Disclaimer: Anything recognisable (and there'll probably be a bit of that in this chapter) belongs to either OotP or HBP and their author, without whose inspiration I wouldn't even be here writing said disclaimer.

Updated: Friday 16 June 2006

Chapter Twenty: Flying Suspicions

When she awoke the next morning, in a makeshift bed of floor cushions in the centre of her Keep (the room being entirely too cluttered to fit a traditional four-poster), Estella was surprised to find several jars of methodically sorted and stored Potions Ingredients. Recognising the samples as the very same clippings she had been painstakingly collecting during her ill-fated detour in the forest overnight, she felt decidedly sheepish. Her memories of what had happened in the moments after the man had lunged at Fawkes were scrambled with the tell-tale signs of shock and fatigue. She vaguely remembered shrieking in terror as the bird had lifted her by his talons and flown her across the forest, reawakening her fear of flying; her half-blinded pursuer having been repelled from the great bird by an unseen force. How she then got from the school grounds to the secret room in the heart of the castle, Estella could only guess, but if the neat emerald ink on the labels adorning the jars was anything to go by, the headmaster was well informed.

Deciding, then, that thanking Dumbledore for the recovered ingredients would be a good cover for seeing the man before breakfast, she threw on a fresh set of robes and used the Keep's fireplace to Floo directly to the man's office.

Tumbling out onto the hearth, Estella rose and dusted herself off to the sight of Dumbledore seated in an armchair, still wearing his night-robes, with his socked feet elevated on a cushioned foot stool. Staring incredulously at the pair of odd socks, Estella was further astonished to see evidence of a toe sticking through the seams. She gave the man a look of disbelief.

"Okay, okay, I'll get you some socks next Christmas, I swear!" she said, throwing her arms up in defeat and depositing herself in a neighbouring chair. Turning serious, she levelled her eyes at the man knowingly and frowned. "That is, of course, if you live that long!"

"Ah, I had a feeling you would be coming to speak to me about that before long," said Albus, reaching into his robes and pulling out a bag of lemon drops. "Lemon drop?"

Slightly amazed, but not at all surprised, by the implication that the old man took a bag of the sweets to bed with him, Estella declined politely and returned their attentions to the matters at hand.

"Six to eighteen months, headmaster?" she said quietly, aghast at the revelation that the man before her was on borrowed time.

"Yes, rather good innings, in all, wouldn't you say?" the headmaster said conversationally, cheerily popping a Lemon Drop into his mouth.

Estella's mouth went askew.

"You're not at all disturbed by the fact that the ink is drying on your death warrant?" said Estella, astonished.

"Death is but the next adventure," said Dumbledore, equally nonplussed. Seeing that his nonchalance was not having an effect on the child, he levelled his eyes at her. "I assure you, child, that my only inconvenience is ensuring that those of you left behind to fight this war are well equipped to do so."

"Does this have anything to do with why you asked me to call you Albus earlier in the term?" said Estella suddenly.

The headmaster nodded sadly. "I have every faith that you will grow into a remarkable witch, Estella Black, and a formidable, if not brilliant strategist," the headmaster smiled at the effect his praise was having on the bewildered child. "Was it too much for an old man to be on equal terms with that potential, just once?"

"You have been trying to fit in another life's worth of living, haven't you, sir?" said Estella in understanding. "By encouraging informalities with students you respect you have been envisioning the time when we are graduated and free to address you accordingly…" – at the headmaster's silent nod, Estella sighed – "…I'm sorry, but I just can't do that. It would be too weird. You could be wrong about me, after all – I might turn out to be a lot different."

Disregarding the girl's self-effacing lack of faith in her potential, Albus Dumbledore steered the conversation towards the more pressing areas that needed addressing.

"You understand that you cannot tell anyone about… about my life expectancy," he said, almost apologetically.

Taking a moment to think on the gravity of the situation, Estella nodded sombrely.

"Do you… do you know how it will happen, sir?" she asked awkwardly. The elder wizard shook his head, and Estella let out a breath she didn't realised she'd been holding.

"Nor do I know, precisely, when," elaborated Dumbledore, giving his young audience a sympathetic look, for he knew that Estella, as Fawkes' intended Familiar, faced the same fate one day. As if by an afterthought, he smiled encouragingly and continued; "it is entirely unusual for a wizard to witness the moment in which their replacement is chosen."

"I couldn't possibly replace you, sir," said Estella, blushing.

"Perhaps that was a poor choice of wording," said Dumbledore in understanding. "Though as far as Fawkes is concerned…"

"Sir, what does it all mean?" she blurted suddenly, the shock of her near-attack wearing off and removing the thin veneer of cotton wool in her mind that had been keeping the flood of questions at bay.

"In an everyday sense," said Dumbledore, pausing thoughtfully; "absolutely nothing." He continued to explain; "just so long as the phenomenon remains a myth, and you do not cross paths with another Phoenix and his keeper, I suspect that it will hold little to no bearing on your life… except for the fact that you will find yourself with a little winged friend."

"Sir, you say I should avoid other… other people like us as though they would pose a threat. I thought that the proximity of such wizards would only be a problem if an evil git like Voldemort was aware of the pieces of the puzzle we all hold and -"

Here, Dumbledore cut her off, his hand raised.

"While that is a true threat, it is the most improbable," said Dumbledore, going on to explain how even if all the Phoenixes and their Familiars got together, none of them could possibly know the process in which to invoke the 'Knowledge of the Ages'. "No," he explained, "you will be under more threat from those which have been corrupted by power. While a Phoenix is most drawn to those who are pure of heart, often choosing his Familiar while they are still young, the course of years can both change perspectives and alter the course of the best intentions. I myself was not always this way, you know…"

"And what way would that be, headmaster?" said Estella curiously. The old man said nothing, an aged weariness settling itself on his features as he lost himself in thought. It suddenly occurred to Estella how decades of expectations, war and losses could shape a person and isolate them from, perhaps, the most important things. Nodding in understanding, she leant back in her chair and waited for the headmaster to speak of his own volition.

"I must confess, that I had almost expected it to be Harry," said the headmaster distractedly.

"Right," nodded Estella, "the whole assistance thing in the Chamber of Secrets…"

"Yes," the headmaster confirmed, his eyes seeking her out, and then maintaining their contact; "but then the events of the Third Task unravelled, and Fawkes healed you… and I suspected from that point on, that it was only a matter of time."

"That explains a lot," said Estella quietly, casting her mind back to how the headmaster's behaviour towards her had began to change since the Third Task. "So what now?"

"Now," said Dumbledore, nodding towards the clock; "I do believe it is time for your uncle to be waking to his breakfast."

Eyes widening in alarm, Estella apologised profusely and excused herself hurriedly, intending to rush back into the Keep to find her uncle's gift and better present herself to surprise him in his office. As she waited for the flames in the fireplace to flicker into the unique shade of blue that interconnected the secret room with select fireplaces around the school, she turned back.

"Professor… I know you know what happened last night," she said quietly. "Could you tell me… are other werewolves like that outside the full moon?"

"That man was an exception to the rule," said Dumbledore carefully. "As I am sure you can understand, a werewolf is equally defined by his human counterpart. Fenrir Greyback, as I have good reason to believe him to be, was predisposed for violence before he was ever attacked-"

"Wait, that was Fenrir Greyback?" said Estella in shock, knowing the name of her godfather's attacker only too well. A boiling surge of anger coursed through her as she cursed the lost opportunity to avenge her godfather's years of pain. The thought of her godfather reminding her, then, of something the crazed man had said, another question left her lips; "would that be why he said that he could smell a wolf in my scent? He seemed to think I was a werewolf, and was rather surprised when he could detect otherwise…"

The headmaster looked at Estella carefully and stroked his beard. "This is a surprising, and yet not altogether unexpected development," he said thoughtfully; "I do not wish to get into specifics when you are so pressed for time, but I will say that it is highly fortunate that you have always maintained such a close bond with your godfather-"

"-Why?" said Estella, tilting her head to one side as she considered the thought. Remembering then, a certain incident in the past in which her father and James had used her Time Turner to change the events of a fateful full moon in their fifth year, she shivered.

"Some things cannot quite be undone, can they?" she said, looking the headmaster square in the face. "I… I mean this is why people didn't habitually use Time Turner to undo their children getting bit, isn't it? I mean Dad and James managed to stop me contracting the Lycanthropy and physical scars of being bitten, but part of me really did, irreversibly become Moony's cub that night, didn't it?"

"You have always been close, there was no way of confirming it," said Dumbledore; "but I had duly suspected it."

Suddenly, the sense of closeness she had felt towards her godfather since her return from the past was suddenly beginning to make sense. An untrained eye would just pass it off as two family members being extra-sensitive towards one another after an extended absence, but now she knew differently. Now, her ability to almost sense her godfather's presence, and the depth with which she missed him when they were apart, was cast into a much more meaningful light. She then realised that it was a very fortunate thing that people were not given the opportunity to use a Time Turner to prevent a werewolf attack when the attacking wolf is not naturally close to the family. Beginning to appreciate, then, how things could have turned out otherwise, Estella considered herself fortunate for two reasons: one, that while she had been bitten by someone she loved and trusted, she had no memory of the event and no affliction because of it, and two, she was now, virtually, as much Remus' as she was her father's.

"Does he know?" she asked, not needing to elaborate whom she was referring to.

"No," Dumbledore shook his head. "At least I have not shared my suspicions with him… he may have acknowledged the bond without understanding quite how it really came about, however… much like, I suspect, you have all this time."

Making her decision, Estella squared her shoulders determinedly. "I don't want him to know," she said clearly; "so long as he thinks that we're like this because he practically raised me, he won't feel any guilt. If he learns that part of our bond was 'manufactured' by certain events, then I just know he will try to discredit them, just to punish himself."

"I understand," said Dumbledore, inwardly proud of the girl's thoughtfulness. Telling her as such, he patted her shoulder and tossed some Floo Powder into the fireplace. He was halfway through bidding her good day one final time when the increasingly distracted girl cut him off.

"Are you scared?" she asked solemnly, looking the headmaster in the eye and noticing, straight away, that his twinkle had been extinguished.

"Not for me, child," he said heavily, in a rare moment of unguardedness. "Not for me."

And with that, Estella stepped into the fireplace, and was gone.


It was the first day of term. Estella had just fallen asleep for the night when the shrill call of the Phoenix summoned her from her dreams. Unlike the last time Fawkes had come to beckon her to the headmaster's office before the holidays, this time the bird latched onto her sleeve and, as soon as she showed signs of being awake, orbed them directly into the living room of Grimmauld Place.

Still entangled in her blankets, Estella rolled to the floor in shock when she found that she was so suddenly sprawled on the lounge of the crowded front room. The sound of her muffled moans as she hit the floor and wrestled free of her bedclothes turning heads, Estella was chagrined to become the subject of the older wizards laughing.

"Nice of you to drop in," said Sirius, hauling his daughter to her feet and wrapping her into a tight embrace.

"What is it? What's happened?" said Estella, her questions going unanswered as she felt her father let go and the familiar arms of her godfather take their place. Looking up at the man now holding her in surprise, she gaped. "M-m-moony, what are you still doing here?"

"Oh, it's nice to see you, too!" said Remus, his hand flying up automatically to cover Estella's mouth as she yawned. Pulling her close once more, he inhaled deeply – as he usually did when reacquainting himself with his godchild – and froze. "What… what's this? Estella…"

Eyes flying open in alarm, Estella pulled out of her godfather's embrace and, taking a step back, tripped over her blankets spectacularly and fell back onto the lounge where, incidentally, Fawkes had just deposited a sleepy Harry. The room broke out into jittery chuckles once more as the teenagers untangled themselves from each other, things still somewhat awkward between them in the wake of the mistletoe incident. Remus' concentrated stare at his goddaughter was dispelled by the clearing of their leader's throat.

"Now we are all here," he said gravely, "I can address the reason for this emergency meeting."

Estella and Harry stood on either side of Sirius, one of his hands firmly squeezing each child's shoulder as the headmaster informed them all of a mass breakout from Azkaban. Keeping Tonks on her other side, Estella was careful to keep her distance from her godfather. That he could detect Greyback's scent on her was unexpected, and she knew she would have to broach the issue eventually, but in the meantime she didn't want to give her godfather the opportunity to start entertaining unfounded thoughts and suspicions.

The assortment of Order Members, all evidently pulled from various stages of sleep, listened intently as the headmaster detailed the circumstances of the prisoner's escape. Pulling a sheet of parchment from his robes and then enlarging it so that it could be seen by all, he suspended the notice in the air and began calling upon his audience to offer specific courses of action.

"This," he explained, pointing to the display, "is an advance copy of what the Daily Prophet will be running with in the coming morning's edition. I suggest you read over it and suggest any changes that may need to be made."

Ever since the change in the Ministry's administration, media outlets had been closely monitored when it came to articles pertaining to the Dark Lord's return. While the intent was not to censor crucial information, the former head of Magical Law Enforcement thought it meritorious to maintain a strict balance between keeping the general public informed, whilst leaving them with some sense of security. It would not do to have thousands of panicking witches and wizards too scared to view things objectively… experience from the first war dictated that it was entirely stagnating to make people too vigilant – the number of false alarms from over-zealous families alone had severely drained Auror resources, taking away from the time and effort they could have been deploying their resources towards genuine threats.

"As you can see," the headmaster spoke over the din of muttering that accompanied so many people reading at once, "the Minister has requested that details of Bellatrix Lestrange's escape be revisited in order to remind the general public that she too is still at large…"

Estella could barely make out the headmaster's words as her eyes traversed the page, taking in the sight of the ten black-and-white photographs that filled it. Some of the people in the photographs were silently jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban.

Antonin Dolohov, read the legend beneath a wizard with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at them, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett.

Augustus Rookwood, said the caption beneath a pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning against the edge of his picture, looking bored, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic secrets to He Who Must Not Be Named.

But Estella's eyes – and indeed that of the family around her - were drawn to the picture of the witch. Bellatrix Lestrange's face had leapt out at father and daughter the moment the page had been presented to them. The woman had long, dark hair that looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, and glared up at them through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like her father, Estella noted that her distant cousin had retained vestiges of great good looks, but something – perhaps Azkaban – had taken most of her beauty.

Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Escaped from Azkaban on the 31st October, and suspected to have a hand in this latest escape.

Estella nudged Harry and pointed at the headline over the pictures, which Harry, still concentrating on Bellatrix, had not yet read.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS LESTRANGE IS 'RALLYING POINT'

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

Speaking to reporters in his private office, Rufus Scrimgeour, the former head of the MLE department and newly appointed Minister, confirmed that nine high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals.

"We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same position we were several months ago when the murderess Bellatrix Lestrange escaped," said Scrimgeour last night. "Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Lestrange, as the second person to ever break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in her footsteps. We think it likely that these individuals, who include Lestrange's husband, Rudolphus, have rallied and are been led by the woman to their old master. We are, however, doing all we can to round up the criminals, and we beg the magical community to remain alert and cautious. On no account should any of these individuals be approached."

On the question, then, if any of the escapees were, like Azkaban's first fugitive Sirius Black, innocent, Scrimgeour was reticent.

"The case of Sirius Black was an isolated occurrence," the Minister vowed, drawing light to the unfortunate circumstances that saw the innocent man imprisoned without trial. "The department for Magical Law Enforcement does not make it a habit to incarcerate individuals for crimes they did not commit."

"Well that's good to know," said Sirius dryly, a mixed feeling of vindication in his eyes. Those who knew the wrongly-imprisoned man personally favoured him with a sympathetic look, and Estella returned to her father's side, latching onto him securely. It was then that she realised that her uncle was the only Order member absent.

"In other developments," the headmaster interrupted her thoughts, "Broderick Bode has died…"

"We saw him," Harry whispered in her ear as the headmaster's voice droned on about the details surrounding the man's suspicious death. "The day we all visited Mr Weasley in St Mungo's. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She – the Healer – said it was a Christmas Present. Why didn't anyone recognise the Devil's Snare? I… I've seen it before… we all had… we could've stopped this from happening."

"Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a potted plant?" said Estella sharply, calling the adult's attention to their whispered conversation. "It's not anyone's fault but the person who sent it to the bloke in the first place. Headmaster, do we know if Healer Strout was involved in the plot? It is being treated as a murder, is it not?"

"The circumstances are suspicious," said the headmaster without conviction, "but I am afraid his death has been over-shadowed by the prisoners' escape."

"So his murderer will go free?" Sirius growled, and it was apparent that the man was thinking of how convenient it was for murders to go unchecked when, in his day, innocent people were committed without trial to appease public opinion.

There was a whisper of scuffling as Order members began to shift uncomfortably. Albus Dumbledore sighed and gave Sirius a reproachful look.

"Sirius, surely you can understand why the investigation of Bode's murder is not a high priority at the present time…" the old wizard's voice trailed off as Sirius gave him an annoyed 'of-course-I-do' look. Identifying that Sirius was just taking the opportunity to rant, he carried on with his agenda. "Well, seeing as we're all together, how about we bring the next scheduled meeting forward?"

The meeting that followed was more or less routine, with the exception that both teenagers were present and a majority of Order members were in their pyjamas. The field members of the Order were given instructions on how to approach the escaped convict situation, and certain assignments were adjusted slightly to cater for the new threat. Harry's turn to give his report came and went – the slightly embarrassed teenager quickly informing the group that he had no new news to report – and then before she knew it, it was Estella's turn.

"I had intended to meet with my advisor one more time to iron out any kinks," she said hesitantly, "but I am fairly confident that we have done all we can, and so I can unveil the finished product now if you like."

Several heads nodded in assent, and Estella excused herself to retrieve her project. With Fawkes' assistance, she orbed from Grimmauld Place, directly to her secret Keep, and then, picking up a handful of long, thin cases and throwing on a robe over her pyjamas, returned. Letting, then, a few moments pass so as to suggest to the majority of Order members that she had indeed just travelled up to her room in the house to get her bounty, she waited on the stairs outside the door. Upon re-entering the room, however, she realised her mistake: Mad-Eye Moody had both been able to see her method of transportation and her lingering hesitation to rejoin them, and was regarding her with a strange expression on his face. Fawkes retrieving the teenagers from their beds on Dumbledore's orders was one thing, but Fawkes being seen favouring Estella was something best kept under wraps. Looking to the headmaster for help, she was relieved when the old man was able to silently appease the vigilant ex-Auror's curiosity, and she was able to begin her unveiling without incident.

In all, she could not understand why Dumbledore had placed so much value on her input in this particular project. All Benson Ollerton's actions in the past served to do was possess her with knowledge that several years of expert study could have procured. Any number of skilled broom makers could have taken on the task of customising a model specifically for the Order's needs, and in fact Benson had carried out a lot of the practical spell-work on her behalf. She could not have done it alone, and yet in validating her acceptance into the Order membership, Dumbledore had surely given everyone that impression. Recalling the conversation she'd had with the man over the Christmas holidays, it occurred to her as to why the headmaster was so pliant in fast-tracking her Order initiation and presenting her as a Member of some value. It wasn't that the headmaster had truly deemed her ready, or even the most suited, for the task, but rather he had recognised her potential and wanted to experience her reaching it in his lifetime. The old man had confessed to her that he had duly suspected Harry to be Fawkes' next-in-line, which surely accounted for the man's concessions in the Gryffindor's case. That all was revealed to the headmaster during their initiation ceremony, Estella couldn't help but wonder if Fawkes himself had held some measure of influence over his familiar, ensuring that he was given the opportunity to anoint Estella as his successor. It wasn't after all, as though Fawkes could simply approach Estella unannounced – as amicable her intentions towards the bird in the past may have been, she would have been likely to hex the creature if it had suddenly attempted to get close to her without reason.

With a measure of trepidation and nerves, she sat one of the cases down on the table in front of her and enlarged it. Taking a deep breath, she opened the lid and pulled out the sleek, polished handle of the prototype, placing the broom upon a conjured mount for all to see.

"This, ladies and gentleman," she said, sparing a glance towards her father, Remus and Harry who all looked as though they were about to leap out of their skins in their eagerness to touch the new broom. "… is the Flaming Torpedo." She couldn't help but smirk as scores of accomplished wizards mouthed the unfamiliar word, acquainting themselves with the new name. "There is, of course, a rather colourful tale as to how it got its name, but I'll save that for another day –" she revelled in the mounting curiosity of the Gryffindor-strong crowd, her lips curling at the memory. 'flaming' was a homage not only to Fawkes' most identifiable characteristic, but also a wink and a nod to a word that Benson had favoured whenever flustered. As for 'Torpedo', she was, intentionally, drawing comparisons with the Muggle weapon, both in terms of its speed, stealth and effect against enemies; but with only a handful of Muggleborns and half-bloods present, it was a reference that was lost in translation and Estella had neither the time nor the inclination to explain.

"That is some piece of work!" said Sirius proudly, admiring the sleek, aerodynamic design from afar. "If it flies as well as it looks, it ought to outstrip the Firebolt in standard flight, am I right?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Estella, recalling one of Benson's favourite creeds, which she shared with the group; "a broom is only ever as good as its flier."

Many heads nodded in agreement, and Estella took the initiative to explain some of the Torpedo's more specialised features.

"Using the pulp of a glow worm and infusing it with our wood grain, we were able to develop a fixture that, on command, makes the tip of the broom iridescent," she demonstrated how the tips of the broom would light up like a Muggle headlight, much like an enlarged wizard's wand. "Theoretically, the standard Disillusionment spells ought to conceal the broom's glow in much the same way it would obscure a regular broom from view… though it hasn't been tested."

Around her, heads nodded in understanding. Estella noted with some surprise that several were furiously scribbling down notes.

"Now, thanks to the willing cooperation of our trusted mascot," she said, and sure enough Fawkes chose that moment to appear on Estella's shoulder; "each model has been imbued with latent healing abilities. However, as the Phoenix Tear has been spent on the wood grain and not directly applied, it is limited to only providing the rider with temporary relief – theoretically enough for that person to retreat and seek proper medical attention…"

Estella's presentation was interrupted by the excited murmurs of the Order members, all nodding in fervent approval and awe at how many lives such a feature could save. A few people started to clap, but Estella halted them with a modest hand.

"Please, there's more…" she said feebly, feeling suddenly self-conscious under all the attention. She couldn't help but feel bad for standing up here, seemingly taking credit for what was really a collaborative effort. All right, so she had conducted the research to determine just what a battle broom needed, and she had pioneered the course of the design on paper, but without the magical prowess of a very small, dedicated team of people, her vision would never have been able to become a reality.

"More?" someone gasped from the back, eyes wide. Estella ignored them and continued on down her mental list of attributes.

"On the communication front, riders shall be able to communicate to each other via Morse Code," she said. "It's a Muggle initiative, and I implore for you all to learn. For those of you who are familiar with the technology, it will work accordingly: each broom is designated with a call-sign, in itself ensuring the anonymity of our names for optimum security in the field. To convey a message between one or more brooms, the rider would first code in the call-signs of those which they are trying to communicate with and, by tapping either a finger, hand or wand on the handle of his broom, will cause the recipient's brooms to pulse in time, thus relaying the message."

"But won't that prove a distraction?" someone asked, "having to tap out a message and interpret it?"

"To someone not well-versed in Morse Code, yes," said Estella solemnly. "But I have read of the code's effectiveness during Muggle wars, and I have every confidence that with the right amount of proficiency, it will become as second-nature as talking. I suggest that we rely on our conventional methods of communication until that level is reached."

"Why can't we just talk into the handles of our wands?" another witch asked.

"Because spoken discussion can be overheard, or intercepted, even with your standard stealth Charms," said Estella, her eye landing on Moody's magical eye pointedly. "On the other hand, how many Death Eaters do you know who would be familiar with Muggle forms of communication? Methods, mind you, that are not even readily employed by regular Muggles themselves these days?"

"The girl has a point," said Moody in her defence, nodding to her once in approval. Estella expelled a breath she had been holding and smiled in appreciation.

"What if one of the brooms falls into the wrong hands, and they figure it out?" someone else said, raising a valid point.

"I assure you, that if any broom were to fall into the wrong hands, it would not be there for long," said Estella with a smile. "The anti-theft precautions are cutting-edge, and personally, I find it very apt that this particular model should turn to ash if ever stolen from an Order member."

The few that could catch the implied joke at such a late hour chuckled warmly in appreciation, and Estella felt at ease once more. Turning her attention, then, to the more routine specifications of the broom – handling, speed and the like – she then began to round up her presentation with a request.

"Before I issue each of you with your broom," she said, "I ask of two things. One, a drop of your blood will be required to tie the broom to you – otherwise the anti-theft features will not work. At the headmaster's behest I must insist that the process be carried out in the presence of either myself or a senior member of the Order otherwise you will not receive your broom. Second, I can only stress so much that these brooms are not yet field-tested. While I have been assured that they will never lose their flight capabilities – so do not worry, no one will be falling from the sky – several of the additional features may be prone to fade over time. As such, it will be crucial that you carry out regular pre-flight inspections and report any anomalies as they occur. Of course it cannot be expected that you check your brooms before each flight – for we all know how unexpected some journeys may be – but allotting the time to service your broom once a week could potentially save your life. You each will be given a memory, serving in place of an instruction manual, upon accepting ownership of your broom. It will inform you of how to take care of your broom - particularly which of the accompanying polishes to use and where - as well as impress upon you the call-signs of your fellow fliers and the principles of Morse Code. It is vital that you only use the supplied waxes and polishes in taking care of your broom – commercial brands may compromise the effectiveness of the special features. If you start to run out, you can order more at a meeting here."

Pausing to take a breath, and to see if her audience were taking it all in, she reached into her case and pulled out a crystal vial, full of a translucent, silvery liquid. "Now, each of these memories has been tailored for the individual and tested to ensure that once administered, cannot be extracted, by either force or free-will. I suggest you do not try to see what each other's memory contains." Taking the broom and replacing it, and the vial, in its case, she closed the lid with a silent thud before gesturing to the carrier as a whole. "Your broom and all associated equipment will come in one of these cases. I strongly urge you to, whenever practical, keep everything together. Keeping the broom in its case will minimise the effects that direct shrinkage could have on overall performance, and when in flight, the shrunken case can be attached to the undercarriage of the handle and used to securely store confiscated wands. If there are no further questions, I would now like to take the opportunity to record everybody's height and weight, so that each model can be specifically sized to your needs…"


"That was bloody brilliant!" said Harry after the meeting, excitedly hopping from one foot to the next. Behind him, Estella could only laugh as her father mirrored the Boy-Who-Lived's enthusiasm.

Unable to hold back any longer, she ushered the two over-excited Gryffindors into a side-room and pulled two identical, wand-sized cases from a pocket in her robes.

"I took the liberty of sizing you two up when commissioning the first prototypes," she said with a smile. "I've already sourced your blood and everything."

"Resourceful little imp, aren't you?" said Sirius with a scowl, racking his mind to think of a time when his daughter could have siphoned off some of his blood.

"It's what you get when you grow up the niece of an accomplished Potions Master," said Estella with a shrug, happy to let two of the most trusted people in her life think that she regularly stockpiled samples of blood, hair and nails like a dutiful Potions brewer.

Estella's words fell on deaf ears, however, as the two rapt wizards retrieved their brooms from within their cases and marvelled at them reverently. Her warning to Harry that he especially had to go to lengths to make sure that no one noticed anything special about his broom went especially unheeded until she caught their attention by causing their broom handles to burn hot.

"What the -?" said Sirius, almost dropping his broom in surprise.

"Whoops," said Estella, feigning innocence, "did I forget to mention that? Ah well, it's all in the memory vial."

Having caught the pair's attention, Estella explained to the younger of the two that the Flaming Torpedo was not designed to be a Quidditch broom… or in fact a model that could be flown in front of any form of spectators. Of course, a broom was a broom and he was free to fly how he pleased, but in order to maintain the element of surprise when the Order decided to start using the brooms in coordinated aerial attacks, it was important that no hint of their existence reached the ears of any Death Eaters.

"It's okay," said Harry with a shrug, "it's not like I don't have an International-standard broom for Quidditch already anyway,"

Unusually not wanting to spark a Quidditch debate, Sirius attempted to change the subject by suggesting that the pair head on up to bed. Declining the invitation to stay at headquarters, Estella called upon her father to give Remus his broom, passing on her farewell, and then, with a dramatic yawn, called upon Fawkes to take her back to her bed in the Ravenclaw dormitories.

Suddenly left alone with Harry, who was muttering something about Estella being insane for using such a method of transportation by choice, Sirius could not quite understand why his daughter appeared to be avoiding Remus. Passing on the man's broom and Estella's message to the weary werewolf, he was further concerned to note that Remus was similarly confused – and hurt – but both men knew that their answers would have to wait.


Estella felt awful. In the weeks that passed, she had been progressively skirting certain issues with her godfather. No sooner had she settled back into her bed in the Ravenclaw dormitory in the small hours of that night, had the man found a quiet place to contact her from. The steady thrum of her charmed mirror burned through her pillow like a hole in her conscience, and for the first time in her life she really didn't know what to say to the man. She owed him more than a simple reassurance that it was nothing personal, and yet short of lying to him, she didn't know how to explain why she had physically avoided him after their initial contact. Instead, calling upon his sensibilities by drawing light on her fatigue and need for sleep, she bought herself some time. With her godfather going back undercover, she knew that future mirror-calls would be necessarily short and infrequent, and so when they came she made sure to dazzle her godfather with trivial news about her day-to-day life, strategically side-stepping the questions that, with time, the man began to convince himself were a folly. He hadn't held her long enough to really pinpoint the foreign scent on her person, and was disinclined to entertain worst-case scenarios when it came to his goddaughter. Estella felt shameful for taking such advantage of that fact.

Meanwhile, things between Estella and her uncle were entering shady territory. The man was becoming increasingly aloof and secretive, methodically training her and treating her as though preparing her for something… something she may have to face without him. They still enjoyed their regular sessions of Chess and potions brewing on top of their extra-curricular Defence lessons, but their time together now seemed to have a measure of purpose to them.

"Are you certain you would not face repercussions if Umbridge found out about these sessions?" asked Estella for the umpteenth time. January had turned into February, and they were currently welcoming the first day of March; the pair convening early on the Saturday morning. "The Defence lessons you give me could well not be applicable as a breach of Educational Decree twenty-whatsit-"

"Six," her uncle supplied, not looking up from his notes.

"Twenty-six," Estella corrected herself; "…but you're not on salary as Potions Master anymore -"

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Estella," said Severus exasperatedly, "our situation is unique! No Educational Decree can determine what a guardian chooses to impart upon a child, and there is no rule that stipulates that I cannot exercise my right as your guardian outside of class hours. Now, straighten up and pay attention, this is not a potion to be trifled with! I will not hold your hand through this brew again!"

"Yes, but couldn't Umbridge make a rule that limits what you can do while in school grounds?" said Estella, too preoccupied with trying to establish where the woman stood to pay proper attention to her work.

"That is why what we do in our time together is not broadcast for her to see!" her uncle shook his head, barely holding onto his patience. Seeing that she was just about to place a potentially explosive ingredient into her cauldron, he snapped out a hand and grabbed her wrist. "Are you trying to blow us up?"

Estella looked down at the Monkshood she had mistakenly picked up and gulped, retracting her hand away from the cauldron slowly. "No," she said tiredly, her eyes darting around the chopping board in search of the correct ingredient, effectively avoiding her uncle's penetrating gaze. Sulkily, she began to aimlessly grind her pestle in her mortar, further pulverising an earlier prepared ingredient. "I don't understand why you have this sudden desire to have me brew Wolfsbane by myself! You should know as well as anyone that I just don't have the patience for that kind of detail, I'm never going to be able to pull it off by myself - "

"You ought to hope, for your godfather's sake, that you find the motivation," said Severus sharply, stilling her hand before she completely destroyed the crushed roots under the pestle. "Whether you chose to admit it or not, you have an eye for potions… you just lack the passion to stick with anything that doesn't spark your fickle interests."

"But I am interested in Wolfsbane!" said Estella shrilly, pushing the mortar aside and scowling at herself when she couldn't remember where she was up to. "I just don't see why I need to master it. I could never trust myself to make it for Remus, and I'll never have to so long as you're here-"

"And I am expected to infinitely supply a potion to a man I owe no such consideration to?" said Severus pointedly. "I am disappointed, Estella. In the very least I would have thought that your famed maturity and self-reliance would drive you to trust yourself to the task. You have allowed your faith in me to cloud the reality that not even I can be dependable."

Her uncle's words stirred a familiar fear in her heart, and she gripped the edges of the counter stiffly. "There you go hinting to a time when you will not be with us, Uncle Sev," said Estella lowly, looking up at him with piercing eyes. "Are you certain there is something you're not telling me?"

"Oh, there are plenty of things I am not telling you," said Severus vaguely, "and none of them your business to know."

"If any of it involves you leaving me by going off and getting yourself killed it sure as hell is my business!" snapped Estella, sneering in horror at the mere thought.

Considering her words, Severus stared into her eyes. "I assure you, that I have no active plans to go off and 'get myself killed'," said Severus analytically, craftily leaving out any denial regarding plans to leave her otherwise. "I have always maintained, Estella, that my role in this war and the consequences as such are matters which you needn't concern yourself with."

"You used to keep me informed!" sulked Estella.

Severus raised a brow in challenge, but said nothing to dispel her belief. Choosing his words very carefully, he sought to placate her concerns. "I give you my word, that should I be required to do anything that would lead you to question my intentions towards you, then I will be forthcoming with you," said Severus. "Otherwise, let it be assumed that my conduct reflects no bearings on the nature of our relationship."

"So," said Estella sarcastically, "if you turn on the Order tomorrow and become a Death Eater calendar model, you'll do so with my best interests at heart and still be the same uncle I know and love?"

"Unless I tell you otherwise," said Severus coyly, a little disturbed at his niece's imagery.

"So I guess it would be a little redundant, then, me asking you what side you're really on?" said Estella conversationally, not really harbouring any suspicions about her uncle's loyalties, but suddenly curious as to what he might say.

"If you were anybody else questioning my resolve, I would be insulted," said Severus pointedly; "but in an effort to indulge your insufferable quest for answers, I will remind you that my principal concern – my overriding loyalty – is to this family, and what is best for you."

Estella nodded faintly, and returned her attention to the task at hand. Whilst she had heard such affirmations before, it only just occurred to Estella that she had never really heard where her uncle stood in terms of the greater issues at hand. His actions, for all intents and purposes, leant to the theory that he was a dutiful spy and force for the light, but given that his only other alternative at the time had been a life sentence in Azkaban, with Estella institutionalised without a family, the faint possibility that his motives had been a little more self-serving than politically-minded could not help but surface in her mind. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she realised that her uncle was true to his word. Irrespective of if he was on Dumbledore's side, or Voldemort's, he was never one to try and push her into something that would not be the best thing for her. He could have encouraged her to adopt the Light's way of thinking because it was best for her; and then, in turn, he could have been masquerading himself as loyal to both sides all these years because it was in her best interests that he not make any enemies on either side.

"You're a real Slytherin, Uncle Sev," she said, brushing off her uncle's meandering attempts to skim through her thoughts. "And I want you to know that whatever is going through that illusive head of yours, you'll always have a piece of my heart."

Fighting to hide the extent of his gratitude, Severus nodded stiffly and muttered something about his niece being corrupted by old sentimental fools. "Be careful what you say, Estella Black," he said seriously. "For I may just hold you to that one day."

Before Estella could ponder just what her uncle meant by that, their peaceful time together was interrupted by the sound of rushing footsteps and voices. Instantly on alert, the two kin vanished the potion – which had been just about ruined anyway – and headed out into the hallway, wands drawn. Following the sounds of the footsteps, the pair could soon identify the sounds of Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, each fighting to be heard over the nonsensical babbling of the current Potions Professor.

"I don't know what happened, we were just about to have a toast!" said Slughorn, leading them towards his office in another wing of the dungeons. "And then he just keeled over – it truly was remarkable, I've never seen a poison take hold so quickly! Thank goodness young Potter's so quick on his feet and readily recalled that I had a bezoar on hand - "

Unable to stomach any sort of praise being bestowed upon his most reluctant student – especially when that praise centred on the boy's potions' abilities – Severus promptly spun on his heel and stalked off in the direction in whence they came. Shaking her head derisively, Estella watched her uncle go before making the decision to head to the hospital wing in anticipation of the poisoned students' arrival. Maybe there, she would encounter Harry away from the teachers, and she'll be able to discover what had happened.

It was evening before Estella had her chance to get some answers; the hospital wing was quiet, the windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron's was the only occupied bed. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had just left with Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, leaving Harry surrounded by Hermione and the lingering Weasley siblings. Entering the room silently, she drew a chair beside Harry and sat down, looking over at Ron's pale face in concern as she spoke.

"What happened, Harry?" she asked.

Harry retold the story that he had earlier recounted for the benefit of the adults who had first treated Ron, before allowing them all entry.

"…and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up here. They reckon he'll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he'll have to stay here a week or so… keep taking Essence of Rue…"

"Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar," said George in a low voice.

"Lucky there was one in the room," said Harry, with a sickly expression. Estella suspected that he was contemplating the alternative in his mind. Looking between the mass of redheads carefully, she could tell only too well that they were all aware of just how close Ron had come to dying. Far from suspecting the eccentric Potions Master of any foul play, Estella had a sneaking suspicion that something more sinister was underfoot… and, casting her mind back to the incident that previous term with Katie Bell and the cursed necklace, she couldn't shake the feeling that Draco was somehow involved.

"So the poison was in the drink?" said Estella quietly.

"Yes," said Harry at once. "Slughorn poured it out - "

"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?" said Estella with baited breath, inwardly questioning on whether someone had thought to take away the entire bottle for testing.

"Maybe," said Harry, a dark look of comprehension sweeping his features. He shook his head; "but I don't think Slughorn intended on poisoning anyone. That bottle was intended for Dumbledore-"

"Well then, the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," said Hermione analytically. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself."

'just like anyone trying to smuggle a cursed object into the school would have surely known that Filch would have intercepted it,' thought Estella to herself, realising all at once that if indeed Draco was involved, he appeared to be deliberately failing in his efforts. Filled with a surge of hope, Estella rose and hastily excused herself.

It was whilst passing through the Entrance Hall that Estella first detected the sounds of voices coming from just beyond the Castle's doors. Curious, the light-footed Ravenclaw headed towards the source, clinging to the walls and remaining in the shadows. Settling into her vantage point, she could not see either party, but she was close enough to recognise their voices. The headmaster and her uncle were in the midst of a rather heated discussion, and whilst the sight of the two conversing was nothing out of the ordinary and something that would usually move Estella on, out of respect of the privacy, this time she stayed, for never before had she heard the elder wizard be so short with her uncle. She listened on.

"You take too much for granted, Albus," she heard her uncle's voice, laced with an exasperation that was so unlike the man. "I am obliged to change my mind!"

"You gave me your word, Severus," Dumbledore reminded her uncle. "Do not dare to suggest to me that you do not care to honour that! That's not how you raised your niece, and so I expect you to act accordingly-"

"-You leave Estella out of this!" snapped Severus, causing Estella to jump, both at his tone and the mention of her name. No longer could she walk away from listening to this conversation.

"I will leave Estella out of this provided you conduct yourself in the manner by which we agreed," said Dumbledore quietly – from where she stood, Estella had to fight to hear.

"Are you threatening me, old man?" said her uncle in a scathing tone. The shuffle of footsteps on the echoing stone indicated to Estella that her uncle had stepped closer to the man defensively.

Dumbledore's response was clear and unperturbed. "If you cannot fulfil your duty, then I will have no choice but to consider alternatives," he said.

"She's a child! You cannot possibly expect-"

"You, above all else, should know what can be expected from that child," Dumbledore cut him off. "We both know that she is the only other who could-"

"I won't stand for it!-"

"Then you will do your job!"

"What you are asking of me is outside the confines of my position, and you know it!" said Severus tersely.

"Then you will appreciate why I do not wish to have to ask someone else," said Dumbledore pointedly. In a quieter tone, one that then suggested to Estella that the old man had shifted the focus of their discussion onto something else, the headmaster sighed. "I do hope you have been forthcoming with the results of your investigations, Severus. I do not like to make generalisations, but all preliminary findings point to someone in your house…"

"I am doing all I can, headmaster," said Severus stiffly, and Estella could hear him talking through clenched teeth. "I cannot be anymore forthcoming without compromising my cover."

"Well, see to it that you stay on top of things, Severus," said the headmaster reproachfully. "That's two students who have nearly died, now, and I needn't remind you how that does look to the school Governors - "

"It's a good thing Harry Potter is around then to play the hero," sneered Severus sourly.

Having heard enough, Estella crept away, bound for the nearest place where she knew she wouldn't be disturbed. She'd just missed crossing the path of the great half-giant Hagrid, who had been listening from another vantage point on the outside of the castle. Unbeknownst to the retreating teenager, the bustling Keeper of Keys headed off in the direction from which she had just come, the bushy-bearded man bound for the hospital wing.


"Oh, it's you," said a glum voice, and the ghostly head of a girl appeared from behind the door of a cubicle in the never-used bathroom.

"Hello, Myrtle," said Estella, "expecting someone else, were you?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. "He'd said he'd come back and see me…"

"Who, Harry?" said Estella, remembering the boy's tales of the ghost.

Myrtle shook her head. "No, though he promised to pop in and visit me too," she said sourly "and I haven't seen him in months and months. I've learned not to expect too much from boys."

"Over fifty years eying off the boys in the Prefect's Bathroom and you're only figuring this out now?" Estella scoffed, a brow raised in amusement as she crossed over to a sink, intending to splash some water on her face.

Sitting on the frame of the mirror that sat above the sink, Myrtle dangled her transparent feet into the water pooling in the sink and turning it ice cold; causing Estella to shriek when she splashed some on her face. Continuing on as though they were nothing but two school friends discussing trivial boy problems, Myrtle pouted and confided in the living girl before her.

"But I thought he liked me," she said plaintively. "Maybe if you left, he'd come back again… we had lots in common… I'm sure he felt it…" And she looked hopefully towards the door.

"When you say you had lots in common," said Estella, unable to help herself, "d'you mean he lives in an S-bend, to?"

"No," said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. "I mean he's sensitive, people bully him, too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!"

Her keen hearing picking up on the opening of a door first, Estella turned slightly and spotted the room's new occupant before the young ghost in residence. "Draco," she stated, halting the boy in his tracks.

"Yes, yes, that's him," said Myrtle, oblivious. "How did you know that was who I was talking about?"

Estella was completely ignoring the ghost, otherwise preoccupied with the growing look of rage on Draco's face.

"You told!" he yelled at the ghost in disgust. "How could you do that? I told you what would happen-"

"Draco, Draco! Calm down, will you?" said Estella in the now-sobbing ghost's defence. As soon as attention was no longer on her, the pale bespectacled ghost let out a wail and vanished down the nearest S-bend with a splash. When, then, Draco attempted to follow, his wand drawn and pointed at the cistern in the cubicle as though to summon the dead witch back, Estella stayed his hand. "Stop, damn it!"

"You don't understand; I have to stop her from telling anyone else!" said Draco, shrugging off her grip angrily, jabbing his wand in the air as he failed to think of a spell that could call a free spirit to him.

"Tell them what, Draco?" said Estella, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him firmly. "I don't know what you've confided in her, but all she told me was that a boy had been in here to see her, I swear! You needn't worry about her spilling your secrets to anyone – Merlin, everyone knows how she likes to hold her secrets over everyone! It's the only thing that amuses her – all the other ghosts say so!"

"Really?" said Draco, his voice betraying his hope. His anger seeping out of him, leaving him but a drained shell of a boy, he returned Estella's hold on him in kind and pulled her into an awkward hug. "I'm sorry for behaving that way. I'm glad you're here… truly."

"Is there anything you want to talk about, Dray?" she asked softly, pulling away slightly to look at the boy in curiosity. Inside, she was conflicted, for whilst part of her wanted to take the opportunity to take advantage of the situation and question him, the rest of her could see how tired and alone Draco looked. She may not have held any respect for the rut Draco had backed himself into by being such a proud, misguided Slytherin in pursuit of his master's approval, but she could identify with the feeling of isolation that being set apart from one's peers could create.

"You wouldn't understand," said Draco despondently. "You'd hate me."

"Why?" said Estella, making a decision to be blunt. "Because you're the one who gave Katie Bell the necklace and then passed that bottle of mead onto Slughorn?"

Unable to mask his surprise, Draco began to splutter. "How did you know?" He said finally, knowing it was pointless to try and deny it, particularly when he suspected that her uncle had told her. "Did Severus tell you?"

"He didn't have to," said Estella, reminding the boy of their encounter in Knockturn Alley. "Who do you think drew his attention to your link with that necklace?"

"You! You tipped him off!" said Draco accusingly.

"Only because I thought my uncle might be able to help you," said Estella, knowing that her words could be skewed in any number of directions.

"I don't want his help!" he complained. "I don't need anyone's help! I can do this myself! He trusts me to the task!"

"Do you know what I think, Draco?" said Estella. "I think that you don't really want to do it. You're the smartest Slytherin in your year, and I am not fooled by these convenient hurdles that keep obstructing you in your task."

Draco tried to defend his methods, but Estella cut him off. "Do not insult me, Draco," she said, raising a brow as she crossed her arms over her chest. "This is me you're talking to. I know you're capable of much more…"

"Oh, and you think it's easy then, do you?" he cut back. "Fixing the Cabinet is one thing, but killing someone? I'd like to see you try!"

"Why? You've almost succeeded twice on your own," said Estella caustically, letting her disapproval be known, knowing that Draco would likely interpret it as disappointment for his recurrent failure.

Stepping closer to her, Draco was about to say something venomous, but then upon remembering who he was speaking to, he let his mask fall. "How… how am I supposed to do it?" he said in a broken voice. "It's Albus effing Dumbledore for crying out loud!"

Estella's pupils contracted marginally at Draco's words, and she involuntarily took a step back. "Are you for real?" she asked in disbelief. "You've actually been trying your hardest at this, haven't you?" a pause. "My God, Draco, can't you see what this is? Your precious master is trying to get you killed! Your mission isn't just so you can prove yourself or extend your family's gratitude at having its needs met, it's a suicide mission!" She paled with sickening realisation as her own words sunk in. "Holy shite, your father didn't just offer your services in exchange for my life being spared, he wagered your life! God Damn it, Draco, is your father so full of himself that he truly believes that those of his precious blood are infallible? Is he really so stupid -" she cut herself off, oblivious to Draco's increasing indignation, another sledgehammer hitting home. She swore vehemently as the truth sunk in. "Son of a BITCH! It was planned all along! That's what the Unbreakable Vow was for! I think I am going to be sick!"

Pushing past Draco, Estella rushed to a sink and, her knuckles turning white as she gripped to the edges of the ancient porcelain and proceeded to dry wretch, she continued to cry out a number of explicit expletives. Coming up beside her, Draco was proud and determined.

"I don't need his help!" he said haughtily. "I didn't ask him to make that damned vow – I don't want him involved anymore than you do. I can do this myself – I have to!"

"And you truly think you will succeed?" said Estella disgustedly, "you, a pampered, misguided little snake; succeed where scores of fully-trained Dark Wizards have died before you? Are you in denial, or are you as equally dense as your father?"

Bristling slightly at her words, Draco was reminded of something she'd earlier said.

"What did you mean earlier, implying that my father had spared your life by wagering mine?" he said quietly.

Estella looked up at him in question, eyes widening when she could see nothing but genuine confusion on the boy's face.

"He didn't tell you, did he?" she said incredulously. "He actually roped you into all this without even telling you why? Tell me something, Draco, do you always follow your father so blindly?"

Draco erected his defensive walls at her words. "What would you have me do?" he said crossly. "You've seen first hand how demanding he can be! Your uncle can't even stand up to him… I have no choice but to do as he says, I can't believe that you of all people cannot appreciate that!"

"Draco," said Estella, rounding on the boy and touching his arm tentatively. "There is always a choice."

"What, become a turncoat? Like that rat Pettigrew?" said Draco with disgust. "I will not betray my father."

"Why not? Voldemort killed his," said Estella pointedly, knowing it was a moot point to raise when the Dark Lord had no doubt demonised his parents to no end.

"I'm not even going to answer to that," said Draco. "If I can respect that your loyalties lie with your father – which you've pointed out on more than one occasion – then I don't think am asking much by expecting the same in return."

Knowing that she was fighting a losing battle, Estella nodded and backed down.

"Very well," she said, "but I'm worried for you – you're fighting a losing battle."

"Then that's my destiny, isn't it?" said Draco stoically, so blinded by his familial loyalty that he was evidently prepared to die preserving the solidarity that he imagined to exist between father and son.

"Well, I can't say that I wish you well, because I don't particularly want anyone to die," said Estella. "I pity the situation you are in, Draco, and I want it known that I think that no one so young deserves such a burden on their shoulders; I think you're a formidable wizard, Draco Malfoy, one who is foolishly wasting his potential by spinelessly following his daddy's leave – no, don't give me that look, at least I am able to tell my father when and where to shove it if we don't agree on something! I can only hope that your convictions lead you to no harm…" she paused; taking a step closer and stabbing a finger in the taller boy's chest for emphasis. "…but that said, should anything happen to my uncle – either ending his life itself, or life as he knows it – I will not hesitate to kill you; and that's a promise."

"…and I would hardly blame you," said Draco in acknowledgement, swallowing in trepidation as he found himself faced with a number of decisions. "It is your right to protect your family's honour… as it is mine."

Staring at Draco indecisively, Estella considered her parting words carefully.

"Well let's hope that things don't come to that," she said, although deep down she knew that short of an altercation with his father, the Slytherin boy would not be deterred from his present course.

"I promise to do all in my power to keep your uncle out of it," vowed Draco, before bowing stiffly and excusing himself.

Alone in the bathroom once more, Estella considered her options. Unsure of whether it would work, she snapped her fingers experimentally and called out to her family's most reluctant house elf. "Kreacher!" she called out.

A few minutes ticked by, and Estella began to feel like a fool for actually thinking that the elf would hear her and come over such a distance. he had just been about to give up her folly and exit the bathroom, when a telling pop heralded the elf's late, but timely, arrival.

"Mistress is calling Kreacher at her school!" said Kreacher, physically back peddling in awe and taking in the room they were in. "Mistress is calling Kreacher to a bathroom? Is Mistress requiring assistance? Kreacher remembers serving Kreacher's old Mistress well. Old Mistress often needed help in the bathroom. Kreacher is honoured to serve young Mistress the same."

Estella pulled a face – that was far too much information – and shook her head vehemently.

"Oh no, Kreacher," she assured the elf, who she now suspected was somewhat perverted; "I called you here so that we could talk without the danger of being overheard by other students."

"Ooooh! Mistress is telling Kreacher secrets!" Kreacher cooed, bouncing up and down for joy. "What is it that Mistress wishes to tell Kreacher?"

"Sorry Kreacher, I have no secrets for you, either," said Estella grimly, imagining the elf's glee when he had been free to impart Order secrets to her father's crazy cousin, Bellatrix. "But I do have a secret mission for you!"

Giving Kreacher the task of tailing her uncle whenever he was outside of his quarters was, Estella knew, entirely unlikely to bear any fruit. Her uncle was far too perceptive and accustomed to espionage to miss the signs, and would likely detect the elf's presence before too long. That said, Estella had to acknowledge that Kreacher was one seriously twisted elf, and if duly motivated, could be capable of things no one would give him credit for. Only time would tell if her whimsical plan would have a point; in the very least it was serving well to keep the elf out of headquarters, where it could – and had – done more damage.


Another week came to a close, and with it, the scheduled Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. With Ron still recovering from his poisoning, Harry had made the reluctant decision to allow his reserve Keeper, Cormac McLaggen to play, and it was now that Estella shared her commiserations with the lad, as they hurried through the deserted corridors. The whole school was outside, either already seated in the stadium or heading down towards it. Keeping pace beside her, Harry was looking out the windows he passed, trying to gauge how much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking towards them, accompanied by two girls, both of whom looked sulky and resentful.

Malfoy exchanged a look with Estella, but stopped short at the sight of Harry, giving a short, humourless laugh before continuing walking.

"Where're you going?" Harry demanded, brushing off the tentative hand Estella had placed on his arm, trying to silently encourage him to walk away.

"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter," sneered Malfoy, giving Estella a pointed look before landing back on his Gryffindor foe. "You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for the Chosen Captain – the Boy Who Scored – whatever they call you these days."

One of the girls next to Malfoy gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and the two girls followed at a trot, turning the corner and vanishing from view.

Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear, Estella stood at his side, waiting patiently for him to make the next move. The silent seconds trickled past, and Harry remained where he was, frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had vanished…

"C'mon, Harry, you're going to be late for the game," said Estella, tugging on his arm.

"But couldn't you… I mean I wouldn't mind if you skipped the game to follow Malfoy…" said Harry, looking at her pleadingly.

"No Harry," said Estella. "Even if I knew where he was going, and what he was up to, it's not my place to tell you. As much as it pains me to actually agree with Malfoy, it is really none of your business."

It was true, Estella had a fairly good idea what Draco was up to. Whilst she hadn't quite pinpointed where it was that the boy went – with Harry in possession of their fathers' map, it was hard for her to keep tabs – she was however, rather well informed when it came to his activities. She knew, from Draco's own admission, what he was expected to do, and knowing from experience that he didn't do anything without his two goons to back him up, he could only conclude that the two interchanging girls that were increasingly in his company were Crabbe and Goyle in disguise.

'I bet Draco had an ulterior motive in making the Polyjuice solution with the hair of firsties,' she thought to herself, thinking only too astutely that had Crabbe and Goyle transformed into buxom, fifteen year old girls, they may have been a little too… distracted… to keep an active look out.

"What are you smirking about?" said Harry, looking at her closely. "You know something, don't you? You do!"

"Yes; doesn't mean I am going to tell you, though," said Estella, raising her chin. "Suffice it to say that the relevant Order members have been kept abridge of the situation and appropriate – discreet – action is being taken."

Estella had indeed informed her uncle of the discussion she had had with Draco that previous Saturday. The man had been wholly unsurprised by her reconnaissance and rather insistent that she keep her distance. He had stressed to her the importance of discretion – for if Draco Malfoy could so easily come close to killing two fellow students, there was no telling what he was capable of; especially when Harry Potter was not always on hand to provide an easy fix. Her uncle had again thanked her for bringing her intelligence to him, thus enabling him to properly furnish Dumbledore with the information he and he alone was directed to obtain.

On the question, then, of whether or not Dumbledore would have turned to her to play spy (with Draco) should her uncle have been unable to procure the information about the boys plans, Severus Snape was stoically quiet; which generally meant that the Slytherin preferred nondisclosure to lying. Knowing a brush off when she saw it, Estella had quickly changed the subject; her earlier curiosity, from when she had overheard her uncle and headmaster arguing, was no closer to being sated.

The very best thing you could say about the Quidditch match that afternoon was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was hard to say what the worst thing was: later, Harry thought it was a close-run contest between McLaggen's fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting his team mate in the mouth with his bat, and one of his Chasers shrieking and falling off his broom when a member of the opposing team zoomed at them carrying the Quaffle. The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: somewhere between being knocked unconscious by McLaggen's misfired Bludger and falling to the ground, Harry had managed to catch the Snitch; making the final score two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

Waking up in the Hospital Wing, in a bed alongside Ron, Harry groaned.

"Nice of you to drop in," said Ron, grinning as he looked over at him from where he had been holding a civil conversation with Estella, who was slumped in a chair between the two beds.

"What happened?" said Harry, raising a hand to the stiff turban of bandages that were wrapped around his head.

"Cracked skull," said Estella, swatting his hands away from his head. "Pomfrey mended it, of course, but she's insisting that you stay in overnight."

"I don't want to stay here overnight," said Harry angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers, "I want to find McLaggen and kill him."

"Too late," said Estella with a smug look, cracking her knuckles. "Troll didn't know what hit him…"

"What did you do?" said Harry, sitting himself up against his pillows.

"Well, let's just say he's going to have problems sitting for, oh, the next month or so," said Estella wryly. "It's his own fault, really, for not allowing Pomfrey to apply the topical treatment… though I can hardly blame our dear nurse for not insisting; he really is a brute of a boy…"

Ron, who had already shared in the joke with the visiting Ravenclaw, began to chortle with amusement.

"She… she… she gave him a case of haemorrhoids!" said Ron with some degree of difficulty, since he was sniggering so uncontrollably. "Serves the git right for refusing treatment, though I suspect he just didn't want to be in here in case you woke up."

"He's smart, then," said Harry with a scowl, "cause when I get my hands on him…" his voice trailed off, and he backed down when he saw the amused look on Estella's face. Noticing that he had been flexing his fingers out in front of him, as though they were wrapped around a neck, he rubbed his hands together casually to cover and sighed. Estella cut in.

"Dad said to say that he's sorry he missed the game, and he sent some chocolates along with Tonks-"

"Tonks was here?" said Harry, straightening up, his anger at his reserve Keeper momentarily forgotten as he thought of his surrogate cousin.

Estella nodded, idly taking a bite from a block of chocolate she and Ron had been making short work of whilst waiting for Harry to wake up.

"Stayed a while, too," she said with a mouthful as she offered Harry some chocolate from its wrapper. "Think she wanted to stick around to make sure your chocolate was still in one piece when you woke up."

Harry stared from the chocolate wrapper, to a red-faced Ron and smirking Estella in mild confusion until the crafty Ravenclaw's words finally sunk in.

"Hey!" he protested, making a grab for what was left of the chocolate, only to have Estella snatch it away teasingly. "You ate my chocolate!"

"Waste not, want not," said Estella simply, sharing a conspiring look with Ron, who was looking like a Garden Gnome caught in wand-lights at the prospect of facing his best friend's wrath. "You were asleep, we were hungry. What did you expect?"

Shaking his head slightly, Harry conceded defeat and lolled back into his pillows.

"So why'd Tonks not stick around?" he asked, frowning slightly. "Trouble brewing in Hogsmeade?"

"If Tonks cooking Remus dinner leads to trouble, then most certainly!" said Estella with a lopsided grin. Her godfather had been reluctant to broadcast it for fear of the ribbing he'd get from her father, but Tonks had since confessed to her in confidence that the pair had been enjoying each other's company 'as much as their schedules would allow' (which didn't really equate to all that much). Ever since the mass-breakout from Azkaban, Remus had taken to spending the full moon back at the Shrieking Shack, and still being stationed in Hogsmeade, Tonks had taken to ensuring that Moony didn't transform on an empty stomach. Estella did not want to think about how difficult it must have been for the man to return there again after all that had transpired within its walls as far as she was concerned, but she had a fairly educated suspicion that her father was likely Apparating to the Shack every month and letting Padfoot help things along. When she'd spoken to her father earlier that afternoon in her mirror, for instance, the connection just felt all the more closer; she couldn't quite explain it.

Entertaining his own images of the unlikely couple enjoying each other's company whilst never quite summoning the courage to actually admit feelings towards one another, Harry nodded.

"When are we going to set those two up, already?" he rolled his eyes.

Estella shrugged, her eyes glinting with mischief as she found the opening she'd been waiting for.

"Speaking of trouble, Ginny came to visit while you were unconscious," she said leadingly, "she was very concerned for you."

"Yeah, her own brother gets poisoned and almost dies and she couldn't stop looking at you and wishing you would wake up!" said Ron, rolling his eyes.

"Only because you're such illuminating company, Ronald," said Estella with a smirk. The impulsive Gryffindor had set himself up for that one.

Utterly embarrassed by the implication that he was even contemplating dating his best friend's sister, Harry quickly steered the conversation to the topic of Malfoy, and what he had been doing whilst skipping the last few Quidditch matches.

"Y'know, you could always have Dobby tail him," suggested Estella, realising that Harry was not about to let the situation go. She had then been about to lecture him on how even Draco was entitled to his privacy and that she strongly suggested that he did nothing, but she didn't want to be discovered as a hypocrite if ever the news of Kreacher's latest task came out. Of course, she could argue that she was only having her uncle tailed when he was outside of his private chambers, and so he still got some privacy, but she knew that the exceptional comparison would not go down well on principle.

"Dobby knows Draco through and through, which means that he probably knows how to avoid the guy; and he's as loyal to you as a sick puppy dog," said Estella pointedly, her eyes flicking between the two boys as though to say that she wasn't about to elaborate in Ron's company. "There are other things you ought to be spending your time obsessing about."

Knowing what not to discuss in front of Ron, but not quite catching her meaning, Harry grinned. "Of course," he said with a smirk, "we've yet to put our plan 'get Umbridge' into practice…"

Inwardly shaking her head at Harry's missing of the point – but forgiving him for he did just suffer a nasty blow to his head, after all – the three of them sat up until past curfew, plotting their revenge upon the vile woman.

END CHAPTER

Next chapter due Saturday 1st of July.