A/N: Me: We definitely won't have another chapter until December. You've written 7 in like a month!
Also me: Whoomp! There it is!

The Burrow Lego set was quite fun. I'll tackle the Chamber of Secrets next. Thanks for the heads-up on the basilisk's head!

And once again, thank you all for the (kind) reviews, the favorites, and the follows! You are appreciated.


A frigid wind whips my hair against my cheeks as my boots sink into the sand. Before me is a makeshift headstone compiled from scraps of driftwood and sedimentary rock, its dull surface shadowed in the pale indigo light of the dawning sun.

Tonks rests her weight on Remus as our party huddles into a tight-knit circle to guard against the chill. Remus wraps his arms protectively around his wife's middle, propping his chin atop her head. Mr Crawford tightens his cloak and nods in greeting, sipping from a steaming mug of coffee while Seamus yawns, eyeing the older man's brew with a longing look.

The healer's stubble has grown into the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper beard, the tired droop in his eyes somewhat restored this morning.

He was at my bedside around the clock monitoring my neurological progress while I was unconscious. The Cruciatus Curse was so rare until recently that there is little research on survivors' outcomes. In a twist of fate, my situation is now similar to that of a laboratory rat—probed and studied while the healer documents his findings in a journal that will no doubt be published when such an outlet is relevant again.

The entire thing is unsettling.

However, I appreciate Mr Crawford's transparent delivery. He is a bit blunter at times than I am prepared to endure, but he answers my endless questions with the patience of someone who is selflessly called to this profession.

For that, I am grateful.

According to what is known about survivors, headaches are not a favourable sign. However, they are also not entirely unexpected given the extensiveness of the lesions. His hope is that my body will continue to heal itself now that the curse is removed, though there is already evidence of profound scarring in my occipital and temporal lobes and what damage is done is likely permanent.

Mr Crawford was also clear that he could not predict if I would further hallucinate. I am not to use any battle or neural magic or operate any vehicles (including brooms, which are never an issue) for the next thirty days while we monitor how my body responds to treatment.

Every twelve hours, I swallow a potion that tastes like dirt.

He asks a series of questions that rank my functional capacity and decision-making skills.

I write down my feelings. He's concerned about extremes, be it manic elation or apathy, which I've yet to experience. For the most part, my documentation is benign. Although, I am to watch for anything that seems bizarre or out of the ordinary.

All in all, the tediousness is a small price to pay for sanity.

My hope is that I'll be back on the Horcrux hunt in April. Harry and Ron are cautiously optimistic about that timeline, though all of us are leery of taking an entire month off from research. Everything we've compiled is still in Pekin's Tent, glamoured and hidden deep in the woods, along with all my belongings and Harry's invisibility cloak. The glamour will need to be retouched before the tent becomes a sitting duck.

Thirty days at headquarters is the longest we can manage.

On that—we are in agreement.

However, there are other areas where our trio is not exactly seeing eye to eye, though I can scarcely ruminate on them now.

When this funeral is over, Mr Crawford's car will take our ragtag group from Crail to London. It's a nice car, at that. A brand-new people carrier, spacious and practical from what I glimpsed last night as Harry and Ron showed me where it was hidden further up the beach.

I can only imagine how the pure-blooded wizards among us fared during the initial journey.

Seamus stretches his arms above his head with a drawn-out yawn while he waits. When he's all loose and limber, he ducks towards Harry's ear, whispering above the wind and waves.

"She knows the rat is not actually buried there, right?"

Harry elbows his gut.

"Quiet."

Ron glares at Seamus and squeezes my hand.

"Whenever you're ready," he says, pretending for my sake that this is a normal request.

On Ron's left stands Draco, shivering and rubbing his palms together as his warming spell fails to protect him sufficiently from the elements. Without a conduit, his strength is dampened. However, to Draco's credit, not once did he baulk when I asked for his attendance at the rat's funeral this morning, even though a sparse dusting of snow blanketed the beach overnight. Instead, Draco simply inquired what one should wear for such an occasion, assuming that muggle culture demanded formal attire, which he didn't have and couldn't transfigure without ample time.

Maybe it is an inkling of pity that makes me do it—a twinge of my softened heart—or the realisation that our friendship extends beyond the confines of the cottage's walls, but I tap my borrowed wand in Draco's direction to heat his body before clearing my throat.

It is only fair, after all, considering this polished hawthorn wood belongs to him. While it is no replacement for my dragon heartstring core, the unicorn-hair pairs nicely with my magic. Already, its smooth surface is a familiar weight in my palm, so different from the textured etchings of my old vinewood wand.

"I'd like to recite a few words," I say, gripping the handle tighter, "about the enormous sacrifice of the little rat who endured on behalf of the Order."

Seamus sputters and coughs into his fist, stifling his laughter as he chokes on saliva, his cheeks turning beet-red as I glare from across the circle. All eyes are on me, on what I will say next, on what I will do, and the attention has me fumbling for the appropriate words, struggling to remain on task as the waves crash onto the shore, again, and again, and again….

I wince as my temple throbs.

"Um... As I was saying… Um…."

Harry nods in encouragement, squinting against the brightening sunlight. Ron brushes his thumb down my wrist, his touch firm.

I push the past the pain.

"Ahem. As I was saying Yes. If you know the words, then please join me in reciting the Lord's Prayer as a token of our appreciation."

This funeral is ridiculous.

I know it's ridiculous.

But it's the absolute least I can do, aside from cherishing every moment and making this second chance count.

Mr Crawford is the only one to join me in worship, his deep voice drowning mine, though Harry and Seamus mumble a few prolific phrases now and then about 'delivering us from evil' and 'the glory forever', spoken out of turn. After we say a disjointed 'amen', I thank them all sincerely and crouch at the headstone, drawing the runic symbol of gratitude with my wand. When the edges are connected, I sketch the symbol for peace. They alight with a soft flame before scorching their mark on the Earth. "Thank you," I murmur, just for the rat, fingers grazing the stone as sorrow fills my chest. "I will never forget."

When I stand after wiping my eyes, Tonks envelopes me in a hug so tight that it squeezes the air from my lungs.

"You're a good egg," she says, kissing my cheek fondly as the others disperse. "Now, let's get home."

The car isn't quite as spacious as I thought now that we are loading inside it. There are only three rows: two seats in the front for the driver and the passenger, occupied by Mr Crawford and Tonks—three seats in the middle which are taken by Remus, Draco, and Seamus, respectively, and three cramped seats in the back that are filled with the remainder of our party.

Harry's head lolls onto my shoulder while Ron's gangly elbow digs into my waist.

"Sorry," Ron grunts, bouncing along with the rest of us as we hit another bump. The top of his noggin almost knocks against the ceiling since he's forgotten to buckle his seatbelt for the umpteenth time after stopping for one of Tonks's breaks.

He is lucky I am here to remind him of safety, to keep him from becoming a freckled projectile missile, and he flashes me an abashed smile as I latch his buckle with a loud click.

"Safety first," sings Seamus from the middle row, waggling his eyebrows at Ron.

"Stuff off," says Ron, blushing, as Remus also turns. The older man smiles at us while his wife fiddles with the radio controls up front.

Dark shadows line Remus's eyes like usual, the moon's cycle taking its toll on his body, though his weariness hasn't prevented him from trying to mend all the awkward history among his companions.

"The muggle inventors were really onto something with these 'cars', weren't they?" says the older man, attempting another go at drawing us all into a conversation. "They're quite convenient, considering. Wouldn't you agree, Draco?"

Draco stiffens at being addressed, then grunts as we hit another pothole.

"Bit rough though, aren't they?" says Draco. "Someone should equip them with a better cushion."

Mr Crawford laughs and turns on the windscreen wipers. The snow that dusted Scotland has thinned into a mist the farther South we've driven, a faint drizzle blurring the landscape.

"Was that a complaint about my car?" says Mr Crawford, a good-natured smile evident on his face through the rear-view mirror. "I'll have you know that it's top-of-the-range."

"Which means what, exactly?" deadpans Draco. "That it's the least bouncy of all the models?"

"Bounciness isn't a qualification—"

"Exactly. Have you sat back here? Finnigan, tell him."

"It's like a trampoline, sir."

Harry chuckles as Mr Crawford defends his car and lists all its luxuries. There are a fantastic number of features, to be certain, and we hear about them in extensive detail until almost every passenger is nodding off to sleep.

"Critics. All of you are critics," scoffs the older man. Our eyes catch in the rear-view mirror, and he nods at me before returning his attention to the motorway.

I wouldn't say that Mr Crawford and I are friends, per se, since we've only just met, but I have spent enough time with him over the past 36 hours to form an opinion, and I find him to be of excellent stock.

"Perhaps we should charm all the naysayers to the seats?" I say in his defence, stifling my grin as Draco turns his head and glares. "Might be a good idea. We could also extend the proposal to those who keep forgetting to buckle themselves."

I flash Ron a pointed look.

Draco's eyes dart to where Harry is using my shoulder as a pillow, then dip to where Ron is tracing patterns on my palm. All of our knees are touching, too, which Draco doesn't seem to care for one bit.

His lips curl into a sneer as he stares right at Ron.

"Did I mention that this car is also cramped?"

Ron's eyes narrow, his hand moving protectively over my thigh as Draco's expression flickers, that emotionless mask snapping into place.

"It could do with an expansion charm," says Draco at last, facing forwards. "Or ten. For the back row in particular.

Mr Crawford chuckles while Tonks turns up the radio, drowning out further commentary with classic rock music. After twenty minutes, Draco can no longer stand the noise.

"Is every song about sex, drugs, or a tragedy of some sort?" he shouts, pure horror written all over his face.

"You get used to it," yells Remus, tapping for his wife to lower the volume.

"Oi!" shouts Seamus, protesting as Tonks fidgets with the controls during the middle of a Led Zeppelin guitar solo. "Come on, now. That was the best part!"

"Sorry!" says a sheepish Tonks. "I don't know how to change it back."

Seamus braces his palms on both front seats and leans over the console.

"Gah. Twist the knob counterclockwise until the music of the Gods plays. And quick!"

"Very helpful," mutters Tonks, dialling the knob too far to the left. Static fills the car, followed by the low, professional voices of talk-radio hosts. Her fingers pause as the commentator says the phrase 'fires in Edinburgh.'

"Shh! What was that?" says Harry, snapping to attention, straining to hear over Seamus's complaining. "Are they talking about the attacks?"

Tonks adjusts the volume to a reasonable level as tension fills the car.

"... More than a dozen people were injured while four more were killed in Monday's attack at Waverly Railway Station. Officials report that several culprits are believed to be involved in the arson that crippled civilian travel and the transportation of medical and agricultural wares. The culprits' affiliation is unknown at this time. Police Scotland has increased surveillance and opened a helpline for twenty-four-hour reporting. A city-wide curfew is in effect until further notice, and all citizens are urged to avoid the disaster area and its neighbouring streets. If you have any information relating to these attacks, please contact—"

Mr Crawford turns off the radio, his voice solemn.

"I think that's enough for now."