A/N: We've posted a summary of the first book, My safest sound, in an added chapter in that instalment, if someone needs a recap. If you haven't read that fic yet, we highly recommend you do that first or this one won't make much sense.

The wait is finally over! Merry Christmas to everyone, and we're super, SUPER excited to finally be sharing Eye of the Storm with y'all! We've worked really hard on this, this turned out to be a lot more complex and multi-layered than even MSS, and will be longer.

This story contains all sorts of relationships and characters, from all demographics. Unlike the Author, we respect everyone regardless of their gender identity or sexuality.

We will be following the same alternate weekly updating schedule, so the next update will be 8th Jan, Saturday.

Prologue warnings for; language, implied character death, implied/referenced torture and murder.

On another important note, we're looking for another beta reader! If anyone's interested, please leave a comment below. We will talk out the details with you.

Our playlist is also now open, so feel free to add songs to it if you like.


Prologue

The blue hue of an orb was something that one never quite forgot. It mesmerised, like a predator flaunting its most flamboyant feature to draw in the prey.

"Would you like to see what it does?" A very short brilliant woman had asked them once, "Touching an orb?"

"Mrs. Longbottom?"

"Alice," she grabs their hand for a quick shake before turning back to the orbs, "And I know you would, so would I," there was no taunt or scorn. Only the amusement that came with being in on a secret, an inside joke, "I would love knowing how insanity feels, just for a moment. But here's the thing, August."

They were surprised she knew their name. They've met only once before this encounter, and now they felt somewhat embarrassed by the casual intimacy with which she addressed them.

"Yeah?" They croaked out. Enthralled. Absolutely and unequivocally enthralled by the woman that was so alike them that it hurt.

"You don't wield magic, it wields you. You should be respectful of it," she nods, "Specially in your line of work."

They hold each other's gaze now, August being at least one head taller than the woman, their faces engulfed by the blue tint, "I respect magic."

The woman nodded at them, "You should revere it. Respect that comes with fear. Because no matter how fast you run, magic outruns you."

Magic outruns you.

August blinks into the present, their eyes twitching as the subtle blue light shines right into their face. A very familiar sight.

To their right, Xenophilius Lovegood stands, eyes narrowed in concentration, his ebony white hair tinted a murky blue.

The very air seems to shimmer around the man; the previous illusions still hang about him. Like shiny grains of sand.

August has heard of this man before; he used to be Miss Alice's partner, back in the day. They remember, quite vividly- as is the fashion with every memory that includes the woman- how fondly she spoke of him.

His reputation precedes him, him losing his marbles, that is. Ever since the tragic loss of his wife and the downtrodden state of that publication of his. It was quite terrible to watch.

He looks somewhat normal in his silence. They've barely spoken two words since August smuggled them inside.

They watch the man's fingers hover in the air, in front of the tiny rune carvings.

August wants to see it, with the same morbid curiosity as before, what would it look like if the man reached out and touched the orb. His fingers, the very tips, laying against the blue glass.

They wouldn't let it progress, of course. They had a whole procedure regarding such happenstance. Counter curses and all. It would take the man less than ten seconds to be gone beyond saving. The counter curse only takes August five seconds.

Leaving a five-second window, a very tantalising one.

People should know better. Touching a Prophecy that does not concern you, in a place like this? They would be asking for insanity.

But August would never let that happen. Magic outruns you.

It did with Miss Alice. It will with Xenophilius Lovegood.

"Are there any other entrances?" The man asks them, in a low voice. As if afraid of disturbing the reverent silence.

"Only one more," they reply curtly, "I think Mister Weasley is inspecting it as we speak."

And Mister William Weasley, as if summoned, emerges from between the towering shelves; the tip of his wand a faded silver. But to be fair, any colour would be faded in comparison to the hue of the orbs.

"Only one more," he says in affirmation, and August clasps their hands behind their back.

"And what about the wards?"

They answer before Bill Weasley can open his mouth, "Two protective wards, standard charms. Along with protective runes lining the shelves and the perimeter of the hall itself."

Bill shrugs in confirmation and Lovegood hums, his hand curled under his chin, "That's a lot of magic in one place," he muses.

August knows. August is in love with the idea of it; each strand, weaved into one another, invisible yet powerful. Each string, laced by her hands. Miss Alice, she was the ward locker, one of the originals and August was there and they saw.

The respect. The power. The reverence.

"Like an ocean," they whisper the familiar words.

Xenophilius' head snaps up to theirs and they exchange a glance, knowing on his side, and impassive on theirs.

"Like an ocean," he slowly repeats, then lets out a dry chuckle, more of a breath really, "That's funny. I have to recreate every single drop."

Bill Weasley fidgets on the sidelines as the man breaks eye contact with August and starts striding down the narrow corridor, entrapped between two shelves of prophecies.

"How many shelves?"

August does a headcount in their mind, "About forty, might be more but not less."

"And those are individual runes?"

"Each unique to their own."

Bill whistles at the numbers, his eyes somewhat wide, "Surely we don't have to be that detailed."

Xenophilius looks at the young man over his shoulder, "We're not talking about a first-year, Bill. He pays attention to detail."

August does not partake in the conversation. They are an Unspeakable, and politics - technically- should be of no consequence to them. So, technically speaking, if You-Know-Who beat these guys to the punch, August should not, and is obligated not to care.

But they do.

Of course, that doesn't change the fact that they joined the Order, and will very much be prosecuted if discovered, but joining the force was purely out of selfish reasons.

"This is the biggest hall in this department. The one adjacent is the second biggest."

"Which one is that?" Lovegood muses.

They shrug, "The Hall of Dark artefacts."

"Are they patrolled regularly?"

"I will handle it, Mister Lovegood. All you need to worry about are the illusions themselves," they turn to the left, leaving both men to scurry after them, "The wards should not also interfere with the existing ones."

Not her legacy.

"They should be replicas."

"I know that," Bill snaps, a bit defensively. He's the ward locker Lovegood is working with, and evidently he used to work for Gringotts. It's a nice thing to have on one's resume. But it was no testimony to his abilities.

"I am required to remind you. A single, slightest change might alert my colleagues, and that will not be good for you," August will personally exact revenge for disturbing her work, her last legacy as the senior ward locker.

Xenophilius' hand is gingerly running over the intricate rune carvings, touch featherlight. With the reverence they deserve, with the reverence August had seen in Alice's eyes. It improves the man's image in their eyes, if only a little.

His eyes flick over to William, before his face crumples just the slightest bit. "Surely all this isn't necessary? Not for one prophecy."

August tilts their head to one side, observing. Xeno had always been the reckless, adventurous sort. That's why Miss Alice and he had worked so well together. He'd never shied away from a challenge. Seeing this, watching him trying to back away, make excuses, offends August. Offends the very memory of Alice Longbottom. Erases any respect he might have gained.

Bill's eyes snap towards him, "You know it is."

Xeno looks away, face twisting bitterly, and he murmurs under his breath, so slowly that August can barely make it out, "I'm a pureblood, we're supposed to be safe."

August chuckles, and Xenophilius looks up at them, eyes narrowing. They smile sharply, "I think Lucius Malfoy's corpse would like to disagree."

No matter how hard you run, magic outruns you.


It is with experience that comes from decades of teaching hormonal, excitable teenagers with rampant magic that Minerva keeps herself from hexing the bitch right then and there. Multiple times. Everyday. For the rest of her short, miserable life.

The very sight of Dolores Umbridge makes her want to set something on fire. Umbridge herself, preferably.

She takes a deep breath and counts up to twenty, a habit she'd picked when the Marauders had first banded together to wreak havoc on her nerves. It helped her see beyond the present, beyond the disaster taking place before her eyes.

Usually it helps to take a step back and just think.

It does not help now.

But if she does anything like curse the woman, transfigure her into a toad and trap her in a jar, or just simply suffocate her until she's all pink and blue to her heart's content, Minerva will only cause trouble for Albus, and maybe even harm to her students.

So she stays calm. Barely.

This is ridiculous.

"Surely," Pomona looks around with uncertainty, "Surely this isn't necessary? Do you really think the students could be responsible for something like this? Besides, it's been weeks since the incident."

Filius nods vigorously, a frown etched on his face. "Exactly, this will only needlessly frighten the children. Especially in these times."

There's a fake smile plastered over Umbridge's face, and she laughs, a small, sickly, simpering sound that makes Minerva close her eyes.

"These times are exactly the reason why this is so important! Professor Flitwick, the emotional state of a child is of no consequence when the safety of a whole school is in danger!"

"They're minors," Minerva grits out, gnashing her teeth together. She'd have to ask Poppy for some teeth strengthening potion. Or regrowing ones by the end of today.

Umbridge's face turns sour; this is a conversation they've had before.

"Yes, and I'm allowing their heads of houses to remain in the room during the questioning, aren't I? Honestly, I don't understand why you're all so upset. It's almost like you don't want us to be safe, or to find Mr. Potter."

"And we've told you, Mr. Potter never went missing." He was kidnapped. Twice.

"Yes, yes. That's the story, isn't it? And yet."

Pomona looks supremely uncomfortable. Minerva knows Flitwick's words wouldn't stand for much here, not with Umbridge's widespread hatred of anyone not a pureblood wizard or witch. And Aurora… Well. She's doing a remarkably good impression of Severus here. It almost makes Minerva's mouth twitch into a smile.

It's clear she doesn't want to be here. To be honest, no one does. But needs must.

Aurora raises her eyebrow, and asks, quite calmly, "And yet?"

There's a beat, where Umbridge visibly gathers herself, straightening her already ramrod spine straight, puffing up like a toad. "Well, there's been allusions, haven't there? And there's usually always a bit of truth to these rumours. They shouldn't be dismissed so lightly."

No one speaks, and Umbridge watches them. The fake smile is still there. "You see, we have our suspicions that Albus Dumbledore might have kidnapped Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy's involvement has also been suspected."

Minerva's eyes widen, and she opens her mouth, several curses right on the tip of her tongue, along with vehement denial at such… such big-headed idiocy. The likes of which she'd never before been unfortunate enough to witness.

She's blatantly accusing a man of doing something she did herself.

Aurora beats Minerva to it, "Assuming that's true, what does that have to do with the children?"

Umbridge turns to her, her smile growing a fraction wider and her eyes colder. "Well, you see, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have been suspected of helping Dumbledore. There have been other students too. Strange disappearances, being in the most suspicious places at the oddest of times, talks. My Inquisitorial Squad does good work, and they often see things that we, as professors, might not. We have to cover all bases, don't we? We have to do our best for the children. We have to find those responsible for putting us all in peril. We have to weed out the Dark Lord's supporters early. Nip it in the buds."

This time, Minerva counts to fifty. If she irritates Umbridge too much, she might barr her from sitting in on these interrogations. She can't afford for that to happen.

Once again, the counting doesn't help. Aurora's lips have thinned, but she doesn't say anything. Her position is precarious here. She's not a permanent Head of House. At least, no one believes so.

She'd not been trained for this. But Aurora's just as devoted to the students as the rest of them. This had been one of the very few decisions made without the interference of Umbridge. They can't lose that.

"Are you not supposed to have an approval directly signed by the minister to conduct any sort of investigation here?" Filius speaks at last.

"Pardon me?" Umbridge squeaks.

"Well, Headmaster Dippet had to get a written approval over the Myrtle girl's death to investigate the students. Should you not do the same, Headmistress?"

For a moment, Minerva thinks that they've gotten her. Finally, some technicality that allowed them a win. But then the woman smiles crudely, "Well, normally yes. Of course."

Her smile stretches, "But you see, we are in turbulent times. The Minister has given me full jurisdiction over the school affairs."

"How come we did not know of this? The board of governors-"

"I am the headmistress, and the board of governors is still trying to reorient itself. Did you all forget Mister Malfoy's unfortunate death not so long ago? He was the main founder and supporter of said board."

It's a damning response, if there is any. Of course, they could probably delay her for an hour or two, ask for exact documents and request confirmation from the minister.

But the man is drowning in paperwork as it is, Minerva should know. And Umbridge will get her way anyways.

"Of course, Dolores," Pomona finally mutters.

"Well, Minerva," Minerva barely keeps herself from snarling at the woman as she turns towards her, "I believe the first person on the list is Mr. Weasley?"

Minerva lifts up her chin, "I suppose he is."

Umbridge nods and turns to the others, "You all may leave. Only the head of house shall remain. Too many people might make the student nervous, you see."

All three Professors hesitate, but they all know what's at stake here. Aurora is the last to leave, and she sends in Ronald Weasley.

"Professor? You called for me?" Ron steps in, and to his credit, the boy looks remarkably well… composed.

"Yes, Ronald, you may sit down," Umbridge says, gesturing towards the chair in front of her. Minerva sits across them both, stiff with tension. Ron's eyes click over to her, his brows drawing together.

Minerva gathers herself, "As you can see, Headmistress Umbridge has requested your presence to answer some questions."

"Questions?" Ron isn't looking at Umbridge, which is clearly irritating her. Minerva allows her a small moment of satisfaction. The boy, she's also relieved to notice, doesn't look as ragged and stretched thin as he had been the last time she'd seen him. He'd obviously taken some trouble to look better before meeting with Umbridge.

It's taxing to see the boy's mask almost perfectly in place, and somehow Minerva knows that in the absence of that mask, she would most likely see utter rage and hatred pouring out of the boy's eyes.

But he has learnt, they all have it seems. Her lions and all the others alike.

The students have become cautious, almost more so than the professors themselves. It's… heartbreaking.

"Only a formality," Umbridge says, perhaps a trifle too loudly.

Minerva gestures at the woman, and Umbridge clears her throat again, but Ron doesn't turn.

"Okay," he says slowly.

"Well then, Mister Weasley, if you could sit, we will begin," Minerva allows a comforting smile slip onto her face.

Umbridge huffs, "If you are quite done, Minerva."

"Oh please," Minerva gestures, "go ahead,"

"Well then, Mister Weasley. How many classes have you missed this month?"

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Ron doesn't answer. As soon as Umbridge opens her mouth, eyes narrowing, to repeat the question, the boy says, "I don't know."

"What was that?" Umbridge says, a muscle ticking in her jaw, "I didn't quite hear that."

There's an intense look in Ron's eyes, something she wouldn't have expected to ever see on his face. But he answers, complying. Smart boy. "I don't know... ma'am."

Umbridge nods, the blasted clipboard and quill in her hands, scribbling down a few lines that neither Ron nor Minerva can make out. "And where were you on Saturday night last week? Or any week for that matter?"

Ron looks at her for a long time, "I was being tutored," he says.

Umbridge hums, tapping her quill lightly against the paper. "By whom?"

"My friend. Hermione Granger."

"And yet," Umbridge says, putting down her quill to pick up a paper from her desk. It's marked heavily with red ink, the original writing barely legible. "This is… your last Charms grade here, it's a T."

"What a bummer," Ron says monotonously. Perhaps not quite that smart to sound so apathetic in response, she thinks. Minerva stifles the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Dolores-" she starts, this is going nowhere.

"Hush," Umbridge ignores her, "Now, Mister Weasley-"


"Saturday night? Well, I was in my dorm, studying for my transfiguration test," Mr. Zabini shrugs, "Which by the way, I aced," he flashes a small, smug smile, and Aurora wonders if maybe the boy is pushing it too far.

He thinks Umbridge too dumb to catch onto his sardonic posture and words, Aurora isn't quite as sure as him, of course.

"Your classmates have not seen you in the common room during that time," Umbridge says, not batting an eye.

The smile slips off his face, "Not to complain, but I do not find this situation favourable at all. This line of questioning in the absence of my head of house," he says, his eyes going over to Aurora once with careless disinterest.

She's fine with it. Professor Snape was better with his students. That's all they'd ever known. It's only normal for the boy to require his presence to face this bitch.

"Your Head of House is present here, Mr. Zabini," Umbridge answers, as if explaining something to a little child.

Mr. Zabini's lips thin, an unhappy expression settling on his usually savvy face. Aurora clasps her hands in her lap, turning her eyes to Umbridge. The boy will be fine, he's not a Slytherin for nothing. They know self preservation. She has to watch Umbridge. This isn't a fair game.

After seeing no reply forthcoming, Umbridge nods, "Have you seen any odd activity since the disappearance of your friend, Mister Malfoy?"

The boy perks up, his face brightening in a too-wide smile, "Oh we're acknowledging that now? For a while, I thought he was an imaginary friend."

Aurora takes a deep breath. She understands, she does. It feels good to antagonise someone like Umbridge. But that's a dangerous path. Mr. Zabini looks at Aurora for a split second, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

He gets the message.

Umbridge's expression doesn't waver, "Answer the question, Mister Zabini."

"Odd? Yes, yes, very odd. I woke up and he was gone. He still is. I still don't see why I'm here."

Umbridge is scribbling on that piece of paper again. Aurora is fairly certain that it's all for show, an intimidation tactic. It's fairly simple and effective, but if she thinks it's going to scare Mr. Zabini, then she's wrong.

"And how would you describe your relationship with one Neville Longbottom?" Umbridge asks after a moment, finally looking up from her clipboard.


"Blaise Zabini? Umm, I don't think-think we've spoken at all, Headmistress," Despite all the changes every child has gone through in the last several weeks, Neville still isn't all that confident. Especially not in the face of Dolores Umbridge. Especially not when he's being interrogated like a common criminal.

"Yet, the inquisitorial squad has marked your absences at the same time, both last seen on the second floor," the quill makes a steady, tap tap tap sound against the desk. Neville's eyes flick over to it nervously, and Minerva can see his fingers twisting in his lap.

She can't take this anymore.

"This is absolutely preposterous, Dolores. They're students, they're allowed to be seen together-"

"Your cobwebbed career depends on my signature, Minerva. Sit back down. Please." Umbridge doesn't even look at Minerva, her gaze fixed intensely on Neville. Although… although Neville seems to have straightened up a little now, and he stares at Minerva for a short moment before turning back to Umbridge.

Umbridge doesn't seem to notice the change, "You were saying, Mister Longbottom? How many times a week do you visit the library? Exact times and dates please."


"Well, I could say daily, once six in the morning to return the books from prior visits, and once after classes to complete my homework," Hermione says primly, rattling it all off like one of the paragraphs in her school books.

Some would have called it suspicious, a learned answer. But everyone knows how Hermione Granger is, and this isn't called to question.

Out of all her students, Minerva is fairly certain that Miss Granger would make it out of the interrogation more or less unscathed.

"You tutor Mister Weasley, yes?"

"Well, yes. His grades have been dropping," she says, matter of factly.

Umbridge's mouth stretches in a malicious smile, "I regret to inform you that you have not been a good tutor then, Miss Granger."

Granger doesn't bat an eye.

"Where were you last Saturday night, or any Saturday night for that matter?"

"Tutoring Ronald. Just like I said," the way Hermione speaks, condescendingly, as if Umbridge is the child here, makes Minerva smile. She hides it before Umbridge can see. It's the little things, she muses.

"And when was the last time you visited the seventh floor? The east section to be exact."

Any amusement Minerva might have felt earlier vanishes. This woman, she's too wily. Her Inquisitorial Squad is everywhere. It's concerning. Times like these, you're supposed to be more united than ever. Not turning on each other.

She's done just that; turned the children against each other. Thankfully for now, Granger and Weasley are careful with their club and so, no clashes have occurred between the two coalitions yet.

Hermione doesn't react again. She says, quite calmly, without a change in her demeanour that could suggest any nervousness or guilt, "I patrol there two times a week-"

Umbridge doesn't let her finish, "Have you ever thought about illegally distributing study materials?"


"Please pay attention, Miss Lovegood," Umbridge says, her perfect mask slipping just for a moment.

"I rarely get distracted," Miss Lovegood answers, smiling breezily.

Filius admires the girl, he really does. Hogwarts hasn't exactly been easy for her, unusual as she is. And yet her spirit rarely ever seems to dwindle. She has a strength that Filius has rarely seen anyone else possess.

Umbridge grits her teeth, face going a little red, "Are you in any way aware of the false allegations regarding the ministry and Harry Potter being passed around amongst the students?"

Filius clenches his fist. He can take this vile woman in a duel, he knows he can. He can kill her too. Merlin knows he'd be doing the world a favour. Just being in her presence makes his skin feel like it's crawling. The raw, visceral hatred she holds for any type of creature, anyone with 'impure' blood, is disgusting, and shocking.

How did someone with such thinking ever get to the position she is in now?

"Well," Luna says, tapping her fingers against her chin right in rhythm with Umbridge's quill. Umbridge throws the quill down on the table as soon as she notices. Luna smiles and continues tapping, "The Nargles always tell me the rumours first. Trouble is, nobody quite believes me."

Filius doesn't know what to do with the girl. On one hand, it's greatly amusing to see her rile up Umbridge so well and easily, on the other, Umbridge can easily punish her, making her life even more difficult at Hogwarts.

His amusement, the split second of satisfaction at the annoyance caused for Umbridge isn't nearly worth Luna's safety. He wants to speak up, but he knows quite well that Umbridge would shush him in the most condescending manner. It's not going to do any good.

"Do you, or do you not meet up with Miss Granger several times a week?"

Luna nods, "She helps me with my potion assignments, the wrackspurts really like her."

Umbridge visibly collects herself, "Does she ever speak of conducting illegal activities in violation of decree fifty one and twenty eight?"

Filius gives in and lets out an audible sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Umbridge's eyes turn to him for one second, before going back to Luna, expression cold and rigid.

"I don't count the decrees," Luna answers, seemingly unaware of what's happening around her. Filius doesn't know whether it's a blessing or a curse.

"Forming student clubs of any nature and harbouring volatile ideals?"

"No," she answers simply.

She'd probably do the same if anyone asks her whether it's raining. The tone and nonchalance and simplicity and all.

Is it raining? No.

Umbridge takes a deep breath, "Have you ever thought about illegally distributing study materials?"

"I don't bring my father's journals to school, if that's what you mean, Professor Umbridge. Has a pixie bitten your nose lately?"


"Illegal distribution?" Ginny Wealsey raises her brows, and Minerva wonders who she learnt that expression from.

"Ma'am I barely study my own textbooks, this is ridiculous," she says.

"Answer the question, Miss Weasley," Umbridge has been growing steadily more and more annoyed, which doesn't bode well. Minerva dreads the moment the woman drops all pretence and just starts tormenting the children.

She is stupid, sure, but she is also dangerous. Minerva stares at her student, her eyes narrowed.

Ginny catches her gaze and her shoulders slump.

They're all too stubborn.

"Do I think the textbooks this year are shit? Sure, but do I go through the trouble of getting illegal textbooks? Merlin, no," Ginny laughs. The girl is a lot more casually dressed than her brother, which is who she'd have expected this behaviour from. She's not even wearing her cloak, nor the tie.

For a moment, Minerva had been sure that Umbridge was going to curse the girl to next week, her own hand had tightened around her wand.

But she'd then just proceeded with the questioning.

"Your language-" she starts wearily, but Ginny interrupts.

"Sorry Professor McGonagall, but this is just ridiculous," Ginny shakes her head, nose wrinkling in distaste.

Umbridge purses her lips for a moment, before going on, "Do you have any information regarding your brother's nightly activities?"

Again with the eyebrows. Minerva almost lets herself smile. "Nightly activities? As if my brother could-" she coughs, "I mean, not really. We live separate lives, you know."

"And are you in any way aware of the false allegations regarding the ministry and Harry Potter being passed around amongst the students?"

"I'm not much of a gossip," Ginny shrugs. Umbridge glares. Minerva's fingers clench.

"Does Hermione Granger ever speak of conducting illegal activities in violation of decree fifty one and twenty eight?"


Hermione makes an incredulous sound, "Me and student clubs? I'm afraid not, headmistress, my plate is quite full at the moment."

Dolores quietly seethes, breezing through her parchments with the slightest bit of frustration. It's obvious that Hermione's words do not match those on her reports.

And it's not as if she can prove it otherwise. Hermione knows that. And Minerva could not honestly be more proud.

The girl knew how to play the game. They would make exceptionally good criminals, and that is a thought Minerva never thought she'd be proud of having.

"You are already tutoring Mister Weasley and Miss Lovegood," Umbridge grits out, all semblances of niceties gone from her face, "Are you aware that any gathering of three holding the same discussion alludes to a violation in decree seventy five?"

Minerva pauses her train of thoughts to pinpoint the damned decree but the girl perks up in her seat, "Provoking and disturbance of general rest?" She smiles, innocently.

Minerva wonders at how the girl remembers all these decrees. She knows for a fact that Umbridge herself doesn't. She's reading them off of a sheet of parchment.

"I assure you, Headmistress, I only tutor my friends as a learning tool for myself."

Every word is spoken without deliberation, but each harbouring equivocation. Umbridge can't prove a single lie, because there isn't one.

Minerva is going to have some words with her student later on. Whether to praise or warn her… she has no idea.

She's a good actress, Minerva has to give her that. Fit and suited for a politician. She's sure the girl would've done quite well in Slytherin too, not just Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.

"Are you in any way in touch with Albus Dumbledore?"


Ron's arms cross, "If I were in touch with Albus Dumbledore I wouldn't be here," his eyes narrow, "I can tell you that."

Umbridge's eye twitches and the hatred between the duo seems almost tantamount to the other. But Minerva can still see the amount of restraint Ron is putting down upon himself so as to not jump over the table and throttle the woman.

"Careful Mister Weasley or a detention-"

Minerva cuts in, "He is just confused, Dolores. This was not supposed to be a rigorous interrogation."

Dolores looks at her, "Well, itineraries change," her head snaps to Ron's, "You mind your tongue, Weasley, we do not want a repeat of last time."

"Oh we don't," Ron smiles. Daring her to follow through with the threat.


Ginny chuckles, "It's not that my brother doesn't have the brains, he just isn't interested in leading any gatherings to save a life. He's awful at speaking."

"And how would you describe his relationship with Miss Granger?"

Ginny whistles, sinking further down in her seat.


Luna shyly smiles, "The mimo's at dinner told me they're dating, but then again, the kissing could have been Ron giving in to the pixie moths," she points at the ceiling, "They hide in the ceiling, you see."

"Quite well. Alright then Miss Lovegood, you are excused. Do not step out of line again."

"Oh no, I follow the silver ones in the corridor quite diligently."

Filius snorts.


The leather grip of the books calms her senses. Hermione shoves it in the slot one after the other.

Her face is fixed in a scowl, one prominent enough that even Madam Pince didn't want to mess with her. She steered clear away once Hermione stomped in, her book bag heavily sagging on her shoulder.

Bitch. That toad-faced, moronic, Death Eater scum, bitch.

How dare she? Hermione's nails clench on the covering of another book. How dare she use Harry's disappearance for her own gain? Just to question them. Just to see if she could slander their name in the name of one fucking decree or another.

And Hermione just sat there, facing his best friend's kidnapper, keeping a straight face, as she answered the questions that should've been addressed to her interrogator.

The book slides on the wooden shelf and Hermione closes her eyes, slowly breathing and exhaling through her nose. She will bide her time, both she and Ron. They will have their revenge.

Revenge was not a priority now. Their class was. They've already been dealing with enough shit from the Inquisitorial Squad.

Just as she wants to open her eyes and resume the task, there's a feathery touch on her shoulder. Hermione drops the book in her hand, whirls and catches the assailant's wrist, her wand already pointed at their face.

"Yikes, you're fast," the person chuckles nervously, they're dressed in school uniforms, they have a Hufflepuff tie and crest, but Hermione clearly can't distinguish their face.

"And you are?"

The person giggles and writhes as Hermione's hold on their wrist intensifies. Suddenly, the face starts morphing, the nose upturned and the face more feminine.

Tonks blinks up at her, "Me. It's me!" She whispers and Hermione lets go of her wrist.

Tonks rubs it with a scowl, "You are way too strong."

"What are you doing here?" Hermione looks around them, and is relieved to find them relatively alone. If a single soul catches them here, right after that damned interrogation, they will be expelled for good.

"Sirius sent me," She sheepishly hangs her head. Hermione feels irritation piling up in her chest. She sighs and pinches the tip of her nose.

"Why? He couldn't have waited for-"

Tonks makes a sound,"No, listen. You guys need to come over tonight."

Hermione huffs, "Umbridge is-"

And then Tonks opens her mouth and talks and Hermione's head is dunked underwater, "They found him."

God.

She staggers back, slamming into the bookshelves behind them as she holds onto a chair for support.

Tonks' hands thrust out and steady her but Hermione can't even feel it over the sound of her heartbeat.

They found him. They... Hermione breathes.

"They…" she croaks out.

"They have," Tonks smiles and Hermione makes a tiny sound. It could be a sob, a whimper. She doesn't even know.

She is almost sure this is a dream. It has to be.

"-And they're bringing him back. Get Ron, and get your ass to the headquarters tonight, not a moment sooner than eight."

Hermione breaks out of her hold, stumbling, running, grabbing onto air as she surges out of the library.

Ron. She needs to tell Ron.


John drops this morning's Daily Prophet right over Rogers hand, making him drop his quill and spill ink everywhere. John stands impassive as his boss swears and hastily does damage control.

John couldn't care less about the ruined articles. It's clear they're all a load of dragon dung.

Rogers looks at him, a scowl set on his face, "What's the meaning of this, John?"

"Edgar," John says, struggling to keep his voice even, "This has got to be a prank."

Rogers gives him an unimpressed look and lowers his wand, "As polite as ever."

John thrusts his finger down on today's copy of the daily prophet laying on the man's desk already, "Where is it?"

Rogers sighs and leans back against his leather chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses, "You know where. In the gutter, Wallwind."

John fumes, purses his lips and then looks around the man's office, focusing on the towering stack of old newspapers in the corner. Some of them are yellowed and fraying at the edges. He never understood why Edgar keeps them.

He takes a deep breath, "You assigned it to me. Then you drew it back for nothing? This is bullshit." He spent time, effort and research on that article. People need to know what's happening, just how serious the war is. That is the whole point of free press. This is the whole reason he wanted to become a journalist.

"I assigned you an uplifting article, instead you handed in fear-mongering propaganda."

John can't believe his ears, "I wrote the truth! What is up with you?"

John likes Rogers, unlike several other reporters. He likes Rogers, he's always liked and respected him. The wizard cares about the truth, or at least John thought he did. Rogers is the furthest thing from a coward. Fear mongering? What had gotten into him?

"We can't print that shit in the paper," Edgar says, leaning forward, staring intensely at John. "Do you want people to have a heart attack on their dining tables? Because you're not the one worrying about lawsuits."

"Lawsuits?" John laughs, "We're at war! People know that, Rogers. For Merlin's sake. I didn't overplay the details."

He actually thinks he might have downplayed them. He's seen worse things. So much worse. And this is just the beginning. People need to wake up, they can't just hide their heads in the sand and pretend the war isn't happening. Because it is, and it'll be on their doorsteps, sooner or later. Better afraid but alert, than ignorant and vulnerable.

"No, you just went into great detail about the dismemberment of seven muggles."

"Someone had to," John crosses his arms. It'd have been horrifying without the details if it had been wizards. But people don't care about muggles. And if John has to make a few people sick to make them care, he will. Because things escalate, and right now it's muggles, next it would be them.

"No. You need to do what you've been assigned to do."

"You keep ditching them! My piece on Potter and Dumbledore? In flames, the one about the Aurors' progress regarding Potter and Dumbledore? I don't even think you read it."

"I did," Rogers says quietly. The man looks worn out, dark circles under his eyes, thinner than before. John purses his lips, everyone in the Ministry has been looking ragged recently.

"But it never saw the light of the day," he says, lips twisting.

"Listen to me, John," Rogers leans even closer to him, his voice dropping into a low whisper, "You and I have been colleagues for years, journalistic integrity isn't exactly rampant here with Skeeter's tabloids."

"But?"

"But I care about my employees, and I care about the truth. They're watching us, John. They're watching you. If Scrimgeour tells people that the ministry is scoured… you don't have to be the brightest not to believe the man."

John narrows his eyes, even as his heart thumps at such an unsubtle remark. Of course, he doesn't believe Scrimgeour, of course, no one with half a brain believes him. But Scrimgeour is also firing people left and right.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No." Edgar shakes his head, "I am giving you advice. I've lived twice as long as you have. I have reported for just as long. If you want to survive this war, you stick to the guidelines. You say what is needed. Never the whole truth. People can't handle the truth."

They should, John thinks. It's up to the people whether they can handle it or not, they can't just control the information people have a right to know. They need to make up for the months of articles based on lies, they need to correct their mistakes.

"I can't work like this, Rogers. I can't lie," John sighs, the fight draining out of him. He doesn't have any control here. He doesn't think Rogers does either.

"You better learn, boy. If not for your own sake, then for your wife and unborn child. Now get the hell out of my office."

John sighs again, takes the ink-stained Daily Prophet in one hand, and turns to leave.


3:48 am, 1st December 1979

It had been two days since Regulus' last letter came, and Morris had spent those days with a ghost.

Not one of those blasted, shimmering things. But a not-there ghost. The ghost of a presence he can feel slipping away from him. Which has been slipping away since the moment they met, really. A deadline to their time together, a clock counting down.

It had always been there, they'd just been too naive to see it.

Its presence had gotten more and more looming as the war progressed.

It was all going to come to a head soon, he knew. He was just waiting to see what form this heartbreak takes. It had been two days, and he should've seen Regulus already.

He was startled out of his morbid musings when a loud crack rendered through the air. His wand slipped into his hand, and he was on his feet in an instant. Eyes darting wildly around the room. Then he spotted a house-elf- Kreacher- standing a few feet away from him.

The elf looked a complete and utter mess. Filthy, wet, with something, clutched in his hands, knuckles blanched white. Large tears dripped down his eyes. Tremors wracked his frame.

Morris didn't care. Or more importantly, he didn't care about the elf more than what his presence signified.

"Kreacher? Kreacher, where is he?"

"Master-Master said to-Bitter blood," Kreacher hiccuped, collapsing onto his knees.

Morris stepped forward, voice sharpening, "Where is he? Where is Regulus?"

"Gone!" he shrieks, "Dead! The inferi took my master. He took my master!"

Morris freezes. Goes utterly still. The countdown has stopped. No ominous, looming ticking.

"No," he breathes, "No, please. Where is he? He said he'll come back, look at me!"

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to run," the elf whispers, half muffled into the carpet he's sobbing into.

"No. Please! No, just tell me the truth!"

Kreacher looks up and snarls at him, "He told Kreacher to find young master Morris-"

"No." Finally, his legs unstick from the floor. He stumbles back a step, "I have to go find him, you need to take me to him, Kreacher, please!" He rushes forward, grabbing at the elf.

Kreacher shakes his head wildly, "Master told Kreacher to keep master Morris safe. He told Kreacher to give him the package."

Morris pauses, heart beating wildly in his chest. He can barely hear Kreecher over the ringing in his ears. "What package?"

"The cursed, wretched thing! Master drank the poison. Master drowned. Master told Kreacher to not give this wretched thing to anyone else."

He thrusts the brown wrapped package into his hands, a clumsily wrapped thing, wrinkled and barely as big as an orange.

He knows what's in there the moment his fingers touch it. The thing reeks of magic. Reeks of dark magic.

He hurls it at the nearest wall.

"What use is this fucking thing to me. He's dead! He's dead. Dead." Dead dead dead dead.

Morris falls to his knees, putting his hands on Kreacher's shoulders and shaking him a little, "Please, Kreacher, Tell me… Is he really…"

"Kreacher is sorry young master. Kreacher is," Kreacher says.

"Merlin," Morris whispers. He'd always known it couldn't end well, the path they'd all been on. The path Regulus had chosen.

But for all his trepidation and predictions and knowledge, he'd never thought…. He'd never prepared for that eventuality. Never thought what it would actually feel like.

"Master Morris has to destroy it! He has told Kreacher…"

"No… Kreacher, leave." Morris says numbly. His heart isn't pounding anymore, but the ringing noise in his ears persists.

"Master Morris…"

"Leave me to die!" Morris snarls, "What point is in this fucking life? He's dead."

"Master…"

"Leave me to die," he spits, stands up, and leaves the room. The horcrux lying abandoned on his faded carpet, a dent on the wall where he'd thrown it.

It's been two days since the last letter, and he should've seen Regulus already.

Except he didn't. And he never would.


A/N: We hope you guys enjoyed that! feel free to drop a review!