it wasn't even true and she was just talking nonsense?

"An old Slytherin friend told me."

Remus looked as puzzled as she felt, but he nodded and offered her his arm.

She grabbed hold and they spun into the air.

The camp was spread though a stand of trees at the base of a rocky hill, besides a flowing stream. Graihagh had gone camping with her dad in the Lake Country and the place looked a lot like a Muggle campground, with multicoloured tents spaced a ways apart and groups of people sitting around fires.

"Over here," said Remus, and he led her inside a canvas tent with a raised wooden platform. Two people were lying on camp beds, one as still as death, the other covered in blood. Graihagh knelt beside the bleeding woman. She was young, probably just out of Hogwarts.

"She was attacked," said Remus. "I've applied Dittany, but it didn't take."

Graihagh pulled out her wand and traced the long jagged cut on the woman's face, singing the spell that Professor Snape had taught her so long ago.

"Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur."

The woman's bleeding stopped and the wounds closed, leaving a thick pink scar across her face and neck. Graihagh glanced at Remus, who shook his head slightly, and she knew there was nothing more she could do for her, the scars would be permanent. She wondered if she should tell her. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to do it.

She pulled the bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion out of her robes and squeezed some into a dropper, remembering something she'd learned in a first-aid course years ago, about never administering liquids to someone lying down.

"Can you lift your head?" she whispered to the woman.

The woman closed her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow, but it trembled and gave out.

"It's alright," said Graihagh, She lifted the back of the woman's head with one hand and squeezed the potion into her mouth with the other.

"There," she said, laying her back down. "That should take effect in a few minutes. But you'll still need to rest a few days."

The woman nodded and sank back into her pillow, and Graihagh stood up and tucked the empty bottle back into her robes.

"They were hit with a Paralysis Curse," said Remus, gesturing towards the grey-haired person on the bed. "I've performed the counter-curse but they still need a potion to manage the after-effects."

Graihagh pulled another bottle out of her robes and measured out exactly 5 mL of anti-paralytic potion.

"Can they move at all?"

"A bit," said Remus. "Do you need me to prop them up?"

"That'd be great."

Remus lifted their head while Graihagh administered the first dose of potion, watching as the person twitched and shuddered as though doused with cold water. A sure sign that it'd worked.

She set the potion and the measuring cup on the nightstand. "They'll need to take two 5 mL doses a day, for three days," she said to Remus. "If it doesn't seem to be working let me know straightaway, we may need to adjust the dosage."

Remus nodded. "Thank you."

"Yeah. Any time," said Graihagh, and she meant it, sort of. She still didn't know what to make of all these people, but she didn't want to see any of them in pain.

They left the tent and stood outside, Remus shifting on his feet. She could see the marks on his face where he'd scratched himself and she wondered if he felt them, if he was thinking about them, if he was afraid for her to see them. She knew he was keen for her to go, but she couldn't bear the thought of going back to that cramped room so soon, and she wanted him to know she wasn't afraid of him, or anyone else at the camp, even though she was, a little.

"Well..." said Remus.

"Yeah." Graihagh leaned forwards slightly and kept looking at him, to show him she wasn't in a hurry to leave.

Remus gestured towards the fire. "Would you like to stay for a bit? You must be feeling cooped up."

"I'd love to," said Graihagh, sighing a little in relief.

Remus sat down in a canvas camp chair and Graihagh took another chair opposite him. They were the only ones there, and she sank back and watched the crackling fire, tense muscles relaxing, the smell of wood smoke reminding her of all those camping trips with her dad and Cate and Milo.

"Butterbeer?" said Remus, reaching into a box beside his feet.

"That'd be great."

Remus handed her a Butterbeer and she twisted the cap and took a long swig. A simple thing, sitting by a campfire with a warm drink, but it felt so good after months in that cramped room there were tears in her eyes.

"Must be nice after being stuck in that room," said Remus, as though he'd read her mind.

"It feels amazing," said Graihagh, and Remus smiled. The scene in her room was still on his mind, she could tell by how hard he was trying to act normal, cheerful, and Graihagh didn't know how to explain to him that there wasn't anything wrong with what he'd done. She'd watched Milo do the same thing. She'd done it herself.

And anyway, he was talking to someone who hadn't had a proper wash in three days.

"We live and work together," said Remus, gesturing around the camp. "We have to move around a bit, but it's not a bad life, really. We grow and hunt our own food, share everything we have. We're like family."

"Sounds nice."

"It is. Of course, it does have its downsides. It's very difficult to re-integrate into ordinary wizarding society, for one thing. 'Community coordinator for werewolf cooperative' doesn't exactly look good on a resume."

"That's stupid. It takes a lot of brains to run a self-sufficient community like this."

Remus gave her an indulgent smile, as though he thought she was trying to humour him but appreciated the effort. "I'm glad to hear you say it. If everyone thought like you we'd have no trouble."

Graihagh wondered if this was a challenge, or a subtle dig, because it wasn't that long ago she'd thought like everyone else.

"So do you have family here?" said Graihagh, thinking of his wife. She wondered why she wasn't with him.

Remus glanced down and ran a hand through his hair. "No. I'm here on a mission." His voice was flat and distant, and Graihagh sensed she'd hit a nerve. Maybe he wasn't able to see her as much as he'd like, and it was stressing him out. She changed the subject.

"So how is everything going with the Order? I mean, if you can tell me."

Remus sighed and stretched his legs. "There's not much to tell, unfortunately. Did you know the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry?"

"Yeah. Sna-someone told me."

Remus' brow furrowed but he must've thought he'd heard wrong, because his expression relaxed, and Graihagh silently thanked Merlin that she hadn't taken Snape up on that Unbreakable Vow.

"Harry Potter and his friends were set some sort of mission by Dumbledore, but they won't tell anyone what it is," said Remus. "The rest of us are doing what we can resist the new regime. A few people have started a radio programme on the wireless, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hestia Jones are tailing Death Eaters, Arthur Weasley's still working for the Ministry. I don't know if you've heard but they've started rounding-up Muggle-borns."

"What? No."

Remus' expression was kind, understanding. "I'm afraid so."

Graihagh stood up and paced in front of the fire as though by moving she could somehow do something about it.

"Something wrong?" said Remus.

"My best friend is Muggle-born. Cate Aubrey, do you know her? She's in the Order."

"I know of her. Her husband works in the Ministry, so he'll have had time to warn her, get her into hiding. He's an Auror, so I'm sure she's perfectly safe."

Remus' voice was calm, unworried, and it put her at ease. She sat back down in the camp chair.

"Did you know your other friends are here?" said Remus. "Fynn Kelly and Milo Selwyn?"

Graihagh nearly shot out of her chair again. "What? Where?"

"They're out on a mission at the moment. They should be back any time now."

Graihagh could've cried with relief, and yet she was furious that Fynn would bring Milo to a place like this. The camp was alright for werewolves, but what was Milo supposed to do when they transformed?

She turned her face away and took a long drink of Butterbeer, struggling to keep her expression neutral. She didn't want Remus to know how upset she was, not when he'd finally relaxed. She tried to think of something nice to say.

"So do you and Fynn know each other?" she asked as she set her empty bottle down.

Remus stood up to put another log on the fire. "As a matter of fact, yes. Fynn started Hogwarts when I was in my seventh year. We were in different houses but Dumbledore introduced us, and I sort of took them under my wing."

Remus sat back down and took a long drink. "We were a bit reckless, my friends and I. We...got a bit carried away. I don't think Fynn liked it much. But we were hard to refuse."

His voice was bitter, self-deprecating, and Graihagh knew he regretted it, whatever it was they'd done.

Graihagh stared into the fire, thinking about Fynn and their worn-out clothes and the trouble they'd had finding work. Fynn was so calm and level-headed-one of the most calm and level-headed people Graihagh knew, besides her dad-but she'd always sensed an underlying sadness there, in the way they shrugged off praise, the way they'd walk down the street with their hands in their pockets, not looking at anyone.

"Did people give Fynn a hard time at school?"

"Not when my friends and I were around. But after we left, things got...well, not good, let's put it that way."

Graihagh felt bad for Fynn, and yet the anger she'd felt since they'd left with Milo was wedged too firmly for her to let go.

Remus handed her another Butterbeer and they were quiet awhile, drinking and watching the fire. The silence wasn't exactly comfortable, but that was hardly to be expected after all the times Graihagh had put her foot in her mouth.

"The stars are so bright here," she said. "Reminds me of home."

"Where are you from?"

"The Isle of Man."

"Ah, yes. I was there once for the TT races. Lovely place."

Graihagh snatched the bottle away from her mouth and wiped her lips with the sleeve of her robes. "Get out of here, you've been to the TT?"

Remus smiled. "Well, I'm afraid I can't take credit for the idea. I had a close friend with a motorbike obsession and he insisted we go. I'm glad I did though, it was a lot of fun."

Graihagh grasped at this thin thread that connected him to her, to her home. "My family goes every year, I love it."

"I might have to go again myself, though I have to admit I was rather white-knuckled the last time."

"Oh I know. Every time someone turns a corner I think they're going to crash. I have to cover my eyes sometimes."

"Same here. My friend used to take the piss out me of over it. I think he was hoping for a crash."

Graihagh smiled, thinking she might just sit by the fire with him all night, if they could last that long.

The night air was rent with cracks and she thought it must be thunder even though she'd just been looking up at the clear sky. Then she remembered-Milo and Fynn were due back. She stood up and strode towards the crowd of people that had appeared, heart pounding, searching for any sign of Milo's face, wondering why there were so many shouts and flashes of light.

"Stupefy!" A robed figure slumped to the ground.

Graihagh turned towards the voice and saw Remus standing behind her with his wand raised. "Greyback loyalists," he said.

"What?"

"We've broken away from Greyback and they've been giving us hell ever since. You'd better get out of here, and quickly."

So the werewolves were fighting each other, and Milo was right in the thick of it. "But my friends-"

"They'll be fine. Now go. They're out to kill."

Graihagh never put herself in dangerous situations if she could help it, she'd had enough of that when she was younger. But she couldn't leave Milo.

She pelted towards the crowd, pulling her wand out of her robes and aiming it at the first figure she saw.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The figure went rigid as a concrete block and toppled to the ground.

"Graihagh!

Milo was running towards her, wand held out in front of him. He'd nearly reached her when a jet of green light shot past them, so close she could feel its heat.

"INCARCEROUS!" shouted Fynn from somewhere behind them. The figure who'd cast the spell slumped to the ground.

"You need to get out of here," said Milo. "Now."

"But-"

"We'll be fine, don't worry. Just go."

"I can't-"

"GO!"

Milo sounded frustrated now and Graihagh's face was hot, eyes stinging. If only she were better at dueling, she could stay and help them. But she was just getting in the way.

"If you die I will fucking kill you," she shouted. Milo gave her a mock salute and she turned to run, not stopping until the voices were far behind her.

Something wasn't right. There were muffled sounds in the grass out of sync with her own footsteps.

"Thought you'd be clever and try to run, did you?" snarled a low, rasping voice. "Just as well, I enjoy a challenge-"

"No-"

Graihagh raised her arms and spun in the air just as the jet of light hit her. Her chest was tight and everything was dark and she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Of all the shitty times to go. She hadn't even had the chance to test her new potion. She gasped for air but she was lightheaded and dizzy.

The air thinned as though she'd been released from a chokehold and the insides of her eyelids were red from an outside light, but she still couldn't breathe. She gasped and opened her eyes and there was a circle of light on the cobblestone street.

You're not dying, you're not dying.

She said it to herself over and over again, feeling the stones and listening to the creak of the wooden sign above her, until her she could get a deep breath. She knew this place, she was right outside the Hog's Head Inn.

She propped herself up on her hands and knees but she was too tired to stay upright and she lay back down again. Something was wrong. Her left sleeve was wet and she smelled like damp metal.

She was alone in the Hogwarts corridor, screaming without a sound and watching her blood run down the stones.

This isn't real. Ride it out.

But it must've been real, because she was bleeding, and no one was coming for her. Snape had saved her that first time, maybe he'd save her again.

Her mind was all static but somewhere underneath it she remembered the coin Snape had given her. She thrust her hand into the pocket of her robes. She couldn't get a good grip on it, her hand was too weak, but she pressed down as well as she could, and after a few seconds the metal glowed white.

"It's me. I'm...outside the Hog's Head. I need help."

She didn't have the strength left to put the coin back in her pocket. Her head was spinning and her shoulder had begun to throb and she thought she'd throw up. She focused all her energy on holding the coin in her hand so it wouldn't slip away, and closed her eyes.