Chapter One: The Road That Brings You Back

13th July 1995.

Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, 12 Grimmauld Place, London, England.

It had been nineteen days since the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort, he-who-must-not-be-named or you-know-who if you prefer, the man once known as Tom Riddle. The British Ministry of Magic was currently in denial of his machinations despite the fact that one Harry James Potter, the boy who lived, had been present at his rebirth. The support of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, with his many post-nominals, of the boy's version of events did not appear a factor for consideration. In fact, the Minister for Magic, one Cornelius Oswald Fudge, adamant in his belief that the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was after his job, was currently in the process of trying to discredit both wizards. Unfortunately, at least that is how it would appear in history, it appeared to be working.

That being said, it was, for most, a day like any other. School was not in session, the nerves of parent's everywhere were frayed, and there was yet another hosepipe ban in the south of England. It was much the same as the day before it, and would be much the same as the day after it too. Traffic came and went in the square of Grimmauld Place in London: men and women in suits left to work, children were writing in chalk on the pavement, and teenagers were reveling in their summer freedom on the yellow grass in the park at the centre of the square.

This was the scene Aurelia Woolfe came upon when she exited a taxi on one corner of the square, thanking the driver and telling him to keep the change. Despite the summer heat the woman's skin was the colour of alabaster, the only flaw a light smattering of freckles across her nose and exposed shoulders. Her thick chocolate coloured hair was pulled back in a top knot on the top of her head, a pair of aviator sunglasses set there revealing her unusually lilac tinted eyes. By all accounts a petite woman, a modest pale yellow sundress swung just below her knee, her height boosted by a pair of tan open-toed shoes. The woman carried a small leather handbag in one hand, while fine silver jewellery studded her ears and snaked around her throat and wrists.

Aurelia stopped, as so many had done before her, to look at the rather odd numbering on one side of the square. There was number eleven, but there, next to it, stood number thirteen. Number twelve appeared to be missing completely, although the local residents had long since ceased noticing the houses' absence. Cocking her head to one side she seemed to focus for a moment on something that nobody else could see, when a pair of teenagers on skateboarders passed a moment later she was no where to be seen; at least as far as the muggles were concerned.

In reality, Aurelia had simply passed through the hastily erected fidelius charm and protective wards that had been placed on the house at number twelve when it had become the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix some days earlier. Whilst word had been sent to members of the original Order within hours of the rebirth of the Dark Lord Voldemort, calling them to action once more, it had taken some time to make the seat of the "House of Black" a safe place to meet in any sort of numbers. Today was to be the first full meeting of the Order since it had been disbanded in 1981 at the close of the last war. They had thought, as so many had, that Voldemort was gone for good. Dumbledore himself had been some what reticent in declaring Tom Riddle defeated, but after eleven years of darkness and the loss of so many it had been difficult to convince most that it was anything except over. For those that believed that they had simply been granted a brief respite from the darkness, the years had not necessarily been kind.

Abus Dumbledore had seen to the protection of Harry Potter, fortified his own position at Hogwarts and continued to prepare for the clarion call of war. A spy for the ministry, Minerva McGonagall, had lost all trust in their governance; the loss of her brother and her childhood sweetheart to the war, and her new husband to a tragic accident only slightly after that, a heavy burden to bear. The death eater spy, Severus Snape, seemingly broken by his role in the death of his childhood love, lived only for a promise made in desperation some fifteen years prior. Harry Potter, abused by his only remaining blood relatives, was still trying to find his place in a world where magic was very real.

Aurelia Woolfe had remained in an exile imposed on her by the only man who she had ever loved. A man who she knew to love somebody else, who mourned for somebody else. Their daughter passed into the keeping of muggles; at the height of the war their position too precarious to safeguard her; despite the secret emptiness it had left inside them both. Her heart empty, Aurelia had focused on her career, determined to put that life behind her, determined to never return to Britain and the life that she had lost.

That was before. Before the missive from Remus Lupin calling the old Order back to arms at Dumbledore's behest. Before Minerva McGonagall had related to her the horrors surrounding the last task of the Triwizard tournament: the murder of a student, the rebirth of a monster, the fate of Alastor Moody, and his now soulless impersonator Barty Crouch Junior. Before the hastily scrawled note, the slanted script so achingly familiar it required no signature, that had mysteriously appeared on her desk at MACUSA:

27th June 1995.

The Dark Lord is returned. Your life is at risk.

Dumbledore will try to convince you but you must not return.

A Seal of entwined serpents.

This was before Dumbledore asked if she would take up the once again vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts. As though the fate of the previous holder of the post was not a warning sign. As though anybody was lining up to spend the best part of a year locked in a magical trunk. As though nobody knew of the jinx the position had held for many long years. This was before her boss had agreed to allow her to take a years sabbatical; as long as she kept her ear to the ground surrounding the rumours of You-Know-Who being at large once more, lest he turn his eye toward America. This was before she saw the name of one muggle born Hermione Granger tied to that of the Boy-Who-Lived in an out of date copy of the Daily Prophet that had made it's way to her. This was before that one sentence had induced the first panic attack she had fallen too in years.

That was the moment her resolve to never return crumbled.

After passing through the external wards hiding 12 Grimmauld Place from the prying eyes of muggles and dark wizards alike, Aurelia hesitated at the front door. After fourteen years she was about to return to a life that she had promised she would leave behind her. She was not ready to face her past, truly she would never be ready to face her past, but life did not much care for such sentiments. She would face fear, because her worst fears had come calling. Her absence had not prevented such. She would be strong, because no one would be strong in her stead. She would be brave, because she was done fleeing her feelings.

It was that bravery that turned the door handle that day.

Entering a long dark corridor Aurelia allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Her nose wrinkled as dust caught in her nose, musty from age. The most ancient house of black to be assured. The murmur of voices could be heard as she stepped along the corridor, her stance wary even though this was supposed to be a place of friends. Most of them were dead of course. The mortality rate for the Order had been depressingly high; if the Dark Lord had not brought about his own end in front of the crib of a child, she did not doubt that it would have been higher. Those few who remained gathered here in hope, but she was not optimistic that death would not be calling at their door before too long.

The kitchen, when Aurelia entered, was full of life. The faces that she remembered were older, but the atmosphere in the room was not grim; there was chatter and smiles, even the occasional peal of laughter. In the face of such it was hard to believe that they were, for all intents and purposes, at war. Edging towards the far corner of the room, preferring a wall to her back then the presence of those unknown to her, she allowed a slight quirk of her lips in response to the nods of greeting she received.

"What are you doing here?" Words hissed from behind her, as a hand closed around the top of her arm and roughly pulled her into the shadows at the edge of the room.

That single sentence, spoken by that voice, was enough to shake her bravery. To pull forth a memory long since buried behind carefully built walls in her mind. A memory of painful partings, of letters unanswered, of a life left shattered. A long breath exhaled from her lungs as the memory rushed through her consciousness; aware that her defences were breached and he was in her mind.

2nd March 1981.

A secret kept location in Wales.

The crack of apparition.

The slam of the door.

Breathless waiting.

"He knows you belong to the Order."

His eyes were wild.

"You must leave for America. Tonight."

Confusion.

"Come with me."

No response.

"Please."

She would not beg.

"One does not leave the Dark Lord."

She would beg.

"Please."

Hissed words.

"I cannot."

Her face crumpled.

"The Potter's … I told Dumbledore I would do anything…"

"For her?"

He turned his face away.

"To hide them; all of them."

"A vow?"

"An act of desperation."

She stepped forward.

"I can stay. The Order…"

He stepped back.

"The Order is dying. Leave."

His voice was harsh.

"Forget about me."

A reaching hand.

"Our daughter?"

"Is safe."

"I will be alone."

"You will live."

"Come with me."

"You will live."

Words unsaid.

Hands grasped.

A burning kiss.

Crack.

Alone.