—CHAPTER TWO—
Teddy had an awful suspicion that he was being followed.
When he had first gone into the town to buy a few burn pastes from the Apothecary, he hadn't noticed anything. It was only when a beautiful flying carpet had distracted him, stalling him for a good few minutes, that he realised someone at least ten paces behind him had stopped at the exact same moment, feigning interest in a flower peddler.
Teddy then took an absurd route back to the Sanctuary to see whether this person was following him, and quickly confirmed that he was. He kept ten paces behind him, no matter how he changed his pace. Without the security of a crowd, he was scared to turn and confront him. They were in the middle of nowhere; the rolling Transylvanian hillsides made the figure more minatory than he normally may have been—he was shorter than Teddy, a small man, wearing a light headscarf that covered his lower face and a pair of black gloves that made no sense in the heat, and most peculiarly, which had two gold bands around the thumbs.
If this man was dangerous, it would be a disservice to lead him right into the Sanctuary, so despite his own nerves, Teddy pulled his wand and turned to face him.
"About time," the man said, lowering his scarf.
Teddy didn't recognise him. In fact, there was nothing familiar about his face. He stood there, cradling the paper bag full of potions in one arm and his wand held slackly in the other. It took him a moment before he understood the two gold rings on the man's thumbs.
"Reid," Teddy said, his face falling. This was not the first time that the former Unspeakable had followed him. "Rather boorish of you to just show up on another continent and stalk me, isn't it?"
"You're needed," Reid said, raising his eyebrows. "Surely you knew this would be coming."
These words made Teddy uneasy. Being trained in espionage had never really been his idea—just an inevitable attachment to his physical adaptability. And while he had been speaking Gobbledegook so frequently with Venn that he had perfected his accent, he had a feeling he couldn't sustain the disguise of a goblin nearly as well as Reuben Reid could. In fact, he had wiped this unpleasant man completely from his memory, preferring to pretend he didn't exist.
"I think we ought to go and talk," Reid said.
They nestled into the Dragon Sanctuary's barn, which was strung up with handler equipment like odd chandeliers. Shafts of light cut through the dusty air. Evidence that Venn had been here was still palpable, with one of the metal breastplates of a dragon lying on the long workbench.
"I'm not sure how much Charlie has told you about what the Order's been up to—"
"I know enough," Teddy said, carefully
"I highly doubt you know enough, Lupin," Reid growled, his voice strange in such a shrunken body. "I think you should keep your trap shut until I finish catching you up to speed."
He was very conscious of his paper bag of potions. There was a burn paste that Victoire needed after startlingly Firecracker, the Chinese Fireball. There was a sleeping potion that would help Selima rest following a particularly difficult full moon. There were deliveries he had to make, people he loved who needed help—he didn't have time for this.
"I've been spying on the goblins in Hogsmeade, pretending to be one of their own, and amassing a lot of information. I was only successful for about a month before one of the goblins tipped Romnuk off. We need someone else to go undercover."
Teddy heaved a tired sigh, as if he was a schoolteacher addressing a truanting student. "How'd they figure you out?"
"The goblin I was impersonating came back."
"Came back?"
"They discovered his actual body. Or, at least, the parts I was unable to destroy."
Teddy winced. He was keenly reminded as to why he hated Reuben Reid so much.
"When they realised I was an imposter, Romnuk poisoned me."
His eyebrows shot up to his scruffy blue hair. Immediately, his eyes darted to the black gloves that Reid was wearing. Pretending not to notice this, the spy went on in his recount.
"All the information I've amassed leads to one thing—the gangs are planning to finally turn against the Goblin King. They're going to shirk their unholy alliance, and they're gearing up for a fight. For some reason, Hogwarts will be caught in the crossfires."
Of course, this was what Venn himself had explained. The Kobold Könige wanted to see the King dead, wanted to roll out a militant anarchy. They had been bidding their time. They had killed off the puppet Wizard Government that had danced on their King's strings, and now they were ready to strike.
"And why do you need me?"
"Harry needs someone to go in and find out why they're trying to dig their way into Hogwarts."
Teddy felt the blood drain from his face. This wasn't some easy mission. This wasn't pushing papers at a desk in the Ministry while impersonating a goblin. This would be infiltrating the inner-circle of a gang, one where all the members were known, one where he would have to do terrible things in order to just get into the group. He clutched the paper bag to his chest for a moment and took a deep shaky breath. He had once stood on the steps of Gringotts, yelling for change, stirring up protest. He had once gone looking for a fight. But without the anger there, Teddy had no fight in him. He had no hatred. Not even for Romnuk the Rough.
"I'm sorry, I just don't think I'm your man for the job."
He stood and began to make his way out of the barn, bundling the package of potions like a baby on his hip. Reid followed him, squinting at they returned to the blinding sunlight.
"You're the only man for the job, Lupin."
"It's not going to happen. I'm sorry. I have responsibilities here. I have people I need to look after."
Persistently, Reuben Reid followed him all the way to the Opal Eye enclosure, where Victoire and Krishna were filing down the claws of their young Opal Eye, who they had fondly named Jem. He loved the girls, got snappy whenever he was around any of the male handlers, so Teddy kept his distance. With a quick whistle, he caught both women's attention, then motioned to the bag.
Victoire jogged over, unwrapping a bandage on her arm as she went. "Thank you, lovely," she said, weaving out from the barrier and kissing Teddy quickly on the lips. She took the potion he had already opened up for her and began to spread the paste on the burn across her bicep. Teddy hated it when she got hurt, and her scar count was growing, but he secretly loved the way her skin looked once they had healed—tattoos of her own sort to match his in ink.
"Who's this?" she said.
"Reid. An Order member."
Reid didn't say anything. He just scanned Victoire's face until she turned to Teddy and offered a smile. "I may have another go riding Jem this afternoon. Oh, Charlie wanted me to tell you that Selima is sleeping in his cabin."
"Got you," he said, leaning forward to kiss her quickly once more. "Don't go poking any dragons."
"Would I ever?" she said, giving a final uncertain look to Reid before ducking back into the enclosure.
They began to make their way back towards the cabin, the brown paper package of potions resting on Teddy's hip as they walked. They past a few of the other groundskeepers on the way, that all sang greetings in their own language.
"Is she the reason you don't want to leave?"
"Hmm?" Teddy glanced at Reid, annoyed he hadn't left yet.
"You want to stay for the girl?"
"My wife," Teddy corrected, his exasperation growing. "And she's not the only reason. I'm a bit more multifaceted than that."
Reid growled a response that Teddy couldn't make out, so he chose to ignore him as they continued through the cooler thicket of trees on the outset of the grounds, leading quickly to Charlie's cottage. Selima was outside, crouched in front of the vegetable patch, plucking tomatoes. They were ripe and thick skinned, red as apples, plush in her brittle hands.
"You should be inside, trying to sleep," he said as he got nearer.
She tapped the side of her temple, finger crooked at the joints, eyes a little watery, the way someone who had addled too much with potions may behave. She stood slowly, drawing the bunch of tomatoes close to her chest. "Migraine," she croaked, smiling weakly. "Terrible migraine."
"Get out of the sunlight then," Teddy frowned, opening the cottage door with his hip and letting her in.
Perhaps seeing his hands were full, or noticing the condition Selima was in, Reid took the parcel off Teddy, a kindness that surprised him, and fished around in it to find the sleeping draught. He took it over to the kettle and used his wand to set it boiling. Without asking him what he was up to, Teddy helped Selima settle back into the sofa bed. Her dreadlocks had been plaited down her back, away from her face.
"Did you do this?" he asked, touching her heavy hair.
She smiled weakly and shook her head. "Charlie did."
"Cute," Teddy acknowledged.
"Who's that bloke?"
"Order member. A nobody."
"Trying to steal you away, is he?" she said, lowering her voice, but her words were clumsy and carried into the kitchen.
"With little avail," Reid replied, returning with a mug of warm milky water. He passed it to Selima. "Sleeping draughts work faster when they're heated."
"Good tip," she said, smiling weakly. She sipped at the mug, her shoulders hunched forwards. Even holding her own weight up on the bed seemed to look painful. Teddy ran his fingers through her hair, wishing her affliction away, wishing he could hide the moon from her. As his fingers trailed through her hair for a third time, Selima's drowsy eyelids fluttered to a close.
"She's a werewolf, I'm guessing?"
"Yep," Teddy said, a little stiff. He had to stop himself from adding, and probably the last left from England.
He was still resentful toward Reid, for the part he had played in Gladstone's Ministry, but he himself couldn't shift all the blame. Even Teddy had propped up the arguments that had led to the eradication of Squibs and Werewolves. It was hard to go pointing fingers when even his hands were stained.
He turned back to Reid, ready to finally tell him to sod off, that the answer was no, that he wasn't changing his mind, when he noticed that the other man was peeling off his black gloves. His hands were a sickly, dark green, the skin mottled, the veins engorged. It was awful, like revealing a dead thing, unwrapping a mummy. Teddy almost flinched. Even Selima's scaling, scared skin was less execrable.
Reid smiled coldly, sliding the two gold rings off the black gloves and pocketing them for safekeeping. "I can't wear them on my skin anymore," he said, wincing. "Such a shame too."
"That's from the poison?" he asked, unable to help himself.
"My feet and my hands," he said, chuckling. "It'll work its way from my extremities up to my organs, and then I will die. Not very pleasant, is it?"
They had chosen to let him die slowly—surely in line with their ideas of punishment, their gradual tortures. What didn't make sense is that Reid had information, and they had still let him go. It was done purposefully. They had sent him back with these fatal wounds as a warning, as a suggestion that this would happen to the next one. And clearly, they didn't care if the wizards and witches left in England knew what their plans were. Teddy felt the heat climb in his neck.
"Look—Reid—I know that you all think me to be your last hope for surveillance but I don't think I'd—"
The door open and they both started over their shoulders. The owner of the cottage had just arrived, slinging off his dragon-hide apron and hanging it behind the door. Charlie surveyed them both, unsurprised to see Reuben Reid, taking in his crippled hands first, then his malleable face.
"I suppose we're turning my cottage into a hospice then," he said, smiling with tight lips.
"I was expecting a bit more benevolence from you, Charlie."
"I think letting you come here is benevolent enough," he replied, barking out a laugh. He scooped up the tomatoes scattered on the side table and took them to the kitchen. "Teddy, I think it best you take a walk. I want a word with Reid."
Teddy didn't need to be told twice. He was grateful to leave. He was hoping to put Reid's proposition behind him. To pretend that he had no business in the spy games the Order was playing. To pretend he had no allegiance in this. He wanted to remain in the Sanctuary, where he could take care of Selima, where he could learn from Venn, where he could spend all his days and evening with his wife, where he could be certain they were safe. But they had found him, turned over the rock under which he had been hiding.
He toyed with not telling Victoire. There was still quite a lot he had not told her, that he had not gone into details about. He didn't want to shake the hard-fought for equanimity they had secured together on this foreign soil. He didn't want to slip back into the person he was before—before he had met his father in the Pensieve, before he had fought for the Order, before he had lost Victoire. He didn't want to return back to that place, that headspace, the man he was then, fuelled by anger and desperation.
Teddy knew though that this couldn't last. That one of them—either Victoire or himself—would be pulled back into the battle, back into the thick of things. He knew that if he denied this opportunity, another would come to claim his wife. And he was terrified of the moment, of the day when she would choose to fight over staying safe, when she would choose to leave him again.
He wasn't sure how he could bear it.
From where it was hidden on Charring Cross Road, the Leaky Cauldron was only a short seven-minute walk to Convent Garden, if you knew to cut past Wyndham's Theatre and take the short cut. It was resplendent during the summer, with young families enjoying school holidays and tourists mulling about the craft markets and opera singers standing in the square's corners, their warbling falsettos carrying through the street.
While the younger members of the Order stationed in the Leaky Cauldron were periodically sent to Convent Garden, it was no longer such a novelty. At first, when the task was given to them, they clambered eagerly to be the delegates escaping for an hour or two into Muggle London, where their turmoil was limited to traffic jams. It was a fresh of breath air, a short interlude before they returned to the dreary squalor of living in a blockaded street.
However, when they realised that a battle was being planned, that the Order was making strategies, they were less eager to be torn away from their commanders in chief, wasting time out in a world that was shut off from their own desperate struggles. It was Molly Weasley's least favourite chore to do, but knowing how important it was that she pull her weight, she never complained.
"You must be in a rush to get back," Fred acknowledged, having to almost job to keep pace with her as they wove through their shortcut past Wyndham's Theatre. He had to stride twice as long to catch up with Molly's pace.
"They're talking strategy today," Molly said. "Aren't you keen to get back?"
Molly had lost some of her previous edgy allure. Without a supply of hair care potions, her red roots were reappearing on top of her bleach blonde hair and the remnants of black nail polish had long been chipped off. She was wearing someone else's oversized trousers and tee-shirt—they had raided the apartment blocks on their end of Diagon Alley for any provisions, including clean clothing. Life in rebellion was not glamorous, but while she was living in the Leaky Cauldron, she never seemed to notice. It was only out on the streets of Muggle London, where people gave her sketchy looks in passing, did she feel acutely aware of how homeless she looked.
They crossed to Convent Garden, making their way to the food stalls that they usually targeted, and stealing their way around the back. Fred cast a quick look around before aiming his wand at the man at the front of the stall and Confuding him.
They weren't stealing; she always had to reassure herself. If they could have access to Gringott's bank, they could get their hands on muggle money. Using a Doubling Charm to source food from the muggles was their only means of survival. And they were just copies, after all—less tasty, less nutritious imitations of the vegetables and bread and jam jars on the counter. Food that also spoiled much faster than if it were the original, meaning they had to return to various markets in London every second day to source more, and stash it the bag with its Undetectable Extension Charm.
They were about to close up the bag when Molly caught the large brown eyes of a girl—about eight—standing beside her mother, short enough to see where they were hiding beneath the counter. Molly froze for a moment, wand in hand, heart jumping. Had she spotted the doing magic? From their vantage point, they could only see the girl's mother from her hips down. But there was a chance that this curious child had seen them producing their Doubling Charms. There was no Ministry to enforce a Statue of Secrecy anymore, but they had to be all the more careful—the last thing they needed was a new pandemic of fear, a new set of nervous enemies aiming their own terrifying weapons. Molly raised her wand preparing to Obliviate the girl if need be, but she only smiled at Molly impishly, pulling a plastic stick with a glittery star on the end out of her yellow backpack, and giving it a swirl through the air. A second later, her mother's hand found the girl's and pulled her along.
"I think we should try a greengrocer, too. We need fruit," Fred murmured.
Molly had to shake her head, breaking the spell caused by that little girl's gaze. Hear heart ached painfully in her chest. It had been so long since she had seen Lucy, her younger sister. It had been over a year since she had last seen her, or her parents. She wouldn't be a little girl anymore.
"Oi, Molly, have Nargles got in your ears? I said, should we get some fruit?"
"We've got enough," Molly said, dragging the bag's strap over her shoulder. "Let's go back."
Fred clucked his tongue but followed her. They smiled benignly as they passed the still Confunded stall owner, and shuffled quickly past a group of tourists.
"You always take heaps longer when you're partnered with Rowan on these things."
Molly pulled a face, annoyed by the comment. "No I don't."
"I'm not blaming you, Mol. He's a cute bloke."
"That's also beside the point."
They made short work of the walk back, cutting street corners and jaywalking recklessly through traffic. By the time they arrived back at the Leaky Cauldron, the pub was quiet and attentive, mid way through a meeting led by Bill Weasley. They stood at the back of the room, listening, not wanting to interrupt.
To make the Order functional over such a dispersed space, they had broken into squadrons. Hermione was overall in charge, almost by default since Harry had stepped down, making her the Captain General of sorts. Ron and Harry were her Lieutenant generals. Then, there were Captains for each division. Former Auror Cattermole was the Captain of the Hogsmeade residents, Neville Longbottom was the Captain of the Hogwarts Division and Bill Weasley was the Captain of the Diagon Alley division. Everyone had their own place and rank and person to answer to. It was a necessary chain of command, one that sometimes annoyed Molly, who was finding it harder still to remain in the loop.
"From what the goblins have been willing to tell us, we think Selgrut will retreat in an attack to Vault 717. It's one of the most highly guarded vaults. It's right near the old Lestrange Family vault. We can expect dragon security, not to mention we'll need a goblin with security clearance to get through the door."
"Is that really a problem? We have goblin's in the Order," Cresswell pipped up.
"None that will cooperate with us to help break in," Bill sighed. Molly was one of the many people who tsked in response to this news. "Now, you have to understand that for the goblins, even sharing this information is considered treachery. It goes against everything in their values to help us break into Gringotts."
"But we're all on the same side here, aren't we?"
"It's not the simple."
Dominique had caught her cousins' eyes and was waving them over, her long strawberry blonde plait sliding over her shoulder. Molly and Fred ducked down and wove through the chairs and tables until they had joined their group. Rowan leaned forward, nudging their bag of food with his foot.
"Did you get oranges?"
"No fruit," Fred murmured back, sending a pointed look at Molly. "Someone was in a rush."
Molly sent Rowan a caustic look, silencing the complaint before it came.
"Look—" Bill said, taking command of the room once more. "We have goblin cooperation, we have them even drawing maps for us to make sure we know how to get around. I used to work in Gringotts myself. I'm not too concerned about having a former Gringotts goblin with us. I think that's the least of our obstacles."
"How are we planning to get to Selgrut?" George asked, half raising his hand.
"We'll have squadrons," Bill said. "One to invade the first level and defend, a second smaller group to get underground to the vault. Let's start breaking up into teams now."
Fleur stood, tying her corn silk hair into a ponytail as she did, as if she was about to get down to business. She had also worked alongside Bill in Gringotts, and she was also a fearsome dueller. It was unanimously decided that she would be leading the smaller group into Vault 717, while Bill organised the larger army that had to break through the goblin's first line of defence.
"There's only one way in and out of Gringotts, so I guess the biggest part of the battle will be taking place right through those front doors," Dominique sighed, leaning in on their circular table to talk to the others. It was hard, no matter how they framed it, to shift the thought that they were still on the kid's table. "I suppose that's where we will be."
"Did they set a date for the battle yet?" Fred asked.
Dominique shook her head. "We need to wait until the Polyjuice Potion is brewed."
"The Polyjuice Potion?"
"Bill is going into the battle pretending to be Harry," Dominique supplied. "And mum is going in pretending to be Hermione. At least, that's what mum and dad said to me after their last Order meeting."
The risk involved in this was jarring. Impersonating either Harry or Hermione was a death wish, yet both Bill and Fleur were willing. Dominique had explained it almost casually, despite it meaning that both her parent's were gambling their lives even further. Not for the first time, Molly was filled with a quiet anger towards her parents for going into hiding. She understood that they wanted to protect Lucy, but it didn't feel like enough of an excuse. They all had someone they needed to protect.
"You four," Fleur said, putting her slender hand on the table, in between all their resting elbows. Her eyes darted between them all, forcing them to sit upright. "You will be in my group, ze ones to get to ze Vault."
"Us?" Fred repeated incredulously.
"Do I look like I am talking to someone else?" Fleur replied haughtily. "Ees eet not English zat I am speaking? You will be in ze smaller group with me."
She walked away, waving her wand at a piece of parchment that followed her, a quill darting across the page to list names.
"Oh, Merlin, finally some action," Molly muttered. "I'm so tired of living like this."
"Hey, it's won't be for a while," Rowan warned. "We have a lot to do before then."
Molly didn't care—she couldn't wait. She thought again of the girl in Convent Garden with the plastic fairy wand and the probing, curious eyes that so reminded her of Lucy. The day was coming where this would all be over. The sooner they were in Gringotts the better.
They had decimated their Quidditch Pitch.
This was devastating news for both Lorcan and James, who no longer had the distraction of the school itself to keep them busy. They had hauled their brooms down to the pitch for what they were hoping would be a few recreational laps and the passing of a Quaffle, to find the entire pitch had been converted into a strange vegetable farm.
This was clearly the work of Hagrid, and while neither of the two young men could begrudge the school for taking necessary survival steps in producing enough sustainable food during a several month long siege, they were both beyond disappointed.
James needed constant distraction—it was the only way his recovery would progress in the right direction. And with a cyanic summer sky above them, getting on a broomstick would be better than a cure.
"Man, I hate bloody living on the grounds," James said, gritting his teeth.
They walked amid the vegetable patches, weaving their way through the dragon dung manure that softened the paludal pitch and stuck to their sneakers.
"If you go to Diagon Alley, though, you'll have to fight," Lorcan said quietly. He had suggested Diagon Alley more times than he could count—now that they were done with their seventh year, Lorcan was itching to go to Diagon Alley and join the rebels there. But he wasn't going to leave James behind. James was his family, his brother—and James was not about to rush into a battle.
"Fat chance of that," he snorted, reaffirming his decision for the thousandth time. He slapped his palm against the handle of his broom. "I want to live long enough to die, thanks."
"At least you're not so suicidal anymore," Loran replied brazenly. With a waggish grin, he selected one of the dark green cabbages from the patch and weighed it in his hand. "C'mon, this looks like a Quaffle. Goal is to keep passing it to each other without dropping it."
"I wouldn't mind a bit of cabbage Quidditch."
Cabbage Quidditch wasn't as disappointing at they thought, and the vegetable served as a decent, if somewhat more slippery, Quaffle. They only stopped when they noticed someone approaching the pitch. At first, they thought it was a teacher, so they stopped playing immediately, worried they were about to get scolded. Instead, they realised it was a girl, and on closer inspection, Isabella Nott.
"Merlin, what does she want?" James muttered as they wheeled their brooms around. Lorcan's mouth twisted to the side, stopping any comments from coming. There was no point poking his mate's bad mood.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Her fringe was stupidly long and kept falling over her eyes. "People are looking for you."
"What have I done now?" James demanded.
"Not you—Scamander. A whole bunch of us were trying to find you."
They hit the edge of the vegetable patch, Lorcan dismounting his broom. Lorcan was surprised to hear it. What had he done now?
"Your parents are here. Lysander has been trying to find you."
Since when had Isabella Nott been on first name terms with Lysander Scamander? The thought had to be dismissed in the more pressing prefix to the announcement. What were Luna and Rolf Scamander doing at Hogwarts?
Lorcan wasn't sure how he felt about this—about his parents being here, after having not seen them for such an extended period, having not even heard a word. They were in the middle of a war, so he tried not to dwell on thoughts that gave oxygen to his animosity, but he was angry at them. He didn't have excuses for them. His parents had never been good parents, not like James' parents were. Luna and Rolf were always travelling, always writing, always exploring; and while this had been fun when the twins were children, coming second to whatever great new project was next on their list was frustrating. They were loving parents, but too often absent. And even as Isabella Nott delivered the news, Lorcan knew with a seed of bitterness germinating in his gut, that they were not here for him. They were here for something else, and he was—as always—the after thought.
"Where are they?"
"Meeting with Harry Potter, I think," she said. "But Lysander is waiting for you in the Entrance Hall. I'll have to go tell the others to stop searching for you."
"Yeah, no worries. Thanks Nott," he said, shouldering his broom.
For the first time in a while, James was the one looking anxious. He took a few sludgy steps through the manure to get to Lorcan, but his best friend shook him off.
"It's fine. I'll catch up with you later, okay? Take my broom. Meet you down by Tent City."
They had decimated the Quidditch Pitch, and now they were ruining Lorcan's life. It was an irrational response to the situation, but James was irate. He dropped the cabbage, it's leaves already wilting and bruised from the battering it had taken in the sky.
"Hi," Isabella said.
"Your fringe looks ridiculous."
"I'm growing it out," she said, not a drop of self-consciousness in her voice. He had been expecting that line to annoy her. After a pause, some of her former whininess returned though, with an almost comforting quality. "Are you going to stay mad at me forever?"
"Who said I'm mad at you?" James asked, walking past her. Flecks of dung flew of his shoes. Isabella wrinkled her nose, which tweaked his humour a little. This was not a scenario where one could stop to smell the roses. Like the bottom of his boots, everything was shitty.
"Clearly you are angry at me."
"Don't have any anger in me, Nott. Not even a drop."
He felt something soggy and slightly wet hit him hard in the back of the head. He turned around, outraged and confused, spinning so erratically he almost slipped, to find their Cababge Quaffle lying at their feet.
"Give me Lorcan's broom."
"No."
"Give it to me."
"No," he snapped, pulling it out of her reach. "Get your own."
"Merlin, James—give it to me so we can play some Quidditch you barmy git."
He raised his eyebrows and lowered the broom. "Barmy git?"
"Go on," she said, taking the broom from his hand and throwing a leg over it.
But he couldn't let go of the insult. "Barmy git. Barmy git."
"Mount your broom, you lunatic," she huffed.
He mounted his broom, just as he was told.
They played Quidditch. He had forgotten that Isabella was good at Quidditch. That she had subbed into the Slytherin team. That she flew elegantly, like an acrobat, like a professional—better than a professional, too pretty for professional Quidditch. He eventually stopped passing her the cabbage, just to watch her.
"Teach me to do that," he said, pointing at her broom as she came out of an elegant loop-the-loop.
"Oh, honey, you think these skills can be taught?" she asked, battering her lashes at him. Grinning, she dived towards the ground again and he followed her.
"I'm not mad at you," he said, as he got off the broom. He hated doing this part. He hated doing the bit where he talked about how he felt, deep down in his guts, where everything was a coiling mess. He ran his jittery hands through his hair, and Isabella mimicked the action, running her fingers over her long bangs to brush them behind her ears. "I'm not mad at you. It wasn't your fault, what happened down at Hogsmeade."
"I should've been there with you," she said, frowning. "Even if I could explain where I was, it wouldn't make it any better."
"I don't need to hear it," James said, shaking his head. There was nothing more to do than sigh and accept his lot in life. To explain. To ease her own burden with the weight of the one he was carrying. "I have rotten luck, you know? There are some people who have all the luck in the world. Like you—you being born to this rich hoity-toity family, with money to spare. Or like Lorcan, was born naturally good looking and charming and great with girls."
"Oh, don't be thick—"
"No, but hear me out. I have really rotten luck, right? Like, not just when I'm gambling. Not just that I lost all my savings to bloody Romnuk the Rough. But that I always end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. At the Bent-Winged Snitches, both you and Lorcan were there too, yet it was somehow me who got messed up in goblin territory. And down in Hogsmeade, I was supposed to be meeting you for a date, but of course it was just me down there when a bunch of goblins showed up to go on a killing spree. It's not your fault you've never been involved in this shit, Belle. I just have a knack for getting on the wrong side of chance."
"That's bullshit," Isabella snapped, throwing Lorcan's broom back at him. "You can't just throw your hands up and say you're cursed under a cloud of misfortune."
"I'm not being dramatic, it's just true."
"No, it's not, James. It's perspective. I reckon that both Lorcan and I think you're bloody well lucky to have parents who love you so much, who are always around, who always want to put you first. I reckon you're lucky you have a family who cares this much, because that's actually not as common as you'd think. And I reckon that you're incredibly lucky to have faced Romnuk the Rough's gang three bloody times and always lived to tell the tale."
It was probably the smartest little speech Isabella Nott had ever said, and she seemed to know it too. She huffed, crossing her arms, as if expecting something. James watched her, his stomach flipping over in response to her words.
That maybe she was right. Maybe it was his perspective. Maybe he was being pessimistic.
And maybe having the Quiddicth pitch turned to a pastoral vegetable patch wasn't as bad as he had originally thought.
"So, anyone who's wanted to be evacuated has been relocated to Wales, which is our safest bet for now," Rolf had finished explaining, taking Luna's hand to try and regain her attention. They were in the Head Master's office, Neville behind the chair, Ginny perched on the desk corner, Harry standing by the window frame, a little further off than the others.
Luna's protuberant, pale eyes were staring up at the sleeping portrait of Professor Dumbledore, whose glasses had slid down his crooked nose, his beard rising and falling as he breathed. Rolf gave her hand another squeeze.
"Oh, yes, there's another reason why we are here," she said, her eyes turning from Neville to Ginny. "It's about your parents."
"We thought it best if we explain in person. And that way, you can break the news to the rest of your siblings," Rolf went on, clearing his throat.
These words, filled with their thundercloud portent, made Ginny straighten up like a cat with raised shackles. She waited, without saying a word, for what was about to come. Harry was moving towards her, nervously, orbiting closer to her as if he was a moon pulled to its planet, a gentle gravitational loop that set his world in motion. While Ginny had taken his surname, he often felt more like a Weasley than a Potter these days, so deep did his affinity with her family run.
"Your father is really ill," Rolf said, taking a deep breath and exhaling. "When we were transporting the last round of evacuees from the Burrow to Wales, he became so ill we couldn't bring him with us."
"What's happened to him?"
"It's just old age and fatigue," Luna said, softer now, and with much more regret. "Arthur stayed behind with your mum. We told them to contact you, but they haven't wanted to, knowing how very busy everyone is with the Order—"
"Is she mental? Dad's sick and she won't even drop a note? I'll kill that woman," Ginny muttered, already half standing, moving towards the door as if she was about to put the threat into action. Then she turned back, eyes wide. "How bad is it exactly?"
"Bad enough that we wanted to tell you," Rolf frowned.
"You need to see him, I think," Luna added.
This would have felt like a disaster even if it weren't happening in the middle of their goblin upheaval. Harry could see the look in his wife's eyes, her watery ferocity, that this was now the top priority. The only choice for Harry was to think logically, for if he let himself feel this, he would break down. Arthur and Molly really were his own family too, his own parents by extension.
"We go see them. As soon as possible. We get the family—"
"We can't tell the kids," she said wildly. "I know they'd kill us, but they'll want to come and it's just too hard for so many of us to move incognito."
"Not the kids. We get your brothers, and we go. We see them."
Ginny turned wildly back to Luna, her best friend and the godmother of her children, and clutched her shoulder so tightly she could have snapped her collarbone. "Is it deathbed bad? What if we got him to a hospital?"
"St Mungos isn't operating," Luna said quietly, shaking her head. "No one's there."
"A muggle hospital?"
Luna nodded slowly, her earring bobbling. "If your mother agrees. But Molly is quite stubborn when it comes to Muggle things…"
"Well, she's not the only stubborn one in this family," Ginny said through gritted teeth. She had grabbed Harry by the arm and was already pulling him to the door. "Let's get Ron. We have to go to Diagon Alley, find the others, and get straight to the Burrow."
"I'll go find Ron and Her—oh, bloody hell. Hermione won't be able to come, she has to monitor the Polyjuice Potion—but no, she has to come. We'll need to ask for someone else—can you ask Draco for me please, Neville, to watch it while it brews. Not that I trust him, but hopefully he won't cock this one up."
Luna blinked at Harry in surprise. "Draco Malfoy?"
"It's a long story," Neville muttered out of the side of his mouth.
"Well, I'd like to hear it later on, please. Once Ginny and Harry have departed to see Arthur, of course."
Ginny took Luna's hands tightly in her own, gripping them like vices, locking eyes and holding a very sombre gaze. Luna was just as calm as ever.
"You're staying, aren't you? At Hogwarts? There's no one else left to help escape."
"Of course we're staying," Luna replied, very measured, very matter of fact. "There's a battle to be fought, isn't there? I wouldn't want to miss this one."
Throwing her arms around Luna's shoulders, Ginny squeezed her as tightly as she could. Luna returned the embrace, stroking her hair gently, until finally their respective husbands had to ease their wives away from each other so they could get down to action.
"We better leave. Right now."
Lorcan always felt odd around his older brother. This strange imitation, stretched out so he was thinner and taller, a lankier build, a longer nose—but the same face, the same eyes, the same curl of blond hair. You could pick them a mile off, a Doubling Charm gone wrong in the womb, a weird Polyjuice Potion experiment that was close by not quite right. His twin, his complete opposite.
Unlike his brother, Lysander was a man of very few words. He was quiet, carefully spoken, a bit too airy for the average conversation, his eyes never finding you when he spoke to you, always off above your head, always pretending to pay attention while his mind was in the clouds.
And this was how he felt inside the unit of his family. Lorcan was a jocular joker, a rough and tumble Quidditch player. He had no appetency for books, or bird watching trips, or absurd dinner guests. He could not withdraw, for hours, into his own head. He was not like his mother or his father or his brother, was so very unlike his twin that he could hardly even express the irritation he felt towards his parents—because he knew Lysander would see it differently.
They watched their parents walk down the marble staircase, speaking to Professor Longbottom, who waved at the twins before parting ways, before heading towards the dungeons, before leaving the family alone for their unexpected reunion.
Their father warmly squeezed them into a hug. Both at the same time, the way he did when they were young, so they almost collided craniums. When he released them, their mother did her usual greeting, where she held them by the shoulders, looked pensively into their face with her penetrating gaze, before hugging them gently.
Lorcan squirmed under her gaze, under the hug too, under it all. He wished Nott hadn't come and found him. He wished he was still down at the cabbage patch, playing a ridiculous version of Quidditch.
"What's the matter," Luna said, taking his chin, holding him under that look. She had a way of piercing him with her pale blue eyes, that wide stare that was impossible to lie to.
"Nothing's the matter," he said, twisting his chin out of her fingers.
"Mm. You're clearly upset with us. Rolf, I think Lorcan is upset."
"Is that true, Lorcan, are you upset?"
Lysander looked at him, surprisingly coherent for once, so he had all three of them staring him down.
"No, I'm not upset. It's just been a while, alright? I didn't realise you were coming home."
"Home," Luna repeated, nodding solemnly. "Not that we have one of those anymore."
"We finished up all our business for the Order," Rolf said, a bit too jovially for the tone his son had set. He clapped both the twins on their shoulders. "How about we head down to the tents. What're they calling it now? Tent City?"
The twins followed their parents out into bright afternoon light, heading down the sloping lawn towards the Hogsmeade evacuees. Lorcan was flummoxed by this—by this expedition to the settlement, to even have his parents present.
"Are you planning on staying?" Lysander finally asked.
"Indefinitely," their mother replied, her long dirty blonde hair streaming in a tangle behind her. "Until the next battle, so we can help protect Hogwarts."
Lorcan felt the anger rushing up to his face, the sort of rage that usually made him want to throw a punch. His parents hadn't come back to see him or his brother, no motives to check in on them, shirking the concern that every other parent fawned over their children. And while, over his teenage years, Lorcan had become used to this flagrancy, this independence foisted upon him, he was suddenly irked by it. Angry. Upset, even.
They came to the outskirts of the tents, where their father was already using his wand to erect some poles, to get the structure up in place, ropes flying to the soil. Lorcan stopped several paces away from them.
"Oh, Lorcan, what's the matter?" Luna asked again. She probed him with that look again, those big saucer eyes, like two moons in her pale face. He hated how his mother could do that—this unnerving display of attention, of perception, that would vanish only a moment later.
"Blimey, I've said nothing, mum. Nothing's wrong."
"I can tell."
Again, everyone was staring at him. He wondered, with frustration, why his brother didn't see things like he did. Yes, Lysander was more aligned with his parent's outlooks on life, but surely he was also annoyed by their absence, by their selfish inattention to their offspring. Surely, it bothered him too.
But Lysander was only frowning at him, puzzled.
"I'm not going to live with you three," he said, finding his voice. "Sorry. But I'm not. I've been sharing a tent with James and I'm going to keep doing that."
"Well," his father began gruffly, "James is welcome to join our family—"
"James is welcome to join us? Well, you've hardly ever sent me an invitation to join this family so I'm not surprised that you'd extend it first to James."
Lysander was frowning more than ever, his mouth a perfect little arc. Rolf was blustering, trying to pluck the words out of the air to express his surprise. But Luna, as always, with her penetrating stare, said what was on Lorcan's mind.
"He's angry at us for leaving for so long."
"That's not all," he added, challenging his mother.
"And I think he's probably feeling a bit like a fish out of water with us around," she acknowledged, as if she was some polite translator hired to interpret Lorcan's moods to his father.
"C'mon, Lorcan," Rolf sighed. "We're here all together now. It'll be like old times, like when we went on all those camping trips—"
"I hated those camping trips," he snapped back, feeling much younger now. Snide and sullen, like a kid. "You and mum and Lysander would go off and bird watch diricawls and augureys."
"Well, that's good fun, isn't it?" Rolf replied, flabbergasted.
"I'm gonna go find James. I'll see you around, I guess."
Lysander said his name, once, as he turned and walked away—but no one came after him, which he figured proved his point. He had never been one for this family.
Lorcan was bristling with anger when he returned to his own tent, ready to get stuck into his parents, to spew his vitriol to James, to vent until his veins popped. But all this fury was undercut when, to his surprise, there were girls in his tent.
Two girls. Two Slytherin girls.
And a bottle of whiskey.
"Oi, he's back! That's was quick," James said, cheerfully—rosy cheeked.
Lorcan took a step back, hesitating, his heat muddled with confusion. They were sitting on a pile of cushions on the floor that the boys had been using as a sitting area. It was a rather paired back tent, very little inside it. A set of bunk beds, a kettle, a bench. Its spartan decor could not match what he imaged the Slytherin common room to look like, only baffling him further.
"Since when do we take houseguests?" Lorcan frowned.
"We just finished a game of Cabbage Quidditch," Isabella Nott said, crossing her legs. "Thought we deserved to relax post match."
"And what're you going here?" Lorcan added, nodding to Alice Lim.
She held up the bottle, large and heavy, the amber liquid sloshing around in it, and raised both her eyebrows as if to question why he needed to ask.
"We bumped into Alice and asked her along," Isabella clarified, a little defensively.
"I heard there was whiskey," she added. "Which has been harder to source since the start of the siege, so it was enough to convince me."
Lorcan gave James a pointed look. A will this just fuck you up again look, which his friend flinched away from, shaking his head, acting innocent.
"I haven't even taken a drink."
"He hasn't," Isabella corroborated.
"Where'd you get the bottle, then?"
"From Hagrid's hut. He won't miss it," Alice said.
It was clear then that he wasn't getting rid of them. Lorcan settled into the pillow pile, taking the bottle as Isabella passed it to him and gulping from its neck. At least if he drank the alcohol, James wouldn't. If there was one thing that would set James off again, it would be him diving into the drink. Even the smell of it in their close quarters was making Lorcan edgy. He took a second gulp and passed it along to Lim, letting the whiskey punch the back of his throat with its fiery fist.
"How'd it go with your parents?" James asked.
With a shifty look, Lorcan assessed the two girls. Lorcan liked the company of girls. He liked the way he puffed up, all bravado, all aplomb, whenever he was around a girl. He liked to flirt. He was a flirty sort of guy, easily charming, disarming, a little gruff in the way that girls liked. It was hard to talk about something real and humiliating and crippling in front of two girls, even if he would never stand a chance with them anyway.
"It was fine."
"Fine?" James repeated, unconvinced. He even scoffed. Lorcan noticed that he was tossing the bottle cap up into the air and catching it, all left-handed. "Since when is your interaction with your family just fine?"
He shrugged, hoping for Merlin's sake that he would just drop it.
"Your parents are here?" Alice asked, surprised. "On the grounds?"
"Staying here, yes."
"Ah, lucky you. My parents are stuck in Diagon Alley."
Lorcan knew Alice, but not very well. He knew her because they often sat together on the train ride from King's Cross Station to Hogwarts, linked by mutual friends. He knew her from Quidditch after parties and birthdays in Rose's childhood. She was a rough kind of girl, as blunt in her personality as she was in her haircut. He couldn't imagine anything stopping her from becoming a rebel at Diagon Alley. "You haven't thought about joining them there? I mean, there's no real point in finishing your final year. If you want to fight—"
"I want to stay put," Alice replied, cutting across him, "because there will come a time where this is the place that will be attacked. It won't stay a stronghold forever. And I'm not leaving my girls."
"Your girls?" James frowned.
She nodded begrudgingly towards her roommate. "Nott and Weasley. I'm going to stick around and see this through."
Isabella made a high pitch little sound that seemed to convey how moved she was, reaching out to brush Alice's hand, which the other girl only battered away with a roll of her eyes. As if to clear her palette of the sentimentality, she took a gulp of the whiskey.
"Well, my parent's are in France, I think," Isabella shrugged, taking the bottle back. "They pissed right off when I told them I was staying. You'd think they'd never even had a child."
Lorcan held out a hand, reaching for the bottle, and Isabella handed it over. He took a gulp.
"I suppose the only one who can't complain is James."
James winced warily and nodded, his eyes following the bottle, but he never reached for it. Instead, he just watched it circulate, three sets of lips closing around the bottleneck, the gulp as the throat took the amber liquid down.
"My Dad always says your family isn't who you're related to, it's who you choose to have in your life," he said.
"Easy to say when your parents are always around," Alice scoffed.
"Our parents are gone," Albus said, drawing Rose aside. They were on their way to the library, where they had planned another of their gruelling study sessions, their vain attempt to swallow all the information on the shelves. Scorpius was already there. Rose and Albus were arriving late because they were sent on the brigade that was supposed to locate Lorcan Scamander. Now, it appeared they would be even later, as Albus pulled his cousin into a niche in the wall where a suit of armour used to stand.
"What do you mean?"
"Both my mum and dad, and your mum and dad are gone," Albus repeated, his green eyes wide. "I overhead Neville telling Hannah that they would be leaving through the Portkey Doorway."
"Perhaps they just have to duck off to Diagon Alley for a meeting or something."
"Neville said that he would send their bags after them and make sure it arrives before they do."
Rose clucked her tongue, allowing this to sink in. She didn't comment on her cousin's eavesdropping, a family habit he had always insisted he never partook in. Instead, she continued down the hall, onto the library, and he followed her. She was turning over the reasons why their parents would leave in secret, without telling them. They were on the Order now—there was no need to be kept in the dark.
They entered the library. They were almost always alone in here now, piles of incunabula teetering in their return trays, never to be returned to their shelves. There was always more to read, more to retain.
Scorpius was already surrounded by a new pile of books, all to do with the Philosopher's Stone. He was bent over Apis Philosophorum: The Magnum Opus of Nicholas Flamel. The cousins took seats on either side of him, pulling up their own books—Rose selected The Midas Touch: Gold Beyond Measure and Albus opened a revised edition of Alchemy's Secrets to Eternal Life. They began tediously flipping through the worn down pages.
"Is this today's project?" Rose asked after a pause.
"Mhm. You were both late."
"We had stuff to do. Something's going on," Rose added, her words weighted.
Scorpius was forced to place down his book, which emitted a little cloud of dust upon making contact with the table, and look them both in the eye. He waited, stoic and expectant, for an explanation.
"The Scamanders are here—as in, their parents, are here. And our parents are gone, without telling us why," Albus said.
"The Scamanders are here," Scorpius frowned, "and both your parents left? That's odd."
"You don't think it's for some mission, do you? They're taking luggage with them."
"My guess would be as good as yours," Scorpius sighed. "Although, it is very strange that Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry would all leave in a rush without even informing their children that they're going."
Scorpius returned back to Apis Philosophorum but didn't seem to be taking in a word this time, his grey eyes glazed over in thought. Rose's own mind was whirling. Her relationship with Albus and Scorpius was tenuous at best these days, and was only loosely held together by their shared investment in revenge upon Romnuk the Rough. As long as they could focus on that, the rest of their tensions could be laid to rest, rendered secondary, an itch compared to an open wound. Their parents operating in secret threatened that equilibrium. It infuriated Rose, who finally felt like she was in on the action, to be locked back outside of it again.
"I have an idea," Albus said, lowering his book, keeping his thumb on the page. The others both turned to him, taut as harp strings. "The Goblin King is after a Philosopher Stone. Imagine the bargaining power we would have if we got a hold of one."
"It's not possible. There aren't any in existence," Scorpius began, rattling away like a verbal encyclopaedia. "They are almost impossible to recreate, only Flamel had perfected the method and he left no instructions for it anywhere—"
"But what if we could make a very convincing copy," Albus said slowly. "Enough that it could fool the King."
"That could work," Rose said slowly. "How would we use that to our advantage?"
"I dunno," Albus shrugged. "But it could come in handy, if we need to make a bargain."
"Goblins hate being tricked," Scorpius warned.
"So, we have to make it convincing."
Everyone paused to consider this proposition. Rose took a deep breath and placed her hands flat on the table top. "Do you think you and Scorpius could make a fake?"
Scorpius was already shaking his head, dismissing the idea. "The only alchemist who could make a convincing copy would be Stella Bellucci."
"So we find Stella Bellucci. We have her make one. We give ourselves a little more power."
"It's not a bad idea," Rose agreed.
But the pair of cousins had not convinced their Slytherin cohort, who was regarding them with a prudent look. "It's worth proposing at the next Order meeting," Scorpius said carefully. But they knew doing so would just shoot down the idea—Scorpius knew so too.
"No, we need to do this, for us." Rose was determined now, shutting her book. Albus did the exact same. "Being in the Order isn't helping us do our job."
"Our job?"
"The prophecy is about us," Albus agreed. "So why are we always being left in the dark? We should take matters in our own hands."
"But we don't even know why they want the Stone," Scorpius protested. "You two never think things through to the end. How will this really be of any use—"
"It'll just be a Plan B, alright?" Rose huffed. "We can iron out the details later."
"She's right. Some things are worth the gamble." Albus ripped a page out of the book in front of him. Scorpius winced, looking around as if expecting a non-existent librarian to come down upon them with wrath. "Let's go."
It was not common knowledge where Stella Bellucci was being held, so it took the trio some time to discover her whereabouts—first questioning a host of their usual sources (for the first time ever, Lily didn't know) before Albus resorted to the Marauder's Map. He collected it from his trunk and shuffled into a classroom with the other two, unfolding it with his wand and muttering the rueful words, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Scorpius leaned in, his grey eyes widening ever so slightly as he took in the multi-faceted map, it's hundred of dots swarming like ants over the parchment.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A family heirloom," Albus replied, squinting down at the parchment. He folded the map once, then unfolded it to reveal the East Wing of the school.
"She's here, in one of the towers."
"This map is fascinating—surely this sort of advanced magic would be prohib—"
"We need to get everything ready before we see her," Albus said, tucking the map into his pocket. "We have to go to the dungeons."
They took several shortcuts—one of the moving staircases, then a trick wall that led to a staircase, and soon they were almost upon the potion's rooms—when they decided to part ways. Rose would go and collect her cauldron from her dormitory, and the boys (who had a year's worth of Alchemy training) would filch the necessary ingredients. Rose vanished around the corner leading to the Slytherin Common Room, and the boys made their way to the Potion's storeroom.
"Hold on," Albus muttered, consulting the map once more. His eyebrows leapt to his dark messy curls. "Your father's in there."
"What? But—"
"Yeah, I know. Hermione is supposed to be brewing the Polyjuice Potion."
"I guess she left him in charge," Scorpius muttered, tight lipped. "He is the Potion's teacher here now."
"Interim Potion's teacher," Albus corrected, a little wry.
"Touché. Thank you."
"You need to go in and distract him."
"Me?"
"Well, I need to get to the bloody store room, don't I?"
Scorpius huffed, running his fingers over his silver hair as if to straighten out his waves into their previous gelled style. Then, giving up on that, he nodded once and motioned for Albus to hide. Scorpius entered the Potion Master's office.
Only the light of the fires beneath the cauldrons was casting the room into relief, glinting off the many pickled preservatives on the shelves. There were two cauldrons set up on the bench. Just by the smell and the quality of the smoke, Scorpius could tell that the potion was about one third through the completion process. Scorpius moved through the haze, towards his father, who glanced up at him and then returned his attention to the second cauldron.
"I was hardly expecting a visit," Draco said, cold and prim.
Scorpius drew near to the first cauldron, peeking in, his hands resting on the edge of the bench.
"The lacewing flies are coming along swimmingly," Scorpius said. He mustn't be tense. His father would pick that up in a moment. He could sniff it on him like a hound. Keep cool, yes. But not tense. He kept his eyes on the crystallising wings bubbling beneath the potion's surface until he was certain he could keep his eyes flat, cold as stones. Then he looked up. "Are you babysitting Hermone's Polyjuice Potion?"
"Why the insolence?"
"Well, it just needs to brew. And if you set it to self stir with a Transfigiration charm, you can leave it unattended."
"Could I now?" Draco said quietly, twirling his wand between his fingers. He had not dropped his piercing grey gaze. Scorpius could feel it, pressing in around the corners of his mind like hands against glass. It wasn't forceful prying; just intrigue, but it made Scorpius clench up internally, turn his brain to a fist. He moved towards the cauldron, tapping the ladle with his wand and setting it to slowly stir.
"Let's go for a walk," Scorpius said. "I wanted to talk to you."
"Do you?"
Scorpius had the power, he knew. His father was trying to pry into his head, which meant that his offer to talk—an offer for information, for insight—would be enough to hook him in. He left the office and he knew, without needing to turn around, that his father was following him.
Ten minutes would be all they needed. Albus would have that marvellous map open, would know the coast was clear, could steal those ingredients and then be out by the time they returned. He wouldn't spend a minute more alone with his father.
They made their way out into the grounds, where the day was overcast but muggy. They didn't head towards the tents but instead made their way to the lake, where it expanded like a silver mirror. Ripples from the Giant Squid teased the top of the water.
"You would be a great Potioneer, you know," Draco said, glancing at his son. It was a slightly stiff compliment, kind but oozing with ulterior motives, imbued with a push towards ambition. His mother usually delivered those sort of compliments much more delicately. "You have a natural gift for it."
"I don't think it matters either way."
"Nonsense. This war won't last forever Scorpius. Sooner than later, you will realise it is necessity to leave this place. And you can take your Potioneering talent with you. In fact, many other countries privilege those skills more highly than the British—"
"I'm not going anywhere, Dad," Scorpius said, cuttingly. They stopped by the edge of the lake, where the pale pebbles shifted under their polished shoes. He was glad his father couldn't get into his head. Not when he still dreamed of becoming an Alchemist, a miracle worker. That he would one day discover the cure for lycanthropy. That he would then, perhaps when he was older, become a Herbology teacher, and the public would marvel at his humility. These ridiculous daydreams.
Draco brushed his fingers over his long, slick ponytail, then threw it over his shoulder.
"What did you wish to talk about?"
"Hmm?" Scorpius turned towards the water, pretending to be pensive, trying to think. "You mentioned to Rose something about being a seventh year."
Draco sniffed and turned away. "I told her what she needed to know."
"But what about the book?"
Draco turned to Scorpius and frowned. "The book?"
"That small, black book the seventh years gave us?"
"I never saw a small black book," Draco said slowly. "I left, Scorpius. I didn't want to be a fagmaster. I didn't come back."
"So, you don't really have a clue, do you?"
He could feel his father's eyes on him again, boring into his profile, studying the soft curve of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw. A face between a child and a man.
"I am proud of you," Draco said carefully to the side of his son's face. "Both your mother and I are. We wanted you to be better than we were, and you have been."
Scorpius didn't respond to this. He remained impassive, no ripple on his face, stiller than the lake. A part of him had opened at the words, like a clam in steam, but he didn't dare meet his father's gaze. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe his father was lowering his guard to get into his head, and these words were merely a net to catch him in.
"I am glad you chose to stay for the remaining year. Even with my poor advice, you have never repeated my mistakes."
His father turned to look out at the water, and Scorpius turned to study his profile now. The silver in his temples was almost indistinguishable from his blond hair—almost, but not quite. He wondered if there would ever be a day where he would meet his father's eyes.
"We should go back. Hermione would be furious if you messed up her potion."
"If you messed it up, I think is what you meant," his father replied archly. But they turned away from the lake and headed back towards the castle, shoes crunching from the pebbles to the grass.
They walked all their way back to the dungeons, only passing Peeves on the way, who was vandalising the portraits with chalk. The office was as empty as they left it, the ladle still turning on its own, the potions still brewing. They didn't say another word to one another. Draco took his position behind the cauldron once more and Scorpius left, as if nothing had been shared.
Confronting Stella Bellucci was enough to make Rose's stomach turn. Nerves were the last emotion she had expected to feel. She had felt so hard over the course of the summer, a hermit crab in a shell, tough exterior and sharp claws and everything soft tucked away inside. Seeing Bellucci, and demanding this of her, was enough to make her a little sick inside.
They climbed the East Wing tower, supporting the heavy cauldron between them as they mounted the spiral staircase—as always, doing something that hadn't been thought through. At least this didn't risk any of their lives, she consoled herself. It would just be a power ploy—and an important one too.
Because whether she liked it or not, the three of them were alone. They couldn't depend on anyone else to get the job done—not the Order and certainly not the adults. It had to be them, and they needed as many aces up their sleeve as they could find.
The landing on the very top of the tower had a locked door. They placed the heavy cauldron down on the stone with a clang. Scorpius withdrew his wand and tried Alohomora, with no results. Albus squeezed past him, his own wand withdrawn. "I read about a tricky door opening charm that may work," he said, pointing his want not at the lock but at the door's hinges and reciting the incantation. To their surprise, it did indeed work—the door's hinges melted away, and they were able to kick it in.
Stella Bellucci startled in her cell.
The glamorous, award winning teacher that had nettled them for months with her melodious voice was entirely changed. Her slick brown hair had become greasy and lank, her face plain and pallid, her robes unwashed. Gone where the airs and grace. She leapt out of the bed set up against the wall and moved clumsily into a duelling position, wand in hand, but Rose had disarmed her before she had even said a spell.
"They let you keep your wand," she said, surprised. She held it in her left fist, and kept her wand trained on her former professor.
Bellucci glared at the three of them, her face twisting into a sour look.
"We have a proposition," Albus said, dragging the cauldron into the room. "We need you to make a Philosopher's Stone."
"Ridiculous," Bellucci trilled, her voice a little too high. "Absurd suggestion."
"A counterfeit Philosopher's Stone," Scorpius corrected. "It just needs to look like one."
Albus held up the torn page from the library book, the image of a blood red stone glistening on the parchment. Stella raised her eyebrows, and then ruffled her fingers through her hair and dropping her eyelids, pretending to be glib. She turned towards the narrow window in the wall, pressing her fingers to the coloured panes in the glass.
"That will still take me months," she snapped, then laughed quite suddenly. "Are you quite gifted enough to produce a little counterfeit stone?"
"We don't have that sort of time," Rose interrupted coldly. "Whereas you don't have much else to do trapped inside a prison cell."
Stella whipped around at them, grinning. She ran her fingers through her lank hair again, as if trying to neaten it. "I like to sometimes pretend that I'm a princess locked up in a tower, guarded by a dragon, and someone is coming to save me," she said, her smile a little wild. "But I was never the sort of person who waited around to be saved—I never needed to be saved from anything. I wasn't the damsel or the hero."
"I suppose you wouldn't need saving when you're villain," Rose said coldly.
"Oh, honey," Stella broke into another high pitch laugh, gripping her robes. "Sweet little petal, I am not the villain. I'm the dragon in this story. I'm just an opportunist. So—what's in it for me? If I make your Stone, what do I get?"
They contemplated for a moment, sharing shifty looks. They hadn't talked about this. They hadn't worked out what it was that would motivate Bellucci to do what they asked. And it was in her nature to strike a bargain.
"We'll give you freedom," Rose said, spitting the words out bitterly.
"And go behind your mummy's back?" Stella asked, her eyebrows rising again. "Well, isn't that a little bit wicked? You know, the reason they let me keep my wand is because Granger put all sorts of enchantments on that door. I couldn't crack them. And then you three just blast the damn thing open! How marvellous, how absolutely stupendous!"
She must have been going mad, locked up in the tower. Or maybe she had always been mad. They inched a little closer to the doorway.
"What stopping me from making a break for it right now?"
"You don't have a wand," Rose said, gripping it more tightly. "And you're outnumbered. I've beat you once already. It won't be hard to do it when you're unarmed."
"Oh, Rose—you were never as clever as the boys in potions, but you knew how to pack a punch, didn't you, darling? I could see it in you right away, from the moment we brushed shoulders—you didn't like me, of course, but I'm quite used to that. Very few women do. But it's absolutely wonderful when you meet a woman who's just a willing climb her way to the top. I saw that in you. You wouldn't stop. You'd do whatever it took. Whether that meant getting the best mark in the class, or whether that meant avenging that little gir—"
"Don't talk about her!" Rose roared, drawing both the wands, with both her hands. Sparks crackled from the end of them, sizzling in the circular chamber.
Bellucci's manic smile faded, leaving in its wake her former doe-eyed look. She widened her dark eyes, brown and warm, full of a glazed despondency.
"I didn't mean for her to die—she was such a cute little thing. One of the better members of my second year class, and ace on a broom too! I really just wanted her to succeed, didn't I? That's all I ever want. I like to help the successful ones reach their potential. That way, they help me reach my potential. But that's not the way the world works, darling. Don't you see it yourself? The weak perish. The weak must perish. It's the natural order of things. And you must do whatever it takes so you're not heaped into the pile with all the other weak ones. You must lie and cheat and steal and even kill. Whatever it takes."
Rose didn't respond this time. She was baiting her into a fight. She was deranged, perhaps so much so that her brain had wasted away and there would be no chance of a Stone being made anyway. It was better to stay silent, to lower the two wands. To swallow her grief and her fury and save it for Romnuk, when they finally came face to face.
Stella sensed that the argument was over. She drew back into herself, inhaling deeply and then deflating. Once more, she became lost in her false superficiality, trying to catch her reflection in the narrow window, pruning her hair.
"That's why I made all those potions, you know?" Stella said, with a shrug, still fixing her hair. "The potions to get rid of Squibs and Werewolves. I was paid quite a bit by the Department of Mysteries—oh, you know Government jobs. They pay so well, and the perks! And I got into Gladstone's good books that way. But I could tell he wasn't all there, even before he got in as the Minister. So I got out—I pulled a few strings and I took the job here. I had to do whatever it took to stay alive. I'm not a bad person," she pouted, turning toward them again, appealing to them in a childish voice. "I never used the potions—not ever! I just made the weapons, but I never used them. They should be punished, not me! I never meant for Meredith to go into that pub, I never thought that would happen! Why is it my fault? Blame them—blame them, out there."
She pointed out towards the narrow window, her finger trembling.
It was Scorpius who now took a tentative step forward, his face steely and cool. He spoke calmly, his voice measured.
"You can right the balance a little by doing this for us. We've also needed to lie, cheat and steal. That's how we'll get the goblins. And this may help us. And, we'll give you your freedom, too. Once it's done."
Stella regarded her young former apprentice with ardent eyes, looking him up and down as if about to appraise him. Then she swept forward, peering into the cauldron.
"All the ingredients are in there?" she asked.
"All of them," Albus confirmed.
"And when it's done, I can go?" she said, looking at them with large eyes. "You'll let me escape."
"Guaranteed."
"Hmmm. Alright. It'll be our little secret, I suppose. I'll need my wand back though."
Rose stared at her, cold but furious. She would never trust this woman. Not before, with her singsong lies; not now, with her dissonant ramblings. Stella leaned forward, her body lithe as a snake's, hands resting on the lip of the cauldron.
"I'll put the wand in the cauldron. Step back against the wall and don't come near it until we seal the door back in place," Rose said, waving the others behind her.
"Just like an Auror, aren't you? Well, I'm always one to comply when it suits me. Here I am, against the wall. Just drop the wand in, won't you? I'll show you how well a proper lady can behave, Rose, dear."
The boys had levitated the door back to the bracket. Rose dropped Bellucci's wand and slowly moved backwards, her own weapon still pointing at the potion master. She never turned her back.
"Oh," Stella said, smiling coyly, back still against the wall. "You missed kill."
"Sorry?" Rose said.
"Before, I said I've had to lie, cheat, steal and kill. Scorpius forgot to say kill."
Rose stepped back into the landing. Albus moved forward to bring the floating door back into its frame. Bellucci grinned at the confusion on their faces.
"Don't forgot, you three have killed too. Goblins, little girls. Those deaths are on your hands too."
The door squealed back into its hinges, leaving the unhinged behind the metal.
A/N: Everyone has been clamouring for James and Isabella. I never intended them to be endgame (still don't) but due to popular demand, they're featured together yay.
Thank you for everyone's kind words and support. Work and life has kept me on my toes, but I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. The next one is a fun one (mostly).