Hello lovelies!

I know it's been a while. I won't make promises about a regular update schedule, but I have been working on the next few chapters, so hopefully I will have those done soon! Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the chapter x

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.


Wednesday, September 26th, 1979

Potter Manor

There is a tenuous truce between the occupants of Potter Manor and Albus Dumbledore. The man has been trying to regain their favour over the past few weeks, and for now, Dorea has issued a ceasefire. Their grievances can wait, they have more pressing, insidious demons to deal with.

Dumbledore hadn't asked anything of them yet, however, he's occasionally shared precious intel with them.

In the small hours of the morning, before the reporters had a chance to heat up the printing press, or the Ministry of Magic had crafted a well-versed statement, urgent news reached Potter Manor. A silvery Phoenix patronus soared through Dorea and Charlus's bedroom window. It hops from side-to-side at the foot of their bed before they rouse.

Bleary-eyed and disgruntled at having her beauty sleep interrupted, Dorea fluffs her pillows, shifts into a seated position and sags back against her mountain of pillows. She absently pulls their blanket up to her ribcage, laces her fingers together and waits.

The phoenix's beak opens, flapping its elegant wings, and Dumbledore's voice fills the room. "Voldemort and his followers have made their next move. Azkaban has been breached. Late last night, they managed to release several of the prisoners before the Dementors drove them away…including Peter Pettigrew. I have no doubt that all the finer details will be on the front page of the Prophet in a few hours. I thought you deserved the courtesy of hearing the news before then."

Dorea and Charlus sit in stunned silence as the remaining wisps of the phoenix flap towards the window, dissipating entirely before its form reaches the glass panes.

"This should prove to be an interesting morning," Charlus sighs, slumping down, rolling onto his side and facing her. He reaches out and places his larger hand on top of hers. She wordlessly adjusts her hands so that his is in between hers. She grips it tightly and it anchors her in place, her mind is racing.

"What does this mean, Charlus? Why Peter? What could Voldemort possibly be thinking?"

"I don't know, Doe…and that is the scariest part," Charlus murmurs into the darkness of their bedroom. Dorea curves downwards, presses her lips to their joined hands, and squeezes her eyes shut.

"We have to be the ones to tell the children. We can't let them hear it from anyone else," Dorea says, her lips forming the words against their skin.

"We should give them a little bit more time. Let them rest peacefully for a few more hours before we deliver the bad news."

Dorea nods as her husband pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her cheek and whispers words of comfort. Charlus suggests they get some more sleep, but neither of them manage to get another wink. They stay awake for hours, until the sunlight lifts the night's shroud

They rise from their bed with a handful of words exchanged, preparing themselves to break the news to the others. They paused by their bedroom door, faced one another, and with unwavering eye contact they drew in steadying breaths. Sometimes, they didn't need to speak aloud to communicate; it's a byproduct of being together for so long. They nodded at each other and set forth to greet the new day. Whatever this new development brought to their doorstep, they would deal with it together.


The taste of smoke lingers on the underside of her tongue as she rolls over onto her back. Streaky, blurred images assault her corneas and she groans. Her head is throbbing to a thunderous, uneven beat.

An age passes before she is able to sit up. She runs her hands across the dry dirt sprinkled with an inexplicable amount of ash. She peers around her and notices that the ash forms a perfect circle around her; as if it had been painstakingly drawn to perfection.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?" Ginny wonders aloud. She glances around, searching for her wand or clothes, but she comes up empty. She is completely starkers in the middle of a circle of ashes, in an open space amongst a thicket of slender trees that are piercing the sky.

A slight chill is carried on a breeze that feathers across her skin. She shivers and hugs herself in an attempt to trap some body heat to her.

Ginny closes her eyes and focuses as much as her splitting headache will permit. Tendrils of her magic extend from her body, feeling around her, but again, nothing.

"Accio Ginny Weasley's wand," Ginny says slowly, enunciating every syllable. Ginny attempts to stand, holding her arms out to help her balance; her knees wobble and knock together. She digs her heels into the ash and widens her stance and her body tremors quiet; for now.

There is no sight of her wand. Ginny tries again but to no avail. She swears under her breath. "Fuck, am I really that shite at wandless magic?" It could also be how depleted her magical stores are, she is drained save for a few drops.

"What should I do now?" Ginny wonders aloud. Squinting at her surroundings again, looking for any clues.

I would go home, but I probably don't have enough energy to apparate, Ginny thinks soberly.

A decision is made for her. It's as if she'd spurred fate into motion with her words. The telltale sound of apparition rips through the air and she stiffens. She catches a glance of the small group through the trees. They haven't spotted her yet.

The hairs at Ginny's nape stand at attention. Her blood runs cold. There is a vast space between them, and the trees obscure the finer details of the group to some extent, but she recognises Bellatrix Lestrange nonetheless. It is impossible not to, she still haunts some of Ginny's worst night terrors.

"The Dark Lord says he sensed a large burst of magic at the edge of the wards! Find the source!" Bellatrix's voice rings out loud and clear.

Ginny is standing as still as a deer, breath shuddering in and out of her, her heartbeat is too loud.

Ginny's mind races. There's no way, that's impossible. That bitch is dead.

Bellatrix looks younger, her hair is shinier, and her poise makes her look sane. Like she is fully in control and able to make rational decisions. It is a terrifying conclusion to reach; Bellatrix might be operating with full use of her mental faculties but still chooses to dabble in the realm of insanity.

Ginny has a handful of moments to act, and the miniscule grains of time are speedily slipping away. The world has ceased to make sense, but she knows she can't stay here or her life is forfeit.

Ginny's fingers dig into her skin, her eyes flutter shut and she drowns out the sound of the nearby Death Eaters. She may not have a wand and she may be running on fumes, but she has little choice in the matter.

Destination, determination, and deliberation, Ginny chants mentally again and again.

She envisions the Burrow. The surrounding fields, the back garden, her Father's tool shed. She fills her head with the scents that accompany the abode during the different seasons. She pictures the front door, mentally takes several steps backwards and twists on the spot.

A tightness pulls her bellybutton back into her spine, ice flows through her veins. An urgent voice is hissing in her ear to go faster. The tightness grows into a sharp, sucking sensation and her body is folded into a spiral. The world spins. Ginny Weasley vanishes.


Molly rubs her eyes once, twice, thrice in disbelief. She doesn't believe her eyes. A hand flies to her chest and the other protectively covers her swollen belly as the girl stumbles towards her.

There had been a deafening crack that tore at Molly's eardrums a couple minutes ago. Arthur wasn't home; he was at the shops getting odds and ends that they needed whilst she minded the children.

The wards surrounding the property alerted her of a foreign presence. There was something oddly familiar about the magical signature, but she couldn't afford to wait around and find out if they are a friend or foe.

Bill and Charlie had dragged Percy to the twins' room. Molly found her boys gathered together, their eyes wide, lips trembling as they tried to be brave. Bill was holding Fred, Charlie was holding George. The twins were abnormally quiet. Percy is hugging his stuffed toy frog.

Molly kissed her boys' heads, told them how much she loved them and instructed Bill to take his siblings through the floo to Potter Manor. Charlie and Percy argued and fussed for several moments before Bill whispered lowly to them. Begrudgingly, his younger brothers nodded and agreed with their Mother when she told them that Bill was in charge.

Molly watched as her boys used the floo like she and Arthur had taught them. Just like they'd practiced. The green flames swallow her children, and she exhales slowly. Molly might be enormous and heavily pregnant, but she is prepared to fight for her sons until her dying breath.

Please come home soon, Arthur, Molly prays.

Hermione and Lily had been round a couple weeks ago to patch any of the holes in the Burrow's wards and to strengthen them. Hermione mentioned it was a temporary fix and they would have to perform a more intensive ceremony at some point. It should have prevented most wix from apparating onto the property. Which is what sparks the intense dread in the bottom of Molly's gut as she approaches her door.

What are they waiting for? Molly thinks.

Brandishing her wand, Molly flings open the front door and freezes on the threshold. She had been expecting a Death Eater, a seasoned fighter, a person intent on harming her and her family. She is astonished and perplexed by what greets her instead.

A nude, ginger haired girl. She is filthy: covered in soot, dried dirt and blood. She is swaying on her feet, inching towards the house, her hair sweeping down her back as she moves. The girl's hair is like a living flame, vibrant and alive. Molly meets the girl's blue eyes, their hue the colour of the sky on a warm summer's day. They remind her of Ron's.

Recognition and relief flies onto the girl's face. She stops moving, her legs shaking and it is clear that she is struggling to stay upright. Her left arm is limply hanging by her side, the blood streaming down it is dripping from her fingertips and watering the earth. Her other hand is pressed into the large, deep gash on her upper arm.

"Mum," the girl chokes out. "Think…I splinched…myself." The ginger's eyes roll back in her head, her body goes slack, and she crumples to the ground.