In the following weeks, Hermione tried time and time again to shake Harry out of his fixation on the Deathly Hallows. None of her efforts made any impact. Before the battle at Azkaban, the Order had rallied around Harry's passion and leadership, but now he was withdrawn, even seeming preoccupied around Ginny. Hermione could see his mind sliding back to the Hallows in the middle of every conversation.

"I shouldn't have told him about the Elder Wand," Draco said one night when he and Hermione were curled secretly in the library, door locked, Muffliato in place.

"Why not?" Hermione asked.

"Because." Draco twirled a hazy curl of her hair around his fingertip. He still looked tired, but less haggard than he had in the week after Azkaban. "If he thought he had to go through Snape to get all three Hallows, would he be this obsessed?"

Hermione sighed. "Yes, I think he would. The last time I saw Harry like this was …"

"Was what?"

"Well, it was last year, when he was convinced you'd joined the Death Eaters. When Harry zeroes in on something like this, he never lets go of it."

And while Harry fixated on opening the Snitch, Voldemort's influence clouded over the nation like a thunderhead. The Azkaban breakout had brought the conflict aboveground, so that by late February, the Daily Prophet was reporting open skirmishes across the country. Near daily, the Order received sympathiser intelligence about Muggle hunts. The Ministry, meanwhile, had begun to demolish monuments honouring prominent Muggle-borns, alongside new efforts to shutter gathering places for goblins, vampires, and other magical beings.

The Order sent battalions from the fortress safehouse to fight these efforts, but reports from the small battles disturbed Hermione. Most bystanders did nothing to act against the Ministry and the Death Eaters. Some even joined in against the Order.

It was becoming more and more clear that the Prophet's disinformation campaign had taken root. Worse, the twins' Wizarding Wireless programme was forced to change frequencies with every broadcast to prevent the Death Eaters jamming their signals. Hermione doubted that The Daily Potter was reaching even a hundredth of those reached by its Ministry-controlled counterpart.

So the Order prepared with ever more anticipation for their pamphlet flyover. Thanks to their allies in the monastery safehouse, who were devoted to copying and magically multiplying the pamphlets, they would soon have thousands upon thousands to distribute, describing the truth about dozens of events since last year.

"We'll have to drop them all in one mission," Kingsley said. "I'll bet within an hour of the first leaflet hitting ground, they'll push through a law to create aerial patrols."

The final piece of the puzzle for the flyover would be obtaining enough broomsticks. The Bulgarian Quidditch team had sent them a dozen Firebolts courtesy of Viktor Krum, enough for the Order members who would spearhead the operation in London and Hogsmeade. But broomsticks were expensive, and now, with nearly sixty locations mapped out nationwide, they would need not so much a cache of brooms as a fleet.

Hermione tried to remind Harry of the urgency of this endeavour, but he couldn't seem to focus on it. Worse, he remained just as disengaged from their discussions of Hufflepuff's Cup—even when Hermione developed a new theory about the final hidden Horcrux.

"We've discovered every hiding place but one," she said one afternoon as they sat in the library. "But the thing is, only some of them are hiding places, when you think about it."

Ron frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Voldemort didn't really hide the diary," Hermione said. "He gave it to Draco's father to use, eventually. And he doesn't hide Nagini, either; he sends her to attack people. So, really, only three of the Horcruxes were hidden: the ring, the diadem, and the locket."

"That's true," Draco said slowly, tapping one finger on A Compleat Historie of the Founders Four. "So, you're asking whether the cup was meant to be hidden or used."

"Yeah," said Ron, frowning. "It would make sense for it to be three and three, wouldn't it? Three to hide, three to use?"

"I thought so, too." Hermione shuffled through her notes. "And I read something about the cup … here. It's a historical account of Helga Hufflepuff's Revels of Goodwill, written by a witch who attended one of the celebrations. Apparently lifelong friendships started at the Revels, and couples who were married met there. Every guest drank out of Hufflepuff's own cup at the beginning of the night, as a show of trust, loyalty, and good faith. Those who had drunk from the cup seemed to come together in a way that was preternatural."

"So?" said Harry. He had not said anything for a while, and even now was looking listlessly out of the window.

Hermione glared at him. "So, it sounds like something Voldemort might use, doesn't it? A cup of loyalty that binds a group together?"

Ron looked blank. "Yeah, but that doesn't tell us where he'd keep it, does it?"

Hermione's grip tightened on her notes. "Well … no. I suppose not."

Draco clearly sensed her aggravation, because he stretched his long legs out, breaking the tense stillness that had hung over the four of them for the past hour. "I have an idea. How about I, Master of the Elder Wand, use Legilimency on the Dark Lord to find out where the cup is, now that I'm unbeatable?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "How about you, Master of the Elder Wand, stop being such a git about it all the time?"

A small smile pulled at Hermione's lips, but she eyed the Elder Wand with residual mistrust. She appreciated that it had helped save Draco at Azkaban, but she didn't like the idea of a wand that had enticed wizard after wizard to slaughter. "You know perfectly well that bringing that wand anywhere near Voldemort would be insensible."

"It's the only way," Harry murmured, seemingly to himself.

Hermione exchanged annoyed looks with Draco and Ron. None of them deigned to respond to Harry.

Given his Hallows obsession, Hermione supposed they should feel lucky that Harry hadn't shown any sign of interest in taking the Elder Wand from Draco. But Harry seemed comfortable with the wand so near, and too absorbed by the Snitch to trouble himself with anything else.

"So, Malfoy," Ron said to Draco, "have you managed to get any information out of your parents, yet?"

"Besides this, you mean?" said Draco, holding up a sheaf of notes about the Death Eaters that he'd developed in the previous weeks. The notes contained every detail his parents had mentioned each of the Death Eaters' talents, weaknesses, and histories. Eventually they would use the information to zero in on a Death Eater contact, or multiple contacts, who could insinuate Draco back into the fold.

Ron waved the sheaf away. "Yeah, besides that. I mean, do you reckon they know anything about the cup, or the Horcruxes?"

"Unlikely." Draco slipped the Elder Wand behind his ear. "My father and I have spoken about the diary a few times now. I can tell he has no idea what it really was. And I finally managed to detour them into a proper conversation about the Founders' artifacts a few nights ago, but he and my mother seem convinced that they've all been lost for decades or centuries, besides the sword."

Hermione bit her lip. "Well, maybe next time you can ask more vaguely about … about treasures Voldemort might have in his possession, or something? But you should probably wait a while to bring it up again. We don't want them to wonder why you're suddenly so interested in this sort of thing."

"True," said Ron, flopping onto his back on the worn rug. "Also, have they stopped asking you to spy on us, yet?"

Draco's mouth thinned. "No. But they've been cooped up here for months, now. It's … they obviously just want to feel like they've still got some control over the situation."

"Or they're just ungrateful gits," Ron snorted. "Listen, no offence, but I think we should un-invite them from meals. I know we all wanted to be civil to each other, but if they're still asking you to stab us in the back every other day, that's not going to happen. And we're losing time with the Order not being able to talk about our plans over lunch and dinner, just because your mum and dad are hanging around."

Hermione, sensing conflict, said quickly, "I think he's right, Draco. Those extra hours are more and more valuable these days. And I doubt your parents will be disappointed." She forced a humourless laugh. "I mean, whenever one of them has to sit beside Remus or Hagrid or me, it's like someone's cast Petrificus Totalus on them."

Draco's shoulders inched downward. "All right," he said. "I'll tell them." He drew the Elder Wand from his ear again, twirling it idly in his long, steady fingers, and met Hermione's eyes.

He was furtive about eye contact these days, even during their night-time hours. Hermione didn't know why, but she was certain it had to do with Azkaban somehow. Sometimes she had the sense there was something Draco wasn't telling her, something hanging between them like spider-silk, but if she tried to move toward it, it would float away as if dashed by a breeze.

And she, too, felt as if there was something she hadn't really expressed after the battle. She hadn't admitted the way she'd screamed and fought to try to get back to him after the cave-in. She hadn't confessed the way that Ted and Andromeda, a Muggle-born and a pure-blood, had made her imagine a possible future with Draco … surely such a thing was far too serious to tell him, after so comparatively short a time?

Neither had Hermione admitted that her nightmares about Azkaban rarely involved Dementors. Instead there would be a frozen hand protruding from rockfall, the same hand that played with her hair or teased at the neck of her jumper at nights, the hand that was still twirling the Elder Wand now.

She had looked too long. With a funny skip in her chest, Hermione turned quickly away, sneaking a glance at Ron to make sure he hadn't noticed anything. But Ron was flipping through her notes, unaffected.

Hermione's nerves settled. She was finally beginning to be able to relax around Ron and Draco. At first, after Azkaban, she had worried that the Dementors' influence might have worsened Ron's feelings of rejection from October. But to her immense relief, the intervening months had clearly helped him overcome his feelings for her instead. She had always ribbed Ron about being emotionally oblivious, but in truth, he had been hair-trigger sensitive last year, whenever he'd suspected that she and Harry were trying to steal romantic moments together.

So, Hermione had girded herself for the possibility that Ron might still be sensitive to her attentions in that way—that she and Draco would need to act cold to each other to escape his notice, until they could figure out how best to break the news. But Ron had simply seemed relieved that none of them had held his long absence against him. And while he still gave Draco grief about their shared history, there was no real enmity in it anymore.

In general, Ron was too preoccupied with his own Order duties. Impressed by his triumph at Azkaban, Kingsley and McGonagall had recruited him to help plan the safehouses' movements and strategies. Ron could often be seen stepping in and out of the fireplace in the front room, having just returned from one of the four safehouses. And somewhat bizarrely, Percy could now sometimes be seen taking attentive notes on Ron's ideas.

There was one thing Hermione couldn't understand, though. As far back as she could remember, Ron had always loved to discuss his accomplishments, to the point of boastfulness. Yet when she tried to ask him about what had happened at Azkaban, he avoided the subject with something near embarrassment.

Her curiosity was finally sated in early March, when Draco said to Ron during another afternoon meeting, "Weasley, I need a favour."

Draco's eyes slid briefly to Hermione. She understood this to mean that he was asking the favour of her, too.

"Yeah?" said Ron. "What is it?"

"I want to visit whichever safehouse has Pansy Parkinson."

Red moved across Ron's face like an accelerated sunburn. "Why," he said too loudly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Of course none of them had liked Pansy at school, but surely it should be obvious why Draco would want to speak with her.

"She'll have expected me to do it weeks ago," said Draco. "She knows I'm alive; it's why she helped us at the Manor."

"Right. Well." Ron cleared his throat and began to sort through books about Helga Hufflepuff. "We don't want everyone knowing where the safehouses are, so I'll … I'll bring her here tomorrow afternoon, shall I?"

"Not if it's going to give you a stroke, Weasley," Draco said, eyeing the frenetic motions of Ron's hands. "Look, I know you hate Pansy, but try not to insult her so much that she takes it out on me, would you?"

"I won't," Ron grunted. "It's fine."

"Harry," Hermione added, "we should thank her, too."

Harry looked up from the Snitch in his palms. "What?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, never mind. I'll drag you there and you can sit in silence while I do it."

"Perfect, thanks," he said vaguely while Ron and Draco chortled.

The next morning, Pansy Parkinson stepped out of the fireplace at Order headquarters. She was much altered from Azkaban. They had procured robes for most of the escaped prisoners, and Pansy had transformed hers—dark blue—to a stylish fit. Her dark hair was trimmed to her shoulders and shining again. However, she was still skeletally thin, with deep circles beneath her eyes. She had always been hard-faced; now she looked downright intimidating.

"So," grunted Ron, looking at a spot several feet to the left of Pansy. "This is headquarters."

Pansy's eyes played over Ron. "I gathered." Then her gaze slid across the room, and her lips curved into a smile. "Draco."

"Pansy," he said, smiling too.

Hermione busied herself with tying her hair back, not liking the sudden tightness in her stomach.

Ron, who had been looking between Draco and Pansy with his jaw set, cleared his throat. "The library's free."

They followed Ron down the hall. The back of his neck was red as they entered the reading room. "Go on, then. Catch up. Whatever you—yeah." He turned on his heel.

"You mean you aren't staying for the class reunion?" said Pansy.

Ron stilled mid-step, then jerked his head. "Fine. Sure. Muffliato." He aimed his wand at the door, but performed the incorrect motion for the spell. The door sprang open and whacked him in the jaw. He swore loudly and knocked it shut with his shoulder, and when he rounded on Pansy, Draco, Harry, and an astonished Hermione, his whole face was beet red.

Pansy turned to Draco as if nothing had happened. "Well, come here," she said irritably, and they exchanged a brief hug. "I'm still angry with you." She gave him a little push away before flopping backward onto the couch. "You could have found some way to tell me."

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I have to fake my death in a hurry."

The Slytherins gave each other matching smirks. Hermione felt a second, harder pang of jealousy and stamped it back, annoyed with herself. Draco and Pansy had split up well over a year ago.

And yet their matching facial expressions reminded Hermione of everything Draco and Pansy had shared. They had grown up together, their parents friendly, their families casually intermingled. Draco and Pansy had been allowed all the stupid, public soppiness that Hermione usually found so juvenile—but which she now imagined herself sharing with Draco in the Hogwarts halls, with an embarrassing rush of heat to her face.

She sat down too hard.

Pansy glanced her way, and Hermione's hands tightened on her knees. Pansy had never regarded her with anything but scorn. Although that seemed absent now, Hermione couldn't help remembering that Pansy had quoted to Witch Weekly—for the whole country to see—that Hermione was "really ugly," even that she'd been dosing Harry with love potions.

But when Hermione forced herself to say, "Thank you for helping us at Christmas, Pansy," the other simply said,

"You're welcome." And the tone of Pansy's voice was so different from the sneer she'd always employed at Hogwarts that some of Hermione's ire faded.

Harry added another awkward thank-you to the mix. Ron, however, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa from Pansy, didn't even look at her.

"Are your parents here, Draco?" Pansy asked.

"Yeah," Draco said. "Our tent's in the back garden."

"Do they know you're up to …" Pansy's eyes moved around the room. "… all this?"

"Do yours know why you landed in Azkaban?"

"Oh, of course." Pansy flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. "I told them every tiny detail, and then they baked me biscuits and told me I was a perfect daughter who could do no wrong."

Hermione snorted—she'd never heard Pansy Parkinson say anything that could be construed as funny—and at the same time, Ron made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. Pansy looked to Ron, but he was already forcing a straight face again.

"I suppose all your family are here, too?" Pansy said to Ron.

Ron hesitated, as though wondering if he could pretend he hadn't heard. Then he nodded.

"Except Charlie?"

The two words moved strangely through the library. Hermione blinked several times before they really registered. Glancing to Draco, she knew she wasn't the only one who was wondering why Pansy Parkinson had any knowledge of Ron's older brothers.

Ron's flush had deepened. "Yeah. Except Charlie."

"Is that how you passed time in Azkaban, Pansy?" Draco said, curling up catlike in his chair. "Tallying the status of various Weasleys?"

"Ron hasn't told you?" Pansy lifted one dark brow. "We were next-cell neighbours."

Hermione felt as if she'd been struck over the head. "No," she spluttered, "Ron didn't tell us anything of the sort."

"It never came up," Ron said, his ears now the colour of tomatoes.

Immediately Hermione knew why he'd been dodging her questions. Startled laughter bubbled up in her throat, which she had to stifle. On some level, Ron had started to fancy Pansy in Azkaban. And now that they were free again, he was acting like this, because … because he was Ron, of course.

Hermione had to repress another bout of giggles after twenty minutes' awkward conversation, when Ron declared to the middle distance that Pansy could stay for dinner at headquarters if she'd like, then left the room before she could even answer. And later, over dinner, Hermione heard Ron speaking to Kingsley and McGonagall, making more references than necessary to things like "national movements" and "plans for our next steps in London." After these important-sounding declarations he would invariably glance at Pansy, sitting two seats away, as if hoping she'd heard. Yet he never actually attempted a conversation with her.

After dinner, they agreed to one Butterbeer before Pansy would return to the safehouse, Draco to his parents' tent. With a good meal in their stomachs, the atmosphere in the library was more collegial.

They spoke for a while about Hogwarts. Dobby had delivered a report the previous afternoon. Graffiti reading 'Dumbledore's Army' was now appearing in the halls on a nightly basis, which Hermione attributed at once to Neville. There were also frequent fights between students with Death Eater ties, students who stood by Harry and the Order, and students who were torn on whether to believe the Prophet's account of events.

However, talk of school soon dried up; Hogwarts felt so distant as to be halfway across the world.

"So," said Pansy, crossing her ankles on the ottoman, "what do you Order people do all day?"

"We can't say," Ron said. "Confidential."

Pansy sipped her Butterbeer. "Fine. I won't help, then."

Ron frowned. "How could you help?"

"Maybe you'd see if you told me anything."

"Wait," Hermione whispered, straightening up. "Ron, maybe she can help!"

"What?" said Ron. "How?"

Hermione turned to Pansy. "Your father works for Nimbus, doesn't he? As a chief broom designer?"

"Yes."

Comprehension washed across Ron's and Draco's faces. There must be storehouses for Nimbus broomsticks, and surely Mr. Parkinson had visited them. Perhaps he had even taken Pansy along to one. Whether directly or indirectly, she might be their source for the flyover fleet.

"Hold on," Ron said. "Do you actually want to help?" He was looking Pansy in the eye for the first time.

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't."

"But why?"

"If you haven't noticed," Pansy said, one corner of her mouth puckering, "the last year of my life hasn't exactly been ideal. I preferred the way things were before all this."

"Yeah, but you realise if you help us, that makes you a … a blood traitor, and an informant to the Order, and all?"

Hermione waited for another sardonic remark, but Pansy just looked at Ron and said, sounding almost disappointed, "I thought I told you to remember the things I said."

Ron's cheeks coloured. Unsure what to make of this, Hermione cleared her throat. "It's more than that, Pansy. If you know the Order's plans, you should stay in headquarters with the rest of us for security's sake. And unless you think your parents will feel the same way that you do, you'll have to split up."

A flicker of Pansy's hooded eyelids. Otherwise she seemed unperturbed. "When do I move in?"

Soon the arrangements were made with the rest of the Order. After Pansy had gone back to her safehouse to pack, Draco and Hermione retreated to the kitchen to do the washing-up.

"So," Draco murmured to Hermione over a towering stack of dishes. "How long do you think it'll take Weasley to do anything about it?"

Hermione sighed. "Oh, thank God, I'm not the only one who noticed."

"Merlin, how could I miss it?" Draco dried a plate with a flick of his wand. "I felt like he was trying to impress me over dinner."

"And were you impressed?"

"Very. Watch out, Granger. Weasley's coming for my heart."

Hermione laughed. "Do you think she fancies him, too?" She glanced over her shoulder to ensure the kitchen was empty. "That would make telling him about us a lot easier, wouldn't it?"

"All I'll say is, I don't think she made that joke about her parents for my benefit."

They washed in silence for a few moments, each trying to conceal smiles. It wasn't until Hermione glanced over at Draco's suds-covered hands and saw the reddened shape of the Dark Mark peeking out beneath his rolled sleeves that her desire to laugh faded.

"I've been thinking," she said.

"Have you?"

"I have." She pointed to the snake and skull. "And I think it's time we gave that Unravelling Charm a try."

#

Pansy returned the next morning to stay in Professor McGonagall's tartan tent, as McGonagall now resided at the monastery safehouse. Ron seemed too flustered by this turn of events to refer to it directly, but during meetings about the flyover, Hermione often noticed his eyes straying to the corners where Pansy sat.

"Two weeks before he does anything," Draco bet to Hermione under his breath during one of these meetings.

Her lips twitched. "Two months, more like," she whispered. "He can't even say hello when she walks into a room. … What on earth do you think happened in Azkaban, anyway?"

"Ask him for all the sordid details," Draco murmured.

"Oh, yes, that'll go over well."

Secretly, Hermione was glad she and Draco could joke about it, because the web of former, current, secret, and half-realised relationships was beginning to give her a headache. Sometimes, if she laughed at a joke of Ron's during their Horcrux discussions, she'd feel Draco's eyes lingering on them, and the room would suddenly feel too small. Or if Hermione was talking through reports of Snatcher raids and Ron was listening intently, Pansy would walk close by in a way that seemed designed to pull his eyes away from Hermione.

It went in reverse, too. When Pansy and Draco sat together at meals, Hermione always found herself watching them, unwillingly picturing the two of them tangled together the way Ron and Lavender had once been. One day, over lunch, Pansy—who was annoyingly, casually physical with Draco—had flicked his wrist with one of her nails. Hermione had heard a loud thunk and looked over to find that Ron had knocked over a tureen of gravy. Ron hadn't spoken to Draco for the rest of the night.

Hermione blamed it all on the close confines of headquarters. They were treading on each other's toes, and no one was admitting their real feelings, and she spent half her time scolding herself that her feelings didn't matter, anyway, in the context of the Order's work. While most of the Order prepared for the flyover, Hermione was blocking off time to work on Draco's Dark Mark, which, she reasoned, was important on the grand scale, too. After all, it would eventually be crucial to make Draco a believable double-crosser to the Death Eaters.

So, over the course of a week and a half, she and Draco measured the effects of Protean charms and the Unraveller on other organic matter, like an apple and a slice of ham that came out much the worse for the encounter. Once they had finished making modifications to the charm, they prepared to try it on the Dark Mark itself.

When Hermione walked into the library that afternoon, Draco went still. She had Lupin and Tonks following at her heels.

Hermione drew a shaky breath. "Draco, I'd like Remus and Tonks to help us with the process. Tonks's Auror training may help us if there turns out to be a curse aspect to the enchantment we haven't foreseen, and Remus has a lot more practice with physical magic than I have."

After a second's deliberation, Draco nodded. He rolled up his sleeve, and they settled around his proffered forearm. Tonks eased herself onto the sofa beside Draco and peered at the Mark.

"Ugly thing, isn't it?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I'll put in a word to the designer," said Draco.

Remus smiled and drew his wand. "I think it's best if we perform a few simpler charms before we begin the Unraveller, simply to see if interfering with the Protean Charm will trigger something in the Mark to harm you. Do you mind, Draco?"

"No." Draco paused, his grey eyes passing slowly over Remus's face, then said, "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure," said Remus mildly. "If we are successful, you may be the first person ever to be freed of the Dark Mark's enchantment."

As Lupin moved his wand over Draco's forearm, Hermione felt a pulse of gratitude toward their former professor. She realised that Lupin alone of the whole Order had never said a bad word about Draco, had never treated him with anything other than patience and respect. It was almost as though he'd been waiting for Draco to change.

Hermione knew it was that same kindness of Lupin's that had helped Tonks to manage the weeks since Azkaban. Since her parents' deaths, Tonks's hair had been limp and colourless, and she had rarely spoken except to discuss the Order's strategies.

What had seemed to come out of her in recent days was a harder, more focused woman. If Fenrir Greyback was ever mentioned, she went still like someone anticipating attack. Hermione supposed her loathing for Greyback was no less because he had been the one to bite Remus as a child.

Tonks's wand was drawn, now, at the ready. But nothing happened as Lupin moved his wand over Draco's forearm.

"Well," said Lupin, looking satisfied, "I think we may be able to tackle the charm right here. Hermione, are you ready?"

"I think so." Hermione drew a deep breath, holding Draco's eyes. "It might hurt."

"Yeah. I'll be surprised if it doesn't." There was little humour in the words.

"And if you'd prefer Remus to do it, I'll underst—"

"No," Draco said quickly. A tinge of pink entered his cheeks, and he fixed his gaze on the Mark. "No. … You do it."

Tonks's eyebrows rose, but she didn't comment. Hermione's face grew hot. These days she felt as if everything she and Draco said to each other was a loaded confession, which would be more and more easily interpreted by the people around them. With those four words of Draco's, could Remus and Tonks now understand why she had struggled so wildly against them in the halls of Azkaban—that it hadn't been fear for the rest of the group, but for him? And if they realised the truth, could she trust them not to reveal anything to the rest of the Order?

Hermione forced these thoughts away. She had to focus.

She lowered her wandtip to the Dark Mark. A muscle in the crook of Draco's elbow flexed as she moved her wand in a circle over the Mark, drew a shape like a figure 8 upon his skin, and spoke the incantation: "Instaura individua."

Draco went rigid. His face contorted. His other hand shot out and grabbed hers, and suddenly thoughtless of Remus's and Tonks's presence, thoughtless of anything other than his pain, Hermione clutched back. "It's all right," she gasped out. Little by little, the raised redness of the scarred area on his forearm was retreating. "You're all right … it's working, I see it … just a bit longer …"

Draco was panting, making small sounds through his clenched teeth. Everything in Hermione screamed for her to lift the wand from his skin, to stop hurting him, but she forced herself to hold it in place.

"Almost done," said Tonks while Remus gripped Draco's shoulder. "That's it."

He went limp with relief as the last of the raised skin sank back into place. Hermione took her wand away at once, her other hand slipping to his knee.

But when Draco eased his eyes open, horror flitted across his features. "No." He stared down at his forearm. The red scarring had flattened out—and left in its place a bright black tattoo of the Dark Mark. "It's supposed to be gone. Why isn't it gone? Didn't it work?"

"I believe the curse has lifted," said Remus. "You can touch it again."

Draco ran his fingers over his forearm. Though the touch caused nothing except a depression of the skin, he shook his head. "But the tattoo was part of the curse. It should have disappeared, too."

"It must be an adaptation effect," said Tonks, her face grim. "The Protean Charm isn't meant for use on something that's alive. I think that tattoo's there to stay."

Draco's face had gone as pale as his hair. "Forever?"

"I'm not so sure," said Remus, leaning close with a frown. "May I?"

Draco gave his arm over to Remus, who lifted it to his glowing wandtip. "There," Remus said. "You see? The detail on the snake's nosetip … it seems to have faded, but it's darkening again now."

"What does that mean?" Draco said. "Do we need to do it again?"

"I think it needs repetition, yes," said Remus, sitting back on his haunches. "But I wouldn't try it again for a day or so, Draco. Charms of this family can be abrasive, and you could cause permanent damage to your skin or nerves. I do think that if you repeat the charm every day, the tattoo will lighten over time."

Draco nodded, and Hermione could see his sudden embarrassment to have shown his fear to Remus and Tonks. He averted his eyes as he unrolled his sleeve over the Mark again.

In the silence that followed, Hermione realised her hand was still resting on Draco's knee. They moved at the same time. She jerked her fingers back as he twitched his leg to the left. But Draco's cheeks were pink now, and Hermione's own face was full of heat, and with one glance at Remus and Tonks she could tell there was no use pretending.

"It's all right," said Remus, lifting one hand in a calming gesture. "We won't tell anyone, if the two of you don't want this … whatever this might be … made known." His kind eyes moved to Draco. "I think I have an inkling of how your parents might react. Dora and I encountered some of that ourselves."

"Yeah," said Tonks. "Not a word." There was an odd strain in her voice, and she was studying Draco hard, as if she'd never really seen him before.

"You know," Tonks went on after a moment, "my … my mum talked about you and your parents a lot. I'll bet you didn't hear anything about us, did you?"

Draco had grown very still. "No. Nothing."

"Well—" Tonks tried to blink away a wet shine, and frustration crossed her face, and she swiped her hand across her eyes. "Well, anyway. Mum always said most of the family was a lost cause, but she wanted to try—when you were of age, I mean, she wanted to try talking to you." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "And I reckon that would've gone all right, that's all."

Draco dipped his chin. "I think so, too."

#

Narcissa Malfoy was standing in a hedge.

For nearly two months, she and Lucius had spent their days hidden between these evergreen branches that surrounded the Potter Cottage's plot. The lines of their Extendable Ears snaked magically up to the windows of the building.

They had managed to glean just enough information to slake Bella's thirst these past months. Unveiling Aberforth Dumbledore and Augusta Longbottom had given them a few weeks' goodwill; it had provided the Death Eaters with an entire web of Order sympathisers to trace and disrupt. Then, after the breakout at Azkaban, Bella had been too preoccupied to call on them for a fortnight.

Narcissa had wondered, however briefly, whether Bella had felt anything at Andromeda's death. She'd even wondered whether the fortnight's silence had to do with Andromeda … but when Bella had next spoken to them, she'd relayed nothing but eagerness for the Dark Lord's return. The Prophet had done its job, she'd said gleefully. The nation was now primed to accept him as Minister for Magic.

Since then, Narcissa and Lucius had managed only minor successes. Having been expelled from the Order's mealtimes, there was no more chance to piece together fragments of timing or location. They'd been able to report the Order's Wizarding Wireless frequency once, enabling the Death Eaters to jam the signal for a week, before the Weasley twins had realised what was happening and begun to shuffle frequencies. They had also reported the presence of Pansy Parkinson, whom they'd spotted through the windows. Otherwise, though, the Order had been religious about that charm they used, Muffliato, the last thing the Malfoys heard before everything receded into an indistinct buzz.

"We need more substantial information," Lucius said halfway through March, pacing back and forth before the hearth in their tent. "One blow struck hard against the Order, and Draco will see their forces must be overwhelmed, and he will tell us every plan he's heard these past months. He said he was considering it. … He will join us."

Narcissa didn't reply. Ever since the battle at Azkaban, Lucius had been losing sleep, re-treading that fragment of a hope from Draco again and again. Her husband seemed to have taken Andromeda's death as a sign, yet more evidence that the only way to save all their lives was to re-join the Death Eaters. He crafted fantasies about their redemption within the Dark Order if they could only deliver Harry Potter to the Dark Lord.

Narcissa, however, found no galvanisation in her sister's death. Yes, Andromeda and her husband had died loyal to the Order. But hadn't Alistair Crabbe, a friend since their Hogwarts days and a loyal Death Eater, suffered the Dementor's Kiss during the same battle? The only thing Azkaban had shown her was that death was everywhere, always encroaching, growing ever closer to her family.

Narcissa even found herself thinking about Andromeda's Mudblood husband, these days. Ted Tonks, now dead. She remembered the days before Andromeda had revealed the truth about Ted, when she'd still been trying to present him as someone of acceptable birth to the family. She'd told Narcissa and Bellatrix that he was a bookseller in Flourish & Blotts, a few years out of Hogwarts, who was interested in preserving old spell texts. But going to those specialised schools in Greece or Japan took serious gold. That was how Andromeda had phrased it. As if his issue had been money.

"But you'll never believe how handsome he is," Andromeda had said to them once. "It's a bit stupid, really. … And nothing fazes him, I don't even think you could intimidate him, Bella." They'd all laughed at that. Narcissa remembered the way Andromeda had looked at herself in the mirror then, preparing for the evening out, with a rare flush upon her cheeks. Andromeda, lively but never flustered. Andromeda, so obviously taken with him.

Andromeda, gone now, her last words a declaration of love to that man. Some part of Narcissa had always waited for Andromeda to wake up, to remember her heritage, to come back to the family yearning for reconciliation. But she had loved Ted Tonks into her dying breath.

These were the things Narcissa sifted through as she drifted through hedge after hedge, day after day, as late winter thawed into spring.

Then, one day in March, with no warning or preamble, it happened.

Standing in a hedge near a window of the cottage, Narcissa prepared herself to hear the usual Muffliato, then to move to a new hedge, a new room. But no one spoke the Muffliato charm.

People were speaking within headquarters, and she could hear every word.

She had frozen so suddenly that Lucius saw. "What is it?" he whispered.

Narcissa didn't answer, but Lucius slipped toward her and cast his own Extendable Ear toward the same window.

"… Minerva, Remus, be especially careful at the Ministry, because we know they've redoubled security after Azkaban. Remember, it could be they're already suspecting aerial intervention." It was the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Bill, Fleur, Sturgis, you'll be taking Firebolts. Hogsmeade's got the largest area, so we need to cover that ground as quickly as possible."

Some murmurs of agreement.

"Hagrid, Molly, Arthur," Kingsley went on, "you and I should be able to shower our leaflets down on Diagon Alley even with No-Apparition in place. As long as rain gets through, so should these, until they cast a specialised Screening Charm, and we've got word that that hasn't happened."

Narcissa's mouth was dry. It was exactly the event they had been hoping for. It sounded as if half of the Order would be out in the open, vulnerable to attack—and they had mentioned Draco's name among those who would be staying behind, uninvolved.

Yet here, on the threshold of success, Narcissa felt a sudden, sharp doubt.

These doubts had nagged her since Azkaban. Now they redoubled. A force of six hundred were free and loyal to the Order. Were their chances so impossible? Could Draco be right after all, that lying low and staying secret was the family's best chance at survival?

Drifting through the leaves every day, Narcissa had found something like comfort in invisibility. Did she really want to intervene?

What if they simply put down the mirror and waited, come what may?

But Lucius was already taking a quill and parchment from his pocket and scribbling notes. "A date," he murmured. "Give us the date …"

The youngest Weasley boy's voice obliged. The plan was to occur three days from now, March 24th, at daybreak.

Lucius's face filled with stark relief. As he took her cold hands in his large, warm ones, Narcissa's doubts dimmed. Lucius had always been something near a blessing—someone more devoted to her than she had ever felt to herself, a creature of intelligence and ambition. He would always seek more for their family, where she might have settled for the status quo.

"You're certain this is the best way?" she whispered.

"Yes," he whispered back, and she trusted him.

That night, they told Bellatrix every word.

#

Headquarters were abuzz the night before the flyover. The front room was plastered in maps, contingency plans, and diagrams of evasive manoeuvres that reminded Draco of Quidditch practise.

Draco was sitting on a cushion by the hearth, watching the rest of the Order. Ron was ostentatiously spreading out a map of the routes near Pansy. On the coffee table, Sturgis Podmore and Professor McGonagall were polishing the handles of their Firebolts; Draco had never seen McGonagall gaze so rapturously at anything before.

Draco felt restless. Like most of the Order's younger members, he would be sitting out the flyover. Those who were flying, like Ron, had been assigned to little villages far out of the way, miles from any danger.

So far, Draco hadn't felt any particular need to get involved. The Order had been planning this for months, after all, and there was no reason to doubt Kingsley's and McGonagall's reasons for assigning certain fliers to certain locations. But with the air so thick with anticipation, some part of Draco wished he were due for some flying.

He pushed his left sleeve up just far enough to look at the edge of the Dark Mark. Earlier that day, he and Hermione had tried using the Elder Wand for his daily Unraveller. He'd dared to hope that the Elder Wand could erase the residual tattoo, but Hermione had bit her lip in doubt. "For something like this," she'd said, "I think using the Elder Wand versus a regular wand would be like using an aeroplane rather than a car to travel. It's just a more powerful way to arrive at the same destination."

Her hunch had been proven correct. When Draco had cast the charm, the edges of the tattoo had changed from jet black to a softer, more worn black, but over the next hour, it had returned to its previous state. The curse was gone, but the Mark would remain a long time.

Still … his body was his own again. The part of him that had always worried about an accidental summons had gone quiet. The tie was severed.

Draco was just tugging his sleeve back into place when something slammed hard into his back.

He leapt away from the hearth. The flames had turned emerald green, and a spotty young woman was staggering out into the front room. The murmurs had died, every eye fixed on the messenger.

"It's Shacklebolt," she gasped. "He's injured. Coming through from the safehouse now."

There were cries in the front room as Kingsley's tall body lurched out of the Floo. He was clutching a bloodied cloth to his face, and as he swayed, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley immediately rushed up to stabilise him at the elbows.

"What happened?" said Mrs. Weasley, white as a sheet.

Kingsley groaned, clasping the cloth more tightly over his eye.

"We didn't have enough people," the messenger panted. "It was supposed to be a simple raid on a Snatcher camp in Bristol. We heard they'd kidnapped a Muggle-born nine-year-old, tortured her parents. … She must have been a lure. There were Aurors there, Ministry …"

"Thank you, Veridian," said a white-faced Professor McGonagall. "You may go. Fleur, Remus—outside. Immediately."

The Order were well used to treating injuries by now. Kingsley was helped back to his tent with the usual contingent of those who had some experience with Healing magic. As they left, Fred said grimly to a horrified-looking Percy, "He'll be all right, Perce. He's a Senior Auror, half of them have got scars the size of Wales."

"Yeah," George added, "and it was starting to look odd, Kingsley so intact when the rest of the Order are like this." He pointed at the place his left ear had been. Percy made a faint choking sound.

But as the door closed behind Kingsley, the rest of the Order looked around at each other—at the maps, the Firebolts, the plans so meticulously laid over the past months. Bill voiced the question they were all thinking: "Who's going to cover for Kingsley? We need someone to take his spot at the Diagon Alley drop."

"We can 'andle it, Bill," said Hagrid from his magically expanded seat by the window. "Molly an' Arthur an' I."

"I don't think so, Hagrid," said Ron uneasily, tracing his flyover map, all traces of ostentation gone. "There's too much ground to cover there for just three. We can't give them time to react, and we've got to charm the pamphlets down chimneys at Diagon, through windows, the lot."

Potter, who seemed to have been jolted back to his senses by Kingsley's injury for the first time in weeks, spoke. "I'll fly his route."

"No," said about six people at once.

"Harry, dear, you need to stay here and stay safe," said Mrs. Weasley. "This mission, especially in London—it's far too exposed for the head of the Order. And don't even think about it, Ginny. You are underage."

Seated beside Harry, Ginny shut her mouth with anger flashing in her eyes.

Guilt had settled upon Potter's face at the words "head of the Order." Good, Draco thought, not without some irritation. After weeks of hearing nothing from Potter but theories about the Deathly Hallows, maybe he was finally remembering that he was meant to be Wizarding Britain's last hope.

Draco scanned the front room, then sighed. "I'll fly Shacklebolt's route."

"What?" said Hermione and Pansy at the same time.

"Are either of you going to do it?" said Draco. "Because as far as I can see, everyone else in this room is either assigned another route, underage, injured, pregnant, or Harry Potter."

Hermione and Pansy faltered, looking at each other. Pansy was terrified of heights, and Draco knew Hermione's unsteadiness on brooms.

"You're awfully young for a central route," said Mrs. Weasley, studying Draco with a conflicted expression.

"He's of age, Molly," Arthur Weasley pointed out, "and unlike our volunteers at the safehouses, he's known the contingency plans at Diagon for weeks. He'll be much better prepared."

"Besides, he flew for Slytherin for five years," said another voice. Draco glanced to the mantel and found George Weasley giving him a nod. "He'll be fine."

"We could hit a few Bludgers at you to get you back in form," Fred added.

Draco found himself grinning with a few others around the room.

"Tell yer what," said Hagrid. "Kingsley was supposed ter fly at the rear. Me an' my bike will take that spot instead. More exposed, see?" He turned to Draco. "Yeh'll take the centre spot instead, all righ', Malfoy?"

Draco nodded. They continued to discuss the adjustment to the plan, but Draco could feel Hermione's worried gaze on him. He glanced to her and slipped his hand into his pocket—a reminder that he had the Elder Wand on his side. The anxiety on her face eased.

When Draco rose before dawn the next day and padded out through his parents' tent, he startled. They were already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with buttered toast. His parents were early risers, but he hadn't prepared to meet them before the flyover.

"Draco," said his mother. "You're awake early."

"Yeah." Draco hesitated. If everything went according to plan, the flyover would take under an hour, and he'd be back before breakfast. However, if something went wrong …

He remembered the fear on his parents' face when he'd returned from Azkaban with the rest. Despite everything, despite these months of stiff and unpleasant stalemate, he didn't want to worry them.

"I'll be back by 7:45," he said.

His parents' tiredness seemed to drain away. "Where are you going?" said Lucius.

Draco glanced at the clock. He was going to be late. "The Order want me for another one of their plans," he said, striding for the tent flap.

"No," said his father sharply, standing.

Draco stopped at the tent flap. Both his parents were on their feet, fear and shock mingled in their expressions.

"Absolutely not," said Lucius. "We told you that under no circumstance should you get involved in another one of their schemes, Draco. We were explicit in this!"

Draco felt his mouth flattening into a line. "And I told you that I'm making sure they trust me."

"Draco—" his mother burst out, but he was already slipping out into the dark garden, taking a swig from his Polyjuice flask, and Disapparating to the remote field they'd designated as their meeting point.

Anticipation lit in his nerves as he looked out over the starlit field. There were over a hundred flyers, all lined up beside the brooms that they'd lifted from the Nimbus warehouse the previous weekend. Order members and safehouse allies were moving among them, dark silhouettes outlined in white by the moon.

"There you are," said Hermione breathlessly, hurrying up to him. "The Weasleys and Hagrid are waiting for you."

"The … right," Draco said, feeling off-kilter. The anticipation had veered downward into something else. He had slept well enough last night, but the encounter with his parents had rattled him, for some reason. He hadn't meant to see them.

Hermione was searching his features, a line between her brows. "Are you all right?"

Draco tried to focus. He drew his wand. "More than all right. Unbeatable, remember?"

Hermione swallowed. He could feel the effort it took her to smile. "Unbeatable."

#

Draco leaned close to the Firebolt's handle. He let himself enjoy being back on a broomstick again, the early morning air rushing around him—and the Firebolt flew like nothing he'd ever experienced.

The wind picked up as he, Hagrid, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley flew toward London. They had Apparated near to the city, Hagrid taken by Side-Along, and kicked off about ten minutes before. Draco could just make out the bounds of the others' Disillusioned forms as they hurtled through the low, freezing clouds.

As Draco flew, he found his parents' voices ringing strangely in his head. Their fear he could understand, after Azkaban, but the shock had seemed an overreaction. He'd told them over and over that he was working to stay in the Order's good graces—this was just one more part of that, wasn't it? …

Draco narrowed his eyes into the wind, ignoring a stir of guilt. He knew his parents must be frantic in the tent, but there had been no other choice for the flyover.

Still, he heard his mother's voice, something like a cry. Draco—

Draco—!

Although Diagon Alley was under No-Apparition, so no one could enter from above, approaching on brooms meant that the place became visible to them as they circled downward. Diagon Alley seemed to swim up out of the map of London beneath them, pushing rows of Muggle buildings gently aside to allow for the long, thin central artery of Diagon, along with its offshoots: Knockturn Alley, Acaysian Alley, and several others, each containing hundreds of shops and apartment buildings.

The sun had peeked over the edge of the horizon, creating a beautiful, misty dawn. And despite having flown through miserable stretches of icy cloud, he was quite comfortable. With the Elder Wand, he had cast such a powerful Warming Charm that he felt sure its strength alone would have earned him an 'O' on his Charms N.E.W.T.

Now they were close enough that he could see hundreds of witches and wizards, as small as insects, moving along the pathways of Diagon.

But as Draco unclipped his satchel full of leaflets, again he heard his mother crying out, Draco—!

Again he saw the hint of shock in their faces.

Unease bloomed in him, such a strong sensation that his fingers slipped on his broom handle. An idea formed. One that seemed to connect to everything his parents had said and done since their arrival. It connected to the attack on Aberforth, and to the way they had been awake this morning, as if waiting for him … as if they had wanted to make sure of something.

Draco's heart plummeted, though he had not altered the angle of his broom.

Hagrid's engine revved somewhere behind him. "Ready?" called Mrs. Weasley.

"Wait," Draco gasped out. "Wait! Quaffle!"

The code word made the others pull back at once. They rose high into the sky, into the cloud cover. The Weasleys lifted their Disillusionment Charms as Mr. Weasley said, "Is something wrong, Draco?"

"If you're worried, you don't have to join us, dear," panted Mrs. Weasley. "Three-fourths the area is better than nothing."

"Here, I'll take yer leaflets," said a still-Disillusioned Hagrid. "I can drop 'em where—"

"It's not that," Draco said. "I think …"

His throat closed. He couldn't speak his suspicions about his parents—not to the Weasleys, not to Hagrid.

He forced something else out instead, the words wild. "Isn't it suspicious that Kingsley's group was overpowered last night? That was supposed to be good intelligence. Just a few Snatchers, they said, but it turned out to be a dozen Aurors. And that happened not even twelve hours before the flyover. What if someone's leaked our plans?"

Arthur shook his head. "I'm afraid we have to distribute these pamphlets, no matter the risk."

"But if they know our plans," Draco said urgently, "they'll be ready to stop the pamphlets, it'll be pointless."

"We've got ter try, Malfoy," said Hagrid. "We've come all this way, we can' just turn around."

Draco shook his head, his panic mixing with anger now. They weren't listening. They were thinking of him as a scared child, they weren't confronting the possibility that they were flying into an ambush.

And there was no time to argue. If others around the country were also flying into ambushes, he needed to act now.

Draco grasped the broom handle, unslung the satchel full of leaflets from his shoulder, and shot downward. Mrs. Weasley's surprised voice sounded behind him. Diagon Alley swelled back into existence before him, its tiny people moving in clusters.

Still Disillusioned, Draco levelled out the Firebolt's handle in mid-air, bringing himself to an abrupt halt. With a quick motion he passed the Elder Wand over the satchel to Disillusion it, too. Then he swished and flicked—Wingardium Leviosa.

He guided the invisible satchel 200 meters forward. Then he lifted both enchantments.

The satchel plummeted, visible once more. As it fell, it twisted and swayed, loosing its contents. They began to flutter toward Diagon Alley, flurrying, disconnecting from one another, turning into a diffuse white cloud.

For an instant Draco thought he had been mistaken, that his panic about his parents really had just been a paranoid instinct.

Then a dozen blasting charms rocketed out of Diagon Alley's rooftops into the sky, toward the place where the satchel had originated. They intersected with a bang like a colossal firework. Even 200 meters back, the shockwave blew Draco's broom backward. When he righted himself, he saw that the painstakingly crafted leaflets were burning to nothing, intersecting with a Screening Charm before getting anywhere near the ground.

Draco swore, turned the broom, and urged it up into the clouds. Robed figures on brooms were bursting up out of Diagon Alley's perimeter—dozens of them.

By the time Draco reunited with the Weasleys and Hagrid, their shock was already transforming into fear. Draco yelled, "We have to Apparate!"

Arthur flew to Hagrid's side and seized his elbow. "Hold on tight to that bike, Hagrid," he panted.

As coloured jets of light crisscrossed the sky, they all twisted in mid-air and vanished.

They had barely reappeared in the launch field when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sprinting toward Hermione, Potter, and Ginny. "Hermione, your medallion," said Arthur, as Draco and Hagrid ran after them. "Quickly. The emergency signal!"

"I only hope we're in time," gasped Mrs. Weasley, staring around. "We made good time … all the rest …"

White-faced with fear, Hermione fumbled the necklace from around her neck. The lead fliers of each group had matching medallions imbued with Protean Charms. In case of just this kind of emergency, they could alter Hermione's medallion, and the others would grow hot and change to match, signalling an immediate end to the mission.

Hermione touched her wandtip to the medallion. A corresponding glow came from the chain around Mr. Weasley's neck.

Almost at once, other flyers began to Apparate back to the field around them. They appeared by the dozen—all seeming bewildered or worried, but not injured.

Within fifteen minutes, all 109 flyers had returned. A score or so, assigned to the smallest villages, had already begun their drop when the signal had been issued, but they'd encountered no ambush.

So they didn't know everything, Draco thought, feeling numb. His parents hadn't known everything.

Remus gave a short, bracing speech to the gathered fliers about focusing their re-information efforts on undercover distribution methods. Then their allies returned to the safehouse, and the Order assembled in the heart of the field.

"How did you know, Draco?" said Remus.

"I … I don't know." Draco avoided the Order's eyes. "Instinct, maybe," he added flatly. "I started thinking about the attack on Kingsley last night … it seemed too coincidental. … Wanted to make sure."

"It's a major blow," said Bill, tugging his hair out of its ponytail. "I suppose you're right, Remus, and we can try to distribute the leaflets hand to hand instead, but I'm worried it won't be enough to counteract the Prophet."

"We'll discuss it back at headquarters," said Mrs. Weasley, whose hands were placed protectively on the twins' shoulders. "Come on, now, let's all go back and have some breakfast."

"I think I'll go to the drop location first," said Hermione in a shaky voice. "Ron, Harry, Draco, shall we do a bit of supply distribution before going back to headquarters?"

They nodded, and while the rest of the Order returned to the Potter Cottage, they appeared in the cave, which was newly replenished with supplies. Crates of produce rose to the ceiling, baskets full of bread balanced atop them. Rice and potatoes strained at their burlap sacks. Other supplies seemed to have been purchased from Muggle supermarkets. Draco stared into one of their smiling logos as he sank onto a crate.

"It was my parents," he said before Hermione, Potter, or Weasley could say a word. "My parents have been passing information to the Death Eaters."

The others didn't speak, just looked at him with dismay.

"I don't know how they've been doing it," Draco forced out, "and I only realised it at Diagon Alley. But they were awake this morning. They tried to stop me from going. It's because they'd tipped the Death Eaters off, so they knew there'd be an ambush."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Then … then Aberforth wasn't betrayed by someone in his network."

"And the twins' signal getting jammed last month," said Potter. "And Kingsley, last night … it's all because of them."

Draco nodded. When he lifted a hand to his face he realised his fingers were trembling with anger. "That's why they've been trying to get me to commit to spying. They needed to know I was on their side before telling me what they've been up to. Otherwise, what if I tried to stop them." His voice was rising. "I've been trying to keep them out of all this, and the whole time, they've been trying to get everyone killed."

"But they haven't," said Hermione softly.

Draco turned toward her, needing to see reassurance in her face.

"They haven't gotten anyone killed," she said more firmly. "No one got hurt today. This morning could have been a massacre, but you stopped that."

"She's right," said Weasley in a bracing voice. "Look, Malfoy, even if we tell the Order about your parents, no one's going to think you had anything to do with it. You've been helping us half a year, now. We know you're not like them."

The anger leached out of Draco, leaving a strange, sober feeling. Weasley was right, of course. He was no longer like his parents. And they had lied to him. His family were supposed to be a team; from the first breath to the last, it was supposed to be the Malfoys against the rest of the world. But they had kept something this consequential from him, and he had been concealing something just as important.

If all three of them had been lying to each other this way, what was their family anymore? He pictured his mother and father, younger and healthier, laughing and watching him play at the top of Halfhold Hill.

Potter broke him out of his reverie. "Maybe this isn't what you want to hear," he said slowly, "but this could be useful. We've been coming up with a plan to get the Death Eaters to trust you again, but we don't need to do any of that anymore. They already trust your parents. When we want to set that trap, the job's already done."

Draco nodded. Potter sounded more present than he had since they'd learned about the Hallows. That, at least, was some relief.

"I just don't understand how they're doing it," Hermione said. "They don't have a wand between them. Could there be something in the twins' tent that they've adapted for magical communication? I thought we stripped the place clean."

"I'll find out what it is," Draco said. "And Potter, I'll need to borrow the Cloak."

#

When Draco returned to his parents' tent, he thought his mother's eyes looked reddened, as if she had recently been crying. They both stood abruptly.

"Draco," said his father. Since Draco was looking for it, he could see the relief on Lucius's narrow features, so much like his own. He could see the remnants of the terror that he might have betrayed his own son to his death.

Draco even wondered, for an instant, whether they would finally confess what they were doing—what they'd done. The danger that they had put upon him, however unwittingly.

He waited. He gave them the chance. But neither of them said a word.

#

That night, Draco donned the Cloak and crept down the hallway to his parents' door. There, he crouched and peered through the keyhole.

"… will not be pleased," said his father. "This should have been a master stroke."

"We did all we could," said his mother quietly. "The rest was in her hands. Come. It's nearly time."

Draco watched as his father joined his mother at the desk. She drew something glimmering from a drawer—a hand mirror. They had no wands, but there was no incantation necessary.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," said his mother to the mirror.

His aunt's face appeared there, her dramatic features livid.

"Cissy," she said. "Explain yourself."

#

Draco did little else in the following two weeks than follow his parents, invisible, watching. He could never guess when they might return to the tent to pick up that mirror, and the Gryffindors had pointed out that Bellatrix might give away some of the Death Eater's movements or plans.

Draco knew they were right—that secret access to Bellatrix might be a more valuable source of intelligence than any other—but it wasn't the only reason he wanted to watch. There was something addictive in seeing his parents unmasked, in piecing together the truth for himself.

It took him several days to assemble the basic facts. Before his parents had come to headquarters, Bellatrix had discovered that the Malfoys were alive, and she'd cornered his parents. They had promised inside information to bargain for their lives. Otherwise, his aunt would have murdered them and made it her next mission to kill Draco.

His parents had also lied to Bellatrix for his benefit. They'd told her that he had been acting under Confundus, possibly under Imperius. They told her that every day he was working to gain the Order's trust in order to position himself favourably.

Draco acknowledged, then, that their actions had been to keep the family alive and safe. He clutched to this. He told himself it wasn't so different from the way he'd been raised.

But he could not stop seeing his parents differently. His mother was a cypher, quiet in a new way than she had been at the Manor or even last summer at Grimmauld Place. When she followed his father out to the hedges, where they hid themselves most hours of the day and tried to eavesdrop using Extendable Ears, there was something listless in the way she moved.

His father, on the other hand, was more agitated than he had been in Draco's childhood. His feelings seemed to catch him unawares, his fear of Bellatrix revealing them to Voldemort, his desire for restoration among the Death Eaters. His hopes for Draco's future. He'd express these things with jerky suddenness, as if his skin had caught upon a jagged edge and cut the thoughts loose.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, had not changed at all. It was bizarre to listen to her again. Draco could remember admiring Bella for her infamy as a duellist, for her high rank among the Death Eaters, for her adherence to pure-blood traditions. Now, striding ever father away from those traditions, Draco was struck by how insipid and repetitive her words sounded. Everything was an excuse to insult Muggle-borns or non-wizards. She seemed to manipulate every topic to reiterate her own status, to preen, to remind herself how blessed she was to exist in the Dark Lord's reflected glory.

All this when Draco knew that Voldemort cared as little for Bellatrix as he ever had for Draco. Voldemort had humiliated Bellatrix in front of other Death Eaters, yet she fantasised about nothing other than his approval, winning his highest favour back from Snape. It made Draco feel a mixture of pity and scorn. That wasn't ambition at all. It was debasement.

Draco brought quill and parchment whenever he hunched outside his parents' door to listen. Day after day, anything that suggested the Death Eaters' plans was jotted down immediately.

But in early April, Draco heard something quite apart from anti-Muggle legislation and plans for expansion abroad.

It started normally enough, with Bellatrix whispering about the future. "We must be ready to deliver Potter when he returns to Britain," she said. "A secure location, where Potter cannot wriggle free … will Draco be prepared? The Dark Lord has intimated to me that he hopes to come by May to take his rightful place in the Ministry."

"Yes," said his father smoothly. "Every day Draco's faith in the Order weakens. And Draco is trusted, now; he is perfectly placed to act. Once the Dark Lord returns, convincing him to turn Potter over will be easy."

Bellatrix sighed. Even through the keyhole, Draco could see the relish on her face. "Then our family's name will be restored, Cissy. And it will be as it was before, Lucius, among the Death Eaters … we will surpass Snape and retake our place at the Dark Lord's right hand—we, his most trusted inner circle, who drank from the cup of the Dark Lord's covenant … we will hold the ranks we are owed."

The sentence had struck him like a slap. Draco had to press his palm to his mouth to stop himself from making a sound.

Go on, he willed Bellatrix. Go on … surely she wouldn't stop there, he had listened to hours of her rapturous speeches in the last weeks …

"Surely," murmured his mother, "the Dark Lord has also shared the Cup of the Covenant with Severus."

Bella's face flushed. "The Dark Lord prizes old loyalty," she hissed. "The covenant was for us alone, his first, his most devoted, who swore him our lives before even the inkling of a war." A smug, prideful note entered her voice. "No, Cissy. No Death Eater will drink of it again, not even Snape. That much, I can guarantee."

Then they were speaking about the old ranks of Death Eaters, ones long-dead, but Draco was no longer listening. He dashed from the tent into the garden, then up into the cottage.

He found the others reading together in Potter and Weasley's room. "She has the Horcrux," he panted.

All three shot bolt upright. "Who?" Hermione said.

"Bellatrix. He gave my father the diary. He gave Bellatrix the cup."

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some more minor tinkering with canon, in honor of helga's good name

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