Brace For Impact: Chapter Five: Brakebills Summer Semester

AN: So, the events leading into year five were supposed to be in a single chapter, but it kinda got away from me, so this is part one of three. We're really starting to diverge, so we're shifting more heavily towards the Magicians lore and mythology in general. But its cooler than HP anyways. :) We're about to find that the world is so much bigger than the MoM likes to believe.

Also, we're getting into heavier and darker themes so the rating was increased, some of which have been there all along but we haven't had the chance to really delve into their consequences. Trigger warnings for this chapter: graphic depictions of death, frank discussions about sex, casual aphobia whilst drunk, references to (essentially) genocide, comparisons of non-consensual magic use to rape, suicidal thoughts (past for Hope, present for another character).


It was easy to hide in the ramparts of the Great Hall. With the spelled ceiling, there was no one to see Hope where she sat. No one wanted her to be in that hall to begin with, not the Hufflepuffs, at least. And Hope could understand that, but if she'd been the one that died, she was certain that Gryffindor House wouldn't've shunned Cedric…but people always seemed to think that Hope deserved less than what she got (and what she got was often scraps).

"There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight," Dumbledore was speaking solemnly and Hope was barely listening, looking down at the blade in her hand.

Voldemort had survived her stabbing him, no doubt; they probably had the same 'bold of you to assume I can die' gene. Ron and Hope had gotten into Fred and George's Firewhisky a few weeks back -while Hermione had looked on in judgement- and had gotten into what they would ask for if a genie offered them a wish; Hope had been a little tipsy when she'd requested 'not being able to murdered would be great' and then promptly had a coughing fit and had felt like something was burrowing into her stomach, which had led to her running to the bathroom to puke.

Hope shook herself out of her thoughts, returning her attention to the sword. She frowned deeply; it might've saved her from Rookwood and Tom, but holding it felt like being weighed down, like she was in the bottom of the ocean and there were rocks pressing down on her and she couldn't fucking breathe.

The eyes reflected on the blade were entirely black and Hope looked away quickly.

There was nowhere to go and Hope just wanted everything to be fixed…she wanted Cedric to not be dead, she wanted her parents to not be dead…she wanted to know what it felt like to hug James Potter and she wanted to rage against her mother's choices. Who entered into a deal with a god offering up their firstborn, anyways?

People who weren't meant to be mothers, undoubtedly. Mirror Lady had said she'd loved Hope, but the doubts were smoldering in the burning ruin of her rage.

"You ran away! Coward!"

"How do we know you didn't kill him?"

"Hope Potter kills everything she touches!"

She wasn't surprised by how quickly she'd been turned on. Hogwarts was practically a school of backstabbing and Hope still remembered how suicidal it had made her at twelve; two years later and it wasn't any better. There had been other less kind things said and even a few curses thrown in, but Hope had gotten rather good at shield spells and offensive magic this term, even if she hated wand magic.

(Besides, Fred had a tendency to materialize out of nowhere with a few nasty spells and a glower to curdle milk while his twin did the best to steer her away and talk loudly about something new he was working on; Hope appreciated them both.)

Hope was just glad that at least the Diggorys bore her no ill will, despite losing their son, they had been impossibly kind.

And Hope hadn't deserved it.

Hope heard the murmur of "Cedric" and the clinking of glasses, pausing suddenly when Dumbledore said "Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort." She flicked her wrist to send the knife flying to lodge in the plank opposite her, turning her attention from the knife to scowl down at Dumbledore. She'd said nothing of the sort, of course, Hope had told no one about that night. But suddenly now he cared about the truth. He hadn't cared when Sirius was thrown in prison for a crime he didn't commit, or when he explained away Hope's bruises and broken limbs, or when he did nothing when the entire school made her the enemy at twelve.

Dumbledore, it seemed, had a one-track mind and that one track was Voldemort.

The shadows flickered around her malevolently.

When she looked back, the knife had vanished, leaving only an indent in the plank to indicate it had been there at all; Hope could only sigh heavily, tilting her head back to stare at the endlessly shifting enchantment above her.

"The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so -either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory."

Hope tuned him out, breathing in and out deeply with a quiet murmur of "Three things cannot be long hidden, the sun, the moon, the truth. Three things cannot be long hidden, the sun, the moon, the truth…"

"I admit I do like what you've done with the place."

Hope blinked in surprise. Quinn was the one to get her to make a sort of safe place in her own mind. "Your mind is more than a trap to outsiders trying to break in," they'd reminded her. "It's a safe place for you more than anyone else. Make traps to hell and back, but remember to make a room for yourself."

For the longest time it had been Quinn's office with their drapes and crystals, but it had changed to Hope's room at Thalatta. The crimson bedspread, the windows opened wide to see the beautiful wine-dark sea, the ceiling plastered with stars that glowed in the dark simply because Hope liked them, assorted pictures on her desk next to a bowl of pomegranate seeds.

And reflected in her mirror was Mirror Lady -Morrigan, Hope had to get used to saying her name- and Hope twisted around, suddenly angry. "This is my mind!" she hissed. "You can't just come and go as you please!"

Morrigan arched an eyebrow, picking up the picture on Hope's desk of her and Dean, grins wide and impossibly bright. "I'm a god, I can go wherever I please and do whatever I please." As if to make a point, she let go of the picture, the glass covering shattering over Dean's frozen smile, and Hope suddenly remembered what Diane had said about her.

"Gods aren't good and they aren't evil, even ones with power over death or chaos, they act their will upon their world without regard to consequence and without thought of petty human disagreements…making things personal with a god takes effort."

The last conversation she'd had with Morrigan had been so long ago, about what Lily Potter had done for magic, how she'd given up her first born for it…and the more Hope thought about her, the angrier she became. At Lily and at Morrigan. Lily who gave her up thoughtlessly, and Morrigan who had given Hope more love than her own son.

Dean was many imperfect things -like everyone else- but if there was one person in the world who deserved that love more than Hope, it was him.

Hope bristled, teeth clenched and fists balled. But she'd had years of practice of reining in her temper, forcing the screams silent. She settled for glaring. "Can I help you?" she bit out.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. "You were less angry the last time I saw you."

"Things change," Hope said. People were dead and she'd had time to process how fucked up it was that Morrigan had never been a part of Dean's life.

Morrigan considered her calmly with those dark eyes that were the exact color and shape of Dean's; that didn't help things.

"I have tried to be kind and patient, but you are running out of time, so I must be harsh and cold," Morrigan said, stepping over the fallen picture, glass crunching under her boot. For a moment her form shimmered and Hope thought she saw the glitter of armor and blood stains before it flickered away.

Hope scoffed under her breath, crossing her arms.

Morrigan's voice was as sharp as a knife and it cut just as deep. "Death happens regardless of if you do not wish it. You feel guilty because you couldn't stop it, but to know does not mean it can be stopped. You can no more stop change than you can stop the tides…and you are capable of great change, you just can't see it."

Hope's eyes burned black. "I don't want to change! I don't want this! Who would want this? Years and years of knowing when people are going to die? That's a terrible curse!"

"Some would consider it a blessing."

"It's a burden!" Hope fired back angrily.

"I have never met someone so resistant to change, you are so like your brother." The words were meant to make her angry and Hope glowered.

"Dean's a better person and you'd know that if you bothered to check up on him!"

Hope saw Morrigan's eyes that time, like dark fire burning and she took an automatic step back, knowing intrinsically that she'd overstepped her bounds. "I don't want this, any of this! And you keep wanting me to change!"

"The removal of your magical core will solve many of your problems," Morrigan replied. "Your refusal—"

"It's my problem and I'll solve it myself!" Hope pressed a hand hard against her chest. "Making a deal with a god hasn't gone over well for any of my mothers."

Morrigan's mouth thinned into a hard line. "Asking for help does not make you weak. Perhaps you are more afraid of how different you will be when the core is no longer there. That you will no longer be of value without your magic."

It was like an ice bucket had been upended down her spine. Hope glowered. "I just want to be me!" she insisted, throwing her hands up. "Why won't you let me?!"

"Because who you are right now involves denying most of what you are! You smoothed your rough edges to fit into the holes the humans want you to, not caring if it kills you! Who you are right now is STAGNATION!"

Hope's heart jolted in her chest -for a moment she was seven and Vernon was raising a hand to hit her- and she took too many steps backwards and fell back, landing somewhere that looked both familiar and very different.

It was almost like being underwater and in space at the same time, with chunks of rock floating around but looking up from where she was floating was like being in the darkest part of the Black Lake and seeing the sunlight beyond the surface of the water.

"Where am I?" Hope wondered aloud.

"Between worlds," came the ragged whisper and Hope twisted around in the air, looking for the one that spoke, but not matter how long she scrutinized the area, she couldn't see anything. "In a realm of darkness, devoid of light and reason…a place where shadows and chaos thrive."

"Oh, lovely," Hope said, in the way that fourteen-year-olds speak when they're emotionally over the world and honestly what else could the world throw at them that could surprise them? "This doesn't look nearly as dark for being a realm of darkness."

"Most find this place very terrifying," the whisper sounded vaguely amused as Hope twisted her head, looking around, trying to find the source of the voice.

"I'm not most people," Hope said, feeling so very tired.

It seemed to almost consider her. "No, you're not," it decided, before adding, "You won't find me. I am everywhere and nowhere. What cannot be seen whenever it's there, fills up a room, it's much like the air, cannot be touched, there's nothing to hear, is quite harmless, there's nothing to fear?"

Hope paused, struck dumb for a moment, staring at nothing and everything. "Are you asking me a riddle?"

"I hear you're quite fond of them." She could practically hear the aching fondness, making her cheeks pink as she shifted her eyes away.

"Someone's been carrying tales," Hope grumbled, coughing suddenly into her hand and staring at the speckle of blood there. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, wiping at her mouth. "Darkness, the answer's darkness."

"It is," the voice agreed.

"Are you darkness?" Hope countered. "The primordial god of darkness?"

There was a stilted silence. "I was hoping it would take longer," it sounded almost disappointed, like it was positively deflating at how short it had taken her to figure it out.

"Then don't leave so many context clues." Hope pulled herself through the air until she was sitting on one of the floating rocks. "Look, this is already weird enough, do you have a face or something?"

"Not really, but I can make it easier for you." The darkness thickened into a solid form in the shape of man, but how you'd expect a solid shadow to look; completely black and faceless. It waved at her.

"Helpful," Hope said dryly, shaking off her hands which were still trembling; the trembling didn't stop. "Well, I've already pissed off one god today, why not make it two?"

It said nothing to that, settling down beside her on the rock, staring off into endlessness. "Morrigan is speaking from a place of desperation," it said finally, "you aren't well."

"Yeah, I know," Hope snapped, rubbing the blood on her palm onto her jeans. "But I don't like being forced into a corner."

"No one does," the voice said airily.

Hope side-eyed it. "You're not here to force me into a corner, are you?"

"I don't believe that taking away choice is ever the right way to do things," it replied and Hope startled.

"Just because Dumbledore is our leader doesn't mean he's above reproach or that he deserves to get everything he asks for. We're not his little Death Eaters like with Voldemort…if he takes away choice, we're just like them."

"Sorry," she said, realizing she was staring, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles, "you just sounded a lot like my father."

"He was a wise man."

Hope's smile faltered, thinking of Snape and everyone else who said James was bad to Lily's good. "I don't think a lot of people would agree."

The shadow shrugged. "People change. You aren't the same girl you were at ten, are you? James Potter was no different…but we have arrived at what you truly fear."

"The Blood-Soaked Tree?" Hope asked wryly with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"Change."

"Ugh," Hope groaned loudly, "you and Morrigan are the exact same, I swear."

"Probably because we're both right. You have an inherent desire to hide. You can filter through faces the way some people filter through clothes—"

"I'm a metamorphmagus, I can change my appearance at will," Hope's shook her head at the shadow, watching how it tilted its head, like Hope did, like Nath did.

"No," it said, "you aren't. While it is true that the ability lies in your bloodline through your grandmother Dorea Black, you didn't inherit it. What you possess is an incredibly strong glamour charm designed to hide your true appearance under a human one -the caster overshot a bit, giving you the ability to shift between many faces, but I suspect your mother got what she wanted in the end."

"My mother." The words fell heavily through the air, sinking and sinking, and Hope felt like she was drowning. "My mother did this?" The anger bubbled up and Hope scoffed. "It's always her, isn't it? She's the one that made a deal with Morrigan in the first place!"

The shadow scrutinized her intently, which was disconcerting at best. "You don't like your mother very much."

"Gee," Hope snapped, "can't imagine why."

"It's hard to make amends for the mistakes you make," it admitted. "Even harder when you die young…the steps she took were desperate and they cost you greatly, I can't absolve her of that, but if she were alive, perhaps it would be easier to understand why she made those choices."

It sounded like an excuse if you asked Hope. Hope reached back to where her knife was usually holstered, remembering a moment too late that she didn't have it; she felt unbelievably naked without it.

"Morrigan took the blade back," the shadow said, "it was hers to begin with, one that I'm surprised was so beloved to you."

That made Hope frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't it more fun to find that out for yourself?" the shadow asked and Hope groaned loudly.

"You're worse than Nath," she decided.

It shrugged, unconcerned and maybe even a bit pleased, before clearing its throat and changing the subject. "You are at a crossroad, little one, very soon now you'll have to make a choice that will shape who you are down to your bones, and I suspect that is what frightens you the most…"

Hope sighed heavily. "Why is it so important?"

"Why are you so frightened?" it countered and Hope huffed, thinking about what she'd said to Kingsley the previous year.

"I'm just…" Hope faltered, looking down at her hands, "I'm just really tired of people telling me who I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to do and then acting like I'm a little girl who doesn't know what I'm talking about. I'm tired of being the voice in the back of the room that no one listens to…and what if when this glamour comes off, I'm…too different?"

She though the shadow was giving her a faint smile. "Being who you are isn't a bad thing, little one—"

"What if there's a glamour because I've got fangs?" Hope grabbed her cheeks suddenly, stricken at the thought. "What if I've got pointed ears or green skin?"

The shadow stared at her for the longest time. "I forget that you're only fourteen."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hope demanded again; fists balled.

It held up its hands in a placating gesture. "Your concerns are a valid, but even if you do change on the outside, who you are on the inside will stay the same. You will be the same girl who loves with reckless abandon, who hates wand magic, who isn't afraid to speak her mind." Its hand squeezed her shoulder. "Just think on it, would you?"

And before Hope could even agree, she found herself back against the pillar in the ramparts she'd been sitting with her back to before either of those conversations, almost toppling over the edge and onto the Hufflepuff table. She stabilized herself at the last moment. "Fuck," she muttered to herself.

"You're looking pale," Dean mentioned when she managed to climb out through the holes where the owls came in for delivery, taking her broom back down to the ground level, returning to the Great Hall only after most had vacated it.

"I think I pissed off your mum," Hope said weakly, her hand shaking a little as she poured herself some pumpkin juice. "The godly one."

Dean scowled, noticing the tremors and becoming even more angry about his absentee mother. "Fuck her."

Hope clenched her hands tight around the cup to keep from shaking. Dean rubbing a hand across her shoulders didn't stop her shaking, but it did make her feel a little better. "I think I'm just going to avoid mirrors as much as possible."

"I'd just flip 'em off," Dean advised wisely.

Hope looked down into her goblet, feeling like Morrigan had hit the nail on the head and hating it so much. And that that shadow had gotten a better measure of Hope than Morrigan had. She dropped her hand down to rest beside her, eyes flicking to the side to the shadow that didn't match her at all; she could've sworn that it had squeezed back.


Ron's head was aching fiercely as he took the steps two at a time to head up to the boy's dormitory. Everyone else had finished packing some time ago, but Ron always had a tendency to leave things to the last minute. Even so, he wasn't expecting someone to be sitting on his bed when he made his way into the room.

"These drapes are positively ghastly, how on earth do you manage not to set them on fire, babe?" Quinn lifted their head from looking at the drapes to look to Ron who did the most impressive double take.

"How did you—?" He pointed to them and then looking back to the door in total confusion.

Quinn snorted, throwing him a bone. "I'm a Traveler. I'm sure Hope's told you that before; I can teleport anywhere I wish, other worlds even."

Ron grumbled something under his breath, setting about stuffing his things back into his trunk while they sat there, on his bed, offering nothing but cryptic words. "She never said anything about other worlds."

"I'm sure it slipped her mind," Quinn said airily, waving a hand, "but I'm not here about her, I'm here about you."

He stiffened where he was collecting his books from the floor, staring at the titles carefully and swallowing thickly. "Me?" he said finally with politely feigned confusion. "Why?"

Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Your episodes are getting harder and harder to hide, babe."

Ron choked on his tongue.

"I'll admit, it took me longer than expected to figure out what you are," they sounded almost annoyed by that fact. "I mean, Hope had etheric energy to eat up, but you…you're practically soaked in the stuff and your magic isn't affected at all…it's an odd situation. I thought at first you might've been another Traveler…it would've been nice; there is only so many of us and the only one I know at Brakebills is that librarian ass Everett Rowe, and he's disappointing at best and obsessive at worst." They gave a little huff at that before continuing. "But you're human, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Ron's eyebrow twitched.

Quinn smiled and it wasn't friendly. Quinn wasn't really friendly, but Hope liked people with thorns and jagged edges; people like her. "Travelers don't have the best history with living parents…my mother died before I was even born."

He frowned in confusion. "You can do that?" he asked, honestly befuddled.

"She was brain-dead by the time they wheeled her body into the hospital. I was only kept alive by the man performing chest compressions, keeping me alive until I could be safely removed…I'm sure you've heard of him. Nathaniel Lord."

That made Ron gape. "What-Hope's godfather?"

"One and the same." Quinn smirked. "That man is impeccably preserved…or a god, I suppose, the jury is still out on that one." Quinn cupped their chin thoughtfully. "Though I will say, he and Mari are so alike it's startling; if I didn't know better, I'd think they were father and daughter."

Blue eyes sharpened. "I don't think she'd appreciate that." Hope didn't like being compared to her parents any more than Ron enjoyed being compared to his siblings, but it had always been more about accomplishments. People tended to chalk up any of their brilliance to inherited or learned habit; Ron knew enough about Hope's spellwork to know it was brilliance by itself. And Hope knew enough about Ron to know he was clever even when others didn't think so.

"I think she would," Quinn smiled, this time achingly fond. "For someone who regards adults with so much suspicion, I suspect he's the only one who could close to being called 'father'…but we're off topic, or do you really hate attention being drawn towards you?"

Ron ignored them in favor of stuffing his things into his trunk without preamble, trying to ignore how over-heated he was feeling, his head spinning. Another one was coming on; he gritted his teeth together.

"Lay down before you hurt yourself."

Ron barely heard them; the episodes made him so blind and deaf. Everything blazed away and fractured like glass. It always made it hard to focus, he had to force himself to, every time. And he still remembered the first one, vividly; a startled girl colliding with a car going far too fast, blood seeping into pavement, dulled green eyes that suddenly flared to life, and a shadow that flickered, following her in a way that barely matched.

Hope's shadow had never fit her. She didn't notice it, but Ron did; it was man shaped and it waved when it caught him looking.

Now Ron's ears were ringing with an unearthly echo, he saw a blaze of glowing blue eyes and Quinn turning away, unaware and then falling with crimson blooming down their back. Bile rose in his throat. A fox on a half-lit street, teeth bared in a grotesque smile that made it seem less like an animal and more like a person. Hope on the ground -she looked unlike herself, but Ron knew her well enough to know it was her- blood soaking her front, her neck twisted oddly, eyes glazed…and then her neck realigned, she blinked, and breathed easily. Dead, and then alive again…what?

Then he blinked and it was all gone and somehow, he was laying down on the bed Quinn has been sitting on, shaking and feverish and feeling like the world is too bright. It took a long time to wind down from that one, and even longer to realize there was a hand running through his hair.

"Gonna puke," he rasped and instantly there was a bucket in his hands and he was sitting up to vomit into it.

"Easy does it," Quinn hummed, a steady hand at his shoulder. "Better out than in."

"I hate this," he muttered into the bucket and Quinn chuckled absently.

"Babe," they said, "no one likes having gifts, some gifts are considered curses, ones you can't return." He lifted his head to look to the gaping hole where their eye had once been. Quinn smiled thinly. "Not everyone is born with their gifts, some of us have to carve out our eyes for them."

Ron gagged a little and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve as Quinn took the bucket and replaced it with a journal that said 'nap log' on the front. He quirked an eyebrow and Quinn sniggered.

"You've got to write them down somewhere, don't you?"

"I suppose," Ron muttered, still thinking about the flashes.

Then they dropped four more books on him and he buckled slightly under the weight. "What the—?"

"We'll talk more when you're up to date," Quinn promised. "Tomorrow we'll make sure you've got Astral Projection down because I sincerely doubt your mother will like me coming to your house to train you." And then they were blipping out of existence, leaving Ron gaping after them, wondering what the fuck he'd gotten himself into.


Hermione was the last person Hope saw before her departure. She could guess where Hope was going, but she didn't speak it and Hermione didn't ask, because that meant that if someone asked, she didn't have to lie.

It was easier when she honestly didn't know, and Hope knew that. Hope who was never believed no matter how honest she was. Hermione knew that Mrs. Weasley didn't believe that Hope was abused, even when she'd shown up at her place with a large bruise on her face at twelve. Most people didn't believe Hope had even been abused.

(Most people didn't see how she flinched at loud, sudden sounds. Most people didn't see how tight she clenched her fists in Potions, only to claim 'the acoustics are shit' even though Hermione knew there was more to it than that when Hope had to lay down for two hours afterwards. And most people didn't understand why she didn't want to be at the center of attention or surrounded by strangers.)

"I have something for you," Hope said and she dropped it into her hands.

Hermione felt the cold metal before she even looked down. "Hope, I don't need a knife."

"I think you do." Hope's eyes were serious and impossibly black. "They track magic, it's harder to track a knife."

Hermione looked at her for the longest time. Hope's discontent with magic, specifically wand magic, was clear to see, even if Hermione didn't always understand it. But it was like something had changed, and Hermione didn't know quite what it was. Maybe Cedric's death had been the nail in the coffin that had already been halfway into the ground far before Hope had even stepped foot in Hogwarts.

And if there was anyone that Hope hated more than Dumbledore, it was the Ministry for Magic.

"Wand magic has been a brutal series of disappointments," Hope sighed heavily and she looked so very old. "But I haven't found a blade that wasn't dependable."

Hermione considered the pocket knife that had been dutifully sharpened to a point. "Probably because you're the one sharpening the dull ones." She remembered George had once gifted Hope a sharpening rock and she used it liberally, especially when she knew he was around, because it would fluster him like nothing else. But the pocket knife was…unique. The hilt of the blade looked almost like stained glass in the shape of a spider's web. "Spider web?" She crooked an eyebrow.

Hope shrugged carefully, still looking tired and in much need of some decent sleep -but when didn't she?- but she gave Hermione a faint smile. "I think it suits you," she said and it would be years before Hermione realized how right she was.

(And it would be more than a week before she opened Hope's second gift, an envelope thick with documents containing nothing but the truth that Hermione wasn't sure she was ready to hear)


Hope had felt off the entire week. She couldn't explain it; it was like something was watching her, something that she couldn't shake. Honestly, it probably hadn't been smart to go wandering off, but Hope had gone out earlier with Fleur when her mother had needed more potion ingredients, and evidently France, like Greece, didn't care much about selling items that were considered taboo, and Hope had really wanted to get her hands on some less than legal substances (which was a lot of the appeal in buying them). The bottles clinked in her bag as she moved through the abandoned French streets, humming softly under her breath, the tune uneven. She was feeling unbelievably naked without Morrigan's black knife, but Nath's abalone knife would have to do; she clutched it tighter in her pocket.

Hope could hear the footsteps, steady behind her, keeping in time with her own, and that was eerie enough that she wished she had more than a small knife on her. Bracing herself, she whirled around, heart in her throat, tensed for a fight.

It wasn't a man.

It wasn't even a person.

It was a fox, standing there and watching her with eyes too calculating. Hope took one step back and then another. She really didn't like foxes; it was a visceral dislike that she couldn't quite put into words. Foxes and wellhouses.

The fox bared its teeth in a nightmarish grin, eyes shimmering like fire blazing bright.

Hope turned and ran, a shiver running down her spine as it let loose a sound like a scream behind her. She didn't look back until she'd made it back to Fleur's, slamming the door shut behind her and sinking boneless to the ground as she fumbled for her phone. But she still had to wait until her heart stopped racing in her chest.

"Hello, dearest," Nath's smooth voice soothed her frayed nerves, "enjoying France?"

"As much as I can be," Hope gave a shaky laugh. "Um, Nath, I'm sure this is a question that you'd like to know where it came from, but can I ask with zero judgment?"

There was a long pause. "Certainly?" it came out more as a question than a statement.

"Do you know how to shoot a gun and could you teach me?"

This time the pause was much longer and she knew he so desperately wanted to know. "I can teach you the basics," he admitted grudgingly, "though I admit I'm not much of a marksman."

"I'll leave early tomorrow," Hope promised, "see you at say…noon? At the family manor you took me to when I was twelve?" Potter Manor was remote enough that no one would question multiple gunshots…and it was a shorter distance to fly on the motorbike to Wales or Britain, even than it was to fly to Greece. Besides, Mum would kill her if she didn't come home first.

"Sure…are you sure you're all right, dearest?"

Hope looked at the light flickering in the foyer. "I'm perfectly fine," she lied through her teeth.


"I know eet wasn't ze best circumstance…but I 'ope you enjoyed France."

Hope looked up from the Pont des Arts, with the locks lining the bridge, to look at Fleur. She was drawing eyes as usual, it was hard not to with that Veela blood, but she paid them no heed, watching Hope patiently.

She'd been quieter, especially since Cedric's death, and so very tired. The week in France had been a nice break (mostly), but she was itching to run and her hand was clenched tight around the knife in her pocket, wary of being so exposed. Not that France wasn't lovely and Fleur had shown her so many beautiful places, but there was a discomfort settling in her bones, and Hope ached for the familiar.

(Sitting at the Thomas' table while Dean read out ridiculous arrests from the paper to make her and Diane laugh, the crimson bedspread in her room in Thalatta, feeling George's arms around her, listening to Quinn's biting sarcasm)

"I did," Hope promised, sparing Fleur a wry smile. "It's been amazing…I'm just missing home a little and…" And it hadn't been the best timing, even Hope would admit.

"And you're worried about…?"

Hope's flasks -one with pomegranate spiced wine, long exchanged from the tea, and the other with a blood replenisher- felt heavy in her inner pocket. She wasn't drinking blood replenisher daily, but she was certainly drinking it far more than she had the previous year. Her smile became a bit brittle; her cracks were starting to show. "There's always something to worry about."

It was a poor joke and Fleur knew it. "So! Taking school outside of school? Seems like a lot of work."

That actually made Hope smile, genuinely. "Yeah, gifted enough to get into a graduate program without actually graduating." She mimed raising a glass. "To the would-be magician."

Fleur spared her a smile of her own. "Ze magic you're best suited for, you mean."

"You were listening all those times I complained about wands, weren't you?" Hope mused sagely.

Fleur laughed.


"Put it together."

"I just did," Hope said sourly.

Nath arched an eyebrow. "Do it again."

There were a lot of working parts that Hope had to fumble through twice more before Nath deemed her adequate enough to start actually using the handgun. She'd pulled the slide back after pressing on the slide release, she'd pulled out the magazine after thumbing the magazine release before fixing it all back together.

"Make sure when you're pointing it something that you're doing it with the preparation you are going to shoot…these aren't toys, these will hurt or kill someone if they get shot."

Hope nodded seriously, aiming at the target with both hands on the gun, pulling the trigger and wincing at the jolt and the crack in the air that made her ears ring. Some deaths felt like that, the ringing after the buzzing grew too much…like gunshots going off in her head, like thunder cracking, like waves cresting.

"Are you running from something, dearest?" Nath asked smoothly as Hope glowered at the target, aiming another shot and hitting one of the rings instead of missing it completely.

"Why would you ask that?" Hope asked absently.

"Because you look more tired than usual…and you're completely white."

Hope didn't need him to tell her that. It was part of the reason Fleur had been so concerned with her leaving so early and on her own. She was so white that she was nearly ashen, and it wasn't a good look. Ron would be worried, Hermione would be scared, Dean would search for evils to slay, and George, sweet, impossible George would hold her even if he didn't understand where her fear came from.

"Don't worry about it," Hope muttered, "I can take care of myself."

"I know," Nath said in that tone of voice that said he knew that very well, because he had made certain of it himself. "But who is there to watch your back when you're alone?"

It was an age old worry he had, and some days Hope wished he was her father, able to take her away from everything that had ever hurt her, but Hope was older now and pain was a language she was fluent in.

His fingers were cool as they turned her face towards his, and he regarded her with a worried frown.

"What?" she asked. "Too much like Adel?"

"Never," Nath promised sadly, "too much like yourself." And he bent to press a kiss to the top of her head. Heat burned Hope's eyes and she blinked furiously, shifting her eyes away. "You might look like her, but you're your own person, something the wizards have a lot of trouble learning?"

Hope made a confused sound as he moved away. "Nath? Where're you going?" she called after him.

Nath waved a cigarette in the air. "Smoke break," he called over his shoulder, "don't shoot me."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, before rolling her shoulders and aiming the gun and shooting twice more before she heaved a heavy sigh, crouching down to bounce on the balls of her feet, gun hanging loosely in her hand. In truth, she didn't like it all that much, but it felt better to have a weapon in her hand now that she'd lost the black blade; Nath's abalone knife didn't cut it. Hope popped out the magazine, setting it on the small table Nath had set up, before deciding to take a break of her own.

In truth, she'd never fully explored the land around Potter Manor…except to be steadfast in her avoidance of the wellhouse. It was nice, she supposed, letting her feet take her away.

Nath always liked to joke that she was more of a wild child, preferring to rough it than to enjoy life like…someone like Malfoy did. Hope would take tough leather over silk every time, denim over skirts -she could still remember the steam coming out of Professor McGonagall's ears when she put her foot down in second year, tired of freezing her legs through thick tights-, boots over heels.

There were so many trees, running thick through the land. If she looked back, she'd be able to see a small stone bridge over a stream, but Hope continued on, following the feel and smell of certain magic.

The first time she'd been there at twelve, she could only feel it, but now her nose tingled. It was different from the Burrow, the kind of magic shared within a family and not from consistent use of magic every single day; as always, Hope preferred the former.

Her shadow crept with her, and it hadn't matched her in years.

There were dark clouds blooming above her, hiding the fluffy white from sight and sliding slightly to cover the sun just enough to spread more shadows. Hope paid it no heed, continuing to walk, looking around in intrigue. Then she passed through a spiderweb, or, at least, what felt like a spiderweb, clinging to her skin. She shrugged it off her skin, continuing to walk only to pause at a sudden voice.

"Come to die, little godling?"

Hope whirled around, but she wasn't fast enough, and the next thing she knew, there was a hand sinking through her chest and she could feel the fingers around the frantically pumping organ. They tightened slightly and Hope coughed a speck of blood onto her attacker's cheek. She was a woman, young and seemingly barely an adult, but with eyes far too old. But her face was familiar and Hope was struck dumb briefly at the realization of why. When they'd been looking into Nicolas Flamel after finding out about the Philosopher's Stone, there'd been a picture, a photograph of a painting of him with his wife, Perenelle…and it was the same woman.

And the shade was hanging over her and the buzzing was in Hope's ears. Her blood-stained lips twisted into a smirk.

It threw Perenelle. "What's so funny?"

"You'll find out," Hope promised with a rasp, coughing again harshly when the grip in her chest tightened. She wasn't afraid, not out of bravery but out of complete numbness. But Hope had never been particularly afraid of death. She was afraid of the look on Nath's face when he found her body.

And just before the hand in her chest tightened completely, the woman came close enough to breathe in her ear: "Long live the Fox." And then crushed Hope's heart in her hand, and before the darkness swallowed her completely, she felt the rage that rippled through the ground, the shadows splaying and surging up, drowning her and making her head burn in agony before she knew nothing more.


Nath blew out red smoke and was going to take another drag when he felt it, like a shot to the heart. He choked on the breath he didn't need to fill his lungs, shaking like he had the last time it happened, like finding his child bleeding out on the ground was anything short of excruciating. The cigarette burned up in his hand and he took off running, past the target that Hope had abandoned, far too curious for her own good, not wanting to find what he knew he would but—

He did not find that.

He found Perenelle Flamel, who had long evaded death, on the ground, a bloodied hole in her chest where her heart had once lain. Her eyes were wide and horrified, wand fallen beside her. And Hope was standing, considering her impassively, head tilted enough to be eerie, one bloodied hand clutching Perenelle's still-warm heart. Then she looked up to smile at him and it wasn't the smile he knew, her eyes glowing with unearthly power.

"Ah, little butterfly," she crooned in a voice that was both hers and not, "how you've changed."

Only one person had ever called Nath -had ever called Thanatos- that, and he'd not heard from him in many, many years, for so long that he thought him beyond reach. Another time it would've been a joyous occasion, but not now, not looking at him through the face of Hope Potter.

"Father," Nath croaked, "what have you done?"

Erebus huffed. "You're acting like this was my fault," he grated out, tossing the heart down onto the corpse. "She struck first." He gave a vague gesture towards the hole in Hope's chest, a dark look crossing her face. "She should've known better."

"I—" Nath faltered briefly. "I thought you were dead."

"Ah, yes," Erebus hummed in agreement. "I was, well, mostly…clinging to existence by a thread. I have been healing for eons and it will be very long indeed before I am strong enough to sustain myself."

Nath looked to the ground where no shadow lay. Erebus himself was shadow and darkness, he cast none, but Hope was mortal, and if she possessed a soul, she possessed a shadow…how could he have missed that?

"Don't worry, a lot of people did." He must've spoken out loud. "I suspect that she spends enough time in the presence of her soul for it seem as though she still possesses it…probably why wraiths can affect her but not drain her of her soul...unless they're aiming for her shade." Erebus shrugged Hope's shoulders. "It's not exactly a science."

Nath shook his head, pressing a hand to his face. "Father, what are you doing?"

"Enduring pain, it seems, hang on—" Hope's face winced as he brought her hand to the back of her head and there was a sickening squelch and then in her hand was a bloody cloth with a sigil stitched into it and several small metal prongs sticking out of it. "Ah," Erebus sighed, "that's better."

Nath stared at him. "Did you…did you just rip that patch out of her brain?"

"Yes, it was quite bothersome," Erebus agreed, tilting her head slightly, causing the patch to burst into blue flames in her hand, the magic blazing bright when it was broken. "I'm sure she'd agree…that god-repulsion sewn in was particularly nasty…no wonder it burned you every time you touch her."

Nath's mouth twisted when he watched the skin and tissue where Hope's heart had been crushed knit itself back together. He could hear it when the heart started to beat again and he could feel it in his bones that Morrigan was behind it. And for the first time in eons, he felt nothing but relief towards her.

But then Erebus coughed up golden blood onto the grass. Nath had always known Hope was sick, long before she'd found out, he had known the magical core forced on her would kill her one day…he just hadn't known how to tell her. But now he looked at Hope's body, really looked at it. She'd been pale before -for reasons she wouldn't explain- but now she was flushed and breathing hard, a sheen to her skin, and horrified realization settled in.

"Oh, no," he gazed in true fear, "tell me you didn't possess her without consent!"

There hadn't been a case of Possession Sickness in an age because spirits had gotten smarter about getting consent, because non-consensual possessions were nearly all fatal and no one wanted to kill their host.

Erebus coughed up more ichor. "Well, she was too dead to complain," he conceded, which did nothing for Nath's nonexistent heart.

"Father," Nath's horror grew, "you didn't."

Erebus coughed again, speckling more grass with rich golden blood. "What? Even if it kills her, she'll bounce right back, it's fine."

"…what?" Nath asked in a dangerously quiet voice that was reserved for when he wanted to threaten someone about Hope's care.

"Little butterfly," Erebus said and Nath twitched, "you know how being God-Touched works; gods plant a seed in mortals but only they can grow it, and, in your child's case, into the ability to survive death when killed…I understand it was a joke."

Nath pressed a hand to his face. "She's going to be so furious when she wakes up."

"Oh, she's already awake," Erebus said in a bland sort of voice that had always driven Nath insane when he was a young immortal, Hyp trailing after him always, eternally tired.

Nath stared at his father wearing his child's face for the longest moment. "…and?!" he demanded finally.

"She's not speaking, in fact, she's not conveying any emotion at all."

That was worse. "She's dissociating," Nath realized, anger flashing, "you're making my daughter dissociate!"

"Would you like me to leave?" Erebus arched Hope's eyebrow.

"Yes!" Nath hissed, like it was plain as day what the god of darkness should do, but Erebus had never been the best at understanding humanity or mortals or decency of any kind.

The look that warped Hope's face briefly was difficult to describe, but, in the end, it didn't matter, because her body stumbled forward and the shadow of his father rippled out of her from behind. If Nath hadn't lurched forward to catch her, she would've fallen, her knees giving out under her.

"Nath," she gasped, ragged and rough, clinging to him like she was afraid he'd leave, her eyes fixing on his, hazy as her cheeks were feverish. "Nath, your-your eyes—"

He must've lost his sunglasses in his haste to return. "Terrifying, I know," Nath heaved a heavy sigh, just that side of bitter. Darkness grafted where eyes should've been.

But Hope always did the unexpected and her grip was vice-like on him, hazy eyes full of wonder. "They're so…beautiful," she said, voice weak and hushed, like she hardly dared to make it known, but then her face contorted and Nath helped maneuver her closer to the ground as she vomited violently.

"I don't feel very well," she said falteringly before going limp in his arms. Nath held her tightly and pressed kiss after kiss to the top of her head, knowing it was only going to get worse.

"I've got you, dearest," he promised in a murmur, before lifting her up easily into his arms and leaving the realm of the living entirely.


It took an age for Hope to describe what it felt like, being in her own body but without control; like drowning in the deepest well, like being strapped to a comet hurtling at the speed of sound, like a scream that echoed where no one could hear it. It was a terrible sensation and it had been worse to see how horrified Nath had been at the sight of her holding that heart in her hand like it was beyond natural.

After that, all Hope felt was utterly miserable. It felt like days where she drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to keep anything down -she didn't know what bed she was in, just that there was a strategically placed bucket that she was thankful for- and once she'd emptied her stomach, the next thing to go was her blood. Red mixed with gold and black, like she was coughing up paint instead of what was in her veins. Then came the fever.

Hope had been so delirious with it that she could've sworn that she saw Nath with wings arguing with Hyp, looking so unlike himself -not a trace of eyeliner or painted nails in sight and wearing what looked like a toga of all things- and she distinctly remembered being dunked in an ice bath on three separate occasions. The fever, she thought was the worst, because she kept going back between too hot and too cold.

Then came the dream. A memory, one her mother had wanted hidden for so long at the cost of so much. It felt less like a memory and more like she was walking through the Etheric Realm, watching things play out before her but not through her eyes.

The room was massive and stately and it bathed the room almost in total darkness. Hope could tell enough to know that it wasn't her parents' little cottage in Godric's Hollow. This room belonged to a queen, or, at the very least, a princess.

Hope walked to the high-reaching window to look outside, breath stalling in her lungs at the sight of the black sun hanging in a sky with stars she didn't recognize. Wherever this place was, she didn't know it…but at the same time couldn't help but feel a familiar ache. She pressed a hand to the window and she could almost feel the glass; Hope retracted her hand quickly. There was the quiet sound of footsteps and then a baby's scream that almost swept Hope off her feet as she twisted around in time to see a cloaked man holding a dagger go flying and then seem to ripple away to ash.

The dagger clattered to the floor, a familiar black blade that made Hope swallow thickly. That's what he'd meant about the blade.

She couldn't help but stare with wide eyes, taking a few steps forward, but she wasn't fast enough. The door was thrown open and a new man rushed through and the tension melted off at the familiar face. "Dad," Hope breathed. James Potter looked so very young, hair and eyes wild as he looked from the crumpled ruin with the knife before lurching quickly to the bassinette, to the baby crying within.

"Hey, baby," he crooned, "it's okay, daddy's here."

And he lifted a small baby, he lifted Hope, up and into his arms, humming that familiar tune as he rocked her in his arms.

"I thought this place was supposed to be safe," he grumbled, more to himself than to anyone else, but he still received an answer.

"It is, but it is also not." Morrigan was remarkably unchanged, bearing her cloak of raven feathers, circlet over dark curls, and Hope tried to forget the spike of unease at seeing her again after their falling out. "Like any other place."

James huffed, still cradling the baby. "Do all gods speak in riddles?"

"Many do," Morrigan remarked, unconcerned and ambivalent. "What will you name the girl?"

He watched her long and hard, like he thought she would rob him of the chance to name his daughter. "Hope," he said finally, looking down at the round olive cheeks with utter fondness that Hope's heart ached. "Hope in the midst of darkness."

"Any irony that I'm sure she will appreciate when she's older," Morrigan actually snorted.

James frowned briefly, not quite understanding her. "What would you name her?"

The goddess had never looked less than godly and her cloak fluttered as she straightened slightly. "I do not have that honor," she said simply, almost pained, but she faltered at the look on James' face, one Hope found difficult to describe. "Marina," she said finally.

"Marina?"

"Yes," Morrigan nodded. "For the Marinos family you're descended from. It means 'of the sea' and 'beloved' to your people."

"And what about to yours?" James asked.

Morrigan's mouth twisted wryly. "Chaos-maker," she said.

James hummed, still rocking baby Hope gently in his arms. "Think she'll like the sea?"

Hope grimaced as she watched them.

"I think parts will terrify her, I think that she'll fear drowning most of all, but the deep unknown? What could be more thrilling than true curiosity?" Morrigan mused, tracing a light finger down Hope's cheek and the baby reached out a hand immediately, grasping for her finger.

James was quiet for the longest moment. "Would you like to hold her?" he asked finally and Morrigan paused, before finally Hope settled in the goddess' arms like she belonged there. Hope watched, pained, as Morrigan rubbed her nose against baby Hope's, making her babble delightedly. "You will get five years," she said finally to him and Hope's father stilled. "For the birth of your child, alive and healthy, you will get five years with her, and when those five years are up, your soul will belong to me."

"What?" Hope hardly dared to breathe, lurching forward to gape at her father's young face, only several years older than her now. "Dad, tell me you didn't! You can't! I'm not worth that!"

But the world faded away entirely as she fell asleep tucked in Morrigan's arms. And when she righted herself, she was in that room of hers in that cottage, before it had been blown apart. And there was a woman leaning over her crib that reminded Hope inexplicably of Quinn. She was wearing jeans and knee-high boots and her blonde hair hung around her and her blue eyes were too clear, but on her knuckles were tattoos identical to Quinn's and there was a black tattoo on the back of her hand. Baby Hope didn't like her and even Hope was itching to run.

Baby Hope opened her mouth to scream like she had before, but the woman brought a finger to her own lips and Hope could feel the brush of magic and the baby opened and closed her mouth in total confusion. "That's better," the woman said quietly, "now…what mummy doesn't know won't hurt her."

That left a bad taste in Hope's mouth, and an even worse one when she pulled something red and pulsing out of her pocket, like a beating heart, but it seemed more like a large piece of red jasper than anything else. Hope definitely didn't know the words that left the woman's lips, but she recognized the finger tuts, the familiar poppers Hope had dutifully learned after sign language. The stone glowed with life and it occurred to Hope that it was the magical core that was her death sentence.

"Sorry, kid," the woman said, not looking sorry in the slightest, "but I need bait, and you're the best I've got." And then she shoved it right through the baby's chest, and Hope choked where she stood, hand pressing against hers like she could still feel it happening. The baby contorted in the crib, face screwing up in pain as it glowed under her skin for a few moments more until it faded abruptly, like a puzzle piece sliding into place in a puzzle that was already complete, that had no need for it.

Then she pulled out something that Hope had seen in her own hand what felt only moments ago; the four-pronged patch with a stitched sigil that she pressed into Baby Hope's head until it sank through and disappeared like the core, right where Hope always got her worst headaches, before her fingers twisted for the last time. Hope only recognized half the poppers, but then one went forward and grasped something Hope couldn't see for a moment, only to realize it was her shadow, being pulled up and away until -as though it had been cut- released from Hope. The woman held Hope's shadow in her hand and there was something within it, just a glimmer of power, and when she flung it away, out the window, it sprouted wings and gave an awful caw. The raven seemed to disappear almost immediately.

And the next thing Hope knew, she was blinking her eyes awake in a bed that wasn't her own, curled on her left side and feeling a weight beside her and a familiar rumble of a voice telling her favorite story.

"-And cloaked in darkness Magic Spinner turned to face her new foe," Nath read aloud and Hope turned slightly to see him reading from a book. That surprised her the most; she never thought he'd written it down. "It was Death and around his neck lay the key of Truth. Death was the ultimate truth, there was no way to hide it; eventually all would be revealed, and that was why—"

"Death never needed to tell a lie," Hope finished for him in a voice that was more of a croak than anything and he looked up, a faint smile on his lips. "Death looked upon Magic Spinner, knowing her end and knowing what had brought her there and was willing to make a fair trade because he was a fair god, a fair man..." She swallowed thickly, her eyes meeting his black oblivion. "He asked for the only currency that was of value to one such as he..."

"Stories," Nath agreed, so achingly fond that Hope trembled as he trailed the back of his hand down her cheek, stooping sideways to kiss her brow like he always did. "Hello, dearest, how are you?"

"Miserable," Hope said truthfully, clinging to him so desperately, her voice breaking. Nath's arms had always been a source of comfort and in that moment, they were a fortress to keep her safe and protected. He tucked his chin over the top of her head, rocking her like her father had when she was a child, humming that same soft song under his breath. It had been staring her in the face for so long…how many people had said that she was so like Nath? She'd lost count. And she could remember the horror, even when she hadn't been in charge of her body, the way he'd said 'father' with so much terror.

The idea of something being under her skin without her consent, in control when she was pushed aside, it made her feel like there were ants crawling under her skin. And that it had been his father had been worse.

His father. The god of darkness that had spoken so patiently with Hope after Morrigan's explosion. The god that had sired so many children. But only one that made her think of Nath. Thanatos, god of death…Nathaniel Lord…how could she have missed that?

"You're at least looking much than you did before," Nath promised. "Why don't you get cleaned up and I'll scavenge some food for you?"

Hope didn't really want to move, but she figured he was right; her hair in particular needed a good wash. And she didn't think she could stomach eating, but a mighty growl put pains to that idea. "You're probably right," she grumbled, finally pulling herself upright and stilling at the dizziness the move brought…like when George did something particularly clever with his tongue or when he hooked a finger into the thick chain around her neck that he'd clasped himself with a kiss at the nape of her neck to pull her into him with ease.

She took it slow, with Nath helping her to the bathroom, the pulling the door shut to leave her alone. Sitting in the tub seemed like the best option; Hope figured she'd work up to the standing thing. It might've been thirty minutes, or even an hour later when she finally made it out of the bathroom and it was only then that she really got a look at the room. The large bed, the night sky glittering above it like a canopy, a closet full of clothes that Nath would never wear, and a window looking out.

Hope crawled over the bed in clean clothes that were just slightly too big for her, like they would've fit Nath in his youth -if he had ever been young like that- to reach the window and look out with wide eyes. It was…devastation. There was no other way to describe it, fire blazing, souls clustered, ghosts rampant…too many with too few places to go.

"Yeah, it's looked like that for centuries," Nath mused, so quiet in his return that Hope jumped violently, twisting back to look at him. He spared her an apologetic smile. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Are we…" Hope swallowed to wet her dry throat, still a rough croak. "Are we in the Underworld?" Her words were hushed like she was afraid to speak up too much. "Do I have to stay here?"

"What?" Nath's brow furrowed. "No, of course not, dearest. Why would you think that?"

"Because I was killed," Hope made sure the words were as blunt as possible, in case he missed the emphasis. "And the Underworld is where we go when we die."

"Eh, you got better," Nath waved her off, although his face contorted into a wince that told her he wasn't happy that it had happened in the first place.

Hope looked back out the window, craning her neck to stare further. "There's a river of fire that goes over the edge! Is that the Phlegethon? Does it really go straight into Tartarus—"

"Marina!" Nath snapped and Hope whipped her head around, back to look at him, laden with tray. He sighed tiredly. "Will you please sit down and let an old man take care of you?"

"Thought you weren't old," Hope fired back and his lips twitched before giving her a very direct look with his blacker-than-night eyes.

"Little brat," he muttered, too fond for Hope to take offense.

"Fine," she huffed, flouncing back to her spot like an irritated child that they both knew she wasn't. "What's this?"

"Something for you. You've been out of it for approximately a week."

"A week?" Hope positively balked at that, her eyes going wide. "Oh, Mum's gonna kill me!"

"Relax," Nath assured her, combing a few fingers through her still-damp hair, frowning at the black color like it personally offended him. "Time works differently down here."

Hope looked at him in those beautiful eyes full of darkness. "And you're really Death?"

Nath pursed his lips, uncomfortable. "Yes."

Hope swallowed thickly. "You called me your daughter."

Nath set the tray of food and drink over Hope's lap, before sitting down beside her and taking her hand and flipping it over to showcase the slightly darker patch of skin that formed on the meat of her palm. His thumb smoothed in a circle over the tentative shape. "The inverted torch is my symbol," Nath said, "I'll admit it's not definitive, but all my descendants possess this mark…even if I could not smell the grave dirt and the poppies, I would know you were mine, in life and in death."

"Oh," Hope said weakly. "Did you…did you know Dad, then?"

Nath winced then. "No," he admitted, "I haven't interacted with my children in…a long time."

Hope almost asked why not, but his expression was one of blatant agony that she thought it best not rip open wounds. "But you made an exception for me?" she guessed. "The last of your line?"

That made him startle slightly. "That's not why," he disagreed quickly, his eyes serious now. "I watched your parents die, I wanted my other child be destroyed…you were alone and hurt. I couldn't leave you there, but touching you…was difficult." He grimaced. "I made sure that Sirius Black knew to go looking for you. Immediately. Morrigan had the same mind, unfortunately, the god-repulsion added to your memory patch was more tied to her than other gods."

"What?" Hope wasn't following.

"You should ask Sirius Black about the burn on your shoulder…if it's shaped like a hand," he said simply and Hope swallowed hard. "Or you could ask her, but from what my father said, you two aren't speaking right now."

Hope was caught up in several different feelings. Annoyance that Nath and Erebus had been talking about her while she was asleep; unease that Nath had even been talking to Erebus in the first place, father or not, she didn't like the idea of him easily speaking to the god that had been riding around in her skin; and stubborn refusal at the idea that she would have to speak with Morrigan again to get the full story.

Her hand tightened into a fist. "I'll take Sirius, thanks," she said coolly and Nath arched an eyebrow.

"You can do whatever you wish," Nath replied smoothly, "Morrigan is speaking from—"

"A place of desperation, yeah, I know," Hope snapped, looking particularly sour, "He already mentioned that." She had a few other things she would've liked to say, but she remembered Jeanna, her old therapist, endlessly patient, so she formulated it a bit more matter-of-fact and less biting to the person she still loved the most. "I just tend to associate raised voices with violence. Towards me."

Nath softened, as he always did. "I understand that."

"Do you?" Hope countered. "Have you ever experienced that? Someone who is supposed to raise you in the stead of parents? Someone who is supposed to care for you as their own? Someone who beats and breaks you? Someone whose child intentionally pushes you into traffic, intentionally murders you?" Because that was what it was, murder. Dudley had shoved her and she'd died, bleeding out on the pavement. Normally, she would relish in the pained expression that brought, but not with Nath, never with Nath. She just wanted him to understand where she was coming from.

She realized she looked a lot like him when she was angry; the stony expression was a perfect mirror. He pressed a hand to his face, hiding his eyes from sight, and then he dropped a hand to her leg where he knew the scars were underneath. No matter that George would never call a part of her ugly or grotesque, that is what her leg was; a scattering of ragged scars and healed tissue that stretched from her shin up to her thigh in short bursts and incomplete lines. Hope had lost the feeling in her left foot in the shower and was waiting for it to come back, but the lack of sensation was lasting longer and longer.

(Maybe she should ask George to make her a new leg and just cut it off and be done with it)

"If I could've removed you from that place, I would've done it in a heartbeat," he promised in a voice so brutally raw that it sounded only slightly worse than Hope's sounded normally.

"I know," Hope said honestly, because she did. "What? Gods can't raise mortal kids? That against the rules?"

"No," Nath admitted, "but there were other factors prohibiting your care falling to anyone other than the Dursleys."

Hope's eyes darkened; Dumbledore. It always seemed to cycle back to him.

"Drink this first." Nath tapped one glass that looked like it was better suited to hold whiskey or brandy, but Hope was familiar with the thick crimson it held by now.

It was harder to get down her throat and she coughed viciously once she was done. "What the hell did you do to make Blood-Replenisher taste even worse?"

"It's incredibly concentrated." Nath's lips twitched slightly into a smile. "Now drink some of this." He held out the mug towards her and she took it, bemused, looking down into the contents of the mug. It looked like molten gold.

Hope scrutinized it intently. "This isn't that godly blood your dad hacked up, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Nath scoffed, so Hope took a sip. "It's ambrosia."

Her eyes went wide and she had to struggle with swallowing. "Isn't-Isn't that supposed to be god food?" she wheezed afterwards.

"God drink," he corrected, amused, "I never understood how Homer thought the drink was called nectar, but we've all got issues."

Hope would've snorted at the joke, but she was too busy staring at him in incomprehension. "You gave me something that gods drink."

"Did you like it?" Nath asked and Hope sputtered.

"That's not the point! You just gave me a drink for gods! I'm not a god!"

"Eh," Nath gave a careless wave, "mostly, though, you'll be fine."

"What the hell do you mean mostly?" Hope demanded loudly. "I'm-I'm not a god!"

"Of course not," Nath agreed, "if you were, you wouldn't have a soul." Hope made a furious gesture at him that he missed. "Of course, I don't currently know where it is right now, so I guess that technically you could count as a god…" He cupped his chin thoughtfully and Hope didn't have enough time in the day to shake the truth out of him.

She settled for rolling her eyes and eating the grapes he'd decided she needed to have. Better grapes than nothing, she supposed, and when she'd finished, she'd found that grapes were all she could stomach. Nath had always known her best. Then she finished the ambrosia.

"How sick was I?" she asked instead.

"Very," Nath said heavily. "It's more often fatal than not, Possession Sickness. It was a miracle that you didn't actually die."

Hope thought of her heart crushed in Perenelle Flamel's hand and felt so very cold. "Possession Sickness?" she asked, eyes fixed on the empty mug like looking in it would give her all the answers she sought.

"It's what you get when you're possessed by a strong spirit and they don't ask for consent first," Nath said bitterly, "that's why there used to be all these stories about possessed people ending up in such bad shape after the spirit released them that they didn't survive. These days consent is different, you don't have to be so overt in verbalizing it…pouring your heart out to one is an easy way to open yourself up for a possession."

Ginny sprung to mind immediately and Hope felt bile rise in her throat.

"Are you…are you all right?" Nath asked carefully.

"All right?" Hope made a derisive sound in the back of her throat. "Reaching a bit, with that one." Nath's eyes shifted to scowl behind her and Hope turned slightly to realize it was his shadow he was glaring at. Hope turned back around quickly, staring steadily ahead like she was afraid to get caught. She wrapped her fingers around the key-knife that George had gifted her back when she was thirteen; her grip was a little too tight.

She already felt violated, having that magical core in her where it didn't belong, what Nath's father had done felt much the same.

"Can I go home?" Hope asked instead of voicing any of that. "Mum's probably getting worried about me."

He didn't let her stand until he'd tied her boots and Hope thought was utterly fatherly of him but decided not to mention it. "I'll take you to London—"

"No, that's all right," Hope said automatically. "Just Potter Manor is fine."

That made Nath pause. "Dearest," he said gently, "it might not be wise to go back to the place you were attacked." He didn't use the word killed and Hope thought it was quite beyond him to do so.

"I'll be fine," Hope said even as she felt the need to cough and knew it would be bloody; she held it in. "I promise."

And when she stood up, she found herself back where she'd started with Perenelle's now-cool corpse at her feet, with daylight fading across the horizon. A week in the Underworld, mere hours up on Earth; Hope couldn't wrap her head around it.

"Fuck, I'm probably gonna need a shovel," she muttered to herself, making to walk back towards the Manor, which surely had a shed of some sort that she hadn't discovered for grounds equipment -she had never really investigated it too far, she realized belatedly-, but was stopped be a shovel appearing suddenly and she had to scramble to grab it before it fell over.

She scowled at nothing. "This doesn't make us even," she said out loud.

The shadow made no reply, but then she blinked and there was a hole in the ground the appropriate size for the body and a pile of dirt beside it like Hope had been the one digging for the better part of an hour; Hope scowled.

Then she smacked the flat end of the shovel against Perenelle's face three times in a row, which didn't bring her much joy since she wasn't alive to appreciate it, but it did bring her some vindication at least before she shoved her down the hole. Hope flipped off the corpse before she struck the shovel into the pile and began the task of burying.

The shadow was quiet and Hope thought that was perfectly fine as the sky grew dark and the pile of dirt grew small until at last there was nothing left, and Hope was staring over the filled unmarked grave. The jump she'd made to immediately bury the body had been large and by some miracle she had stuck the landing.

"Maybe you compartmentalize death better than your peers," the shadow offered quietly and Hope ignored it again, in favor of pulling out her phone at the sudden ring of Don't Fear the Reaper blared from her pocket. She frowned at the unknown number before flipping it open and demanding "Who is this?".

And then she was rushing off.


Hermione was shaking. The pocket knife Hope had given her was tight in her hand and covered in blood. There was so much blood and— Hermione couldn't think straight. It had been a sort of joke between the three of them, that Hope had killed two point seven five people, evidently counting the bit of Voldemort that was in the diary, and that Hope had been killed three times already. But Hermione was the one here with blood clinging to her skin and corpse cooling before her eyes.

He'd followed her into the alley when she'd headed home from the library. She'd practically felt the eyes on her, and when she'd turned around and seen the wand, she dived. The next thing she knew, she'd buried the knife Hope had given her in his neck. It had been pure instinct; Hermione hadn't even realized it had been in her hand until it sank into his throat.

Hermione didn't know what to do.

"Help," she moaned out loud, still shaking, "I don't—" Then she saw it, a phone booth at the edge of the alley that she hadn't noticed, like it had popped out of nothing, but there were spiderwebs clinging to the frame as if it had been there all along, graffitied with a galaxy across the wood, which were an odd thing to graffiti, but Hermione didn't have the time to think on that. She forced open the sliding door with bloodied fingers, pressing the buttons and lifting the phone off.

It rang once and twice and was answered with a coarse "Who is this?" Her best friend's rough voice was music to Hermione's ears.

"Hope," Hermione sobbed, "I need help."

"Where are you?" Hope demanded and Hermione managed to rattle off the right streets that five minutes later her best friend was barreling down the sidewalk, skidding in water as the rain fell in a torrential downpour. She was wearing clothes that didn't fit her and didn't suit her and she looked positively ragged. Exhaustion lined her surprisingly pale face and Hermione felt awful for making her rush over, just for her.

But Hope just looked from Hermione, bloodied and sobbing to the body on the ground and she swallowed thickly and Hermione could just imagine she was remembering finding Sylvar's body, or seeing Cedric's corpse, or Rookwood's, but all she said was "I'm calling Ron."


Psychic magic was a breeze, Ron had come to discover; he'd been expecting some difficulties with how Quinn had carried on before their lessons began. Quinn, he found, was a frighteningly good teacher, and really it was no wonder that Hope was so attached to them. They'd made sure to teach him how to astral project before he'd left for the summer holiday, because, in their words, he needed training and astraling was the only way he was going to get it. Ron suspected they meant his mother, which he thought was a fair assessment.

Quinn's office was nice. It reminded him a little of Hope's room in her place in Greece, in that it suited the person to whom it belonged. That was where the similarities ended. While Hope had a few dangling crystals -gifts from Quinn, no doubt-, Quinn had dozens, with richly colored drapes that made Ron think of their multicolored dreadlocks, and incredibly comfy cushions to sit on.

"Psychic magic is perhaps the most difficult to master," they'd said to Ron when they'd first started. "Not that the other disciplines are a cakewalk, but Psychic can branch in so many different directions. You get students with telepathy, with precognition or premonition, even mind control. Trust me, that's heavy stuff and most Psychic students only have one specialty."

"But I don't?" Ron had frowned in confusion, trying to follow, but they were so serious that it was hard to focus.

"I think you're a meld of precognition and premonition. Most seers are," Quinn shrugged and Ron shivered involuntarily, making them grin. "What? Don't like the word?"

Ron thought of Trelawney with her dramatics and her tendency to be nearly always wrong. "I'm used to people lying about their ability to…See, or whatever."

Quinn arched an eyebrow and smirked. "I guess you're a regular Cassandra, huh?"

He flushed to the roots of his hair. He knew that story, at least, a priestess of Apollo that spurned the god and whose prophecies were never believed. "Shut up," he muttered under his breath.

"Cassie's not a bad nickname."

"You're as bad as Hope," Ron grated out aggrieved, which only seemed to please them, unfortunately. But then they were tilting their head, considering him. "What?" he asked, suddenly feeling stripped bare under their gaze.

"Hm," Quinn hummed. "I'm just looking."

"At what?" Ron asked, nettled.

"Underneath your humanity," they said, reaching a hand out to grasp his chin, sunglasses tilting down to reveal the single eye and the gaping hole where they'd carved the other out. Ron held still, feeling uncommonly like he was being looked through all the way to his soul. "There's something there."

The breath caught in Ron's lungs and he thought of Hope at her most manic, pale, heavy crescents carved under her eyes, unable to stomach much without puking it up. "Something bad?" he asked throatily.

They frowned after a long silence, surprise encompassing their face so suddenly that Ron -who had never seen them wear it before- was briefly struck dumb. "The Falling Star," they said with so much wonder.

"Falling star?" Ron asked, befuddled.

Quinn blinked, shaking themselves, still surprised. "I've never seen it on a person before," they admitted, "it's more of a myth among psychics, being beholden to Apollo isn't that difficult to attain, but Asteria? She's something else entirely."

Ron opened his mouth to ask but then he felt it coming on again and Quinn flicked their single eye towards him and said, all-too-knowing, "Another time." And then Ron was lurching back into his bed, getting only a flash of his ceiling before it fractured away into nothing.

He'd never told Hope that the first time he'd Seen her, she was bleeding and dying on pavement, it was part of the reason he'd been so surprised to see her in that compartment on the Hogwarts Express; Hope had her secrets and Ron had his own. But this time, watching some woman crush his best mate's heart in her hand, it filled him with fathomless rage. And then, it drained away, because when Hope was released, she didn't fall, she stumbled back but remained standing, but her eyes- they weren't right. They were glowing and white and completely unimpressed. And then she was moving forward, her own hand sinking through her attacker's chest to grip her own heart.

"You should not have done that, foolish human," the words rumbled out of her throat, but Ron could hear it enough to know that it was Hope's with another's layered on top.

"No,no, please!" the woman begged, but Hope's face was a perfect, cold mask.

"Begging for mercy at the feet of those you've hurt? How your kind never learn," Hope-Not-Hope purred. "Your time is up. Your thread is cut. And so ends the feeble life of Perenelle Flamel." And the hand in her chest ripped out in a spray of crimson, heart in hand.

The next flash was shorter; Hope looking so ill that Ron was surprised she was even breathing, vomiting blood into a bucket. And then the last one; Hope tossing dirt down onto a corpse in clothes that didn't suit her.

Wake up, was hummed in his ear, come little Seer, aid is needed.

Ron shot awake, startled briefly by the sharp boom of thunder outside his window and how the window rattled at the force of the storm. He was disoriented for a few moments, wincing his eyes in order to read the clock on the wall and giving a small yelp when the small mirror that Hope had given him -he was ever-grateful that there was no one to see that he'd taken to sleeping with it in one hand- burned with heat.

He hissed under his breath before flipping it open and saying with a groan, "Hope, it's like eleven at night—"

"I need you to get your dad's car and meet us in London," Hope said without preamble and Ron paused, feeling a bit lost. He could tell when things he'd seen had already happened, and the only thought in his brain right now was that Hope looked pretty good for someone who got her heart crushed. Her hair was still black -as it had been for over a year- and she was still pale and tired, but fortified like a castle wall that had been laid siege to and would not yet yield.

It was only then that he seemed to register what she'd said. "You want-what? What happened?"

The mirror was shifted so that he could get a look at Hermione -beautiful and smart and infuriating Hermione-, red-eyed and blood-stained and positively distraught. "I need you to help us bury a body."

Now, Hope needing to bury a body wouldn't have surprised him, but Hermione…Hermione was different. And Ron would do anything for them, but for Hermione he'd do anything and everything without being asked, without anything to gain.

"I'll be there," he said seriously.

"Bring some towels," Hope advised flatly and cut the connection.

Sneaking out of the Burrow was like a rite of passage. Bill and Charlie had done it to meet girlfriends Mum didn't approve of, Percy had done it just to get away from the noise, Fred and George had done it to invent out of sight, and Ginny had done it to soar in the skies where Mum couldn't see her.

And Ron was about to do it to bury a body. The irony in that difference didn't escape him.

He pulled on his shoes, bundled up with his jacket and grabbed a few towels no one would notice before making his way carefully down the steps, skipping over the one with the loud creak, before quietly making his way out into the storm.

London was two hours away driving at a leisure pace, even through the skies.

Ron made it in less than one.

The street was abandoned but Hope waved him down and he came to screeching halt, skidding slightly on the pavement, before stumbling out of the car with the towels. "What happened?" he demanded, seeing Hope standing guard and Hermione stooped into a crouch, her face buried into her knees and bloodied hands positioned away from her body.

"I think it was a Death Eater trying to have a go at her," Hope murmured to him, glancing back. "She's in shock."

Ron looked from her to Hermione. "Burying, not burning?" he said finally. "Second time today?"

Hope startled faintly at that, giving the slightest recoil, eyes narrowing slightly, but there wasn't the time to ask him about it.

"I know a forest to hide the body," she said in a way that was painfully cryptic and Ron could see the smudges of earth on her hands.

"The one you were just in?" Ron countered.

Her eyes darkened to an unholy black that suited her far better than green or hazel ever had. "No, this one is slightly closer…besides, I don't think I'd handle burning bodies very well."

Ron remembered that well. He knew all about how her parents' home had gone up in smoke, but he wondered if there was more to it than that. And Hope fixed her eyes on him, un-blinking and Ron could understand why she made Charlie feel so uncomfortable, but he didn't comment, merely turning away from her to focus on Hermione.

"Hermione," he said gently, coming over to kneel in front of her. "Hermione, give me your hands."

She held them out to him without raising her head and Ron dutifully wiped the crimson from her hands while Hope popped the boot of the car and headed back to the body. "Ron!" she barked. "Help me with this!"

He snapped up immediately and helped her drag the corpse into the trunk. "What if someone sees us?" he hissed at her, even complying as he did so. "Aren't they going to think it's strange that we're lugging a dead body into the trunk?"

Hope gave him a dry stare, using a hand to draw the string around her neck up so he could see the onyx obelisk dangling from it. "This has got a low-level perception spell on it. I cooked it up myself. No one's going to notice a thing."

Ron gave an exasperated huff, shutting the boot as Hope said "Hermione, dearest, c'mon, let's get in the car…" She coaxed Hermione into standing and sliding carefully into the front seat with a towel around her shoulders that didn't really help the drowned-rat look she had, but they were all kind of drenched, so there wasn't much that could be done to help that. Ron sat back in the driver's seat and the passenger seat extended to allow both Hermione and Hope to sit there comfortably.

Hope pressed a hand to her brow, like her head was throbbing, and said "Ron, start driving."


They didn't talk about it for the longest time, but Ron and Hope had enough questions hanging silently between them that the ride was going to be tense enough without even bringing up the corpse cooling in the back or Hermione still shaking between them.

"Ask him," the shadow whispered in her ear and Hope positively glowered.

"Shut up," she hissed behind her teeth, not heard over the low rumble of the radio, but Ron's eyes still slid towards her all the same; Hope's head ached at the base of her skull. She sighed heavily before leaning forward to twist her body slightly to give Ron her full attention as they coasted the midnight sky. "Want to tell me what that was about earlier?" she asked and Hermione rubbed her eyes, looking from one to the other in total confusion.

"Nothing," Ron shrugged, still looking out the windshield like there wasn't tension thick in the air. "I just think you look good for someone who just got murdered."

Hope froze and Hermione gasped out a stuttering "What?" And Hope thought inexplicably of the god that had briefly ridden around in her skin, wearing her face like his own.

"Are you even Ron? Is he Ron?" she went from asking the boy to asking the shadow that flickered.

"He's your friend," the shadow whispered in her ear, "and as human as they come."

"Not exactly comforting," Hope snapped back and Hermione tilted to look behind them.

"Who are you talking to?" She'd already had a rough day -Hope could understand that, having been murdered and all that- but hearing her friend talking to nothing probably didn't help things.

"The shadow," Hope and Ron said as one, which only served to confuse her more, and Hope narrowed her eyes again.

"Quinn," she realized, "that asshole!"

"What?" Hermione asked again, on a different page, or indeed a different book all together.

"They told me my friend was dripping in etheric energy…" Hope huffed, exhausted beyond measure and reason, too exhausted to be properly mad about it. "Of course, it's you. You always knew when things were about to go sideways or—" She remembered when it was right after Sylvar's death and Hope was miserable and he'd handed her an iris, just to make her feel better and Hope had worked hard not to cry in front of him. Or before the third task when he'd touched her arm and told her in the sincerest voice and the most painfully sad eyes that she needed to watch herself out there. "You knew about Cedric," Hope realized.

Ron's fingers tightened on the steering wheel and a muscle jumped in his jaw. "I knew about Cedric," he agreed.

Like he'd known about Uncle Bilius, how he'd known about so many others. Like how he'd known about what had happened to Hope long before they'd ever crossed paths. It wasn't just death he saw, that was just the thing that he seemed to fixate on the most.

He'd watched her choke on a sob and look away, unable to watch it happen. Ron had known, but so had Hope.

"And you knew about Cedric," he said, eyes flicking her way and she looked so very old and so very tired.

"And I knew about Cedric," she agreed thickly, rubbing furiously at her eyes. "Guess we've both got secrets to keep."

Ron shrugged. "I'm better at it than you are," he said and Hope threw him an outraged look that made her seem more like herself. "C'mon, Crouch? I knew he was dead and you knew he was dead, but your absolute certainty without proof isn't the best look, just saying."

Hope muffled a cough that was an aborted laugh and Hermione tried to remember that day, but it seemed so long ago. Hope had been certain, Hermione had not, but Ron had sided with Hermione and hadn't looked like he believed he wasn't dead.

"Kids at my old school liked to call me 'Reaper'," Hope said finally, leaning back and closing her eyes. "I used to blurt out when people were going to die…and don't think that didn't get me into trouble."

Hermione gave her a direct look, seeming more like herself than she had before, though her eyes were still red and her skin raw and blood staining the towel on her lap. "Nothing more terrifying than a kid telling you you're gonna die," she drawled out, still hiccupping slightly.

"Nothing more unnatural," Hope corrected and Hermione faltered while Ron frowned.

"Dursleys," Ron grumbled under his breath. "What a bunch of—"

"Assholes," Hermione agreed furiously, sounding so unlike herself that the other two stared but then she scrutinized Hope suddenly, taking her in. "He said you were murdered."

"Yeah." Hope didn't elaborate.

"Were you?" Hermione pressed thickly, still thinking of the knife in her pocket and the blood on her hands.

Hope's eyes were still closed, but her mouth was in a thin, hard line. "She took back the knife," Hope said finally, "I was feeling naked without it and…"

"There was a fox following you."

Hope opened one eye to glower at Ron. "That's gonna get annoying super fast, Cassandra."

Ron turned beet red, grumbling something under his breath that sounded a lot like 'the same fucking person'.

"I was just feeling naked, okay, so I called Nath and asked him to teach me how to use a gun."

"Oh," Hermione stared and Ron didn't know the word, but he presumed it was a weapon of some kind, and he knew better than to interrupt.

"But guns aren't really my thing and I think Nath knew that too." Hope shrugged carelessly. "He went off for a smoke break and I went off exploring…but I must've stepped over the boundary line and there she was."

"Who?" they asked as one.

"Taint of humanity," the shadow hissed, "may her soul rot in Tartarus for her—"

Hope twisted suddenly to glare at him. "Will you shut up and let me tell the story?"

"You're taking too long," he replied sullenly, unheard by the pair watching them closely, "and not being honest enough."

"Not being honest enough?" Hope demanded icily. "I don't think a god who decided to wear my body without my say so gets to preach about honesty!"

"I only—"

"You nearly killed me!" Hope seethed. "Your son was horrified by what you did. You're on my shit list."

The shadow abruptly silenced and Hope turned to face the front, rubbing at the back of her head and pulling back a faint smudge of blood that made Hermione pale and Ron scowl. She wiped it on Hermione's towel. "It was Perenelle Flamel," she said, ignoring the gasp and surprised hum, "and she crushed my heart in her hand…it took a few minutes to heal that damage only to wake up and find someone was using my body instead. Nath wasn't pleased, especially since it was his father." Hope rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Fuckin' gods, they think they run the show…the Possession Sickness, now that was brutal. I think I was out for about a week, the way Nath says it. Time in the Underworld is wack, but I came out and there was still a body to deal with, so—"

"And now you're dealing with another one." Hermione buried her face into her hands and sobbed once more in earnest.

Hope patted her shoulder kindly, her stomach roiling. "Ron," she said, "pull over I need to vomit some blood."

"What?" was startled out of Ron.

"Now," Hope advised, copper burning in her throat and her stomach went up into her throat as well when Ron dropped them suddenly through the air to skid on open road, dragging the car forcefully to the side that it sent gravel flying. Hope didn't even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before throwing the door open, stumbling out into the chill and vomiting onto the ground.

"Hope!" Hermione's voice was a little raw as she stumbled out of the car after her. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it- is it because—?"

But Hope couldn't answer her, too busy focusing on bracing her arms on her bent knees. "I just need a sec," she wheezed, trying to regain the ability to breathe. "Gimme—" She'd lost feeling in her leg again and she ground her teeth together. She wasn't good at any of this and she was so fucking tired…and then she looked down into the puddle next to the blood she'd choked up.

Hope never liked looking in mirrors if she could help it. She'd only done it when she was younger to catch a glance of Mirror Lady, and now, since their explosion, she avoided them, like she was afraid of seeing the eyes Dean shared glaring out of them. But this? Days ago, it would've been too much, but now seeing that shade hanging over her head like she'd seen it hanging over Cedric and Crouch and Quirrell, Hope was unable to help herself; she burst into loud, delirious laughter that only served to increase Ron and Hermione's concern as they stumbled out of the car after.

"What's wrong with her?" Hermione turned on Ron and Ron gave her a look.

"Hey, just because I've got some level of psychic ability doesn't mean shit when it comes to Hope!"

"You knew she got murdered!"

"Yeah, but that was like—" Ron blustered.

"I'm going to die," Hope said still laughing deliriously, "that's-that's so disappointing."

Hermione and Ron shared another look then, concerned beyond measure.

Hope's laughter failed then and she stared at the starry sky above her, like realization had just dawned. "Oh," she breathed, "that'll absolutely destroy Dean."

"Are you dying?!" Hermione and Ron demanded as one, absolutely thunderous.

There was something incredibly comical about a seer asking that, but Hope wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand to make a so-so gesture. "Eh," she said, "only a little. And honestly, it's too long of a story, and really too complicated, when you think about—"

"Hope," Ron grated sharply, looking surprisingly incensed, "get in the car and start talking."

Hope blinked at that, staring at him long enough that it would've made someone else uncomfortable, but this was Ron. Ron who rather asked than demanded things of her. Ron who had seen her killed and Ron who was willing to become an accomplice in a murder; Ron who wonderful and not nearly appreciated enough. So, she pulled herself back from the blood she'd coughed up and followed her friends into the car, Hyp's boots scraping on the pavement until she could settle into the seat.

They stayed on the road this time instead of surfing the skies, which was fine, they were close enough to their destination; Hope didn't say anything until they were moving smoothly down the road, only passing one car. And then she opened her mouth and spilled the truth that had laid aching in her throat for far too long. She told them about the magical core forced into her -the memory of it still made her skin crawl-, how it had been killing her so very slowly but had only started to get truly bad the past year after she'd tried a particularly dangerous spell on her own that had gone so very wrong, how she'd had a seizure in the bathroom off Morea's chamber while Ron and Hermione had been asleep because she'd pushed herself too hard…Hope told them everything.

"Oh, Hope," Hermione's voice shook, "why didn't you say anything?" There were still traces of blood on her hands, long-dried, but her situation had nothing on Hope's. Hermione hadn't been killed; Hermione wasn't slowly dying like Hope was.

"I didn't want—" Hope's words failed in her throat and she sighed heavily trying to find them again. "I didn't want to worry you." That was the crux of it, unfortunately, it had never been about Hope's pain, it had always been about keeping her friends from finding out, because Hope knew if she saw how it broke them, it would break her.

"But…you just died and got better, why didn't that fix it?" Ron's knuckles were white around the steering wheel, something the steady hand in the whole mess that made Hope pause suddenly.

"I don't actually know…oh, fuck," the realization burned through her. "That's what he meant!"

"Who—the shadow?" Hermione's brow furrowed and Hope nodded.

"Back when Ron got wasted and I got tipsy—"

"Okay, hang on, I was not that much of a lightweight," Ron complained and Hermione elbowed him in the side hard enough to make him wheeze.

"And we were talking about what we'd ask a genie for and I said—" Hope continued.

"'Not being able to be murdered would be great'," Hermione remembered. She hadn't partaken in the…alcoholic festivities, but she'd watched them act like fools and could certify to the twins and Ginny, if ever asked, that Ron couldn't handle his drink as well as Hope, and she was holding onto the blackmail material very tightly.

"So, I guess it-hang on—" Hope turned in her seat, peering into the backseat to stare at something Hermione couldn't really see or hear and one that Ron could barely make out the outline of; it looked like it had crossed arms, though. "That's a fair point, if I can resurrect myself then why am I dying?"

The shadow sulked. "Talking to me now, are you?"

Hope's eyebrow twitched. "Are you sulking?" she demanded. "This coming from the primordial god of darkness himself? Annoyed that his granddaughter is pissed about him possessing her?"

The tone was incredibly mocking and Hermione shrank down in her seat, while Ron grimaced; awkward.

"So, c'mon, spill the beans, you ancient fuck—" Hope goaded, making Hermione and Ron immediately choked.

The darkness spread, blanketing the car. "Uh, Hope?" Ron said cautiously, but Hope wasn't focused on him.

"I am the first of Chaos' creations," the shadow seethed, full of wrath and rage that Hope knew all-too-well, "I am the Night Eternal! I have brought Death and Sleep and Doom and Discord—"

"And what threats to the dying?" Hope fired back, eyes black fire burning. "Just because you're a god doesn't mean you're always in the right."

The darkness retracted slightly and he huffed. "The end result would've been the same."

"Maybe," Hope agreed because she was very much Greek and the eye for an eye philosophy certainly applied, "but I still would've been the one in control, wouldn't I?"

He faded back into silence before actually giving her the answer she sought. "It's her seed."

"Her seed?" Hope tilted her head. "What seed? Morrigan's?"

The shadow nodded. "She told you that your mother made a deal with her, magic for her first-born, yes?"

"Yeah?" Hope narrowed her eyes.

"There is a word we have for people like that, that enter into…arrangements with gods," the god chose his words carefully. "God-Touched." Which was a pretty cool name, if you asked Hope, but she didn't give him the satisfaction. "A god plants a seed in a mortal but only they can grow it into something great."

Hope made a gagging face. "There has got to be a better way to phrase that."

Hermione tugged on her arm. "What'd he say?"

"Planting a seed," Hope muttered back, catching their identical grimaces.

The shadow ignored that. "Your mother used it to grow her magic from nothing, but Morrigan took it from her and gave it to you…I'm certain if you ask any of her living friends, they will tell you the same; that they never saw her perform any magic after your birth." Hope pursed her lips. "The only problem was that you didn't need or want magic, so it remained unrooted inside you until you decided you wanted to survive murder."

"Like that's a bad wish," Hope scoffed, "do you know how many times I've been killed?" It was in the single digits, but the fact that it was higher than one was undoubtedly concerning.

"But it's agony coming back, isn't it?"

Hope ground her teeth, shifting her eyes to the side. Pain was a language she was fluent in. But he wasn't wrong; it wasn't dying that was the problem, it was the coming back bit that really sucked. Death was an instant; resurrection was torture. She could feel it all, bones mending, tissue stitching itself back together, muscle repairing. Her heart had been crushed and repairing the damage had been excruciating. She rubbed at her chest uncomfortably over where the hole had been.

"That doesn't matter," she said finally.

"Of course, it matters," he was thunderstruck. "It's you."

For a moment, Hope couldn't breathe or even speak. Warmth flooded through her, embarrassment meshing with surprise. "That's not fair," she said finally.

"I'm not trying to be," the shadow responded simply and Hope huffed, eyes shifting away. The relation to Nath was clear to see. "But an answer to your question, you weren't specific enough."

"Specific enough?" Hope's eyes snapped back. "With what?"

"With your wish." The shadow rippled. "One must always be specific when wishing. You asked to survive murder, so you can. However, the magical core was not placed to kill you, and, in many ways, it's perfectly functional."

"Perfectly functional?" Her eyebrow twitched. "Isn't this the core that's entangled with my soul?"

Hermione and Ron were making it very plain that they were listening in and Ron had to swerve the car suddenly to stay in his lane.

"I said it's functional, it does what it was intended to do, little one," he replied dryly. "It gives you the ability to perform magic, greatly limited, but magic all the same. It was inexpertly placed by a novice, and its removal is beyond your ability—"

"Oh, yeah?" Hope bared her teeth, eyes malevolent. She had never looked so unearthly. "Try me."

He sighed and silenced and Hope twisted around to sit back on the seat. "So, no, still dying," she said to Ron who looked like he was contemplating strangling her. "Unless I get the magical core removed, which is what everyone wants me to do, but…no one's got the juice to do it, except a god, and my options are limited."

"Exactly how many gods do you know?" Hermione was thrown off.

"Well, there's Nath—"

"Nath's a god?" the pair said as one, completely dumbfounded.

"Oh, yeah," Hope said frowning, "didn't I say he took me into the Underworld earlier? I'm pretty sure I did, didn't I?"

"You did," the shadow agreed, "but I'm certain they were more preoccupied with the part about your imminent death."

"Well, they're always worried about that, it's not exactly new territory," Hope scoffed, waving a hand.

"Only being able to hear half this conversation is going to get so old so fast," Ron decided heavily and Hope scowled and for a moment the air was lighter, things were the way they always had been, and there wasn't a corpse shoved in the boot.

Then Hope coughed and the moment was over. "I've pissed off one god already, so I'm doing great."

"You…you made a god mad?" Hermione said weakly. "Uh…?!"

"Maybe if she wasn't such a deadbeat mum that actually took an interest in Dean—" Hope grumbled, glancing out the window when the world around them darkened suddenly without cause. "Well, you are!" she complained loudly, and, as if conceding the point, the darkness receded.

Ron and Hermione stared at her.

"She's also, um, kinda my mother," Hope added, more as an afterthought. "Eyes on the road!"

"I-what?" Ron forced out, swerving suddenly to stay in his lane for the second times. "How did you manage that?"

"Oh, you know, my mother gave up her first born in exchange for magic, you know, the usual," Hope scowled out the window. Morrigan had said Lily had loved her so much, but Hope would never have made a deal like that, no way. "Making deals with gods hasn't really done anyone good in my family, so I'm trying to figure a way to fix it myself."

Hermione looked like she had more questions, but she silenced them. Hope had changed over the past year; she was less certain, she possessed more doubt, and infinite sadness.

"What if you can't?" Ron asked thickly, eyes shifting to hers as they went airborne again, nearly at their destination.

Hope sighed heavily, looking out the window. "I guess I'll weigh the pros and cons of making a deal." The shadow was silent, which Hope was thankful for. She felt raw and exposed and the echo of agony remained. Morrigan was out of the question and Hope found she didn't really mind that; anyone who pushed her into a corner and then shouted at her about her poor choices enough to leave her shaky afterwards lost that right immediately, which was probably a sign of healthy coping. She had other options, of course, but one was on her shit list, and the other was Nath, and Hope didn't like the idea of her godfather -godly father?- making a deal with her because look at what her mother had done with Morrigan, look at what happened with Diane and Morrigan. She pursed her lips in annoyance.

"You're not allowed to die." Hope arched an eyebrow at Ron, having thoughts about pointing out the whole literally just came back from the dead thing, but he didn't look like he'd take that joke very well. "And you're not allowed to give up."

Hope leaned back tiredly, resting her head against the cool window. It was easy for him to say when he was an outsider looking in and not experiencing what she was experiencing.

"If it was me, I'd be throwing a tantrum," Ron snapped, "but you, you're so fucking resigned—"

"I don't have the luxury of tantrums," Hope said thickly, fingers twitching. "I—bad things happen when I get angry." Hope had always known not to scream, screaming was dangerous. She'd never known how dangerous until those blocked memories had been released, but she did still remember her slip up when she was eight. She'd accidentally made the room shake at the Dursleys with a surprised shriek; Petunia had accused her of threatening Dudley and smacked her and then shoved her too close to the stairs and Hope had gone tumbling. She'd gotten a broken arm, broken leg, and a hematoma at the back of her skull; there'd been a lot of questions that time, not as many as the car accident, but if Hope hadn't given up on telling people about the Dursleys by then, she certainly had by the accident. Telling people that it had been Dudley had gotten her nothing but trouble. Hope pressed a hand over her eyes and sighed again. "Besides, I'm too tired for that."

Hermione had briefly been distracted by Hope's clearly important dilemma and finally cycled back to bursting into renewed tears, startling both Hope and Ron. "And I'm just making everything worse! Hope, if I hadn't—"

"Oh, come off it," Hope and Ron said as one, Hope's voice just a bit rougher than the usual rasp.

"None of that was your fault," Ron was quick to assure her and Hope nodded seriously with him. "Besides, you know Hope doesn't like to talk about her issues."

Hope stifled a snort, lips curling faintly.

"I vote we sick George on her," Ron told Hermione conversationally, like Hope wasn't even there, "he'll get her to fold like wet paper."

"Probably snog me until I forget my name too," Hope mused thoughtfully and Ron rolled his eyes; he'd stopped gagging at the pair being absolute saps and tried very hard not to think about the bruises on both their necks that neither bothered to glamour anymore. "I think the next time I see him I'll ask him to cover me in love bites."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You two are the most disgustingly in love pair I've ever met."

Hope arched an eyebrow. "That man has walked in on me in the bath, asked where a certain potion ingredient was, and then walked back out…if you can't see your girlfriend practically naked and continue a conversation, then what's the goddamn point?"

That actually made Hermione give a wet giggle and Ron ponder his lot in life.

"Neither of you are allowed to have children," he decided, "no one, especially me, needs to deal with any hellion you create."

Hope's mouth twisted faintly. The assumption that she was going to live long enough to have children implied he thought she'd fix her problem, or, at the very least, finally admit to needing help. Either way, it was a good sign, that the person in the friend group with the ability to see the future had that much faith in her. But faith could be misplaced.

"Our kids would be pretty as hell. Can you imagine? His freckles with my cheekbones? Kill on sight."

Ron sighed in lament.


Hermione stood back, watching as Hope and Ron both shoveled aggressively in the wet ground. There'd been shovels next to that phone booth and Hope had grabbed them before they'd left, but when Hermione had glanced back, the phone booth had disappeared like it had never been there in the first place. If it had been another day, Hermione would've put more thought into how disconcerting that was.

She didn't understand it, but she thought it was best not to question it. Her fingers were shaking still, even when Hope had pressed a flask into her hand.

Dean had once complained about Hope putting pomegranate tea into a flask -but then he'd also complained about Hope following him into the lavatory and about how self-sacrificial she was; Dean complained about Hope as much as any of the Weasleys complained about each other-, but when Hermione took a swig, she'd coughed as pomegranate spiced wine burned down her throat instead. "This isn't very good," she coughed almost immediately.

"What're you talking about?" Hope asked, honestly insulted as she shoveled mud away. "Anything with pomegranate is amazing. You just can't hold your liquor."

Ron wheezed beside her and Hermione huffed. "You're going to turn into an alcoholic at the tender age of fourteen." She thought it best not to mention how Hope and Ron evidently couldn't hold their liquor either.

"We've all got our vices," Hope replied unconcerned. "As long as Dean gets virtues, I'll be golden."

Hermione's eyes softened as she watched Hope continue to shovel. She wondered if Dean knew how much Hope loved him, he must've, right? They were so…chaotic and difficult and sweet and bratty, you would've thought they'd been raised together and were the brother and sister they always told people they were. Dean who always kept an extra pear from breakfast in his bag for Hope because he knew she never ate enough, and Hope who always stored extra pens and pencils in hers for when he broke or lost his.

Dean, who was the one she was afraid to tell, about everything. "But aren't you scared?" Hermione asked finally, fingers roving over the pattern on the flask. The question made both Hope and Ron pause.

"Scared of what?" Hope frowned in confusion.

"Someone put a magical core inside you and it's slowly killing you…how aren't you scared of that?" Hermione asked, gently, painfully.

Hope leaned heavily on her shovel. "Look," she said, looking as tired as Hermione felt, dialed up to twelve, "when I was little, I used to think Vernon was possessed, that was why he hurt me so much, but it turned out that no, he was just a terrible human being…I've been beaten and broken and I've died before, enough that it's lost its novelty. There are worse things to me than death."

Hermione looked away quickly. Hope didn't like to talk about her home life, but she didn't gloss it over, either.

Ron stabbed his shovel into the ground before helping Hope drag the corpse and throw it into the shallow hole.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said thickly, "you're cleaning up my mess and I-I didn't mean to kill him—"

"Hey, hey, shhh," Ron took her face between his hands, smearing mud slightly against her cheeks in the already damp air. "Look at me. The guy followed you into an alley, he tried to kill you, you got to him first—"

"Always go for the neck," Hope advised, tossing more dirt down. "Speaking from experience. A good punch to the throat can be pretty jarring. Dudley never liked it very much."

They both ignored her.

"And you're not a bad person," Ron promised, "you're a very good person who had a bad thing happen to you. This isn't your fault, you didn't ask to be attacked, and if you mirror-call me tomorrow to say another Death Eater has attacked you, I will come right over and help you bury the second body—"

"Ditto," Hope piped up, continuing to shovel.

"Ron," Hermione gasped and he released her cheeks, her heart racing in her chest.

"What? You think I wouldn't—"

"Ron, I'm in love with you," and then she was dragging him down into a kiss and Ron, who had spent the better part of the past year coming to terms with just how much he loved Hermione Granger, responded eagerly, gripping her tightly to him and sinking fingers into her hair.

"Glykó Thánatos," Hope muttered under her breath. "I thought they'd never get it." And she kept shoveling until her phone buzzed in her pocket. "Oh, hey, Mum, what's up?"

"What's up?" Diane asked dryly. "My daughter was supposed to be home several hours ago, that's what's up."

"Ah," Hope said intelligently, slapping the flat end of her shovel against the ground. "Oops. I just left France a little later than expected…I'm with Hermione and Ron."

She glanced over to where they were still snogging, gripping each other fiercely and swaying together. It made her ache unexpectedly for George.

"They've finally kissed," Hope confided with a grin.

"At one in the morning?" Diane asked archly.

There was blood and dirt caking Hope's nails, but the shovels twisted away into nothing as soon as they were no longer needed. Her brow furrowed and she looked to the shadow who shook his head; not his doing, then. She moved to twist her fingers into the appropriate poppers for the most basic cleaning spell and any blood that had come from the corpse was long gone by the time she was done.

She moved to lean against the boot of the car to give Ron and Hermione a semblance of privacy that no one ever liked to afford her and George –"Oi!" Ron complained. "That's my brother!" Hope pulled back from George's talented mouth to give her best mate an unimpressed stare. "Your brother's a bit busy." And she let George drag her back in while Ron squawked in outrage-, keeping the phone to her ear.

"Hermione's had a difficult night," she managed finally. "I'll be home soon, I promise, please don't wait up."

There was silence on the other end. "If you're sure you're okay," Diane acquiesced. "Lock the door after you, won't you, sweetheart?"

"Sure thing," Hope promised. "Love you!"

She stuffed the phone into her back pocket before sticking her fingers in her mouth and whistling loud enough to cause Hermione and Ron to break apart, startled. "I hate to break up the lovefest but my mother's getting worried, and it's gonna be a miracle if neither of yours notice our little adventure."

They grimaced identically, but Hope had the feeling that Mrs. Weasley would be far worse than Mrs. Granger.

"Hold still," Hope advised, her fingers twisting into the same poppers she'd used to clean the car and the blood and mud flaked off them. "Okay, good as new. Ron, you're taking the Ford Anglia from here, Hermione, I'm taking you home…if we book it, we might end up with a few hours of sleep."

She was certain if it wasn't so late, they would've put up more of a protest, but neither of them was as used to running on so little sleep as Hope was, so heading home it was.


Hope had parked down the street so that she and Hermione could walk together in the darkness. Hermione held tightly to Hope's arm despite the lights illuminating the path, but Hope didn't complain; she had an appreciation for power in numbers after the day they'd both had. Hope rarely had trouble seeing in the dark and tonight was no exception, but Hermione wasn't nearly so lucky.

"You know," Hope said out loud, making Hermione jump, "some people might call this stalking."

The light flickered overhead and the figure leaning against the bench slightly out of sight approached. It was the woman from before, the one that had dropped Hope and Dean in the Great Hall on Halloween, but even as Hermione tried to remember what she'd looked like, she was having trouble, but she knew that was the woman.

"It's my job to keep an eye on you," the woman said wryly.

"Really?" Hope arched a cool eyebrow. "I didn't feel very safe when I was kidnapped and tortured, and Cedric killed."

Hermione tensed beside her. Hope had never spoken about what happened, what had happened to her. She had never said anything about being tortured. Horror bled through her veins with just a bit of annoyance at how willing Hope was to keep her silence rather than talk about what had happened to her, what was bothering her.

"I tend to steer clear of human festivities," Selenar shrugged. "I'm sorry about what happened, but it still happened under the nose of that headmaster you so adore."

"That's sarcasm, isn't it?" Hope retorted dryly. "I'm rather transparent about him."

"I can tell." Selenar considered her. "You look pretty good for someone who just buried a body."

Hermione tightened her grip on Hope's arm, but Hope didn't rise to the bait. "You look like your sister," she retorted. "Blending in with the masses?"

Selenar looked down at herself, at the jeans and the blazer. "Perception shifters are difficult to maintain and not really my forte."

Hope pursed her lips.

"I'm sorry," Selenar said suddenly, "about what happened to you. Torture is…extreme. And I'm sorry you couldn't save your friend."

Hope looked away, not looking as miserable as Hermione been expecting, but certainly as resigned. "Thanks," she said roughly. "But the answer is still 'no thanks'."

Selenar arched an eyebrow, more amused than annoyed, and Hermione was pretty sure the last time she'd been annoyed. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly impertinent?"

"I'm sure it's been mentioned more than once," Hope replied, unimpressed. It had been mentioned quite a bit, Hermione could attest to personally.

Selenar looked her over, raking her eyes up and down, her arms crossed. "I heard about your Possession Sickness. You look like you need some sleep." Her eyes flicked down to Hope's shadow under the flickering light above them and Hermione followed her gaze, surprised to realize the shadow didn't suit her at all. It was longer, with broader shoulders, and it made more sense, the one-sided conversation that she had had in the car, when you could actually see the shadow.

"I've been resting for a week, thanks," Hope said coolly, which was a total lie; she'd been ill the entire week, but she wasn't about to admit to it.

"And you still look exhausted, but that's practically a character trait so I'm not sure if you want me to ignore it or not." Selenar scrutinized and Hope's expression soured. "What? Don't like people caring about your wellbeing?"

"No," Hermione said with resignation while Hope replied "Not strangers." Hope twisted her head to look at Hermione.

"What?" Hermione demanded. "You don't! You just pass out on us."

"That is—" Hope sputtered, trying to find the right words to prove that no, she wasn't like that at all, but Hermione arched an eyebrow and she flushed, conceding the point. "Not in front of the elf, 'Mione."

"Hey!" Selenar was so honest to god insulted that it was hysterical, or would've been if Hope had been less tired. "I am not an elf!"

Hope flicked one of her own rounded ears. "Then what's with the ears?"

Selenar huffed in annoyance. "If you could see—" But she stopped herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're being purposefully aggravating."

"Gee, what gave it away?" Hope bared her teeth.

"I'm not an elf, I'm a faerie!"

"Aren't you a bit…big to be a fairy?" Hermione had dealt with a lot of new information today, but at least fairies were somewhat familiar territory. "And where're your wings?"

Selenar mouthed wordlessly at her. "I'll never understand humans," she decided, narrowing her eyes at Hermione. "Will you stop doing that? It's giving me a headache."

Hermione leaned back slightly, tightening her grip on Hope who appeared just as confused. "Doing what?" she asked, tone slightly shrill. "I'm not doing anything!"

"You mean you look this fractured normally? What must that be like?" Selenar looked away, shading her eyes like she was looking into the sun. "Never heard of a human being a Mirror before."

"Somehow that sounded offensive," Hope drawled out, unimpressed, "Hermione's my friend and she's had a rough day and you don't need to be a bitch on top of it."

Selenar's eyes positively gleamed and she had never looked less like Sylvar. "I've been told it's my personality."

"Sounds about right," Hope muttered as she and Hermione continued walking, forcing Selenar to follow after if she wanted to continue talking. "If she gets frisky, just stab her with your knife," Hope advised to Hermione, acting like Selenar wasn't there.

"As if she could manage it," Selenar purred. "She got lucky with that wizard, she won't get lucky with me."

"Lucky?" Hermione breathed, suddenly furious as she twisted her head to glower at the not-elf. "Lucky? I almost died!" The knife Hope had given her felt impossibly cold in her pocket.

Her fire only served to amuse Selenar. "If your enemy actually wanted you dead, I suspect that's where you'd be," Selenar mused, unconcerned about making her angry. "They wanted to scare you…you're the one with non-magical parents, aren't you? No protections to keep you safe? The left hand of the Girl-Who-Lived?"

Hope made a low noise deep in her throat at the name she hated so much but she said nothing to stop Selenar; Hope knew better than to step between Hermione when she was phenomenally pissed.

"Left hand? No, I'm one of her best friends." Hermione had never been referred to as anyone's left hand, not even Hope's.

"It's technically the same," Selenar said, rolling her eyes, "this is wartime, isn't it? You trust her over your supposed leader, don't you?" She nodded towards Hope and Hermione blinked, frowning in confusion.

"No, I—"

"Didn't she give you a literal dossier on her abuse and Albus Dumbledore's part in it?"

Hope stiffened beside Hermione and her eyes burned coal black. "You're as bad as Quinn," she snapped. "Keep your nose out of my business!"

"Your business is my business now, darling," Selenar crooned and Hope wrinkled her nose in annoyance, "And I fear Morrigan's rage far more than yours." Her eyes shifted back to Hermione briefly, an action that took no small amount of effort. "Have you read it yet?"

Hermione hadn't yet, she'd thought about it a few times, and then she'd lost her nerve. She knew she wouldn't like what she read in there and she wasn't sure she really wanted to know how badly Hope had been hurt. "No," she admitted. "Not yet."

"You should," Selenar said, tone imploring for the first time. "You should know the kind of person who's doesn't deserve your loyalty."

Hermione frowned in confusion briefly, thinking she could only mean Dumbledore, before freezing at a sharp sound that pierced the night, only relaxing when the silence continued after it.

"There won't be another attack, you can relax," Selenar snorted. "The enemy—" She snapped her fingers and Hope grunted out "Riddle." "Yes, Riddle, he's trying to scare you. Of course, you ending up dead would be great for him—"

"How?" Hermione asked bleakly. "He doesn't know me, he doesn't know—"

"But he has allies that do, doesn't he?" Selenar probed. "People that can tell him how important you are to this one." She nodded her head to Hope. "People that can tell him how clever you are and how dangerous you could become, if left to your own devices. If it was me, I wouldn't want you on the other side, I'd want you dead."

Hermione swallowed thickly. This was what her parents were talking about when they talked about how they didn't think her school was safe or that learning magic was safe. And here she was, fresh from burying a corpse, blood under her nails.

"Just make sure you don't end up like that old man," Selenar advised, "leaving her to fix your mistakes."

Hermione flinched and Hope kicked out a leg, pushing Selenar back from them. "Fuck off, Selenar!"

Selenar quieted but didn't leave, a steady presence as they continued on, knowing her words weren't wanted.

"C'mon, it's late and you need sleep," Hope said, like she wasn't always the epitome of exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said suddenly as they walked and she could feel Hope looking at her curiously from the side, but she didn't raise her eyes. "I'm sorry you had to fix it, but I didn't know what to do and—" Selenar's words weighed heavily on her mind.

"Relax," Hope sighed heavily, not giving the woman any consideration, "Ron and I would do anything for you and you're not a cold-blooded killer, we'd know that better than anyone else. The Death Eaters are the bad guys and he wasn't following you into an alley because he was a nice guy, he was doing it because he was an asshole that believed that blood purity rhetoric that he'd been fed by absolute morons."

Hermione looked at her then. "Then why do you make it look easy, like it rolls off you?" she asked Hope when she'd brought her to stand on the sidewalk before her house.

"Not easy," Hope said hollowly, looking up at the moon, "necessary. Quirrell was going to kill me, Tom Riddle was going to kill me, Augustus Rookwood was going to kill me. Perenelle Flamel did kill me. It's not easy to kill someone, to know you killed someone. It's easy to think you're the monster, that there's something wrong with you, but it's just fight or flight." She squeezed Hermione's hand tight. "You're a good person who had something bad happen to you…he walked into that alley with the intention of killing you and he lost to a half-trained witch…just imagine how formidable you'll be at graduation."

It helped a little, but Hermione still twisted her fingers together. "Hope," she whispered.

"C'mere." Hermione sank into Hope's arms easily and Hope held a hand cupping the back of her head. "It's been a rough night. You need some rest. I'll make sure they don't come back."

The tension left Hermione and she nodded against Hope's shoulder. "Okay," she murmured, heading quietly inside and she glanced out her bedroom window when she made it up and for a moment, she thought she saw a haze of red, but then it was gone.


The ride home was quiet and Ron was tense the whole time, rain starting to come down thick around him in the darkness that blanketed the world. He was so tired that he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Ron slapped his cheeks a few times to jolt him out of it as he coasted the sky. He actually almost crashed the car -which would've been rather difficult to explain to his father, let alone his mother- before righting it and setting it down gently, driving quietly into the garage and then making his way quickly back into the Burrow, praying that no one was awake.

Unfortunately for him, the lights flicked on and once his eyes adjusted, Ron was looking at Fred's arched eyebrow. "You've got to get better at sneaking around," his brother said, so incredibly unimpressed.

Ron couldn't help but be miffed. "Like you've never snuck out."

"Not in the middle of the night," Fred rolled his eyes, "Angie's orphanage has strict rules."

Ron hadn't really thought about that, and, honestly, he was more impressed that there was a rule Fred wasn't willing to break, because then it meant Angie would be out on the street and there was no way Mum'd let Angie stay with them, given how she'd once blown a gasket about finding Hope and George napping in the orchard -rather innocently, Ron could easily say, being someone that had walked in on them snogging once or twice (or seven times, ugh).

He shrugged off his wet jacket, hanging it up on the rack with the rest, his eyes flicking to the clock where all their names were stuck in 'mortal peril'. "Well," Ron said, "I'm just going to go to bed." Then he ambled towards where Fred was close to the stairs, and then everything just went black and Fred was left holding up his little brother as he snored on his shoulder.

Fred's eyebrow twitched and he muttered "You've gotta be kidding me," in the silence.

And when Ron awoke later that morning, not even close to being well rested, he had no idea how he ended up tucked in bed.

(He didn't realize that after Fred had carefully maneuvered his dead-to-the-world brother up the stairs and into his bed, removing his shoes and cleaning them of the suspicious mud they'd gained in the night, before heading out to the garage to check the car's boot, finding the towel with blood smeared on it. And it was a testament to how much Fred loved his brother and knew him, that he vanished the evidence without a thought)


Selenar watched the hazy barrier go up before vanishing as though it had never been there in the first place. "Nice workmanship," she said, "a bit weak, I'll grant you, but the sentiment is nice."

Hope rolled her eyes in annoyance. "It's not like I've got the juice for anything more powerful," she said with no need to lie; Morrigan, after all, had told Selenar her darkest secret months ago.

"Hm." Selenar hummed, following after her as she started to walk again. "Actually taking your limitations into consideration? Color me impressed."

Hope could only ignore her so much. "Is there something a can help you with? My answer is the same."

"Still impertinent, I see," Selenar replied unsurprised. "But no, I'm not here to force the bottle down your throat, now I'm going to make you work for it."

"Uh-huh?" Hope was a bit dubious.

"I've placed your father in the place you don't go, the place you believe you have no business being."

"Wow, you put him with the Blood-Soaked Tree, pretty ballsy," Hope retorted and Selenar gave her a filthy look.

"Learned to swim lately?" she fired back and Hope clammed up. "How was that task that required you to swim last year?"

Hope forced a shudder down. The gillyweed had been a godsend that day because Hope, as it just so happened, couldn't swim to save her life, and only doing a few shots of Firewhisky -that she'd stolen from the twins- had given her enough courage to make it into the water in the first place, even knowing Dean was at the bottom of the lake. "I managed," she said stiffly.

"I still don't understand the whole 'avoiding wellhouse' thing, though," Selenar continued. "When you clearly like the seaside."

Hope huffed, bringing her hands together to rub at the cloaking sigils patterned onto her knuckles. Selenar offered her arm like Hope really needed an escort. Exasperated, Hope looped her arm through Selenar's. "Enclosed space plus water equals bad experience," she said instead, opting for being surprisingly open.

"Ah," Selenar nodded in understanding.

"Why are you really here?" Hope asked as they passed under a flickering light. "Because your queen already screamed herself hoarse at me and I'm not aiming for another round."

Selenar didn't say anything to defend her. "Well, she's under a lot of stress."

"Aren't we all?" Hope rolled her eyes.

"Well, she's in the middle of a war, tensions are higher when you're dealing with that on top of your daughter's imminent death."

Hope scrutinized her. "Aren't you a warrior?"

"Obviously," Selenar said dryly.

"Why aren't you fighting too, then?" Hope probed.

"I am." And Hope looked back and her form shimmered in the darkness, wearing some kind of leather armor with a crest bearing a raven, vambraces and greaves to match her chest, blue shirt underneath ripped and stained with blood that was splashed across her entire person, her pointed ears clear to see and a cluster of what looked like fish scales close to one eye and edging along the opposite side of her jaw.

"You look like hell," Hope told her when the shock wore off. Selenar grinned to bare sharp teeth at Hope.

"Thanks. Projecting is a simple spell."

"Why waste your magic if you're in the middle of a battle?" Hope was dumbfounded.

"Maybe I miss our little chats?" Selenar crooned and Hope gave her a flat stare. "Hm…you remind me of him, you know? Your father."

That startled Hope enough that she missed a step and only Selenar's grip on her kept her upright. "You met him?"

"Just the once, when he came to plead for an audience," Selenar shrugged. "My queen called him Silvertongue long before she agreed to enter into a deal with him."

"Silvertongue?" Hope's brow furrowed. "Was he that good at pleading his case?"

"He was honest, if desperate, but it was a name she gave him more for his wartime skill at creating cyphers and encoding communications," Selenar spared her a smile. "Uncommonly skilled and underappreciated for it."

Hope looked away at that. People were always more likely to say nice things about Lily over James, and Hope hated that.

"It must be quite aggravating," Selenar continued, "not knowing anything about them, being spoon-fed singular traits like that's all they were, smart, or cruel, at a single point in their lives—"

Hope dragged them to a stop. "What are you really here for, Selenar?"

"Do you think perhaps I am becoming fond of you?" Selenar quirked an eyebrow.

"Can't imagine why," Hope replied.

Selenar's eyes gleamed. "And with proper training, you could be potentially devastating."

"Thanks," Hope said, surprisingly flattered. "But maybe you should focus less on me and more on your battle?"

Selenar laughed, drawing away from her slightly, sliding her hand down Hope's arm until she reached her hand. "I'm fairly skilled in juggling, Bean, I'll survive."

"Bean?" Hope asked, squinting her eyes in confusion.

She smirked in reply. "You'll figure it out," she said with certainty, lifting Hope's hand to brush blood-stained lips against her knuckles. "See you around, Princess."

And then she was gone and Hope was left frowning in the darkness.


"You look like you committed a crime," Quinn said with far too knowing of a look when Hope finally made it home before looking her up and down. "And those aren't your clothes."

"Borrowed them from the god of sleep," Hope said dryly with entirely too much honesty. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Which Quinn did, with Hope giving them an unimpressed stare, quirked eyebrow, and hand on her hip. "It's for George," they grinned and Hope rolled her eyes.

"I know George thinks I'm cute, that's not new," she grumbled.

"Oh, no, babe, George thinks you're hot and this look just edges you up that meter." Quinn winked their only good eye and Hope rolled hers again before stepping lightly up the stairs to fall face first into her bed, sleep coming for her immediately.


Dean awoke early, but that was nothing new. What was new was that Hope was fast asleep in her bed opposite him, still wearing her clothes -clothes that he was certain weren't hers and definitely weren't George's style- and looking very much like she'd just fallen into it moments before. He hadn't even heard her come in and she was supposed to come home early last night and hadn't made it, so he knew something was up.

He stared at her for a long moment, just to be sure, but Hope's chest rose and fell easily, and Dean flopped back onto his back. At least she was sleeping easily; Hope slept even less than Dean did and Dean couldn't bring himself to wake her. Hope liked to call him soft for that, like she hadn't let him sleep in when that Auror had come with questions. Dean wisely decided not to call her out on it; Hope was the queen of getting in the last word.

The light caught on one of the chains around her neck. It was a new one from George that she'd gotten at Christmas, but Dean rarely saw it because the thick chain was short and hung close to the hollow of her throat, hidden under her school uniform, with a pendant set with a black opal that was a second-hand antique but didn't make Hope love it any less.

Hope liked things that looked old, things that had a history, and when George had asked him what gemstone she liked best, Dean hadn't even had to think to answer 'opals'. Well, opals and moonstones, he'd had to correct himself, but Hope liked opals the best. She tended to roll her eyes at the usual gemstones; emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds were nothing short of boring to her.

(Someone had once compared her eyes to emeralds -back when she'd been wearing the green more than the hazel-, which Hope hadn't been too impressed with, turning and asking George what he thought about her eye color, and he'd said the color reminded him of acromantula venom.

"Deadly," Hope had bared her teeth, "nice choice, baby.")

Dean shook his head, throwing his blankets off and grabbing some clothes, heading into the shower first, but he must've been in there longer than he thought, because when he came out, Hope was no longer in her bed and a glance out the window showed she'd taken up residence on the driveway, toolbox open as she sat on the ground next to her motorbike. Her brow was creased in annoyance and Dean was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with the motorbike when he descended the stairs quietly to hear his mum and Quinn arguing in the kitchen. They had their little tiffs, but this one, surprisingly enough, was not about either of them; it was about Hope.

"Look, it's a horrible situation, it makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it," Quinn was saying, "but she's not really grasping it."

"You want to tell an abused kid that she needs to grasp forced magical core implantation?" Mum fired back. "Fuck, Quinn, she's got walls for a reason!"

Dean's stomach twisted in on itself. What? Hope had never said anything…but, then again, Hope never said anything like that to Dean. It was hard not to be bitter about the situation, but she was always prone to shove him away and take the brunt of a hit than trust him to fire back. Sisters, ugh.

"I acknowledge that, but come on, Di, she was an infant! And there's no way her parents would've done it, so it must've been someone they trusted, someone in that—"

"Like Victoria?" Mum demanded, taking no prisoners.

Quinn made a sound like a wounded animal. "That's not fair," they rasped thickly.

"I'm not trying to be," Mum replied carefully. "You can't force someone to deal with their problems just because you want them to…Mari's got a lot of trauma without bringing in non-consensual magic use!"

It was at that point that Dean stepped slowly back, straining to be as quiet as possible, as he made his way out the front door to amble over to Hope. She looked up briefly. "No," she said.

"No?" Dean asked flummoxed. "No, what?"

"No, I'm not going to talk about it," she said flatly. "Quinn and Mum shouldn't even be talking about it because it's my goddamn business." Dean was briefly startled, because it had been a long time since he'd heard her so quietly furious. But now he was getting annoyed.

"Don't you ever think—"

"No," Hope replied shortly.

Dean huffed. "You didn't know what I was going to say."

She took a wrench from her box and tightened a gear before raising her eyes to meet his. "I know you," she said with utter certainty. "And you like knowing everything so you can fix everything and…you can't fix this. Trust me, I've already had to explain the mess to Ron and Hermione."

"Oh, so you told them and not me?" Dean tried to not get incensed, but he was always the last to know.

"Because they caught me puking up blood," Hope snapped, eyes fiery and Dean recoiled. She took a calming breath. "Now, hand me the lube. Please."

Dean choked. "Never thought I'd hear you say that," he muttered, cheeks darkening when Hope waggled her eyebrows. "You're disgusting and I hate you."

"I'm your favorite," Hope countered easily, taking the lubricant from him. "And he's gonna end up as your brother-in-law one day."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I feel sorrier for our mums."

A grimace warped Hope's face briefly, thinking about how little Mrs. Weasley and Diane got along, though she was sure prejudice played a part in it; Diane being in a relationship with a genderqueer person who wasn't strictly human was probably the icing on a cake that been overbaked and sitting out a little too long. "I'll drink to that," she snorted. "Sit down, dearest, you're hurting my eyes."

Dean flopped himself down dramatically, making her roll her eyes before sliding the charmed lenses back into place as she went back to work. "You really don't want to talk about it?"

"Does anyone like to talk about how their body has been violated against their consent?" Hope asked archly and Dean paled. "No. Not really."

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath.

She spared him a half-smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek loudly, laughing when he pushed her away and rubbed at his cheek in disdain. The smile faltered on her mouth. "When things like that happen," she said finally, "they leave a mark, figuring out how to deal with it takes time."

Dean looked at her and the half-smile was back, her eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. "I used to have this really great therapist," she admitted. "Quinn thinks I haven't…absorbed it, what happened, but not everything that's happened to me, traumatizes me. I still flinch at loud sounds, but expecting a hit didn't stop me from bad-mouthing Vernon or Petunia or even Dudley. Being in small spaces is uncomfortable and headache-inducing, but I still go to Potions class. Knowing that my magic is slowly killing me hasn't stopped me from inventing new spells. I want it out of me, but I haven't managed to get any spells to work yet. I'm bothered by it, it makes my skin crawl, it makes me want to rip the core out of my chest…but if I focused on all the bad all the time, I would've taken a knife to my throat a long time ago."

Dean's heart stilled in his chest. "Did you think about it?"

"I didn't really have a plan, but I was extremely depressed," Hope had to concede. "I might've if I hadn't had Sylvar walk into my life when she did. She thought if I could see the beauty of the world that I'd want to live to see more…wanderlust to cure depression, she called it. The drugs help, of course, but there's a reason I love Greece so much. It's far more beautiful than anything else I've ever seen."

Dean snorted. "If anyone tells you that you're not a romantic, do me a favor and give them a shiner, would you?"

"I'm not romantic," Hope huffed immediately. "Though I'm going to be taking a class on 'the Romanticism in Poetry' so—"

"Brakebills has the weirdest classes," Dean decided and Hope laughed again, this time light and loud.

"You'll like Greece," Hope promised, "the Statute of Secrecy is something we laugh about over cocktails."

"I don't know what that means," Dean furrowed his brow in confusion and Hope laughed once more.

"You'll see it when you get there."


Hope looked at her reflection in the mirror, at her reflection. She curved her chin one way and then the other with her thumb only to huff in annoyance; she might be wearing James' coloring but she could still see Lily Potter underneath.

"I hate my face," she said into the phone.

"Any particular reason?" Nath asked mildly.

"Because its someone else's," Hope grated in annoyance. "Everyone sees Lily and you see Adel and—"

"Well—"

"I'm not complaining, I'm just fucking tired of it," Hope sighed heavily, rubbing at her eyes. "Gods, I hate wizards."

"Well, not one wizard," Nath pointed out and Hope couldn't help but smile. "One I'm still looking forward to meeting."

"Helluva segue, Nath," Hope snorted. "He's kinda terrified of meeting you."

"Is he?" Nath was positively delighted. "How delightful."

"Don't be a dick," Hope admonished, "I'm going to marry that man."

The breath went out of her at the admission. There was a band on her finger that Hope had gotten because last year she'd gotten a few too many questions about her husband and not wearing a ring. Hope found she liked its weight and the idea that she could potentially tie herself to George for as long as they lived. He hadn't broached the subject of getting engaged but Fred wasn't subtle, asking what kind of ring she liked best.

'Unconventional' had been the answer.

So, she knew George was looking.

But it was going to be an extremely short marriage if she couldn't get her issues sorted. Hope flicked her eyes down to the shadow dogging her footsteps, but he'd been quiet since the night before.

"He sounds lovely," Nath promised after a long moment, voice warm even across the phone.

Hope smiled broadly. "Really?"

"Yeah, he sounds like a good one."

"He is," Hope promised, eyes soft. "The best." She cleared her throat before it got to clogged with emotion. "He's looking at rings," she admitted.

"Is he now?" There was something in Nath's voice she couldn't read over the phone. "How do you feel about that?"

"Think I'm too young to get married?" Hope inquired sullenly.

"I don't believe in dictating the lives of others," Nath waved her off. "It's not my business if you want to marry the boy who's stood by you for two years, through thick and thin, who looks at you like you're the moon and stars and the most precious of gems…that's your business. I get no say in that."

Hope choked on her breath. "You don't…you don't know that he looks at me like that," she whispered.

"Are you sure?" She could hear his smirk.

"You're terrible," she muffled into the phone as she heard Dean complaining about something to his mother. "I've gotta go, talk to you later, Nath." She didn't wait for his goodbye, shutting the phone and tucking it into her jacket's pocket before fixing her eyes on her reflection and forcing it to shift. Her eyes darkened, her hair lightened to rich bronze and curly. She looked more like Nath than Lily; Hope smiled. Then she opened the door, heading outside to her motorbike where Quinn was standing.

She revved up the motorbike, just to get Dean moving faster. Quinn arched an eyebrow but Hope ignored it. If they asked her one more time about what was on her mind, Hope was going to physically explode.

"Too many secrets are bad for you," Quinn told her conversationally, "they mess with your aura."

Hope rolled her eyes. "I'm calling bullshit."

"What was the crime you and Ron and Hermione were committing at one in the morning?" they responded easily, undeterred.

"Polygamy," Hope replied dryly.

Quinn actually snorted. "I think you and George are a little too in love for that, if I'm being perfectly honest."

Hope rolled her eyes again, her lips curving slightly in amusement.

"He wants to ask you to marry him," Quinn mentioned and Hope froze, her eyes shifting to the yellow lenses. "I might've peeked a little."

"That's rude," Hope said automatically.

Quinn shrugged, not bothering to deny it. "It would solve some of your problems, getting married."

Hope laughed, too startled to do anything else. "Married? At my age? C'mon—" Like she hadn't just discussed the matter with Nath. But it was different with Nath; Hope rarely kept secrets from Nath.

"You're telling me you haven't thought about it? Thought about having proof that he's yours and you're his? You're territorial, not dumb, Mari."

Hope turned pink. "I'm not territorial," she grumbled. She didn't care if George talked to other girls, or what he did when he wasn't near her. Maybe she liked it when George forgot to put a glamour over a love bite or how she could reel him into her easily or how he looked at her like nothing else mattered.

"You kinda are," Quinn snorted. "But he's legal and soon you'll be the age where you can consent to an underage marriage and technically, you're not supposed to be living on your own."

Hope turned positively crimson at the thought, choking on her tongue. She took in a breath to calm herself. "If I was going to marry George, I wouldn't be doing it for that reason. That would be selfish and unfair to him."

Quinn considered her for the longest time, like they were looking through her in the same way that Nath always seemed to (the way Dumbledore wished he could). "Choosing love over freedom is a hard choice to make."

"Not for me," Hope said, ducking her head, "not if it's him."

The door slammed open and Dean bellowed "Don't leave without me!"

Hope and Quinn jerked slightly and laughed as Dean rushed out the door. He'd been packed for days, but Dean did have a tendency to get scattered around deadlines. Hope had been smart and had sent nearly all of her things ahead -courtesy of Quinn-, letting Hedwig head right there rather than wait around for Hope, but her owl preferred Greece to Britain, ironically.

"Have fun! And stay safe!" his mother shouted after him as he raced over with his bag strapped to his back to slide behind Hope, winding an arm around her in time for Quinn to touch the handlebar and cause the world to shift around them. Dean gazed in awe under the bright sunlight shining down on lighter, more vibrant buildings that overlooked the clear blue sea.

"See you in school, Mari," was all Quinn said before flitting away and Hope blew out some air, shaking her head slightly before turning to Dean.

"C'mon," she said with a faint smile, "let's get some lunch."

Dean vaguely worried about neither of them wearing helmets, but Hope peeled away at a leisure pace, which was probably mostly for his benefit, because Dean stared around them in complete awe. He wanted to sketch everything, maybe even paint some of it; Dean was really enjoying watercolors. It was everything Hope had said it would be and more. There were tiny faeries fluttering in the air, birds with rich, glittering feathers -Dean swore one of them was a phoenix-, there was even a woman coasting the skies with the largest wings he'd ever seen.

"Are we in the magical part of Greece?" he asked in wonder. Hope laughed in front of him. "What?"

"Magical part of Greece," Hope chortled to herself, "c'mon gyros are waiting."

And she sped off, turning into a rustic town with faded signs over the shops, sliding into a parking spot neatly. "Now, try not to stare too much at these guys," Hope told Dean as he gaped around them. "I'm serious; you like people gaping at you?" Dean locked his jaw quickly and tried not to stare any more than usual, but it was hard work.

There were humans and non-humans intermingling and not even caring. A woman with hair like seaweed and glittering patches of scales on her shoulders with a dress that rippled like the sea was jabbering away to her companion, an equally surprising woman with a head of snakes, wearing sunglasses and a casual grin. There was a man with flaming dreadlocks arguing with his female counterpart, who looked remarkably similar excepting that she lacked his long tongue -what the fuck- and little patches of red on his dark skin that seemed almost like scales or vitiligo; they were both wearing what must've been the firefighter uniform and hers was beginning to smolder.

And then a dog bounded up to Hope and Dean eagerly, a large dog with a shaggy, dark green coat. It happily covered them with delighted kisses while its owner, a seemingly human, sighed silently in exasperation. Their fingers fluttered into the appropriate signs and Hope returned the same with a casual smile, patting the dog's head as its thick tail banged against the ground. Then they both waved goodbye and continued on.

"That's not a normal dog," Dean said, still trying to take everything in.

Hope shushed him. "It's just a Cù-sìth, don't be rude."

"A what?"

"Scottish hellhound, essentially, you know, harbingers of death?" Hope arched an eyebrow. "Totally adorable, though."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You should've gotten a dog instead of an owl."

She laughed briefly and then three sharp barks pierced the air and she twisted around, the expression on her face startled beyond comprehension. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said finally, giving her head a shake and forcing a smile onto her face. "C'mon, it's this way." She grabbed his wrist and dragged him towards the dramatic lettering with a bold urn at a tilt beside it, LED lights layered over but off during the daytime, spelling out: Pandora's Box. She was walking with a limp, he noticed. She'd always had one, even when she'd no longer needed the cane, but it wasn't as obvious, particularly to someone that didn't pay close attention. But clearly her leg wasn't doing so hot.

Hope pushed open the door, making it ding, grinning at the sight of the woman behind the counter. She was beautiful with long silky black hair that was hiked up into a high ponytail but as they got closer, the more Dean noticed.

"Marina!" the woman beamed brightly. "Back for the summer semester?"

"You know me," Hope laughed easily, sliding into one of counter chairs that was free, Dean following at her left. "Brakebills keeping you busy?"

Her eyes were slitted like snakes, dark makeup lining them to make the color and shape more obvious, and the stud in her nose shone under the light. Her smile was painfully sharp and Dean could swear there were fangs in her mouth. She put her elbows on the counter, fluttering her eyelashes. "I can't say it's not good for business, college kids cramming at three in the morning."

"Best time to study," Hope grinned back, a baring of teeth. "Best company too."

The woman pouted her plump lips. "I'll tell Asti they're missed."

"Sleeping the day shift away?" Hope asked, picking up a menu with disinterest. "How are they?"

"Having a disagreement with their family," she rolled her eyes, "their cousin Sanguini has thrown in with some wizards and didn't like Asti pointing out that they're the ones treating vampires like they're monsters rather than creatures."

Dean blinked in surprise while Hope pursed her lips in annoyance. "Ilíthioi," she hummed disparagingly, and Dean could guess it was an insult, "anyways, Asha, this is my little brother, Dean." Dean's eye twitched and she winked, knowing he couldn't do anything about it.

"Aw, the little artist?" The serpentine eyes gleamed. "Taller than I thought you'd be."

"Yes, yes, we're all very proud," Hope complained under her breath, stopping on the drinks. "The Marina? Which of you idiots decided to name a drink after me?"

"Asti," Asha grinned widely. "They think if they ply you enough you'll give them another shot of your delicious blood."

"You mean they've gotten sick of yours? Tragic," Hope returned easily and Dean marveled at their rapport. "At least they've got taste. Pomegranate tea with a shot of blood-replenisher? Nice…We'll get two gyros and I'll have the Marina…Dean?"

"Um…cider?"

"The hard stuff?" Asha laughed, eyes flicking towards Hope's, eyebrows waggling.

"No," Hope said dryly, recognizing the joke. "Don't corrupt my baby brother."

Asha winked before slithering away and Dean found himself gaping again, leaning over the counter to stare at how Asha's lower half was like that of a large snake, snake skin with patterned henna. Hope grabbed one the belt loops on Dean's jeans and yanked him back down into his seat in an unexpected show of strength. "You're staring, don't do that."

But Dean was already reaching for his sketchbook and pencil, flipping past a detailed sketch of Hope working on the motorbike -Hope was the side character in that sketch given the focus he'd paid to the motorbike- to start a new one.

"Hey, baby Thomas!" Dean looked up in surprise and Asha peered through the kitchen divider: "Hot or cold cider?"

"Cold's fine," he said while Hope sniggered and he turned to hiss "I'm going to kill you!"

"I'm innocent here," Hope said with the tone to match.

"Baby brother? You're dead to me."

She laughed, threw her head back and actually laughed with her whole body. Dean was more surprised to see it than anything else. Hope had been oscillating between misery and contentment for a while; it was rare to see her doing more than stifling a chuckle these days. "Aw, you don't like being called 'baby'? George never has a problem."

Dean once walked in Hope doing something he was better off not knowing to George's throat, he didn't think George had much of a leg to stand on.

"When do we meet this elusive husband of yours?" Asha continued as she slid back with their food and drinks artfully balanced.

"When you and your life partner stop propositioning me," Hope said easily, digging in while Dean choked.

The gyros were great and the baklava Hope ordered after was even better. Asha was delighted by Dean's sketch, commending him for his skill in capturing her likeness and offering him a scale from her belly that gleamed, which impressed Hope; Dean gathered it was a rare kind of gift. And then they were gone, waving goodbye and taking the motorbike up to Thalatta. Dean could feel it when they passed through the barrier, but he was more enraptured by Thalatta itself.

"Wow…can I live here forever?" he asked and Hope actually laughed.


Hermione could hear the raised voice that she knew was her father's, but she was so surprised that he was arguing that loud -Melek Abdullah was a very quiet and patient man, whereas Helen Granger could be sharp and raise her voice if necessary-, particularly in his native Arabic.

"You know this is difficult for me," he was saying in the language that he'd barely spoken except when teaching it to Hermione. "But I'm not coming back—"

Hermione snuck out of her room to quietly make her way into her parents' office, picking up the other end and listening in.

"Melek," Hermione barely recognized her own grandmother's voice, "please! I would like to see my last living son before I die!"

She had to silence her gasp.

"Too little, too late," her father replied, "maybe if magic hadn't killed your other sons—"

Grandmother Kabira made a wounded sound on the other end. "That's not fair," she said thickly, "and it's not true! Mahir and his wife died in a care accident! Mirza had cancer!"

"You always favored them, either way, over your non-magical child," he returned easily. "If Hermione didn't have any magic, I'd be happier."

"Malika has magic?" Grandmother had always liked to call her by her middle name. "Melek, why didn't you say something?"

"Because it's none of your business," he retorted, "she'll be done with it soon enough, and then she'd get a proper education."

Hermione felt impossibly cold. Done with magic? Not on your life, Dad.

"You know it doesn't work like that," Grandmother said furiously, her voice weakened by a series of painful coughs. "Please, Melek, if I can't see you, let me talk to Malika, one last time."

Her father was quiet for a long time. "Goodbye, Mother," he said finally and Hermione had to put down the phone quickly and hide in her room so that he didn't notice that she'd been listening in.

She'd known it had been something, that there was a reason her mother's parents had been the only grandparents she'd gotten to see when they were still alive, but she didn't think that they'd really been expecting it when Helen Granger had declared she was going to be marrying the young Tunisian dentist she'd been seeing for a few months and once she graduated, they were going to open a dentist office together. Things had always been difficult with her father's family and for awhile she'd thought he was an orphan.

She'd only spoken with Grandmother Kabira a few times and she'd seemed nice enough, but Hermione couldn't imagine her doing anything to make her own son not want to visit her when she was as ill as she seemed.

Then again, Hermione didn't know her well enough to have an opinion on her, she just thought it so incredibly sad.

She sighed heavily. There was a new item on her desk that she hadn't put there and Hermione had no idea how Hope had managed to get into her room to give her a mobile like hers 'just in case' taped to it with a single number programmed into it.

Hermione set it aside to pick up the thick envelope that Hope had given her before she'd left for France. She hadn't done anything with it; they'd had a few arguments over the years about Dumbledore and Hope's steadfast refusal to trust him. And she'd told Ron first, Hermione knew she had, because Ron would subtly shift when Hope was near Dumbledore, like he was trying to shield her.

It had been hard not to be bitter about that, but she was also the one that Hope had stopped to speak with before disappearing off to France for a week. She was the one that Hope gave a knife to and that thick envelope, telling her "I want you to read this."

Hermione had taken it carefully from her, looking from it to her tired eyes. "What is it?"

"It's…well, it's my story," Hope had admitted with a grimace, "in the worst possible way."

Hermione's eyes had fallen to her friend's damaged leg, remembering the story behind it. "I don't need to read this," she told her thickly, trying to hand it back.

"You do," Hope insisted. "Because you trust Dumbledore and I don't and I have solid reasons why not to…read it, but if you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why not?" Hermione had turned it over in her hands.

Hope had sucked in a shaky breath. "Because it's going to break your heart like it did Ron's, and I'd rather not see it happen a second time."

She had left it at that, hadn't said anything about how she was doing, how she felt about Cedric's death…she'd just…gone. Gone and then come racing back the second Hermione had been in trouble. Fresh from death, fresh from burying her own body, running to help do the same for Hermione. Hermione still had nightmares about it. They were getting better, less defined, but no less blood-stained. Hermione wished for Hope's ability to shake off death and murder…but the exhaustion in her eyes and realization of her imminent death still caused Hermione's stomach to roil.

So, Hermione had read the contents, she'd read the testimonies from doctors, from nurses, from therapists; looked at the documentation of injuries, at the scans of broken bones, at the images of bruises dappling skin, at the eyes staring blankly ahead with a recently reset nose and mottled cheek, blood dried from her nose. There were so many of them, so many requests to get Child Protective Services involved, so many hospital visits…something snapped inside her. She didn't even notice how the mirror on her vanity that her mother had bought her years upon years ago, had suddenly fractured, running through the whole mirror similar to how a spiderweb looked.

(Hermione had stared at her image fractured so many times afterwards, still trying to process every terrible word and failing so miserably that she painstakingly reread them until her mind ached from the memory of the exact words)

It made her violently ill, the idea that Hope had been harmed that much. In so many ways, reading Nathaniel Lord's testimony, knowing how important he was to Hope, knowing how much she adored him, that was the worst part. Reading the play to play of Hope's accident, how they'd started CPR while she was still on the ground, how her heart had stopped three more times in the ambulance to the hospital…it was overly clinical, on purpose, like you spoke when you were trying to keep everything together. And he hadn't even really known her then, not yet.

It made her violently ill, but still she persevered. Hope had gone through all that hell, alone, and she hadn't let it destroy her, she could list her favorite constellations and point them out in the night sky, her favorite color was red, she liked to play chess against Ron without putting any thought behind her moves just to aggravate him, she'd do anything for Dean without being asked, she didn't like wearing her hair red anymore because people always said she looked so much like her mother that she'd switched to black and had become annoyed that people didn't immediately say she looked more like her father, and she hated using wands.

Dumbledore's Order had been a few days too late when they came to collect her from her house.

Hermione didn't like this situation at all. She didn't like that she was being removed from her parents' home when they were in the middle of a fight about magic -and family, but they'd been fighting about family for years and Hermione's grandmother was dying in Tunisia and her father wouldn't even agree to visit her one last time, which Hermione was still angry about-, and she didn't like the secrecy. Not that Hermione wasn't used to secrecy; it was the air she and Ron breathed, an expectation of being friends with Hope Potter. But she didn't like being on the opposite end, suddenly deemed too young to comprehend the changing tides she could feel on the back of her neck. Like Hermione's only value was because of who her best friend was; none of these idiots had even known Hermione had been attacked, that she had blood on her hands a week ago.

Hope hadn't done any talking about the situation at the end of term, even with helping Hermione bury that body with Ron. No one had known what to say to Dumbledore's speech after Cedric Diggory's eulogy, especially concerning his declaration that Voldemort had returned. The end of term had been a very rough time for Hope even when she'd barely been around. Ron had actually picked a fight with a few Hufflepuffs that had been insinuating that Hope had played a part in Cedric Diggory's death. They were bigger than him, with more bark than bite, but that hadn't stopped Ron's fist. Neither Sprout nor McGonagall had been impressed, but Ron had whirled on McGonagall with a "What d'you care? Those pricks were bullying Hope back when she was twelve and so depressed she could barely function and you did nothing!" McGonagall had stepped back, startled, before Hermione had managed to coax Ron away to calm down.

Hope hadn't confirmed nor denied what Dumbledore had said, but silence was a preferred route of hers when dealing with the headmaster. Even if he was right, she'd never give him the satisfaction.

And after all that, Hermione's parents wanted to pull her out of school, it wasn't just about the magic, it was about Hope too. They didn't think Hope was a good influence on Hermione…but they didn't see her like Hermione did. They didn't see the tragedy in her bones and the oldness in her eyes, or the weariness in her soul (how much of it she still possessed, from what she'd said before). Hermione only knew a fraction of who her best friend was, someone who had hid so much of herself at such a young age that it was a difficult habit to break, but she knew that she was loyal and stubborn and fiery…just as she was melancholic and perpetually tired and had such a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

She was the kind of person that would throw herself in front of you without a thought. She was the kind of person that had done that before.

(Everyone talked about how her survival of the first Avada Kedavra was a fluke, but not about the second, that she'd taken in Dean's place)

She was the kind of person who Hermione would choose every time, and her parents just didn't understand that.

"Through here," the witch told her kindly and Hermione stepped into the dimly lit hall. "They've probably gone to bed, it's late—"

"Hermione!" her name was breathed in relief and Hermione had dropped her trunk to race forward and throw herself into Ron's arms, gripping him tightly as he lifted her off her feet.

The witch, a young woman with short violet hair named Tonks, sniggered. "Why don't you two lovebirds head upstairs, it's late." Ron pulled her back easily as the two who'd collected her moved past her to the door at the end of the long hall.

Hermione watched them go with a frown, seeing them open the door and she could've sworn she saw McGonagall, but then the door slammed shut. Ron ducked forward to press a chaste kiss to Hermione's brow and it made her toes positively curl and warmth bloom across her face. "You doing okay?"

Well, the last time he'd seen her, she'd still been in a bit of shock. Hermione's smile was brittle. "I'm managing," she said finally, "did they say I was coming tonight?"

"No," Ron smiled and his eyes seemed lighter than before and she huffed in exasperation.

"You'll put Trelawney out of business," she said without being too upset about the idea. Ron, at least, she knew had some degree of Sight, even if she thought Divination was a wooly subject, there was no denying that Ron knew about things he shouldn't. "What else've you been up to?"

"Fred and George might've developed an eavesdropping device," Ron gave her a wink, "but they'd never admit it."

"Sounds exciting," Hermione took his hand. "Tell me all about it?"

Ron's grin was so broad it encompassed his entire face. "Get ready to hate the Order of the Phoenix for being cagey, secretive assholes," he said, grabbing her trunk and leading her upstairs.


Marwan Abdullah ran into someone almost immediately after getting his schedule. "Asif!" He said quickly, the familiar Arabic curling off his tongue before he switched quickly to English. "Sorry," he repeated. "I should've looked where I was going."

The young woman was unconcerned, bending to grab her book before offering him his, glancing over his schedule. "New to Brakebills?" she asked in a rough voice that Marwan wasn't expecting. She sounded like she'd swallowed gravel and he had a feeling that it had something to the harsh slice across her throat, long since healed. But she also had a casual grin, and unrestrained bronze curls.

"Could you tell?" Marwan chuckled nervously and her lips curved upwards.

"I'm Marina Thomas," she said, "you can call me Mari, everyone does. I'll be in a lot of your classes."

"Oh, are you new too?" Marwan asked eagerly. He was alone here and very much in need of a friend.

"Kinda-sorta," Marina made a so-so gesture with her hand, "I took a few classes last summer but I'm still in the freshman curriculum."

"Ah," Marwan said, feeling like that explained nothing but thinking it best not to comment. "I'm Marwan, by the way."

Marina smiled. "You look a little lost, Marwan…want a tour?"

He gave her a sheepish smile of relief. "I'll buy you lunch to thank you," he promised and Marina laughed.


There was a new girl in Mayakovsky's class, that was the first thing Charlie Quinn realized when he stepped into the room, and she already had gained a lot of interest. Charlie knew for sure that she hadn't been with the rest of them when they'd gotten the speech from the Dean after they'd all passed the entrance exam.

"That's Marina Thomas," Emily Greenstreet hissed to him when he came close, eyes flitting towards the young woman already seated, posture lazy, and scrawling something in a notebook. "The Marina Thomas. The one that got extra credit on every question in the entrance exam!"

"What? No way," Charlie murmured, looking back to her. Where most of the students tended to dress up for class -professionalism and all that-, Marina had dressed down. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt hanging open over a tank top that didn't do anything to hide the scar across her throat or down her arm. Her hair was a curly bronze hanging free, her olive cheeks warm in the lighting. She was unfailingly pretty, in the kind of way that made you leery about approaching, like danger was sewn into her skin and she wanted you to know it. "The Architect? There's just no way."

Marina Thomas had a bit of a reputation on campus, more than just Kobayashi Maru-ing the entrance exam, she was like the Knowledge crew's wet dream; someone who spent her spare time creating new spells from scratch. She was the Dean's pet project and the only student to Professor Adiyodi in like…decades.

She was a pretty big fucking deal.

Emily hissed at him again, but Charlie had already started walking towards her. "It's Marina, right?"

She looked up with eyes as black as coal. They were almost the same color as the band on one of her fingers. Damn; married. "Marina Thomas," she agreed with a rough voice that was unfortunately very sexy. "Most people call me Mari."

Her eyes were haunted in an intense kind of way, but Charlie still held out his hand and she took it. "Charlie Quinn. Mind if I sit with you?" He gestured to the seat beside her.

She gave a mild smile, barely there. "It's Marwan's seat, I'm just saving it."

And right on cue, Marwan Abdullah came through the door just before the bell rang. "I'm here!" he proclaimed loudly, causing laughter to spring forth.


Cedric's death had been bad, but there was a worse fate awaiting Hope's entire class. Finding out your entire class was doomed to die…that was worse than anything Hope could've dreamed up, like standing in a graveyard, like someone had walked over her own grave. She'd stayed off on her own last summer, but this time she had gotten pulled in hard and fast before she could claw her way out and now, she knew all their names. And she knew they'd all be dead in more than a month.

Well, all but one. And it was at least relieving to know that Marwan would be spared.

Hope stomped through the foyer, kicking off her shoes and pausing in front of the mirror. The shadow hanging over her as clear as it had been in that puddle of her own blood in Wales. Hope tried hard not to glare at it.

She wouldn't make it to eighteen…no wonder Morrigan was so concerned.

Well, screw her; she didn't matter.

Hope tore her eyes from the mirror, shredding off her plaid shirt and passing by Dean in the sitting room, frowning deeply with charcoal smudged on his fingers. "Hey, Morg, what you want for dinner?"

"Whatever's good, I guess?" Dean mused before looking up and arching an eyebrow. "Hey, is that a new tattoo?"

Hope paused, looking down to her bicep where there was a dark pattern of a vine twisting around her arm. It wound around one time, the end not meeting the beginning. "Yeah, I got it in France." The skin had healed much quicker than when she'd gotten the cloaking sigils tattooed, but nowhere near as slow as the grounding sigil on her opposite arm. "There's a lot of symbolism about survival and you know, being an anchor in a storm…"

"Perseverance," Dean gave her the word and she hummed in agreement. "That's cool…gonna get anymore?"

Hope thought about her latest spell, a wing-generation spell that was entirely based off the ones Nath had had in the underworld. "Maybe," she admitted, palming her pocket to pull out a cigarette from one of the boxes she'd pilfered from Nath. She was pretty sure they weren't the usual standard, the smoke red, and the cigarette leaving you with the taste of pomegranates. It made Hope's feel warm and light, and she had about fifty more boxes in her trunk, much to Nath's dismay.

Dean watched her flick a lighter and take in a long drag as she flopped onto the seat by his feet. "Smoking now, are you?"

"You get virtues, Morg, I get vices." She took another long drag and blew out red smoke.

Dean threw a look her way that she missed, closing her eyes and taking another drag. "Making yourself into a villain?"

"If the shoe fits," Hope mused tiredly, "I'll leave the heroism to you, dear brother."

Dean grinned briefly before faltering, looking down at his stained fingers and brown skin. People still stopped them when they walked together in London, and Hope was always quietly furious when she told people "That's my brother, thank you very much." Not so much here, though, where humans and creatures mingled together -some less willing than others- but still far more than in Britain. She still hadn't explained the whole laughing about 'magical side of Greece'.

"People who look like me don't usually get to be the heroes," Dean admitted quietly and Hope opened her eyes to lean an arm on where his knees were bent.

"Dean, people like you are the only ones who should be called heroes, people like me are the monsters at the end of the book," she told him seriously.

"And now you're comparing yourself to a monster…Hope…you know you can tell me anything, right?" Dean told her carefully.

Hope had thought about telling him so many times, but the truth weighed heavy and she didn't want to burden him. "Yeah, I know," she said, pulling back to lodge the cigarette in her mouth and debating about drinking some more pomegranate spiced wine…or maybe something with a bit more of a kick. Diane wouldn't approve, but Diane wasn't here. "I'll order something out."

"Make sure it tastes good!" Dean called after her. "The last one was shit!"

Hope laughed.


George was uncomfortable, but that wasn't new. Grimmauld Place wasn't a comfortable place, and he'd rather be back at the Burrow where the sunlight was warm and his and Fred's clutter covered their entire room. Grimmauld Place was bleak and it was the kind of place that would've made Hope violently ill; he knew all too well how uncomfortable she was around excess magic. Even the Burrow had been difficult for her to stomach. He still remembered her tight grip, nails digging in when Mum used so much magic in front of her. Bill had thought his arm across her shoulders was an excuse to keep his girlfriend close, but mostly it had been to keep her upright.

George wasn't really considered a person right now; he was just an extension of Hope and he knew she would've hated that. Like she hated when he and Fred were seen as a single entity rather than two separate ones, like she hated when no one saw her accomplishments by her own merits than things she inherited from her parents. All her brilliance attributed to people she'd never gotten the chance to know.

"We know you're in contact," Moody growled, "I've heard all about you two." He probably should've still been in the hospital, pale and weak as he was after captivity, but here he was, interrogating George about his goddamn girlfriend.

George scowled, feeling exposed at the end of the table, at the mercy of the Order of the Phoenix, wishing dearly for Fred at his side. But Fred was upstairs and out of reach. Fred was the fierce fire that George tempered and George didn't like where this was going. They'd already confiscated his mirror and he wasn't going to be getting that back anytime soon and it seemed redundant to point that out. They'd tried a tracking spell on the other end long enough to see Hope stamp her heel down onto it, breaking the connection.

"You mean that we're dating?" George asked wryly. "Yeah, I think anyone in the UK could tell you that thanks to Rita Skeeter."

His mother made an odd annoyed sound in the back of her throat, but George didn't look to her; she'd made it very plain that she didn't approve of them dating, believing his girlfriend was stringing him along because she hung out with her goddamn brother. She was someone that believed Rita Skeeter when she wrote about Hope dating Dean and George.

"Hope and I don't need to be in constant contact," George said, "she's got her own life and I respect her boundaries."

Remus Lupin sighed and for a moment George inexplicably hated him. "Boundaries are all well and good, George, but we're talking about her safety. She hasn't been back to the Dursleys—"

"Of course not," George couldn't help but snort. "They kicked her out when she was thirteen and she was ecstatic about it."

There was an outbreak of muttering at that. George internally kicked himself and hoped Hope wouldn't be too annoyed with him about that. Not that George had an issue with annoyed-Hope, annoyed-Hope was hot as hell, but he just didn't like her being annoyed at him.

"Or maybe," Sirius Black was imposing but not like his goddaughter, he was imposing in the way that would've frightened him if he was a child, but Hope was imposing in the way she moved and spoke; like there was something not quite human about her and she didn't care. Hope had stared down death and Voldemort and she was still standing; her experience was terrifying, "she didn't trust you to tell you where she was hiding out."

George glared at Sirius. They'd been exchanging barbs for days, mostly Fred fighting on George's behalf, but George knew a thing or two about hitting you where it hurt.

"You think you know her?" he nearly snarled, so incensed. "You don't know shit about her. Do you know what her favorite color is? It's red, not green, people get those confused. Do you know why her favorite color is that? It's because when she was bleeding out on the street at ten she looked at her own blood and thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen." Sirius paled at that, probably never hearing the story and even Tonks down the table looked sick; Kingsley, at least, was unsurprised but tired, but she had always been friendly with Kingsley; he probably knew the story. "She hates when people act like she's someone just wearing her scars, like she's the Girl-Who-Lived before she's actually Hope. She likes Arithmancy because it's the one subject that doesn't change -muggle, magical, it's the same no matter what. Her favorite fruit is pomegranate but she doesn't always get to have it so she drinks pomegranate tea and will gladly drink it by the gallon. When she's focused, she'll hum a lullaby that Nath sang to her in the hospital after her accident, but she won't do it around Dean because it's something he associates with his mother's ex. She writes with pens because when she gets into her spells she can't wait for the ink to dry, she's manic like that."

He spared a slight smile before giving a frosty glower, standing forcefully from the table. "I love her to the point of creation and, personally, I don't give a damn about you liking me." Hard blue met cool grey. "She likes me and that's more than enough."

"George," his father tried to reproach, but George was already out the door, stomping up the stairs furiously to slam his and Fred's door shut behind him.

"Sirius Black is such an ass," he grated out.

"Yeah, he's not known for mincing his words."

George froze, twisting around. He almost didn't recognize her. She was older and the scar on her brow was gone, and her hair was even wilder, bronze with dark eyes to match, but when she parted from Fred's hug it was to smile broadly at George, and he knew that smile intimately well.

"Hey, baby," she said and George's arms were around her, his fingers sinking into her hair. "Oh! That's—"

Then he kissed her and she melted into it. "Mm," she hummed when they parted, leaning in slightly like she wanted more and George wanted that too, "that's nice." He almost leaned in for seconds when she lifted her hand to press her fingers to his mouth, like she was reminding herself that he was real. He kissed her fingers once, twice, three times, wanting to sink down into her and drown there.

"Dumbledore's desperate to find you," Fred told her, far too used to their kisses to be bothered by them. "They've been interrogating George."

"Ineffectively," George grumbled, sitting down and dragging her easily into his lap; Hope ran her fingers through his hair, soothing his bitterness. "How did you get here?"

Fred and Hope pointed to the ornate mirror that had rested in the corner of their room in Grimmauld Place since they'd commandeered it -grudgingly-, undisturbed for the past week. Now the surface of it rippled like a lake disturbed by a fallen leaf.

"Peverell's Mirror Gate," Hope said proudly, "I made it. Much quicker way to travel between two places than mirror bridges, and requiring less magic, so a plus there."

George arched an eyebrow while Hope looked around the room and Fred frowned slightly in confusion. "Well…isn't this expectantly dreary and absolutely nausea-inducing…want to be somewhere a bit more fun?"

Fred eyed her with speculation. Fun for Hope usually meant hiking in the wilderness, climbing up trees faster than any of the Weasleys could, and inventing spells that nearly killed you. "Fun?"

"More for you than me," Hope admitted, "see, I'm gonna be pretty busy with schoolwork and Mayakovsky's project is going to absolutely kill me, in the very best way, because if I died before we get to present it and get it to work, Charlie might kill me." She rolled her eyes. "Physical kids, skilled in the hands, not in the mouth; I'd have no issue presenting it to the class by myself, but whatever…my point is, I've got my potion room and you've got a bunch of products to make before you can open your shop." She fixed Fred with a look. "Two birds, one stone, yeah?"

Fred opened his mouth eagerly, silencing at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Hope went tense in George's arms, listening intently until the footsteps moved away. "Good plan," he murmured, "probably better to do one at a time…this lot are suspicious."

"I'm suspicious," Hope pointed out.

"We like you," Fred and George pointed out as one.

Hope gave them both a faint smile that wasn't up to her usual standard, but George appreciated its sight nonetheless.

"How are you?" George murmured, still enjoying her fingers running through his hair, tugging in all the right places. He still pinked when she leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his neck and he knew she did it because she liked to fluster him. Fred didn't bother stifling a snort and George glowered at her when she drew back, promising retribution. The unimpressed look she gave him was unbelievably hot and that didn't help things.

Fred cleared his throat, not privy to the silent conversation Hope and George were having but knowing it was going to end with his twin getting thoroughly snogged and wishing for a change in subject.

"Moving forward," Hope said finally, blinking once and then frowning at the floor in annoyance. "Cedric was…horrible, but there have been worse things since him and there are worse things coming—will you shut up!" She finished with a snarl, stamping on her shadow.

They both looked at her startled.

"I don't care if you're a god, you're acting like a bitch," she sniped and the room darkened suddenly. "If you're that annoyed, find someone else to be the shadow of!" The darkness receded and Hope's eyes were furiously dark. "Sorry," she sighed, "my shadow is a god and he's on my shit list for nearly killing me last week." Her shadow rippled petulantly.

George scowled at it, tightening his grip on her and Hope relaxed in it, like he was the comfiest shield she'd ever found. When she opened her eyes, they were still hard obsidian. "My life is a fucking mess held together with sutures and gauze." She rubbed her thigh where some of her scarring lay, a nervous tick she was never able to lose.

Fred and George shared a worried look.

"I'll be fine," she said, noticing it, running her fingers through his hair one more time before extracting herself from George. George got a nice view of her bum, so nothing to really complain about. Hate to see her leave, love to watch her go, as the saying went. "I'll leave the mirrors connected. Cover it when you're not using it." Then she walked right through and Fred covered it with a spare sheet.

"You ever think we only know a fraction of what's going on with Hope?" Fred asked, staring at the sheet and George flopped back on his bed, missing his at the Burrow.

"Every damn day," he muttered.

"She didn't ask about Ron and Hermione," Fred noticed.

"Maybe she doesn't need to." Hermione left every day to go to the local library to work on homework and read. She'd been very adamant about it and had put her foot down when she'd been brought to Grimmauld Place. And, as Dumbledore had agreed, it wasn't a prison (Sirius laughed bitterly about that). She'd been followed the first time, but she hadn't done anything out of the ordinary, so they'd left her be.

But Ron and Hermione were sneaky and clever in a way that most people didn't appreciate, probably a habit they picked up from Hope…that and all that sneaking around and getting into trouble at Hogwarts.

There'd been an obvious shift since Hermione's arrival that had nothing to do with them both dating now and not telling anyone how it had happened -Mum wasn't too happy about that either, given what Rita Skeeter had said about Hermione and Viktor Krum-, but George didn't know what exactly had happened, but when Dumbledore told -not asked- them to not tell Hope anything, which was aggravating to the extreme and incredibly annoying, but Ron's face had gone eerily closed off and Hermione had scowled fiercely. They'd both said a resounding 'no', much to his surprise. George doubted there were many people that had said no to Dumbledore of late, barring Hope.

Whatever the core of Hope's issue with Dumbledore, they knew what it was and they were not happy about it.


Since Dean was family, it meant he got to get into Brakebills when most people couldn't and if a few people thought it was strange that a fourteen-year-old boy was sitting with Quinn Adiyodi in the stands, they didn't speak it.

"What exactly is Welters?" Dean asked, frowning at the arena before them.

"It's basically like…magical chess," Quinn explained, giving a polite wave to a few coworkers. "Each square has magic you have to perform in order to take that square, the more squares you take, the points your team gets, and each discipline fields a team. It's a good way to impress mentors, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

Dean frowned. "Doesn't Hope not have a discipline yet, though?"

"No, but my parent discipline is Psychic and as a student to a traveler, they were more than happy to pick her for their group, which is rare. First years almost never make the team, they're not skilled enough, but apparently Charlie Quinn and Mari are making waves."

Dean scrutinized Charlie Quinn on the field, wearing a ridiculous uniform. He'd been at the house a few times to work on a large project with Hope, and Dean was pretty sure that he'd flirted with her once, but she hadn't picked up what he'd put down and he'd left it alone (from what he could tell).

Though Hope saying she had a husband helped, even if no one saw him. Hope as Marina wasn't too different in the face, even if some people might not've noticed they were the same person, it was a hard distinction, even for Dean…mostly he couldn't get over the thick mane of curls and the fact that she was wearing a bomber jacket with shorts.

George would die if he'd been there.

Physical got the first point, but fumbled the second, Psychic got two, lost the third, it went back and forth until Hope was handed what looked like a dodecahedron type shape and she smirked, spinning it in her hands before carefully tossing it on one of the toughest squares.

"Oof," Quinn murmured, "ambitious."

Especially when she had only so much magic to use, but Quinn didn't voice that. As Hope had said before, her 'medical-magical' issues were her business.

Until those issues killed her.

But Hope's expression was focused, her fingers twisting into the correct poppers, not letting up, hands curving around each other, ending it a snap that caused light to explode everywhere, drawn from the glowing ball held in her hands.

And Hope was positively beaming.

The board wiped out into pure Psychic red and the team slammed into Hope, shouting in jubilation. Hope was startled for about two seconds, and then she was laughing as she hoisted into the air by a man with a head of dark curls who was shouting exuberantly and Dean was pretty sure she was shouting "MARWAN, PUT ME DOWN!"

Dean sighed heavily.

"Babe, what's wrong?" Quinn asked, their voice gentle.

"She just…she looks happy," Dean admitted, almost bitter. "Happier than she's ever been at Hogwarts."

Quinn hummed softly. "Can you blame her? All the attention, all the life-threatening situations, all the lack of care towards students' well-being? Not to mention wand-magic everywhere that makes her skin crawl…fuck, I'd kill to get out of there."

Dean threw a sharp look their way.

"Bad joke, but point still stands," Quinn grumbled. "Mari exists on…a different frequency than you. You guys love each other, but there are things about her that you're not going to understand until she tells you."

"Hope likes her secrets," Dean muffled into his hand, "she'd never tell me."

"Dean," Quinn sighed, "you're the first person she'd tell."

But Dean was never very sure about that fact until several weeks later and the truth sickened him completely.


"Settling in all right, kid?"

Ron's mouth twisted faintly, accepting the short hug. "Your place sucks," he told Sirius, making the man laugh, arm still around his shoulders. He liked Sirius, he was cool, except for the whole hating George for dating Hope, but, then again, Mum wasn't a fan of them dating anymore so might as well have someone hating George for her hating Hope. "Hope's gonna hate it."

"Because it's dreary and dark?" Sirius asked in amusement.

"Nah, there's too much magic," Ron said, looking around with disinterest. The Order of the Phoenix was evidently a group that Dumbledore had founded back in the war to fight You-Know-Who. His parents were a part of it, which he hadn't realized…but it made sense since Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon were both killed in firefight.

Fighting in a war that had ended only because one man had tried to have a go at an infant. Ron tried not to be bitter about it, but Hope was bitter and he knew all about what Dumbledore had done to her, how he'd destroyed her childhood…if he was really as strong as Voldemort, then why hadn't he done the job himself?

"Too much magic?" Sirius drew him back.

"Oh, yeah," Fred bared his teeth behind Ron, "she's really sensitive to that. She didn't really like the Burrow, either."

George was being quiet, but he and Sirius had gotten off on the wrong foot -not that there was really a right foot when Sirius had decided long ago that George was the bad guy- and Fred took personal offense to that. Fred took everything personal about George, which had been annoying when Ron was younger, but Ron respected that now.

"Sensitive?" Sirius asked archly. "To magic? Why?"

"Why don't you ask her that?" George asked coolly from where he was sitting using one of Hope's pens to scrawl notes into a journal on potential joke products.

Sirius scowled and Remus cleared his throat, stepping away from Moody and a few Aurors to intervene if needed. "Sirius," he said pointedly, and Sirius made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, returning to his seat and tuning out the Weasley boys as best as he could.

Charlie was back for a brief visit, going between London and Romania at an infrequent rate and he was giving Bill some very bad relationship advice since he'd admitted to actually beginning to date Fleur Delacour.

"Merlin, I miss sex," Charlie huffed and Ginny rolled her eyes behind his head as he turned towards Bill, "Sex is the most important part of a relationship, you know?"

"Is it?" Bill snorted into his firewhisky. "When was the last time you had sex, Charlie? Graduation?"

Charlie wasn't known for keeping his girlfriends and Tonks sniggered as Charlie's ears reddened -being one of those girlfriends-, even as he turned towards George to get the heat off himself.

"You and Hope done it yet?"

Sirius went still on the opposite end of the table and Ron's eyes flicked towards George, watching his older brother clench his fingers tight around his pumpkin juice. Hope and George weren't the type to carry tales about their love life. They were quieter, more likely to be found cuddling fully clothed than missing half their clothes.

Hope had once explained asexuality to them before shrugging slightly and saying "I'm still figuring out what it means to me."

George gave him a long stare. "Hope's fourteen," he said slowly.

"Fair," Tonks hummed in agreement, the young Auror evidently weighing in, "but, just to point out, I definitely knew fourteen-year-olds that were doing it in Hogwarts."

"Has Fred done it?" Charlie asked and George had never looked so uncomfortable and dearly wished that Fred hadn't stepped out, because he would've been absolutely furious.

"Don't care and didn't ask," George muttered into his pumpkin juice.

"And will you care if you're the only virgin in the family because Hope's not interested in doing it with you?"

George wasn't the only one uncomfortable and Sirius looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "I don't see how it's anyone's business about what Hope and I do or do not do together," George replied stiffly, shutting his little journal and standing sharply. "Actually, I think I'm not too hungry," he said before disappearing out the door.


"So, how are your classes going?"

Hope and Henry Fogg were lounging in one of the benches on campus, Henry nursing his coffee with a logo from a coffeehouse that Hope didn't know in one hand and his cigarette in the other, while Hope merely held her cigarette caught between two fingers. Between the two them, her smoke was prettier. She arched an eyebrow at him. "You know that you can look up how I'm doing, right? You are the dean, after all."

Henry chuckled faintly. "I could," he agreed, "but that's pretty invasive and not at all my style."

She looked him over with his three-piece suit in the warmth of the day while she was wearing a tank top and shorts that did nothing to hide her scars from the car accident. Hope had gotten a few looks that day, but no one had actually asked her what they were from, apparently Hope was pretty terrifying enough to deter them. "Mm-hm," she hummed in disagreement. Henry was many things but subtle he was not; he could be as invasive as he wanted, it was certainly something he was known for. "I'm doing all right," she said before he could counter the noise, "your pet project is thriving."

"I'm positively delighted," Henry assured her and she rolled her eyes at his casual smile, her lips twitching into an amused smile as she brought the cigarette to her lips, taking in a drag. She hadn't even made it through one box yet, but Hope needed a little wind down.

Henry didn't comment on how young she was actually to be smoking, taking a drag of his own cigarette. "Thought of a thesis yet?"

Hope choked on smoke. "Bit early for that, isn't it?" she wheezed, eyes watering as her lungs tried to right themselves. "This is only the first semester of my first year…it'll be a bit before I have to write my thesis." Not that she wasn't looking forward to it; research was a favorite pastime with the different kind of magic that magicians.

"Yes, but it's always good to figure out what the subject is beforehand, gives you time to construct the argument," Henry pointed out. "So, what interests Marina Thomas the most?"

Hope allowed herself a private smile at that. Henry was one of the only people that exclusively used the name 'Marina Thomas' when talking to or about Hope. Kingsley went back and forth, Dean had called her 'Mari' once or twice, which only Diane and Quinn called her; George had called her it once and Hope had got so flustered that she'd walked into a wall, so he'd switched back to Hope with the intention of calling her 'Mari' when she least expected it. Hope hated him for it (she didn't); she might die the day he actually called her Marina with those impossible blue eyes and freckled cheeks, and casual grin. Fuck.

Hope cleared her throat, returning to the topic at hand. "I suppose it would have to be the origin of magic."

It was a profoundly interesting topic, when looking into how magic happened naturally, without magical cores.

"A worthy topic," Henry hummed in agreement, waving casually to Professor Sunderland as she made her way to her next class; Hope didn't like her very much, she was very skilled, of course, she just had a tendency to flirt with male students, "if a bit understudied."

Hope blew out red smoke, the taste of pomegranates lingering on her tongue. "What? No one's ever been interested in studying it? I find that hard to believe."

"It's a difficult subject to study only because magic is difficult to study," Henry said, which explained nothing. "Think of it like this. Magic is really just a set of tools leftover from Creation."

Hope made a soft scoffing noise. She'd never heard that one before. "Yeah, that's likely."

Henry turned slightly towards her. "Think about it, the power to bend reality, to make and unmake…doesn't that sound like something a god would possess?"

She flicked the end of her cigarette, thinking about Nath with his ink-black wings, drawing her back to life over and over again until it stuck in that small ambulance, Morrigan with her endless darkness and wrath…and the shadow that remained silent, attached to her and offering nothing. "And won't the gods be pissed that we touched their tools without asking?" her voice was just that side of mocking and the shadow under her rippled.

"You think gods make mistakes or do things by accident? Doubtful."

That one actually made Hope laugh. "Have you read about gods in mythology? That's like ninety-percent of their personality, making mistakes, fucking people they shouldn't, cursing people that told them no? That sounds pretty accidental." Hope brought the cigarette back to her lips briefly. "But I still think every time something goes wrong in my life it would be ridiculous to blame gods instead of a curse or really bad luck or just a series of unfortunate events." Besides, Hope only knew three gods -maybe four if she counted Hyp-, and she couldn't imagine who else she had managed to piss off in her very short life.

"That's probably true," Henry conceded, faintly amused, "but I'm talking in the grand scheme of things, in the creation of magic. I'm saying it was created on purpose."

Hope hummed, not disagreeing but not agreeing either, fiddling with her cigarette instead of looking at him.

"There's a rumor that there's a wellspring on another world that's the source of all magic, that's where we get the Wellspring and Cage Theory from," Henry told her.

"What, seriously?" Hope did a double take.

Henry smirked, opening his mouth to say more, but there was a shout of "Hey, Mari! Class in five!" Hope checked her watch with a muffled swear, grabbing up her bag and crushing the end of her cigarette in the ashtray beside her.

"See ya around, Henry!" she called over her shoulder, meeting up with her classmates, one of which asked rather loudly "Were you smoking with the dean?"

Henry didn't hear the answer, but he still laughed.


George was expecting it, had been bracing for it, when there was a not-so polite knock on the door. Fred gave him an odd look, because George had been very quiet since dinner, which Fred wasn't even sure that he'd eaten.

"Uh, you want me to get that?" Fred asked awkwardly, grimacing at the deep-set scowl on George's face as he stood up, wrenched the door open and asked very pointedly "Can I help you, Charlie?"

Charlie appeared startled by the brusqueness of his tone. "Uh, hey," he said unnecessarily, shifting his weight between his feet. "I just wanted to say sorry for offending your girlfriend at dinner, it was—"

"Invasive? Uncomfortable?" George offered helpfully, still scowling. "My girlfriend's not here to be offended, the one you offended was me." Fred was gaping from his spot on his bed; he'd never seen George get like that.

"Huh?" Charlie reeled back slightly. "What—?"

"And I'd rather be where she is than where you are, right now," George said sharply, eyes like a frozen lake.

Charlie had had a little too much too drink and he'd never been as fond of Hope, especially not with the articles that had come out about her and Dean Thomas. No matter what his siblings said, no one was that close to someone they called their brother. She was unnerving as it was, without throwing in the whole cheating thing. "What, you'd pick a girl you've only been dating since you were fifteen over your own brother?"

A muscle jumped in George's jaw. "Hope," he said her name pointedly because everyone had been saying 'your girlfriend' or 'Potter' and he really hated it, "doesn't make me feel the need to second guess myself when I don't bring up having sex, who doesn't think it's weird that I'd rather snuggle than shag. Hope understands me and I understand her…we're not together because we're great in bed. We're together because we love each other. I love you, Charlie, but I'm not loving you very much right now."

And then he shut the door on his older brother's face, leaned heavily against it, rubbing at his eyes.

"You okay?" Fred asked carefully.

"I'm just tired," George muttered, staring at the moldy ceiling and blinking furiously. "Mum and Hope don't hardly get along, and Percy thinks she's a liar, and now Charlie…it's not weird to not need to sleep with her!"

Fred stared at him. "Hope is fourteen." And they'd started dating when she was thirteen…shagging had never been on the table and they were both fine with that.

George made a sharp gesture. "That's what I said!" He was exasperated and felt stretched impossibly thin. He pressed his hand to his eyes, breathing in and out shallowly, not noticing how Fred was watching him with a concerned frown.

"You okay?" he asked carefully.

"Fine," George said thickly, "I'm just-the air is—"

Fred nodded without him needing to finish. "Go spend the night with Hope, I'll cover for you."

He paused to look up and over to where Fred was sitting on his bed, looking very serious, which was so unlike him. "I love you," George told him solemnly and Fred cracked a grin.

"Yeah, I'm pretty great" Fred agreed before shooing him through the mirror.

He came out in the potions room with moonlight shining through the window. Greece was two hours ahead so it must've been past ten by then, but George could still hear voices and music and laughter, so he knew they were still awake. He stepped past bubbling potions out onto the landing, heading down the stairs to hear Hope's rough voice singing along to a song on the radio "—we can be like they are, come on baby, don't fear the reaper, baby take my hand, don't fear the reaper, we'll be able to fly, don't fear the reaper, baby I'm your man—"

"Oh, my gods, you're terrible!"

"La, la la, la la, la, la la, la la—" Hope trilled, laughing when he rounded the corner to see her pulling her brother into a dance in the middle of the kitchen, looking lighter and livelier than she'd been the last time he'd seen her. "Dramatic overture time, little brother—"

"I'm older," Dean decided flatly, making George snort, causing both of them to twist to look to him, neither realizing that he was there. It had been a long-running joke, about which of them was older; it was funny enough that they were actually born on the same day, but that was about all they knew as no one knew when exactly Hope had been born and Diane certainly wasn't talking about Dean's birth.

Hope's hair was in a burnished auburn bun and her eyes were as impossibly black as they'd been the last time he'd seen them, like Dean's, and they positively glowed at the sight of him. "Baby! C'mere! Dean's not enjoying me enough!" She looked just as tired as usual, but that didn't stop him from grinning.

Dean rolled his eyes, eagerly escaping his sister to sit in one of the chairs, shaking his head fondly, but George, always in a good mood when Hope was smiling so brightly, let her grasp his hand and tug him into her. He didn't know the song, but Hope knew all the lyrics as the voice came back over the musical number.

"Love of two is one," she sang, tugging him into a dance, "Here but now they're gone, came the last night of sadness, and it was clear she couldn't go on, then the door was open and the wind appeared, the candles blew and then disappeared, the curtains flew and then he appeared, saying "Don't be afraid," come on baby—" she winked and George pinked while Dean mimed gagging in the background.

"And she had no fear, and she ran to him—" Hope belted out just for Dean, laughing as she did so. "Then they started to fly, they looked backward and said goodbye, she had become like they are, she had taken his hand, she had become like they are, come on baby, don't fear the reaper."

She turned the music down when the song finished so she could give more of her attention to George and something in his stomach coiled hot at the thought of that, of Hope always giving him her attention. No one else had her attention like he did, and he liked that. "You look hungry, baby, you want some kreatopita?" He was briefly distracted by the curve of her neck and how the dim light overhead cast shadows that made him think of the time he'd gotten carried away and left her dappled with love bites that she hadn't bothered to cover up the day.

"What?" He said, missing what she'd said. His eyes shifted back up to her smirking mouth and then her glittering eyes. Heat rose in his cheeks and she leaned in close, fingers hanging loose in his beltloops as she stepped in close; George swallowed thickly. Dean snorted, but neither of them paid him any mind.

"Kreatopita, baby," she breathed.

George's stomach grumbled and he could barely hear it. "What's krea-to-pita?"

"Basically, a meat pie," Dean informed him loudly as Hope stepped away to grab him a plate, sniggering when George tried to reach to reel her back in; George tossed him an annoyed look that Dean ignored. "It's better than the one she made yesterday, she didn't add enough spice, it was so bland."

"That sounds like you don't want any baklava, dearest," Hope hummed as she offered George a healthy portion on a plate, fork stabbed in and all, before getting him a drink and Dean quickly recanted. "Baby, what did your mother do to your hair?"

George ran a hand through it. It had still been longer when she'd first come through the mirror, and Mum'd attacked their hair before they could really stop her. Hermione had said something about liking the curls Ron had started to get and he'd turned so red (they were so cute around each other that it was nearly nauseating and Ron had already gotten in an argument with Mum because Hermione was doing her homework in his bed while he took a nap after a bad night; it seemed like Mum was displeased about who everyone was dating, if you asked George.)

"She cut everyone's hair. Ginny and Hermione escaped and Bill and Charlie put their feet down, so…" It was still a little too short and she wasn't a fan; there was less for Hope to run her fingers through.

"Hm," Hope considered him, tilting her head to the side slightly, "what's really bothering you, baby?"

"Why does something have to be bothering me?" George replied quickly, too quickly. "Maybe I just miss my beautiful girlfriend?" He gave her a brilliant smile.

But it was difficult to pull the wool over Hope's eyes, particularly if she knew that's exactly what you were trying to do. "Then why do you look like someone kicked you in the bits?"

Dean choked on his swallow, hacking and coughing as he tried to right himself; neither of them acknowledged him.

"I do not look like that—"

"Kinda do."

"Like you've never had a bad day—"

"Oh, I have bad days frequently," Hope countered, "I had bad days every day for years, that's how I can recognize the signs…now, eat your food and then tell me."

He liked when she was demanding and she knew he did. He locked eyes with her and Dean made a hasty getaway. Hope arched an eyebrow slowly, daring him and George took a sudden moment to take her in. How her olive skin was gleaming in the half-light, how her sleep shirt was hanging off one shoulder, and George had once left light marks over the moles on that shoulder; she knew exactly what she was doing.

"That's, um, that's my shirt," he realized, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"Is it?" Hope smiled slyly. "Guess that's why it doesn't fit very well." She circled around to press a kiss just under his ear. "And no, you aren't getting it back," she whispered into his ear before walking off to pick up a few things in the living room while George stared after her heatedly.

He didn't want it back. It looked good on her, very good and…fuck, George definitely had a thing for her wearing things he'd given her or that were his to start with. His face was positively crimson and he dug into the food more to have something to do than anything else. He could hear Hope's huffing little laugh as she circled back to wipe down the counter, humming softly to herself as she switched off the radio.

George swallowed his food, clearing his throat. "The food's good…I forgot you could cook."

Hope laughed, but it was a little brittle. "Only when I'm not being forced to."

George knew exactly what she meant by that. His mum always roped her, Hermione, and Ginny into helping with dinner even though none of them liked that idea. Mum was very old-fashioned and it really didn't help that Hope didn't conform to anything she wanted of her. Not that Hermione or Ginny were any better, but that was because Mum had certain expectations of them simply for being girls, which was ridiculous.

"I can make a mean stew," George promised and Hope laughed again, this time much lighter.

"Must be that potion-making skill," she replied with gleaming eyes and George had never been so in love. She sidled by him to wipe the counter and he reached out to hook a finger into the thick chain around her neck, using it to pull her down and Hope went with it until he could cup her chin in his hand.

George's lips were nearly on hers, but he held out -he knew how to tease her just the right amount to get her to melt like putty in his hands- and she swallowed thickly.

"Are you gonna kiss me or wait until I beg?" Hope asked roughly, her voice sending a tingle down his spine, her fingers drawing up to card through his hair.

"Begging for a kiss? That doesn't sound like you." He tilted her chin up to press a hard kiss to her throat over the scar, swiping his tongue briefly across the line there and Hope made a breathy sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a moan.

Hope swallowed again and he smiled against her skin. "I thought you were having a bad day," she said thickly, obviously trying to concentrate.

"I've changed my mind." George pressed another kiss to her throat before releasing her briefly so he could wind his arms around her and jerk her up into his lap. She made a soft sound of surprise, wrapping an arm around his neck as she situated herself. "It's a very good day."

"Mm-hm, nice try, but you're not getting around it, baby," Hope gave a breathless chuckle. "C'mon, baby, tell me who I have to kill." She batted her eyelashes and George sniggered briefly.

"Charlie's just been saying stuff that bothers me, that's all…" he muttered, nuzzling into the curve of her shoulder, still enjoying her fingers running through his hair, scratching in just the right places. "Mostly about how we're not having sex, which, you're fourteen, why on earth would you care?"

Hope hummed in agreement. "I don't really…but I think that if one day, I wanted to have sex, you'd be the only one I'd want to do it with…because you're the one I love and you're the one I'd trust at my most vulnerable."

George pressed his face more completely into her shoulder. "Merlin, Hope," he said raggedly, "you can't just—"

Hope tugged sharply on his hair and he drew his head back to scowl at her, but she'd leaned over him, shifting her weight to settle back down, straddling him and George quite forgot why he was irritated.

"Do you want to have sex with me?" she asked frankly.

"Um." George was trying not to get distracted, but it was hard work. "Not right this moment, no."

"But you've thought about it?" Hope probed, looking more serious than he'd seen her since the Tournament. "And you'd like to have sex with me?"

Open communication was not allowed to be George's kink, but he was getting flushed and he was pretty sure she could feel him getting hard but she gave no indication. "I, um, well, yes," he stuttered out.

"I think I'd like to have sex with you too," Hope said, "just not right now, like you said. I'm fourteen, which is very young to be having sex, to me, anyways. And you respecting my boundaries is, dare I say it, hot as hell."

"Oh, Merlin," George buried his burning face in his hands. "How can you not find this topic embarrassing?"

Hope laughed. "On my fourteenth birthday, Mum and Quinn gave Dean and I the sex talk and how to openly communicate our needs…and I'd had sex ed with Henry which was…" She paused, searching for a word. "Eye-opening…that was when I started asking Quinn about sexual urges because I thought the Dean had made it up."

George snorted.

Hope shrugged. "Anyways, it's not like we need to have sex to make this relationship work, it's been working just fine for two years without it and you can tell Charlie to go fuck himself."

"I love you," George breathed, kissing Hope at long last.

She was dazed when she pulled back. "I know," she grinned before leaning in to whisper into his ear. "Now you're going to let me take you upstairs, give you a massage, and quote poetry to you until you fall asleep because you deserve it."

"Oh," George said weakly, "is that all?"

She kissed his cheek soundly, and before he knew it, he was face-down in her bed, the lights dimmed, her hands smoothing into his back and every so often he'd feel a kiss over the knobs of his spine. Mostly George was trying not to think about how she was straddling him in order to give him the massage.

(He was sure that if he'd told his brothers his girlfriend gave him a massage, he'd get a few leers, but it was fairly innocent and Hope's hands didn't past his lowest rib, almost purposefully. It was just a massage, just with probably enough kisses to drive him to get a nice snog when all was said and done.)

"I should market those hands and sell them," George murmured into her pillow, groaning, feeling more relaxed than he had been since they'd moved house.

"Feeling good?" Hope asked lightly.

"So good," George slurred, sinking down into the mattress. "But you promised me poetry, love. Trying to get out of it?"

"In your dreams," Hope smiled into his shoulder before pressing her thumbs into his spine and leaning down to breathe into his ear that had him shivering.

"In the blue harbor of your eyes," she recited, "Blow rains of melodious lights,/ Dizzy suns and sails/ Painting their voyage to endlessness." She pressed a hard kiss to his neck just to hear him audibly swallow. "In the blue harbor of your eyes/ Is an open sea window,/And birds appear in the distance/Searching for islands still unborn." She surprised him by leaning back to trail light kisses halfway down his spine before returning to his ear while he shivered. "In the blue harbor of your eyes/Snow falls in July./Ships laden with turquoise/Spill over the sea and are not drowned." She kissed the nape of his neck, hands massaging into his shoulders, smirking when he groaned again. "In the blue harbor of your eyes/ I run on the scattered rocks like a child/ Breathing the fragrance of the sea/ And return an exhausted bird."

"Remember when you said you weren't poetic?" George asked breathlessly. "I'm calling bullshit."

"In the blue harbor of your eyes/ Stones sing in the night./ Who has hidden a thousand poems/ In the closed book of your eyes?" Hope hummed, leaning to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I don't remember that, baby, you sure that happened?"

"I'm pretty sure you're messing with me now," George muttered under his breath but Hope kissed under his ear again to whisper "You like it."

Merlin, he was so into it, it was ridiculous. He shuddered underneath her.

"Overwhelmed?" she asked cautiously, pausing briefly. They'd had to come up with a little check in because one time George had cupped the back of Hope's neck and she had choked for breath so bad that you would've thought he'd been throttling her. She'd been wheezy and anxious for fifteen minutes afterwards and it had taken no shortage of apologetic kisses pressed to her hands before she told him that it wasn't his fault. But she'd never elaborated on if maybe the Dursleys had tried to choke her one time -George was going to murder them, and no one was ever going to find their bodies- but she never really did, unless it was Ron asking the questions.

"I'm fine," George said thickly and Hope nuzzled behind his ear.

"You sure, baby?"

His body buzzing and George felt warm all over -and definitely a bit hard, but he'd never admit to that- and who would give that up for sex? (He'd revisit that question later, he was certain) "Yeah," he promised and her hands returned to steadily driving him mad. "You just never fight fair."

She sucked a mark into his shoulder where it would be hidden under his shirt the next day and George muffled the sound into his pillow. "Fighting fair?" she breathed against his ear, pressing a kiss right behind it that made him almost squeak -he hadn't realized it was so sensitive there-. "Does that sound like me?"

George grumbled a complaint into her pillow and she grinned, rubbing her hands into relaxed muscles.

"If only, if only I were a sailor,/ If only somebody'd give me a boat,/ I would furl my sails each evening/ In the blue harbor of your eyes," she finished and George should've been applauded for making it through the whole poem, through all the kisses, and sly words in that voice he loved so much, but then he'd twisted under her, grabbed her and pulled her down to him.

Hope made a muffled noise of surprise, which was only silenced because George had managed to get his mouth on hers at long last. He sat up pulling her with him, teeth tugging at her lower lip, tongue moving through the parted seam of her lips when she gasped just right. Her knees dug into the mattress on either side of his hip, George keeping her in place with one hand around her waist, the other tangled in her hair. She was making soft noises against him, leaning over him in a way that made him need to tilt his head back to keep her lips where he wanted them. And then he did that thing with his tongue that made her lose her breath each time.

She forced herself back to gasp for breath, chest heaving, and George took advantage to kiss the skin within reach; kisses dusted across her neck, her jaw, her chin, the shoulder that his shirt was too large to cover. He worked his mouth over a spot high on her throat that was impossible to hide and Hope stopped breathing for a brief two seconds.

"I-I had another one, you know," she gasped out, clutching at him tightly. "A more romantic one."

"More romantic than wanting to sail in the blue harbor of my eyes?" George teased, grinning when she tugged sharply on his hair. "Save it for next time." He could feel her grin as she settled more down in his lap to rest her head on his shoulder.

"So, you liked it." He kissed the part of her head leaning closest to him. "I'm going to tell Fred you're secretly a romantic."

Like he didn't already know that. George rolled his eyes. "That's barely a threat, Hope…I could tell him you accidentally knocked beetle eyes into his potion three days ago and that's what ruined it and not him forgetting to correct the heat underneath it."

Hope leaned back sharply, color dusting her cheeks. "Why, you conniving—" She grated out. "That was your fault!"

"Was it?" George arched an eyebrow. "You were the one trying to distract me, remember?" He leaned in for a kiss, expecting it entirely when she twisted her head slightly so that he was sliding his lips along her cheek back to her ear. "You always look good in black." It was a good look; dark jeans that fit her too well, black halter top that had ended up untucked. He ran his fingers over her upper arm where the new tattoo was and pressed another kiss to the scar at her throat, feeling when she swallowed.

"I like when you get all bothered about me potentially ruining a potion," Hope said, regaining her fire, "it's so fucking hot."

"You should've never decided to date a potioneer," George decided once his tongue started working again.

"Eh, I hear it runs in the family." Hope pushed him down with the flat of her palm before stepping carefully off him.

"Where're you going?" George asked quickly.

"To the bathroom," Hope said, aborting a cough, which looked painful, "and then I've got some homework to finish."

"Oh," George realized, faltering, "I could—"

"You could stay," Hope said easily, giving him an over-the-top look up and down his body. "I like a good view."

Heat bloomed across his face, down his chest and Hope sniggered. "Take off your jeans, baby, that's like the worst thing to sleep in."

"Asking me to take off my clothes? Like my freckles that much?" He fired after her.

"You've got no idea, baby," Hope promised and then she was gone and George flopped back onto the bed, feeling the exhaustion that he'd been pushing into the back of his mind settling in, so he kicked of his jeans, removed his shirt, and pulled up her sheets, pausing at the sound of a loud hacking cough. But then her footsteps were coming back, so George settled himself into a right-side lying position. Hope didn't say anything as she flicked on her desk lamp and turned her other lights off. It was only then that George really noticed that there were shining stars pasted to the ceiling.

"Night, Georgie," Hope hummed dropping a kiss to his mouth that tasted of copper.

"Night," George muttered, closing his eyes to the rustle of paper. He didn't go to sleep immediately though, too busy thinking. She'd made a joke last year about almost vomiting her weight in blood after pushing a spell too far…and he was starting to think it wasn't a joke. But that had been nearly a year ago, there's no way it would've still been affecting her now, but then George thought about Hope's leg.

"Love?"

"Hm?" Hope hummed, continuing to scrawl across paper.

"Why didn't you let Pomfrey heal your leg when you first came to Hogwarts?"

That made her pause briefly. "I don't like magic being used on me," she said finally. "It's…like having fire under your skin that you can't put out…most people don't care; can't argue with the results, right?" Her bitterness was palpable. "I knew she was minimizing the scars but I'd given up on telling adults 'no' by then." She shrugged. "It was a miracle enough that I managed to get her to not heal it immediately after seeing it…no idea how I managed that, to be perfectly honest." Then she tilted her head to the side like she was listening to something George couldn't hear. "Oh," she said in startled realization, "he did?...Well, that was sweet of him."

"Who?" George frowned in confusion.

"Nath is a convincing man," Hope shook her head fondly, but she wouldn't elaborate.

"What's your essay on?" George asked instead, even yawning as he did so.

"The history of Battle Magick and what events led to its international ban and what caused that ban to be lifted," Hope said, turning a few more pages. "Bigby likes to point out human failings and then in the same breath ask if you've fucked a god."

George opened one eye. "Huh?"

"Despite having limited magical ability, I have 'godly essence'," Hope made the air quotes and then she paused. "Hang on, that's an ingredient in some forbidden potions…I hope none of my classmates decide to kill me for it, because that would be awkward."

"M'gonna assume you're joking," George slurred before she ran her fingers through his hair.

"Go to sleep, baby."

And he did, only waking sometime later when she crawled into bed beside him, situating her back into his chest and pulling his arm around her. George closed his eyes again, tightening his grip and pulling her back more securely to him, nuzzling into her shoulder.

"George?" she whispered, but he was nearly asleep, thinking of the ring that was deep in his trunk just waiting to be placed on her finger.


How she got out of bed without waking him up was a miracle if you asked George, but he squinted his eyes open to the barest sunrise, groaning under his breath as he rubbed at his eyes before leaning down to pull on his jeans, almost pulling on his shirt before noticing the small love bite on his shoulder. He touched it lightly, amused, before pulling on his shirt. Hope didn't normally restrain herself -she liked leaving her mark- but it would've been harder to explain away. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing, before ducking into the bathroom briefly and then heading downstairs.

"No Statute of Secrecy? What, they don't care about getting caught?" Dean was asking Hope in the kitchen, sitting on one of the stools, pushing his eggs around with disinterest. Hope was leaning next to the stove, nursing a steaming mug. She was looking pretty bruised; George was not as good with restraint.

"I forgot you gremlins don't sleep," George said, sliding into the room and taking an empty stool. Dean, to his credit, didn't comment much on him being there, nor on him being the culprit behind his sister's recent mauling, but they might've already talked about it; they were very early risers.

"We've been up for two hours already," Dean said, looking less tired than Hope, but exhaustion was practically a part of her look. "You missed us quoting our way through Return of the Jedi."

George squinted at him. "That's that…film thing you guys like, right?" He knew what films were, he just didn't understand how they worked; Angie had been wanting to take Fred to the theatre for ages but worried he'd talk through it.

Dean gave Hope a look and Hope shook her head fondly. "One day we'll have to do movie night," Dean said, "because you're not allowed to marry Hope if you haven't seen Star Wars."

That made Hope laugh. "Don't worry," she said to George, "I'll sit in your lap and distract you the entire time."

"No!" Dean said angrily. "He's got to understand the plot, Mari! He can't do that with your tongue down his throat!"

Hope brought the mug back up to her lips, humming in amusement. "Baby, you want some food?"

"Not really," George muttered. Mum would be suspicious if he wasn't that hungry when he went back after skipping dinner. "What're you drinking?"

"You won't like it," Dean and Hope said as one.

"It's a Pandora's Box special," Hope smiled. "The Marina. Mine's a bit stronger, not as big of a cup."

George eyed it. "It's alcoholic?"

"Nope," Hope laughed, but she didn't explain either. "How about some hot apple cider? Dean's a big fan of that; that's his fourth cup. Lucky Mum's not here; she doesn't like him getting all jittery." Hope winked at Dean. "Makes him obnoxious."

"Fuck you," Dean grumbled into his mug. "You're the most obnoxious between the two of us, you fucking territorial—"

Hope punched him in the arm, skating past to hand a mug to George who gave her cheek a kiss.

"Anyways," she said, returning her attention to the twins' previous topic, "you don't hear about magicians exposing themselves all that much unless they're the showy charlatans that perform specifically for money, do you? Magic rarely shows itself in magicians younger than the twenties, so by that time most people have already got a college degree and understand how society works when they get the letter for the entrance exam at Brakebills, or any other magician school -but Brakebills is the most popular with the most engaging curriculum-. There aren't really rules or laws specific to magicians like there are wizards, because most don't go on to be megalomaniacs…except Hitler," Hope had to concede, "apparently, he was a pretty serious battle magician. But he's an outlier so we're not counting him."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Magicians are more integrated into human society, and not all magic looks like magic," Hope said, "You'd be more likely to see creatures on the street than magic these days."

"But don't humans notice?" Dean probed insistently. "There were all those creatures on the street the other day and our waitress was a naga."

"There were selkies sunning on the beach and a salamander and fire sprite about to throw down over mishandling fire and you're going with the naga?" Hope arched an eyebrow. "Asha's too old for you."

"I can't stress enough how much I hate you."

George snorted, swallowing his cider in amusement.

Hope bared her teeth in a monstrous grin that he adored so very much. "Creatures have laws in place to protect them. Each country has their own version, but I think Greece and the United States use the same name; the Creature Protection Act. Humans know about them, they kinda have to, and not all of them like Creatures. There are some places Creatures really can't go because the racism is that bad, but most people have a few drops of Creature blood in them these days due to inter-marrying. And it's harder to tell when not everyone tells you what they are; you could be around a Creature and not know it."

"Wouldn't it be obvious, though?" Dean asked curiously.

Hope arched an eyebrow. "You're technically a Creature and you look completely Human."

"He is?" George stared in surprise.

"He's half-god," Hope said conversationally. "I think that was demi-god back in the day, but I think they're using a different word now…" her eyes shifted slightly to the side, tilting her head slightly. "Godling," the word came out oddly, like she'd never used it before. "We don't talk about it," she added to George. "Morrigan is on our shit list."

"She's never getting off the shit list," Dean muttered under his breath.

"We've got mummy issues in this house," Hope informed George helpfully. "But maybe we should change it to 'godly parent issues', that probably fits better."

George stared at her long and hard. "You're part god?" Now, Dean, he could get, he had that unearthly beauty thing going on, sharp cheekbones, strong jawline, but Hope was different. Hope always limped, often tripped, she was marred by scars and trauma, of course, that wasn't to say that he didn't find her utterly breath-taking, because he did, but she was disconcerting as best, not like Dean in the slightest.

She shrugged. "I'm under a glamour," she said with a thin smile that didn't look remotely happy. "No idea what I actually look like really."

So, George decided to drink from his mug in lieu of speaking. He had questions, so many questions but it never seemed the right time to ask. He watched her glance into a mirror and then look away quickly, chewing on the corner of her lip, looking smaller than he'd ever seen her. Then she regained the stubborn shift of her shoulders and downed the remnants of her mug in one go.

"I've got to go," she said, "if I hurry, I won't be late."

"Late?" Dean balked, checking the time on the stove. "Mari, it's fucking seven thirty in the morning who on earth are you gonna be late for?"

"Only the best doctor in the world~," Hope sang, putting the mug in the sink and grabbing a jacket that she probably didn't need, stooping to kiss the back of her brother's head. "Stay out of trouble, baby brother."

Dean made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "You're dead to me," he promised.

"So, you keep saying," Hope swiped an arm across George's shoulder before rubbing at a spot under his ear. He swallowed thickly and she winked. "Placeholders are my thing," he reminded her and she cast a laugh over her shoulder.

"I'm taking all your things, dearest, but you're getting my last name in return!"

It took a second to hit and then George gaped after her, shouting "Hey, are you proposing to me?!"

The only thing he heard was the door slamming shut and the revving of her motorbike. George turned to stare at Dean.

"Don't look at me," Dean said, "I ain't marrying you."

Hedwig -who had been chowing down on some rat she'd found- tittered something close to a laugh on her little branch-styled stand next to the open window. George scowled at her, but she ignored him.


Sirius Black was hanging out on the steps when George came out of the room her and Fred were borrowing. He'd rushed back after Hope had left, had barely showered, and was really hoping that no one noticed he'd been gone the whole night (hoping even less that people knew that he'd spent the night in Hope's bed), and George almost stepped back to hide in the room, but Sirius didn't even notice he was there, sitting on the step with his eyes fixed on a picture in his hands. George peered close and noticed it was Hope and Dean at the Yule Ball. He'd never seen that picture before. Hope had been doing that whole 'polite smile' thing the whole night, but she was smiling more broadly, leaning into Dean with ease.

"She wanted to wear a suit," George said, sitting down beside him and Sirius started faintly. "Hope. She hates wearing dresses, but McGonagall wouldn't let her wear a suit. She was furious about it…dresses make her think of Petunia and Hope really hates being anything like her."

"Petunia?" Sirius blinked. "Lily's sister?"

"Yeah, they hated each other. I mean," George had to correct himself, "they all hated her, the Dursleys…Dudley, their kid, he's the one that pushed Hope into traffic. That accident I talked about when she was ten, that was his fault."

Sirius frowned, clearly trying to figure out how badly Hope had been hurt, trying to remember if he'd ever seen any sign of damage to her body. She'd always had a small limp, but Sirius had never given that much consideration since she'd always been running herself a bit ragged every time he saw her so he'd figured she just had a habit of twisting it. The only scars Sirius could think of were the ones on her brow and her throat and he knew they had nothing to do with that accident.

"Her leg's pretty scarred up," George offered helpfully, and it took work not to frown or grimace. He'd put the work in. Hope didn't need to be ashamed of how she looked because George didn't like how she'd gotten her scars, and George took that part very seriously. "The muscle was shredded and in some places her skin didn't knit together properly."

Sirius tried to imagine Hope's leg looking like Moody's face and grimaced. "Pomfrey could've fixed that easily, though."

George gave him a long, searching look. "You know that's an attitude she really hates."

Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Magic makes her uncomfortable, we told you she was sensitive to it." George looked away from his eyes to where he'd locked his fingers together. "We -Fred, Ron, and I- went to pick her up from the Dursleys when she was twelve because she wasn't answering our mail, and we had to pull rails off her window to get her out…and she had this massive bruise on the side of her face." He didn't see how Sirius' face paled. "Mum startled her so badly that she fainted and when she woke up, the bruise was gone and I don't think she's been okay around her since…but then she calls Quinn 'she' and Hope adores Quinn so she's always ready to throw hands."

"Quinn?" Sirius repeated. He'd heard the name mentioned before and he'd never actually seen them.

"Quinn's Hope's mentor, she had a teleportation problem, I don't know." George shrugged. "Quinn's a they…hang on…"

He stood up, leaving Sirius on his step while he tried to wrap his mind around what George had been saying, but then he was back with a thick photo album, flipping through the pages until he reached the one he was looking for. "Here, this one." He held it out to Sirius, who took it.

Hope was trying to strangle Dean in the background while a person with multicolored dreadlocks and sunglasses on their nose kissed the cheek of a pretty dark-skinned woman with a shaved head and a broad smile. "That's Quinn."

Sirius remembered that concerned face that hadn't strayed from Hope long after she'd fallen into a fitful sleep, jaw tense and voice quiet. The other woman had done the shouting, particularly at Dumbledore.

"Here we are again, Dumbledore, and each time I see you, my child becomes more and more broken and your people make a mockery of that pain!"

"That's Diane, she's Dean's mum," George offered helpfully, before correcting, "she's Hope's mum too, but she was Dean's mum first, if you're confused."

"He looks like her," Sirius said through numb lips. Hope calling someone that wasn't Lily 'mum' hurt. It was ridiculous, he knew, and Lily had been so on edge after Hope's birth. They'd gone through so much and they'd still lost her.

George flipped to the front. "That's her when she first came to Hogwarts."

The girl in the picture was a far-cry from the stubborn, bold, and snarky one that Sirius had come to know. Her red hair was choppy with a beaded braid hanging loose, and only a faint smile on her lips with Ron -beaming with an arm thrown over her shoulders- and Hermione -leaning close, arms around a book, smile impossibly wide.

Sirius flipped through the pages, and it was like watching her grow up in an instant. Dean was an important part of the collection, he realized, and so was George.

"She loves you a lot," Sirius said finally and George stared at him in surprise. "And I guess you're not terrible."

George snorted. "Ginny says it's a good thing Fred and Hope aren't each other's types because they'd probably blow up several buildings and laugh chaotically the entire time."

Sirius gave a conceding grunt, able to see it.

"You're not bad, kid," he decided.

Two days later, when he found a letter on his bed in Hope's steady hand, he smiled at the only two words the letter contained: Thank you.


Eleanor wasn't happy, but she was rarely happy about Hope's condition; Hope was sure there were many days where she would throttle Hope if given the opportunity. She'd needed another blood transfusion, which wasn't necessarily a great sign, especially for someone with an infection that was ravaging her body as much as hers was, and even more especially since the time between needing one was getting shorter and shorter; the last time she'd needed one was after the third task and the time before that had been after the first, there had been a several months gap, and now Hope was down to one.

Quinn would've been pissed if they were still allowed to get updates about Hope's care, but Hope had made that decision a week ago and the resulting row had been so explosive that all of Hope's windows had to be repaired and Dean had fled to the shoreline to escape the shouts. Hope wasn't sure if the windows was her or Quinn, but it didn't really matter at the end of the day, because Quinn repaired them all before they'd stormed away; being furious at Hope didn't stop them from not wanting her to waste magic.

The call from Diane afterwards had been far worse, Hope thought. Disappointment and frustration always seemed to be worse than outright anger; the Dursleys had never strayed from outright anger at her mere existence.

"I think you need to consider writing a will," Eleanor told her seriously after the IV had been removed, a piece of gauze taped over where it had been. Luckily this time around she'd only needed one unit of blood.

"Wow," Hope said without feeling, looping her jacket over her arm, "that bad, huh?"

Eleanor sat down heavily beside her, her heels clicking on the tile. "Your condition is a difficult one to manage, much less survive, even I can see that. There is no magician I know of -and I know a great many master magicians- with the power to remove your core without damaging your soul—"

"Hard to damage what you don't have," Hope gave an airy shrug with an unamused smile. "Funny how those old bullies of mine called me soulless not knowing how right they were." No one had liked to be told someone they knew was going to die; Hope had found that out the hard way. It was one thing to be called heartless -and Hope had certainly been called that before- but soulless…that was just another way to call her unnatural, like a monster. Hope had stopped talking in school after that, and then the accident had happened. Kids were always cruel but no one had ever told her she should've stayed dead before.

But ten-year-old, traumatized and damaged Hope Potter only cared slightly more about what people thought than nearly fifteen-year-old Hope Potter and she'd fired back with "Why? Want the position of hated orphan that badly?" The girl in question was orphaned like Hope and she hadn't appreciated that, but no one liked to pick fights with Hope…there was something very strange about her that made you feel like you were fighting with one hand tied behind your back.

Hope's eyes drifted to her shadow, wondering if that was his doing. But the shadow remained quiet.

"People can exist without souls," Eleanor rolled her eyes, "unless they've been crushed or eaten."

"Thrilling thought, Dr. Lipson!"

Eleanor swatted at her. "I'm putting rationale to your thoughts. People can exist without their soul because they have the echo that it leaves behind, an echo that contains their shade." Hope frowned at her, not understanding the phrasing, so Eleanor explained further. "The shade is the tiny beating heart of the soul and the part that allows you to process emotion and connect to other people. Bonds of friendship, love, intimacy, trust, and compassion? Those all come from your shade. Without it, pain, fear, love…they mean nothing to you…you become—"

"A monster," Hope realized, her voice raw, "an unfeeling beast."

"Is that what you're afraid you'll become?"

Hope was so startled that she dropped her jacket and Eleanor stooped with practiced ease to pick it up, eyes so very kind. "How d—?"

"I'm not an idiot, Marina," Eleanor said gently, handing the jacket back, "you might crack the strongest lenses we have, but I know the right spells to look through even the strongest glamour. And I can tell you're afraid, because you think you're one thing and then you find out you're something else and you're dying and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Heat burned Hope's eyes and she looked away quickly. Hope was always the first to grate out that life wasn't fair, but the words still crawled out of her ripped throat. "It's not fair," she rasped.

"It isn't," Eleanor agreed. "I know you've led a hard life and it's only going to get harder…but you aren't alone, and who you are underneath all that magic? She's not a beast."

"I've killed people before," Hope said flatly, scrubbing at her eyes before the tears could fall.

"Haven't we all?" Eleanor chortled. "Life is a battlefield, better to kill than be killed."

Hope wasn't expecting Eleanor's blasé attitude about death.

"Tell me what you're really afraid of, deep down under everything else…What is Marina Peverell truly frightened of?" Eleanor pressed, eyes imploring.

"I don't go by that name," Hope said quickly. She hadn't used it since the entrance exam.

A smile brushed Eleanor's lips and she tapped the side of her nose with a wink. "I have it under good authority that you will," she said, leaving Hope to stare at her a bit miffed.

"Fucking psychics," she muttered. "Quinn."

"Quinn," Eleanor agreed.

Hope pressed her hands into her face, irritated, rubbing at her eyes. She was so fucking tired; she just wanted to sleep without nightmares just once. But living was the real nightmare at this point. Hope lifted her hands from her face to look down at the winding veins in her arms. They were less black than they'd been previously, but if you looked close, you could tell something wasn't right. She wrapped them around her to avoid looking at them.

"I was told," she said thickly, "that I'm afraid of change. Didn't really believe them but…I guess they know me better than I'm willing to admit." The sun was shining outside and she could hear laughter in the courtyard. It didn't seem right.

"It's difficult," Eleanor said, drawing her back, "to sacrifice all that you are to become the person that has been hidden so deep. It's okay to be scared of something like that. It's natural to be afraid of something like that…change is scary, growth is scary. But you've been growing, more than perhaps even you realize." Her fingers lifted Hope's chin. "Not all monsters do monstrous things."

And maybe one day soon she'd believe that.

"So," Hope cleared her throat, "a will?" She'd given thought to it before, how she would split it up if she was dead. Her family was unfathomably rich, which only made it more difficult. Her friends would never accept any of the money, but they certainly deserved it all. If her parents had had a will, maybe… That made her pause. Her parents had fought in a war -her feelings about her mother aside, there was no denying that- and they'd had to have known that there was a possibility that they wouldn't live to see the end of the war, and there was no way that they wouldn't have made preparations for Hope in the event that they'd left her orphaned; James and Lily were many things but they didn't strike Hope as fools. Gringotts would probably have a record of that…

"Yeah, I'd start working on one…just in case," Eleanor said gently. "Given how things are going…and I know Quinn took you to see a Mudang before classes started and they didn't have any luck."

The Korean shamans were notorious sticklers about payment for their services and they were not cheap, but Quinn could play hardball too. They wanted to be sure that they could actually fix Hope's problem before they had to fork over two gold bars as payment; it was a smart decision on Quinn's part because they definitely couldn't fix Hope's issue. And that really irritated them; probably because they weren't getting one million for solving Hope's problem.

"It is spreading, you can probably feel it getting worse," Eleanor continued and Hope looked away, twisting her fingers together uncomfortably. She could, and there were some days that she wished she still needed her cane, because her legs felt too weak to stand on her own. And there were going to be so many questions about her needing it again when she'd managed three years without it, questions Hope didn't want to answer. "It's a miracle you can still walk without difficulty."

"Not without difficulty," Hope muttered, lifting her bad leg slightly and then setting it back on the ground, feeling how much weaker it was than the other leg, but that was nothing new; Hope was weakness just doing its best to hide itself under strength. "I'm guessing you don't know what symptoms I should be looking for?"

She knew that it was partially thrilling for Eleanor, after all, something like this had never happened before, not in a way that could be studied so closely. Forced magical core implantation was something for the Dark Ages; purposeful Cage creation made most decent folk want to vomit. But she also knew Hope and had witnessed her vomit up her own blood and have a prolonged seizure, and Eleanor liked Hope; which was kind of the problem. It was hard to be impartial about a patient's care when you were fond of them.

"No," Eleanor admitted tiredly, "this is unchartered waters, and, well, I wish I could give you something, some hope, but…"

"But there really isn't any, is there?" Without a god, Hope was boned, epically. The shadow under her rippled with unease and Hope scowled down at it until it subsided before reaching into her jacket pocket for one of her flasks. She unscrewed the top and took a long swig of pomegranate spiced wine, needing the burn down her throat more than anything else. "Well, here for a good time, not a long time, right?" She tapped her fingers against the metal to hide the faint shaking.

"I've catalogued all the evidence of broken bones and I don't think it's been a very good time for you," Eleanor pointed out and Hope hummed, conceding the point. She'd lost the feeling in her leg again. Her life had been a series of unfortunate events, she could find the highlights…but it wasn't always enough.

"I'll look into it," Hope promised a moment later. "The will."

Eleanor's relief was palpable; Hope gathered she thought the conversation would've been more difficult, that Hope would've put up more of a fight. Hope was too tired to fight. If she didn't have Ron Weasley in her head telling her not to give up, she doubted she'd have the energy to smile or even get up. "Good…do you want me to tell Quinn?"

And for someone who didn't believe in lying much, it came effortlessly. "I'll tell them myself." She was out the door before Eleanor could notice anything was off.

Hope ducked into the first bathroom she found, sliding into the first stall, sitting on the toilet and trying to regulate her breathing as best as she could. She pressed her fingers into her hair, holding herself so tightly restrained. Hope balled her hand into a fist and shot it forward into the stall door. Once, twice, three times…six times. She only stopped when the door opened and someone went into the far stall.

The door was still vibrating from the force of her fist and Hope's knuckles ached where she'd broken the skin.

It wasn't fair, but who was she kidding? Nothing had ever been fair. It hadn't been fair to suffer so many years when she could've been removed from a toxic environment; it hadn't been fair to find out she didn't have magic naturally, that someone had forced this on her; it hadn't been fair to be treated as a child when she was the one that walked away from Voldemort largely unscathed, which made them all quake in fear; it hadn't been fair to be forced into a tournament she hadn't wanted to be in and was vilified for months for absolutely no reason other that wizards were as unoriginal as they were barbaric; and she certainly didn't deserve to be dying.

Hope didn't believe in happy endings but she sure wished she'd get to fucking rest instead of worrying about all the shit people were forcing on her instead of taking responsibility and being the goddamn leaders they were supposed to be and not foisting that onto some kid that wasn't even of age.

A toilet flushed and a pipe burst and Hope heard a yelp as the other person barreled out of the bathroom, calling for maintenance.

Hope unlocked her stall, staring at the water slowly spreading over the floor tile with disinterest before stepping through it to reach the sinks. She didn't even wince as she rinsed her hand under the water, leaving her knuckles angry red against her skin. Hope barely noticed the water seeping into her socks, the water sloshing around her boots until she was out in the hall, her ears ringing and feeling no less numb. It was fine, she was fine, everything was under control.

The spiderweb fractures spreading across the opposing windows begged to differ. Hope took a breath, and then another, until calm reigned supreme, and it was only then that she started walking again, checking her watch briefly to see how much time she had before her next class. If she took the shortcut, she'd make it in time…but the shortcut took her past Quinn's office…

Hope winced. If she walked fast, maybe Quinn wouldn't notice her. She picked up her speed, but slowed to a stop, almost unwillingly, outside the office at the sound of raised voices. Quinn was never above making a scene -the loud conversation with McGonagall in third year in front of the whole Great Hall sprung to mind- but they rarely did it behind closed doors.

And she was more surprised about the second voice.

"I told you! I don't want to be a traveler!" Marwan's voice was rising and furious, exploding out like he couldn't help it. Hope stilled; she'd never heard Marwan like that before.

"And I told you that you can't help how you were born, you're a Traveler whether you want it or not," Quinn retorted exasperated and just as furious; Hope could just imagine the crossed arms, the scowl like a scar across their face.

"Well, I don't want it!" The door rattled with force as he threw it open, eyes widening suddenly at the sight of Hope beyond the door.

"Uh, hey," Hope shifted between her feet awkwardly, "ready for class?"

Marwan nodded brusquely, shouldering his bag and striding past her. Hope glanced into Quinn's office to see Quinn and she saw how Quinn's attention flickered from the piece of gauze at the bend of her arm where there'd previously been an IV, to the bruised and bloodied knuckles. Something passed across their face, but before Hope could read it, they were twisting way. Hope swallowed thickly, watching them stand before their floor-length mirror, teeth gritted together and Hope could swear their shoulders trembled briefly. Then they clenched a fist tight and the mirror fractured.

Hope took a step back, reeling at the sudden and unexpected display of Quinn's power. Quinn's skill had always lied in psychic and mental magic; Hope had never seen it manifest physically.

"Who do you think is the most dangerous magician on campus?" Henry had once asked her, and Hope had thought it was him, being skilled with Horomancy and Battle Magick? Surely there was no one stronger. "You're wrong, and you are very lucky that they grabbed you up first because it is wisdom that keeps others from standing against Quinn Adiyodi."

This time, Hope felt it, watching those fractured pieces of mirror grind into fine dust. Hope clenched her aching hand tight around her bag's strap before turning and racing off after Marwan. If Quinn called after her, she didn't notice.

She was limping, badly, by the time she reached his side. "Want to talk about it?" she asked breathlessly, the little jog taking more out of her than she'd thought it would.

"No," he said pointedly, sharply, like Hope whenever someone died in front of her (which had happened often enough that she now had a fucking tone for it)

"Okay," Hope said simply, gently promising, "we don't have to." The look he shot towards her was so uncommonly relieved that it made her stomach twist into knots. As far as she knew, Quinn Adiyodi was the only Brakebills-trained Traveler, -not including that shady librarian Everett Rowe-, maybe even one of a handful left since their student Victoria Gradley died in the war. Traveling, Hope had learned, was a rare gift, and it must've hurt more than they could express to find a Traveler who didn't want to be trained as such.

But Hope thought Quinn was a lot like that mirror; fractured.

And Hope was a lot like the mirror dust; broken so many times that she'd crumpled at long last.

She sighed quietly to herself; and all she really wanted to do was scream, but she'd held that desire inside for so many years until it quieted.


Fred watched the potion simmer, making the appropriate adjustments to the flame flickering beneath the cauldron, being paranoid about it since last time, before stepping out of the room to snag something from Hope's kitchen. George was currently running point at Grimmauld Place to make up for spending the previous night with Hope, which Fred had told him he didn't need to do; George had looked pretty miserable. But he'd be along soon and had a tendency to bitch when things weren't the exact way he wanted them with his potions.

Hope's room door was open, but she was rarely in it, attending that magician's school, or in the living room, loudly debating different magic branches with a boy who clearly thought he was right, or even out with Dean while he sketched on the beach, Hope meditating on the deck of some pirate ship that Fred had never seen before but was guessing was the one that belonged to Nelda Slytherin -Hope had mentioned it a few times-, though how she'd managed to move it from wherever it had come from to Greece, he figured he was better off not asking. George had said it was Hope's pet project of sorts, she'd scraped the barnacles off in little stints before moving onto the moldy wood.

She did that a lot these days, far more than she used to, meditating. Fred wasn't sure if that was because of what happened to Cedric or for another reason entirely. It wasn't like she had said anything about what had happened then. And Hope was the queen of keeping things to herself.

This time, however, Fred was surprised to see she was actually in the room.

The wood floor beneath her feet had some kind of circle spread around with runes carefully etched. Fred's eyes flicked up to her face but she hadn't even noticed him, eyes sharp and concentrated, her fingers twisted together, coming into different shapes and moves. It almost looked like sign language, but not quite.

Hope called them 'poppers' which Fred didn't think made any sense, but from what he could understand magicians used them like wizards used wands, though he'd never seen her really use them too much. At Hogwarts, magicians had a bad reputation, but Fred could see that she took it seriously, more seriously than wand-magic, which wasn't to say that she didn't take it seriously, she did, she just seriously hated it and how many hoops she had to jump through to understand the theory enough to do the magic practically.

Fred had helped her with a few spells when she'd been practicing for the tournament, when she got too frustrated and Ron and Hermione weren't enough. George had wanted to help her then, but she'd put her foot down. "Baby," she'd said tiredly, "if I want to survive this, I can't be distracted." He'd backed off after that, besides, Fred was better at spells than George; he made up for it being an absolute stickler for potions that was irritating at times.

So, he paused, watching in awe as she twisted her hands into fists, rolling them around each other, like she was looping rope over an arm, before extending a hand forward, glowing with black fire. And then she gritted her teeth, braced herself, and pressed that hand to the center of her chest.

No, that wasn't right. Hope pressed the hand through her chest and Fred gawped. Hope gave a coughing sort of wheeze, tightening her hand and drawing it ever so slowly out with difficulty. For a moment, a horrifying, terrifying moment, Fred thought she was about to rip her beating heart out of her chest and he was going to be the one to tell George and Ron and Hermione and everyone else that he just stood there, too frozen to move, to stop her.

But that wasn't it.

When she drew her hand out, it was clutching something only slightly larger than the hand pulling at it, and it was red, but that was where the similarities ended. It was glowing and it had thick strands extending from its center to Hope's body…it was like a parasite, and whatever it was, it was pushing back against her, wanting to return to her body, and Hope had to use her other hand to grasp the first, tugging hard. It looked like it hurt, it looked like it hurt a lot. But it was stronger than she was, and it snapped back, sinking right into her chest, and disappearing from view.

Fred had never known what pure silent agony looked like until that moment. Hope's face bled from olive to white to ashen grey, the color leeching from her eyes and hair, her face contorting and eyes squeezing shut. She looked like she should've been screaming. If she was in as much pain as she looked, she should've been screaming, but she wasn't. Fred didn't know if he'd ever seen her scream, actually, now that he thought about it.

And then she buckled.

"Hey!"

Fred was fast, managing to grab her before she hit the floor, but he'd over-balanced and brought them both down, him taking the harder hit as he held her in his arms. She was lighter than he'd expected but George had said that he thought the Triwizard Tournament had made her lose a lot of weight -weight that he didn't think she could afford to lose, had been the part that remained unsaid but not unheard-, breathing heavily, face still pinched in pain.

"Hope?" he asked cautiously and Hope choked on a pained whimper. And Fred didn't really know what to do, so he did what he'd always done for Ginny; he ran his fingers through her hair, rocking her gently. "It's okay, you're okay…"

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, cradling her, humming softly as he rocked her. It had been years since he'd done something like that…it must've been back when Ron used to have such terrible nightmares, when he didn't want to wake up Mum or Dad, when Bill and Charlie were away at school. Fred had lost count the number of times he'd jolted awake in the middle of the night to Ron poking his shoulder tearfully.

Hope quaked in his arms, clutching his arm so tightly that it hurt, but Fred had dealt with worse when roughhousing growing up. It must've been an age that he sat there with her, waiting for her to come back to herself. Neither of them noticed the slight creak outside of Hope's door.

"Do me a favor and don't tell George," she said, voice so raw that it was pained rasp.

Fred leaned his cheek against the top of her head, her hair fluttering as he breathed out of his nose. "I don't even know what I just saw," he replied carefully. "What exactly were you trying to do?"

"Solve my problems without asking a god for help," Hope grated out. "I'm the losing party, if you haven't noticed."

"Kinda got that." Fred made a vague gesture towards Hope and Hope leaned her head back to glower at him with positively black eyes. They suited her better than the green or even the hazel, Fred thought. "Why?"

Hope didn't say anything, instead she clamored up and out of his arms, she was a line of stiff muscle trying to hold everything in for far too long. He watched her stand still for too long, quaking with something that might've been pain, or might've been something else all-together, opening his mouth to say something, to get her to open up, when she snapped.

She lurched forward, swinging her arms, sending everything on her desk crashing to the ground, only to beat her fist down over and over again. Fred jolted, watching her do it three times before she stepped back, clutching her stomach, bending her head forward and gasping. It was as close to being out of control as he'd ever seen her.

"That was…that was my last option," Hope said thickly, her fingers clawing into her hair and yanking hard. "I've got-I've got nothing left." And then the tears fell, silently and against her will. "Fred," she choked on his name and Fred, who felt like he was watching Hope rip herself apart in slow motion and hating every second of it, scrambled to his feet, "can you do something for me?"

"Yeah, anything," he agreed quickly, too quickly, but Hope looked so close to distraught it would be worth it to do anything to make her feel better.

"I want you to take me somewhere where no one's going to come running when I scream."

It was an oddly specific request, even for Hope. "Sure," he said, gripping his wand. He'd never done side-along apparition before, so he just told her, "hold on tight," before taking her hand and twisting on the spot.

Hope stayed standing when they arrived, but Fred figured there were other things, worse things, that had knocked her on her ass before. "Where are we?" she croaked.

It had been years since any of them had come back here. It was a tiny little cottage off a cliff that overlooked the sea, and it was far colder than Greece had been. Fred looked over the cottage, and it hadn't changed, it still had the walls with shells embedded in them, with the little garden overgrown with weeds. They'd used to come there every summer and Fred could still remember Ron and Ginny squealing in the chilly water when he and George splashed them, laughing at their shrieks. But they hadn't been back in years…he didn't know why they stopped coming; maybe when it had gotten too painful. The cottage used to be Grandma Prewett's, where she'd raised Mum and Uncle Fabian and Gideon.

"Shell Cottage," Fred said finally, "nearly outside of Tinworth. You can scream, trust me, no one's gonna hear much…which makes it sound like I'm a serial killer, but I promise I've never killed anyone before." It was a poor joke and Hope knew it.

"I have," she said tonelessly, stepping away from him and staring out at the sea like she couldn't even see it, and then she opened her mouth and screamed.

If Fred was being perfectly honest, he wasn't expecting much, but it threw him on his ass, quite literally. The scream split the air like a cannon, with more force than Fred would've thought possible. It rippled through the air and into the water. An unused boat, adrift in the wild surf shattered under the force of the scream.

They'd read up on banshees in their first year, so Fred knew that they were considered dark creatures, malevolent spirits with fatal screams…but Fred wasn't dead and Hope looked nothing like the description of a banshee; she didn't have a skeletal face and her skin wasn't tinged green. But Hope was something, something Fred didn't know what.


Hope got tired of screaming eventually and Fred's presence had faded away to nothing, so she sat down on the stone fence next to the long-overgrown garden, staring aimlessly into the surf like the truth had finally come and she wanted nothing to do with it.

But she still startled when a blanket was dropped on her. Hope grabbed its ends, wrapping them around her and looking up to see Fred offering her a steaming mug. "This probably won't be the best tea," he admitted, "but it'll warm you up."

Hope took the mug, holding its warmth between her fingers before taking a bitter taste. She opted not to comment on the taste as he settled down beside her.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked diplomatically. "You were…you were pretty upset earlier." His eyes dropped to her knuckles, bruised and still-bloody.

She didn't say anything for the longest time, but when she spoke, her voice was a painful rasp. "I'm going to die."

That made Fred falter. "Oh," he said weakly, "is that all?"

She lifted her head and her mouth twitched in the corner and Fred nudged her shoulder. "Tell me," he said, tone inviting. "I'm great at listening."

Hope wrinkled her nose. "It's a bad story," she told him seriously, eyes dark. "The kind that will make you sick to your stomach."

"Hope," Fred leaned in slightly to squeeze her knee, "you're family."

And for whatever reason, that flustered Hope beyond words and she had to look away from him, cheeks flushed, swallowing thickly. "Fred, what the fuck?" she hissed emphatically.

"Aww, is Hope a widdle embawwassed?" Fred's eyes glittered malevolently as he cooed at her.

"Keep speaking like that and I'm going to throttle you," Hope promised, grasping his chin and pushing him away from her. The light that had briefly flickered to life died suddenly in her eyes. "It happened when I was a baby," she told him finally, "everything that's going wrong for me right now is because of that, because my—" For some reason she choked on the word. "—mother put her faith in the wrong person…which is unfortunately a problem in this family." She rolled her eyes.

"Peter Pettigrew?" Fred asked, brow furrowed. He'd heard the story from Ron when they'd found out they were going to be living in the Black family home with Sirius Black, wanted fugitive. It was still something else to see the man ruffle his youngest brother's hair with a laugh; only George's hand at Fred's elbow had made him loosen the grip he'd had on his wand.

Hope scoffed into her sour tea. "No," she said, "Pettigrew was Dad's mistake, this woman was all Lily's…I don't-I don't really even know what it was that she really wanted to do, but you can't really argue with the results, can you?" Her bitterness was practically palpable. "There's nothing quite like pushing a magical core into a kid that was born without a drop of magic in them."

The words shattered through Fred and it took him a moment to make sense of them. "Wait…you were—?"

"A squib?" Her eyes were unfathomably cold. "Right in one."

Fred stared at her long and hard. "So much about you makes total sense," he said finally. "No wonder magic makes you uncomfortable." Hope sloshed the tea around in her mug miserably. "Sorry, sorry, that's not important…that's what you were trying to rip out earlier? The thing you said you needed a god's help for."

Hope nodded seriously, holding out the mug and it hovered in the air; Fred could've sworn that her shadow was holding it up. "The woman that did this to me," she said carefully, "she didn't know what she was doing. It's technically entangled with my soul…what parts I've still got, at least." Annoyance was clear across her whole face. "After the idiot ripped that out for kicks."

Fred took the mug and the shadow relinquished it, just to have something to do with his hands. "She ripped out your soul? But, you're—"

"I'm fine, I can exist without my soul as long as I've got my shade," Hope waved a careless hand and Fred didn't fully understand, but he didn't want to bring it up. She rubbed at her eyes. "I wanted to get out of this alive but no one asked me," she said miserably.

He stared at her so long and she didn't even notice, too wrapped up in her own misery. "You know what I thought when I first met you?" he asked her finally, startling Hope. She twisted her head to meet his eyes, her own wide with surprise. "I thought… 'this is the little spitfire George thinks is so great? What's so cool about her?'" Hope laughed suddenly. "And then I got to hear you talking, all that snarky sarcasm…you weren't afraid of anything, and you certainly weren't impressed by anything, so I thought 'all right, she's pretty cool' and now I look at you and I think…you've been scared this whole time and I had no idea…and that makes you the bravest and the strongest person I've ever met."

Hope's lip wobbled and her eyes were shining with tears again, so Fred took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. She hid her eyes with a "Goddammit, Fred!"

"We'll figure this out," Fred promised, wiping away her tears with his thumb, sliding over slightly to pull an arm around her shoulders and Hope leaned into his grip. "You know, Ron used to have these terrible nightmares when he was younger." Hope frowned in confusion. "The kind that our parents dismissed as you know, just missing Bill and Charlie or whatever…but they weren't normal and he was terrified, so I'd let him climb into bed with me."

"You?" Hope's mouth twitched. "Didn't you try an unbreakable vow on him?"

"Eh, I was seven," Fred waved her off, "my point is, he used to go to me, because he thought, I don't know—"

"That his big brother could make it all better?" Hope asked fondly, looking at him with soft eyes.

Fred cleared his throat, heat rising. "People like George more than me, he's the nice twin...but I was my baby brother's hero. Just one day he stopped thinking that."

"I don't think that's true," Hope disagreed. "I think he just got to the point where he thought it was cowardly to ask for help."

Fred looked up in surprise and Hope sighed tiredly. "You're a great big brother, the kind I wished had been looking after me when I was younger…but I'm not sure why you're telling me this."

"I'm telling you this…because everyone gets scared and some people have terrible things happen to them and what you've gone through…it's horrible and I don't understand why it happened or why it was you and what reason someone could have for doing that to a baby…but you have people in your corner, people that want you to stay alive, you know that right?"

Hope nodded against his shoulder. "I know," she whispered. "I'm just…I'm afraid it'll break George…and I know it'll destroy Dean."

He looked at her long and hard and Hope faltered. "What?"

"You've just got the big sister thing down, that's all," he said airily, tweaking her nose and Hope wrinkled it, making him snort. "C'mon, let's get you home…but George probably heard us talking."

Hope froze. "What?" she said slowly, realization dawning.

"Well, he was supposed to come over a little later, but I'm pretty sure I heard him outside the door," Fred admitted.

She just seemed to shut down, staring blankly at him without a shred of comprehension. Her hand was shaking in his grip.

"Hey, it's okay, it's gonna be okay…I can tell him, if you want, or I can keep it a secret, whatever you want, Hope, I'm serious," Fred was quick to assure her.

"You guys don't keep secrets."

"No," Fred agreed, "but I'll keep this one. For you."

And then she was throwing her arms around him, holding onto him tightly, her shoulders trembling. Fred wrapped his arms around her easily. She was so small, he realized belatedly. Hope always seemed so larger than life, the kind of person that would punch you in the throat if given the opportunity, who would threaten you with a knife that never left her person, and made you feel like you needed to step back from her imposing presence.

"I can't do it," she breathed against his chest, "can…can you—?"

It was going to be the absolute worst, but— "Yeah, I'll tell him for you." She was looking pretty emotionally exhausted.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"You know, if you carry the weight of the world for too long, something's going to have to give," Fred pointed out, rocking her slightly.

"Maybe I'll just get used to the weight," Hope hummed tiredly instead. "That's what people are hoping, anyways." Fred frowned and would've said more, but she chose that moment to breathe out deeply and go slack in his arms.

In a matter of minutes, they were back in her room and Fred was settling her into her bed, pulling her shoes off gently and tucking the blankets around her as she slept, her brow wrinkled.

And then he flicked her light off and shut the door quietly behind him. He could hear nothing, not even the sizzle of a simmering potion, and rarely was George that quiet. Fred took in a breath, steeling himself, his eyes flicking out the window to where Dean could barely be seen on the beach, undoubtedly sketching the hull of the ship there; Hope had said he was irritated than he never managed to capture it perfectly. Fred had seen versions of it that were breathtaking, but he wasn't a perfectionist.

And he had no idea what his sister was going through.

It felt like fourth year all over again, Ginny becoming so withdrawn and them not knowing what to do or why it happened…but Hope was the one that made the decision to keep him out and it was her choice if she let him in, regardless of what Fred thought.

He peeked his head into the potions room to see it empty. The counter and floor were wet, like someone had been scrubbing vigorously after a potion had overflowed. Fred swallowed thickly; that was extremely out of character for George. George never messed up a potion, not since first year when he'd glowered Snape down furiously and decided to do his potion his own way, thank you very much.

The irony that the potion genius had almost failed potions that year still annoyed Fred, even more so when they'd come home and he'd gotten an earful from Mum. And George hadn't said a word about the situation at all; they'd learned that no matter how much they tried to tell her, she'd believe their teachers over them every time.

Fred took the steps quietly until he found himself in the kitchen, watching George at the sink scrubbing furiously at his cauldron, tension lining his shoulders. Fred ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily before stepping forward and shutting off the water. "George," Fred said gently, "the cauldron's fine."

George had been scrubbing at pristine brass. His hands were shaking.

"I just-I need—" His brother's words failed and Fred faltered at the sight of George's wet cheeks; he'd never been able to stomach George crying. When they were kids he'd always punched whatever and whoever had made him cry; punching Hope wouldn't be well deserved. "I just want her to be okay," he managed out thickly.

"I know," Fred promised. "C'mon, let's go sit down and I'll tell you everything you want to know."

George wiped at his cheeks and Fred pretended not to notice.


"Did you ever know any of Nath's kids?" Hope asked quietly into the night, staring out of her open window, her legs curled under her. The shadow sat beside her, replicating the position. Her pomegranate tea had long since cooled on the window ledge, but she was still drinking it.

"One," the shadow admitted, "his granddaughter, Iolanthe Peverell."

The name sounded vaguely familiar. "What was she like?"

He was quiet for a long time, allowing her the time to swallow a mouthful of cold tea. "She was full of determination, she didn't like being told what to do, and she could always do a job better than the next person."

Hope's mouth twitched. "She sounds great."

"She was," the shadow agreed. "Ignatia, my son's daughter, she was gifted with magic, but Iolanthe wasn't."

Dark eyes cast towards the shadow. "Really?"

"Really. Her skill lay in manipulating shadows and hunting, and she phenomenally skilled at both…you are rather unalike, I think."

Unable to hide it, Hope smiled, an actual full-on smile. "Yeah?"

"She was a hunter, not a warrior, she had no jagged edges, she didn't need to carve a place out in the world for herself," the shadow told her, "and I've come to see that no one possesses your strength."

Hope looked away, taking a sip of her cold tea.

"And then I asked the worst of Iolanthe and it cost her her life."

The brutal agony in his voice, that was what really got her, and Hope set down the tea carefully on the window. "Phogra," she said, the name curling off her tongue.

"That's not my name," he said startled.

"It's short for phantom grandfather," Hope waved him off, "godly names have power, right?"

"All names have power," Phogra nearly huffed. "But this is one I do not mind."

She ran a hand through her dark hair, tugging at it slightly just to have something to do with her hands. "Phogra," she started again, "what really happened to the…godlings?" She still fumbled over the word, still unfamiliar to her. "There were so many in mythology…but that's not the case anymore, is it?"

The silence between them burned.

"There are four remaining," Phogra said finally. "You and your brother make two…I do find it pleasantly ironic that the remaining godlings in this world…are twins."

"We do have more fun." Hope snorted briefly before sobering. "Four? That's it?"

"You're an endangered species and unfortunately, your name is the only one that is known, which explains the number of attempts on your life."

"I'm pretty sure that's just because of wizards," Hope scoffed.

"Are you certain, or is that just what you believe?" Phogra tilted his shadowy head slightly, so like Nath that it ached.

Hope shrugged helplessly. "One constant in my life is murder attempts." She could see the faintest reflection of the lightning scarring across her brow. Her expression faltered and she looked away, clearing her throat suddenly. "So, the other godlings…what happened to them?"

The horrible silence returned and Hope felt something growing hard and twisted in her chest.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Phogra asked carefully, voice a gentle whisper.

Hope swallowed thickly. "That bad, huh?"

He tilted his shadowy head towards her. "I could show you," he admitted, "but I do not think you will like what you see."

Her eyes shifted from him to the window again, taking a sip of her cold tea. "I'm used to death."

"But are you used to carnage?" Phogra asked and Hope's mouth thinned.

She still remembered that day when she was ten. She remembered how the gravel dug into her back, how the sky had seemed hazy above her. She remembered someone screaming, the world ringing around her, and lifting her hand up to stare at the crimson staining it like it was the most beautiful thing. And then she'd drifted off, and the last thing she knew, an icy hand had gripped her arm and she was jolting back to life in the ambulance, Nath's hand tight on her arm, another paramedic stopping the compressions on her chest to shout that he had a pulse.

"I can handle it," she said finally.

"I'm sure you can, but I'm also sure that it will change you…so I'll ask again, are you certain?"

The mug was set down forcibly and her tea sloshed a little over her fingers as she pulled away from the window to sit cross-legged on her crimson bedspread, not thinking about her blood staining the pavement.

"I want to know." Nothing had felt more serious. "You owe me, anyways."

They hadn't talked about it, since it happened. She knew he felt bad about it, because he kept doing things for her; there was the helping burying Perenelle Flamel's body, but occasionally if Hope fell asleep at her desk, she'd wake up tucked into her bed, or the flowers on the kitchen counter would start to wilt and then miraculously be flushed with vitality the next time she saw them, or how if her pens ran out of ink there were always new ones waiting for her on the kitchen table, or…

There were a lot of things he'd done, maybe some that Hope hadn't even noticed.

"Brace yourself," Phogra advised, and then he was leaning forward and Hope was falling into shadow.


She called into class the next day and barely left her bed, letting Dean think it was a stomach bug and hiding from the world, still dreaming of fire and screams and smoke curling into the sky.

Phogra hadn't lied. It had been horrible…the worst thing you could imagine people doing to each other, when one side was so disadvantaged. Hope had ended up vomiting immediately after coming up out of the haze of Phogra's memories.

How could you see the good in anything when something that horrible had happened? Hope didn't even know.


Dean liked to walk around the town, sketching whatever he found interesting, which wasn't really a big deal, even if when his mother called weekly to check in on them and she told him she didn't like him going off on his own.

"Hope goes off on her own all the time!" he complained. "Why is it a problem for me? I'm older!"

"Sweetheart, you're the same age," Mum said dryly, "and Hope's in school…and she can defend herself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The problem came when he returned to the house to see Hope and George in the middle of a full-blown row. Dean had never heard of them getting into a fight before -maybe they had minor disagreements, but who didn't?-, they'd always been ridiculously in sync.

But not anymore.

"—you're not even considering it!"

"Of course, I'm not!" Hope snarled. "Trust a god isn't going to screw me over? Are you shitting me? Are you hearing what you're saying?!"

"The gods you know are related to you!" George fired back. "Why would they even want to screw you over in the first place?!"

"Obviously, you've never met a god! Or read any myths involving them!" Hope's eyes were impossibly dark and burning with black fire.

"Do you want to die?!" George's voice was rising, nearly a shout and Hope was impossibly tense. Dean grimaced, watching them like watching a train wreck happen in real time and not being able to stop it. "Because that's what it sounds like to me!"

"I-what are you—"

"Because if you really wanted this, this life that we want to have together, you'd fight for it." And then he turned on his heel and left Hope gaping at him. She didn't move an inch until a door slammed upstairs, seeming to still process what he was saying, and when it collided, she fractured.

Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen Hope like that before, shattered and sobbing like the stars had gone out and with them, happiness and joy. Her knees buckled on her and Dean had to rush forward to catch her to keep her from hitting the ground. She clutched him so tight that it hurt, but that was nothing compared to the guttural sobs that were shaking through her body.

"Mari, Mari, I got you," he murmured, "it's okay, it's okay." And he didn't say a single damn thing about how wet his shirt got from her tears. He ran his hand through her hair over and over again, until she calmed down enough for them to settle on the couch.

"Do you…do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally, because whatever they'd been arguing about, it sounded heavy and maybe it had to do with Hope's depression or maybe it was that thing that Mum and Quinn had argued about that Hope hadn't wanted to talk about before.

She shook her head silently, rubbing at her eyes.

"Okay, then we won't talk about it…but…Mari, you gotta know that I love you."

"Yeah, I know," Hope huffed, wiping at her eyes, her voice thick and weak.

"Hey, no quoting Star Wars to me when I'm trying to make you feel better," Dean admonished just to get a smile out of her. And he did, but it was small and fleeting. "You're the best sister on the planet and if you want me to go after him and give him a black eye, I totally will, I mean, he's terrifying, but I'll do it."

Hope laughed weakly and a few more tears came with it. "No, I…it's okay."

"It's not okay, you're upset…and it's okay not to be okay."

She pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes, letting out a ragged breath.

"So…I'm gonna put on A New Hope, heat up some soup and bring the last of your baklava in here and we're gonna binge," he said and she didn't offer anything in reply, just sinking back into the cushions, eyes hidden. He kissed the top of her head. "I'll be right back."

"'Kay."

And then Dean was swiping her phone and frantically calling his mother, explaining everything to her in a fevered whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing, Mum! What if I say the wrong thing and she starts crying again?"

"Then she'll start crying again," Mum said simply. "She and George had a fight, a serious one, it sounds like, and she gets to be upset about it as many times as she'd like. But you've got to let her figure herself out."

So, no forcing her to tell him what was really wrong, no matter how much Dean wanted it.

"Just look after her, that's what she needs right now…let her figure out the rest."


Hope waited until Dean fell into a fitful nap -he was staying awake too long sketching the night sky, not that she'd ever tell him that- before painting the right blood sigils onto an unused mirror and popping through it.

She hadn't been to the Feywild Café since Sylvar's death -or not death, however Selenar had explained it- but it was as good of a place as any because she didn't have Nath's flat key. She carefully maneuvered over the sink in the bathroom in the back, the same one she'd climbed over last year when she'd known something was wrong with Sylvar.

She straightened up, letting out a breath. The room was totally black, but Hope didn't have any issue with finding the knob, and twisting it, finally stepping out into the shaded café.

Nothing had changed, not really, and maybe that was the most heart-wrenching part, because it was like Sylvar had never even existed, like the café was just a space that she'd inhabited…for Hope's sake.

Hope stared at the tiled floor where she'd once found blood pooling around a corpse…but the tile was clean, like it had never happened.

She breathed out raggedly, trying not to think about what Selenar had said about Sylvar when they'd first met.

"She died centuries ago, what you knew was a soul bonded to living flesh. She only existed as Sylvar Doran, owner of the Feywild Café, because you needed protecting."

Who was going to protect Hope from herself, though? Hope was on her own and the one lifeline she'd been thrown was covered in knives and she was the only one that saw it for what it was; temptation of the desperate.

She rubbed her eyes and stepped out into the overcast afternoon, walking down the street, weaving between people on her way to the one place that had once been one of the two places she'd been most comfortable at…and she hadn't been back hardly since she turned thirteen.

"As I live and breathe…is that Hope Potter?" was announced as soon as she stepped into the fire station, head twisting to look around for Nath but he must've been on a call, so her eyes flicked to the second landing where a familiar face grinned down at her.

"Hi, Jim," she smiled.

Jim was a firefighter who always liked to point out how similar Hope and Nath were that are you sure that you two aren't legally related? Hope was sure he had a spreadsheet. His skin was darker than Diane's but he was just as bald and had as broad of a smile that slipped when Hope's own faltered.

"Nath's out on a call but he should be back in a bit, why don't you come up and I'll get you something to drink?" Jim offered and Hope looked out to the open street, but Nath didn't come rolling up.

"Yeah, all right," she said, rolling her shoulders to rid them of discomfort, taking the steps carefully up to the landing.

"Limp coming back?" Jim asked conversationally as she slid into one of the seats and he handed her a can and Hope cupped her hands around cold metallic.

"Yeah," she muttered, "decreased sensation isn't helping me much either."

"You be careful with that," Jim advised. "You wouldn't believe how many people are more prone to fucking up their feet when they can't feel it."

Hope hummed.

"So?"

She looked up, confused. "So, what?"

"You look miserable, kid, so spill the beans." Jim quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not as good at Nath as listening, but I'm still pretty decent."

She didn't say anything for the longest time. "I'm sick," she said finally.

Jim paused. "Cancer?" he asked carefully and Hope shook her head, doing mental gymnastics to keep magic out of the explanation.

"Nah," she snorted, "it's a…disease so rare that I'm the only living person with it. Yay me." It was technically true, as no one else -that Hope knew of- had had a magical core forced into their body and was slowly wreaking havoc inside them.

"Shit," Jim muttered, glancing up to her. "Damn kid…you got dealt a really bad hand."

"Yeah," Hope sighed. "George, my boyfriend, we had a pretty big fight about it, because there's this…there's this treatment that's more risk than benefit and I don't like my odds and…" Hope swallowed thickly. "And maybe he's right about me…I'm not fighting very hard, I'm just…I'm tired."

He considered her, taking in the dark hair -the last time he'd seen her it had been red- and the heavier-than-normal circles under her eyes. "You look it, kid…how're the nightmares?" He remembered picking up Nath from the hospital to start a shift and how she'd clutched at him, sobbing even as he'd feathered kisses and promises to her brow.

"Still bad, but manageable," Hope admitted. She slept the best with George, but Hope thought that had more to do with knowing she wasn't sleeping alone than the person that was sleeping beside her. How many times had she and Dean fallen asleep sprawled next to each other?

Jim understood that, Hope knew. He was a war veteran, he hadn't been in it for very long, but it had left scars. He nodded.

"My doctor recommended making a will up—"

"Do you have anything that requires that?" Jim asked startled. "Your father works for the city."

It was hilarious how the god-part had gotten phased out of 'godfather', but the likeness was uncanny…and sometimes Hope wished that she looked more like him and less like her.

"My mother was an heiress to a fortune," Hope lied through her teeth, a casual shrug rolling through her shoulders. "There's…there's a lot there."

"Is that why he's upset?" Jim asked. "Your boyfriend? The money?"

Hope paused. "George doesn't care about the money, I mean, he's from a family with seven kids and only one paycheck, but he doesn't care about that—"

"He cares about you," Jim said fondly and Hope ducked her head, "and that's part of the whole thinking you're giving up, right? Preparing for your death?"

Hope positively sagged. "Yeah," she sighed. "He doesn't get it. How exhausting it is to keep fighting when the odds are stacked against you…and all I want to do is sleep."

"I know it might seem like weakness," Jim said gently, tapping at her knuckles with a finger, making her look up. "But healing is just another way of fighting. There's nothing wrong with wanting to rest; battles are hard. Give yourself the time you deserve to recover."

She swallowed thickly, swiping at her eyes. "I'm not sure there's the time," she admitted and she couldn't look at the pity in his eyes that was only stalled by the sound of sirens abruptly shutting off and renewed footsteps and voices.

"Hey, Lord!" Jim called out suddenly and Hope stiffened in surprise. "You've got a visitor!"

Nath's steps were quiet as he made his way up the stairs to see Hope sitting there, probably looking as miserable as she thought she looked. He didn't say anything, just opened his arms and Hope flew into them, holding onto him tightly.

A kiss was dropped onto the top of Hope's head. "Let's take a walk, dearest," was murmured in her ear, and a few minutes later they were sitting on a bench not too far from the station because he was still on-call (Hope still didn't get that; he was a god, what was he doing worrying about being on-call or not?). There was a mug of hot pomegranate tea between her fingers, but she still felt uncommonly cold.

"Did you know?" she asked after the silence became too much. "The whole time, did you know I was sick?"

Nath's face was impassive and she couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but that was nothing new. "Yes," he said, "I knew."

"Oh, good," Hope said thickly, taking a drink of scalding tea to avoid speaking or even looking at him.

"You have options, dearest, it's not the end—"

"I guess you would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Hope fired back and Nath flinched, looking pained and Hope was immediately contrite. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just…I'm not in a good place right now."

"I know," Nath said gently, "but you've still got so many people that love you, dearest, don't forget that." He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, looking at her so very softly and Hope blinked furiously. "And I have faith in you."

"Faith?" Hope asked faintly.

"Yes, faith," he stressed.

"Sounds misplaced, if you ask me," Hope muttered, eyes shifting away from him, but he tapped his fingers against her cheek.

"Marina," he said solemnly, more serious than Hope had ever seen him before, "it's never misplaced, not if it's you."

"You're just saying that because—"

"Because I love you," Nath said, heartbreakingly fond. "And nothing, not even you, can stop me from doing that."

Hope let out a startled huff. "You're such an asshole."

"I take pride in that," his mouth twitched as he took a drink from his own mug. "Tell me about the other thing on your mind, because I know you, and I know that's not all it is."

Sometimes she really hated how well he knew her.

"Phogra—"

"What?" A laugh startled out of Nath's lips. "Phogra? What does that even mean?"

"Phantom grandfather and it's a great name, I came up with it myself," Hope said miffed.

"Oh, my apologies, it's a wonderful name."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Nath," Hope arched an unimpressed eyebrow. "I can't exactly call your dad by his actual name."

Nath hummed, amused. "You could, if you feeling particularly daring."

Hope's shadow rippled in annoyance and Nath took another sip of his tea to hide his amusement; no matter how old he became, he could still irritate his father. But then he watched how Hope sobered.

"He showed me Iero," she said and Nath swallowed his tea thickly, struggling not to choke.

"He shouldn't have done that." Nath scowled at the shadow stretched under her and it shrugged helplessly.

"I asked," Hope shrugged. "It was worse than I thought it would be."

"It always is." Nath had never sounded hollower and Hope grimaced. "It's better to hear the story than actually witness it."

That was how you knew it was utterly grotesque. Better to hear about something than actually witness it. Hope could see it when she closed her eyes; the smoke curling up and choking the air, screaming that pierced, blood spraying across walls and spilling across the ground. Sylvar's eyes unseeing, still reaching for the warning bell even in death.

"I'm sorry," Hope lifted her head to look at him.

"Sorry?" Nath was confused. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that I didn't realize that if nothing works out in my favor…you'll be losing the last of your children."

His face softened. "Don't worry about that," he said gently, "I want you to focus on yourself."

"You always say that," Hope scoffed. He'd said it often when she still needed physical therapy to help her walk.

"And I'm always right."

"That's the arrogance talking."

Nath bared his teeth, removing his hand from her cheek to shift his glasses down so Hope could see the black pits that were his eyes. He winked one. "It's not arrogant if it's true."

They were words Hope had said before and she couldn't help but laugh.

"Nath!" There was a shout. "We gotta go!"

Nath stood quickly. "Take my advice, dearest," he advised. "Do what's best for you, worry about everything else afterwards."

"Kay," Hope muttered and he kissed the top of her head, jogging backwards towards the station.

"Love you!" he called before turning around. "Enjoy your gift!"

"Love you, too," Hope said too quietly to be caught. "What gift?"

But he was too far away and then Hope realized there was a wooden box sitting next to her. She frowned, setting down her mug and picking up the box instead, sliding the top open. There was a crisp note with a single sentence on it.

To replace the one you lost.

It was a knife, in the shape of a long feather. Hope examined it, remembering the feathers that made up Nath's wings when she was in the underworld. She smiled fondly.


"I think I need a good therapist, you don't happen to know any, do you?" Hope asked Quinn bluntly over the phone later that day.

Quinn was quiet on the other end. "I can send you a few good ones," they said finally.


The first one lasted ten minutes before Hope walked out; she didn't tell Quinn that it was because he'd put his hand on her knee and leaned in far too close.

The second one was Bigby and Hope did a double take when she saw her. "Aren't you a professor?" she demanded. "Isn't it a bit of a conflict of interest to be a therapist to your student?"

Bigby's eyes glittered, pupils slitted and teeth just slightly fanged. Usually Hope only noticed the pixie's pointed ears. "I'm very old, Marina, I'm so many things…besides, I can compartmentalize; you should try it sometime."

Bigby stuck.


"Let's talk about George."

Hope groaned. "Do we have to?"

"This is therapy, darling, talking is a requirement," Bigby winked at where Hope was sprawled on her couch, staring up at the ceiling. "What did he say exactly that upset you so much?"

Hope gritted her teeth together. "He thought I was giving up, that I wasn't looking at other options—"

"Are you?" Bigby quirked an eyebrow.

"Look," Hope said heatedly, sitting up on her elbows to glower at the pixie, "I gave it my best shot, okay? But I don't have the juice to do this on my own and going with godly assistance is completely out of the question."

Bigby leaned forward. She never dressed any way but casually, and today was no different with a flowing sundress patterned with flowers. By contrast, Hope had never looked more punk; faded jeans with combat boots and an old shirt with a band whose name had been worn off with age (she'd borrowed it from Diane and Diane had never asked for it back). "So, the problem isn't that you have no options, it's that you have one, but you don't want to go with it…what's so bad about making a deal with a god?"

"Other than the obvious?" Hope flopped back onto the bed. "My mother got pregnant by her god and ran off to Britain and almost never used magic again. And then that god got into it with me about a month ago, and of the other two that I know, one is essentially my godly father but we don't talk about it, and the other one is my grandfather who possessed me without consent, so overall, I'm doing great."

"But you're not doing great," Bigby pointed out, "you're two steps from a breakdown. If you were doing great, you wouldn't be here."

Hope huffed but didn't dispute her.

"The problem with my only godly options being people I'm technically related to…is like if you work for your dad, you know?" Hope said finally. "Of course, they love you but are you there because you're worth it or because you're getting a handout?"

Bigby was a good therapist and she could hone-in on Hope's underlying issues, not that it really made Hope very happy. "Is being worthy something you worry about?"

Hope opened her mouth to deny it, but the words couldn't work their way out of her throat, so she closed it again. "I feel like people don't really see me," she said finally.

"Okay, tell me about that."

"I used to wear my hair red," Hope started, "because I looked so much like my mother that I wanted to hurt Petunia. Oh, remember your sister? Well, if you want to hurt me, I'm going to look like her as much as possible." Hope paused. "That's a bit vindictive, I realize."

"Darling, you've literally listed off the ways you were abused by these people," Bigby said dryly, resting her cheek on a fist. "I think vindictiveness is warranted."

Heat rose in Hope's cheeks; she couldn't remember the last time an adult -that wasn't Nath or Diane or Quinn- validated her feelings and didn't tell her off for feeling a certain way.

"But your hair isn't red anymore," Bigby brought her back and Hope cleared her throat.

"Yeah," she said thickly, "people would always say 'oh, you look so much like your mother', and my dad had black hair, so I switched it. I really wanted them to say I looked more like him, because no one ever says that. It's Lily or it's nothing. And yeah, I get that my dad was a little bit of a bully and a cocky asshole in school, but it's not like Snape was a good kid, either, we've all got issues." Hope wrinkled her nose in annoyance. "So, it's always oh, you look just like Lily, even when I've got my dad's eyes and his hair, or oh, you're doing so well in the classes your parents were good in so you must've inherited their talents. Doesn't anyone ever think that a kid can be uniquely skilled in a way that has nothing to do with their parents?"

"Tell me about that, something that you're proud of."

Hope faltered, unease filtering across her face.

"It doesn't matter if they were good at it, too," Bigby added, recognizing the look. "Here, would you like me to give you some help?"

"Um, I guess?"

"The last assignment you turned in to me," Bigby said and Hope thought that was passing some sort of boundary from professor to therapist. "You didn't need to create a spell for it, but you did, and it was so complex that I had to take it to Henry to understand some of the equations, which never happens to me, but I forgot that I was dealing with the Architect—"

"Oh gods, that's such an embarrassing title," Hope buried her face into her hands to hide the bright red flush of her cheeks.

"Nah, it's just one that you earned, instead of one you had given to you for circumstances outside of your control, and you don't know how to handle that, people valuing you."

"You're psychoanalyzing me," Hope grumbled behind her hands.

"Kinda my job, darling." Bigby winked. "My point is, you're not just good at meta-composition, you're brilliant at it…your turn. What's something you're proud of?"

"I don't know…I guess knife throwing? I'm not sure that really counts—"

"It counts," Bigby cut across her. "You like knives, then?"

"Yeah, I've got a couple…lost my favorite, though," Hope grimaced, thinking of the black blade. "I had an ancestor that was a pirate, so I took a few from her place…and I carved a basilisk fang into a knife."

"Really?" Bigby was intrigued. "That sounds like it's pretty difficult and basilisk fangs aren't really the easiest material to work with."

"I've got this friend, she had a traumatic year at school that ended with me killing a basilisk while she was passed out," Hope shrugged, "it's supposed to be a gift for her, but I keep working on it…it's never really done."

"You're a perfectionist," Bigby smiled and Hope rolled her eyes. "What happens if you can't finish a spell?"

"Give it to Fred and George and see if they can do something with it."

"So, you and George feed off each other?" Bigby presumed. "You're both creators who inspire each other."

"I guess." Hope hadn't given it much thought.

"But you don't want to tell him the reason you aren't going with a god right now…are you afraid of what he'll think?"

Hope thought about that. "I'm afraid of how far he'll go if none of it works," she admitted. "And there's a lot about that that George doesn't understand and he can't understand because he never had to grow up in the environment that I did and…"

"There's more to it than asking a god for aid, isn't it?" Bigby asked shrewdly.

Hope laughed without feeling. "There's always more."

"Maybe try writing it out?" Bigby suggested. "You like your poetry class, this isn't really all that different."

"And write what?"

"Write everything you didn't get to tell him, even if you never do."


"I can talk to him."

"I don't want you to," Hope said tiredly, running a hand through her hair and Fred's eyes were painfully soft, reminding her viscerally of George. She looked away; it hurt too much.

"He's pretty messed up about it," Fred assured her and Hope scowled.

"I am too," she said shortly, "but…maybe we're overdue for a break."

Fred considered her silently. "You're sure that's what you want? I mean…George has never, never loved anyone as much as you, this fight, it's just a hiccup."

Hope's mouth twitched. "It's a pretty big hiccup."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"I can't worry about George right now," Hope interrupted him. "I'm taking Nath's advice and getting professional help, apparently, according to my therapist, I'm on a self-destructive spiral and I'd rather him not end up as collateral damage."

Fred paused. He knew about the pills she took every day to help with her depression, and he still remembered how terrible her second year had been…he just hadn't realized things had gotten so bad that she needed professional help.

"Don't give me that look," she snapped, "some people need therapy."

"I'm not knocking on that," Fred replied, startled by the fire blazing in her face, "I just…I didn't realize it had gotten that bad."

Hope huffed. "I'm good at hiding how bad I'm off…is Ginny doing okay?"

"Why wouldn't she be doing okay?" Fred's attention sharpened and Hope almost smiled at how overprotective he was coming off.

"She was possessed at eleven, no one's okay after a traumatic experience like that. She was still struggling last year; how is she doing now?"

He frowned. "Some days are better than others," he finally admitted, "occasionally she still has nightmares, and she looks exhausted at breakfast, but then Mum starts getting on her about staying up all night and then they get into a row."

Hope rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Your mother needs a lesson in tact."

All Fred could do was make an amused, agreeable noise.

"Would you mind signing something for me?" Hope asked suddenly. "I just need someone of age to witness it."

"What is it?" Fred took the roll of papers she'd had shoved under her arm the whole time, looking at the words on the front page. "Oh," he faltered.

The Last Will and Testament of Hope Lily Potter.

"Are you sure about this?" he said finally. "I mean, a will, that's like…permanent."

"Not really, I can always go back and revise it," Hope shrugged. "I just don't want some lowlifes stealing my inheritance when I kick the bucket because I wasn't prepared."

Fred thought there was more to it than that. He flipped through it, regardless. "Wow," he said finally, "I don't think I realized how rich your family is."

"It's because I'm a wild child," Hope said agreeably with the smallest of bobs of the head. "At least, that's what Nath keeps telling me, but he's the one that got me my first leather jacket, so who's really to blame?"

"Is he like you?" There was a picture taped next to one of her and Dean in her room, it was her when she was younger -twelve or thirteen, it looked- sitting between a man's legs with his arms around her and a broad smile to match hers. He was insanely pretty and Fred could see similarities between the pair.

"More like I'm like him," Hope waved a hand. "I considered being a paramedic a year ago because of him, but healing isn't really my strong suit."

Fred didn't really know what a paramedic was, but he didn't want to distract from the conversation. "And what do you want to be?"

She paused, thinking hard, her brow furrowing. "I don't know," she said finally, startlingly delighted. Fred thought it was a long time since he'd seen a look like that on her face when George wasn't bringing it about. "I'll figure it out for myself. No one gets to sway me."

"I think only one person can sway you," Fred muttered under his breath and Hope smacked him in the back of the head. "Sorry, sorry…anything in particular you're considering?"

"Maybe a professor of meta-composition," Hope hummed. "Spell creation is kinda my jam."

"Kinda?" Fred arched an eyebrow. "Hope, you're like a genius at spell creation."

She gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks," she said in that polite way she always did when people compared her to her parents; Fred wondered if that was part of the problem. That Hope couldn't see who she was without people attributing certain traits to her parents.

Then she paused. "I am, aren't I?" she asked almost uncertainly.

"Yeah, you are," Fred said without a shred of doubt. "You get spells, George gets potions."

Hope closed her eyes, breathing in deeply and out. "Yes," she said, more certainly now, smiling slightly.

Fred got the feeling that it was something she was working on in therapy, taking credit for what she deserved. He looked back into the papers she'd given him. "I appoint Ronald Weasley as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint Hermione Abdullah as alternate Executor-wait, Granger isn't her last name?"

"Not legally," Hope shrugged, "I think there were some issues with her father's side of the family, estrangements and all that…she thinks it might be magic-related and that's why they don't like that she's a witch."

Fred winced. "Ouch…Abdullah must be a fairly common name, then. There's an Abdullah in my year—"

"I know one, too, Marwan." Hope smiled fondly. "He's a sweetheart and my best friend in Brakebills. He's a traveler, apparently, but he hates traveling, so he and Quinn keep picking fights."

"I'm sure that's going over well."

Hope shrugged. "I've been picking fights with Quinn, too, but that might be my self-destructiveness…oh, yeah, by the way, we're moving."

He almost dropped her will. "You're, uh, what?"

"Moving. This place is so big and it's such a long drive from Brakebills. I found this little ground apartment -four bedrooms, kitchen, living room- not too far from school. Dean called it 'Mediterranean' but Greece is one of the countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, which I think was him knocking on the barrel tiles, but tough shit, they look cool." Hope rolled her eyes. "He's more annoyed about leaving the sea behind, but it's not like we can't come back…I mean the ship is still hanging out on the beach, which I should definitely do something about, I realize—"

"Feels kinda like you're running away," Fred pointed out with a wince.

"You know me, Fred, I can't run very fast."

"That's not the point and you know it." He gave her a very direct look and Hope patted his arm.

"You know, I think you should look into being a therapist if being an entrepreneur doesn't work out, because I'm getting definite Bigby vibes from you and she is phenomenal…but I need space, and you guys can keep doing what you're doing, I'm just gonna focus on my stuff in a different place."

Fred frowned deeply. "Isn't it a bit awkward, though?" he asked. "I mean, this is your house."

"My family's house," Hope corrected. "Besides, you guys aren't using the potion room for kicks, you're building up your inventory. I don't see why that has to suffer because George and I are taking a break." She looked at him and then quickly away because he was looking at her, his eyes as soft and utterly fond, making her think of George, and that still hurt. "What?"

"You know that you matter too, right? Like, George wouldn't be happy making you uncomfortable even if set us back."

Hope huffed, faintly annoyed. "What I am doing is for me, Bigby was the one that suggested living somewhere else, since he's kinda the reason I decided to seek help anyway -not that it's his fault, please don't make him think that," she added quickly, "he's just the catalyst and I don't want him to be collateral damage in me trying to get a handle on my life."

Fred's eyes softened, but all he did was take her pen and sign his name on the dotted line. "Do you want me to say anything to George about you leaving?"

"No." She tucked the papers back into their envelope. "Punch anyone that hurts him for me, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I've only been doing that since the womb." Fred made an airy wave of sorts. "Look after yourself, Hope."

She gave a careless wave behind her back as she strode out of the room.


"Sometimes I think I'm broken," Hope said.

"Tell me why you think that."

"I mean, look at me." Hope waved her hand. "I've got all the scars and the trauma…that doesn't count as broken to you?"

"What I think is irrelevant," Bigby said, "it's what you think that matters…have you heard the saying that broken bones grow back stronger?"

"Yeah," Hope had, but it had always sounded like an excuse for abuse.

"Well, it's bullshit. You break your leg and the area around the break swells, and then a callus forms around the site depositing calcium to aid in the repair of the bone so during the healing process that fracture site is stronger than the surrounding bone…but by the time healing is done, that site is as strong as the bone was before, not stronger, not weaker, just as strong." Bigby met her eyes steadily. "You're not stronger for what you endured, and neither are you weaker. There's no excuse for abusing a child and there never will be. And nothing you could've done would make them not hurt you."

Hope breathed out shakily, closing her eyes. "They broke me," she said finally. "I gave up trying to make them love me…I stopped looking for absolution at the feet of the people that hurt me…it was just a lesson that took way too long to learn."

"Some lessons are hard to learn, like people that should care, but don't, is not a failing on your part."

Hope rubbed at the runes carved into her skin. "Do you think broken things are worthy of love?" her voice broke over 'worthy', but Bigby said nothing about it.

"Them most of all, Marina."


"Okay, it might be growing on me."

Hope set down a box heavily onto the ground. "I mean, you don't really get a choice; you go where I go or you go back to Mum."

Dean gave her a filthy scowl as she grinned at him. "Love you, dearest."

"Bet you say that to all your quasi-brothers," he muttered.

Hope sighed heavily. "Still jealous about Marwan? C'mon, you know you're my favorite."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"You are!" she insisted. "You're my favorite!"

"What about Hermione and Ron?" Dean retorted.

"What about Seamus?" Hope retorted. "We've both got our share of friends, tell me what's really bothering you."

He huffed in annoyance, helping Hope stock the cupboards. "Seamus and I are arguing…and you and Marwan are always so in sync, like how you're with Hermione and Ron."

Hope paused before putting the milk in the fridge. "What are you arguing about?"

Dean fell silent. "The Daily Prophet hasn't been very nice about you," he admitted.

"Has it ever?" Hope snorted. "What're they saying now?" She took the Daily Prophet from him, flicking through it aimlessly. Honestly, Hope wasn't impressed. There'd been a lot of articles lately about what an attention-seeking child she was, even one or two theories about how Cedric had been killed and how Hope had probably been the one to do it. Even when Hope hadn't confirmed Voldemort's return, Dumbledore had picked up what she'd laid down and he ran with it…and, in turn, the Daily Prophet burned them at the stake.

"Oh, you know, little things, like a far-fetched story appears and they say something like 'a tale worthy of Hope Potter' or if there's something about an accident or anything it's 'let's hope he's not got a scar on his forehead or we'll be asked to worship him next —' "

"Wow," Hope said, startled, "I think I overestimated their grasp on reality…and Seamus believes that stuff?" That was the part that hurt, because Seamus had seen it all at Hogwarts, he knew her, not as well as others, but they were friends.

"I don't know," Dean huffed. "It's not like you actually said Voldemort was back—"

"Why bother?" Hope said, handing him his bag -there wasn't a whole lot to take out of his room, since he'd only brought a suitcase. "No one ever believes me. Besides, this lot could stare Voldemort in the face and they still wouldn't believe it; wizards are pretty well-known for their stupidity."

"I'm a wizard," Dean pointed out.

"We've all got problems," Hope said wisely, frowning slightly. "You need anything? I'm spending the day in the Brakebills Library."

"With the creepy librarian?" Dean made a face. "Is he really the only other traveler except Quinn? Because Quinn's much cooler."

"Quinn's cooler than literally anyone we know," Hope snorted. "And I'm pretty sure Everett Rowe is harmless."

Dean took his things into the room he'd claimed as his; it was the one with the best view. "That's what everyone says about psychopaths. Bet you anything that people used to say that about Voldemort. 'What? That boy was so nice and polite! No way he turned into a genocidal maniac!'."

Hope sniggered, pulling on a jacket and glancing into a mirror. She was still wearing what Dean liked to call her 'Marina face', but there wasn't much of a reason to wear her usual appearance when everyone here knew her as Marina.

Another thing to talk about in therapy, she supposed.

"Love you," she called over her shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean called back, making her laugh.

He wasn't wrong about Everett, though, Hope thought when she made her way into the library. He made Hope uneasy -there was something far too calculating in his eyes that she didn't like, but she didn't want to tell Dean that- but she still plastered a smile on her face.

"Hey, Everett," she said, "you guys don't happen to have any copies of the Daily Prophet going back several years, do you?"

You could do a lot of things you wouldn't ordinarily do out of spite, and Hope that in spades. She'd initially wanted the Daily Prophet for something other than penning a lengthy essay to send to Luna Lovegood to ask if she'd give it to her father to print in the Quibbler, but Hope had many birds and one stone and she was great at throwing.

Wizards were nothing if not ridiculous, but Hope was certain a threat of a lawsuit from arguably the most famous person in the country would clam them up pretty quick.

Henry liked to call them a dying breed, which Hope thought was fair.

"Certainly," Everett said warmly, showing her to the back room to boxes piled high. "Enjoy."

"Haha," Hope muttered to herself, settling in for the long haul.


"Your blood smells delicious."

"So, you keep telling me," Hope said absently, rolling her eyes, scrawling notes into a notebook with a frown. "Did you know that all these Death Eaters committed a lot of terrible crimes and a lot of them got off completely free because of how much money they have? Isn't that fucking ridiculous?"

Asti hummed from where they were wiping glasses. They couldn't have looked more different from their girlfriend; skin so pale it was nearly translucent, the hint of fangs peeking out between their lips. "Wizards usually are. Why're you looking into this stuff, Mari?"

Hope sipped her Marina. "Before I came here with Dean…my friend was attacked," she said finally after glancing around, keeping her voice low because there were a few students cramming at a few tables in the corner.

That made them pause. "Shit, they okay?"

"She was pretty shaken up about it, and I'd given her this knife, but I don't think she ever thought that she'd have to use it." She didn't say anything about how Hermione had killed him and that she and Ron had buried the body for her. "This is the guy," she said instead, sliding the newspaper towards them, tapping a finger on one image. Hermione hadn't gotten to see his face, or Hope knew she would've been more startled and Ron hadn't said anything when he'd pulled the man's hood back slightly, giving Hope a look.

"Igor Karkaroff," Asti read out the name, "arrested in connection with Antonin Dolohov for the torture of muggles and non-supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…not a good guy, sounds like, are you really that upset about it?"

"No, but she is," Hope admitted. "I got here this mobile before I left, like the one Nath got me, and she keeps calling me in the dead of night because she's having nightmares…makes me wish we were all back at school, you know? Because then me, her, and Ron could all put or blankets and pillows down on the ground and maybe then we'd get some decent sleep."

Asti's eyes flicked over her. "Still not sleeping well?" She did look more tired than usual.

"I've never really slept well," Hope admitted. "My husband and I separating was probably for the best—"

"Whoa, whoa, you guys separated?" Asti demanded, flinging a hand up to stop her. "Girl, I haven't even met Mr. Perfect, what went wrong?"

"First of all, he's not Mr. Perfect—"

"Sure sounds like Mr. Perfect," they muttered, pouring out a shot of tequila and downing it. "So? What went wrong?"

"We had a disagreement—" Asti arched an eyebrow. "It was a pretty major disagreement," Hope conceded. "I've needed therapy for awhile and have just been putting it off for years, really." She heaved a heavy sigh and Asti paused to consider her. "I need to figure myself out before we can fix things, which he gets; we've been using his twin as a go-between, which I'm sure Fred's thrilled about."

"Hey," Asti said, making her look up. "Good for you, knowing your limitations and getting the help you need."

"Thanks," Hope said, a bit bemused.

"Is it helping? The therapy, I mean?"

"Yeah, I mean, I'm feeling better about everything…my therapist compared me to Atlas in my last session, apparently carrying the weight of the world is detrimental to my health."

"No shit," Asti snorted. "So, you're just looking up war criminals for funsies?"

Hope shrugged. "I like to be prepared," she said instead. "It's not the first time a Death Eater tried to kill me or my friends."

That made Asti pause. "Holy shit," they said, "you're her. That girl from the UK that's famous, that witch."

Hope fluttered her fingers. "Hello."

"You are definitely not twenty-four," Asti realized. "Is this a glamour? Or what?"

"Kinda?" Hope shrugged. "I thought I was a metamorphmagus for years, no idea what I really look like."

"How old are you really?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, bitch?" Hope snorted into her drink and Asti bared his fangs and laughed.

She wrote Deceased under Igor Karkaroff's name and went to the next one. Lucius Malfoy.

Hope scowled; know your enemy.


Ginny got the Quibbler free of charge, out of the blue, from Luna. She honestly wasn't expecting it, but Luna did like to surprise her on occasion.

You'll like page 3, was all her note said and Ginny arched an eyebrow and flipped, beginning to read.

My name is Hope Potter and I'm here to open your minds to the corruption of the British Ministry for Magic and ask you to wonder why the Ministry and the Daily Prophet decided to open fire on a fourteen-year-old witch with enough evidence for a profitable libel suit.

I will admit, I am used to being treated as though I am a criminal, if only for being the daughter that bears an uncommon resemblance to a dead sister, but having my name attached to very obvious lies, is something I had to get used to with the Daily Prophet, which eagerly invited assault via cursed letters after accusing me of cheating on my boyfriend with my brother. To those of you fined heavily for attacking a child, please know from the bottom of my heart…it's just desserts.

I have no intention of talking about what happened with Cedric Diggory. I did not kill him and I did not want him to die, and the twelve assessments of my wand have proved that over and over again. Cedric and I didn't know each other well, we were friendly, we were quidditch adversaries, I set him up with his girlfriend, who he adored until his death. Cedric was going places, and he knew it. And he was very good in the Triwizard Tournament, he didn't need to cut corners or look for an easier path; he had all the skills he needed to face the tasks by going straight through. I wasn't as lucky, and he knew that. He tried to help me when he didn't have to. I tried to beat him to the Cup. Neither of us really got what we wanted in the end.

Believe what you want, but I know there are certain sources claiming that I have admitted to certain things about that night, about who killed Cedric, about what happened to me, but I have not, and I have no intention to speak about that night except to say that if the Cruciatus Curse could not loosen my tongue, no defamatory comments by a gossip rag like the Daily Prophet is going to succeed where that failed.

It isn't hard to see what's going on, to see how frightened Minister Fudge is of my potential truth that he threatens me through a channel he has almost exclusive power over: the Daily Prophet. So here is some truth he'll hate even more.

Corruption is the very heart of the Ministry for Magic that claims to have your interests well in hand. And if anyone was ever completely screwed over by them, it would've been me.

Let me take you back to the night my life was destroyed in a short series of events. It's November 1, 1981, mere hours after the murder of my parents, after Sirius Black, my godfather, tries to take me away, somewhere I'll be safe and loved, but is rebuffed and watches helplessly as I'm carted off to the family of my mother's sister, who will spend the next years despising my existence. So, Sirius Black goes after the person actually responsible for my parents' death. He fails to kill Peter Pettigrew and Pettigrew blows apart a street to mask his getaway while Sirius Black is arrested for his crimes.

But the interesting part is that for some reason, there was a decision made that Sirius Black was too dangerous to warrant a trial despite him not being proven to be a Death Eater, bearing no Dark Mark, that his wand was snapped before it could be ascertained he'd actually done that spell that had supposedly killed Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles.

The irony that people who had killed dozens upon dozens of witches and wizards and muggles without care earned a trial and Sirius Black did not remains clear as day.

I am, of course, speaking of the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr, among the rest of their ilk.

Even if Sirius Black had killed Pettigrew and those poor muggles caught in the crossfire, he was still not treated as fairly as Voldemort's inner circle, and you have to wonder why that was.

But, then again, I also wonder how a large number of the proudly proclaimed Death Eaters escaped jail time by claiming the use of the Imperius Curse on them while also providing enough gold to bribe their way out of Azkaban.

It's no surprise that those members all happened to be of ancient families with a great deal of gold in hand.

Believe what you want, but if I chose to launch a lawsuit against the Daily Prophet for libel and defamation and I would win, so take that into consideration before you believe everything written about me, because I can assure you, I despise the attention and fame that death and tragedy has brought me.

So, I wouldn't worry about a girl speaking a long-dead language that you associate with the dark simply because the last fluent speaker was a Dark Lord. I'd worry about all the corruption your government likes to hide behind platitudes.

And Ginny couldn't help but shake her head fondly. It was so like Hope, so bitter and wrathful, and brutally honest, and then she was running off to show it to Ron and Hermione.


"Could you do me a favor?" Hope asked one night.

"Anything," Phogra said easily.

"I have a transfigured scar on my back…could you turn it back to what it was?" she asked, her words stilted. She hoped Sirius wouldn't be offended by that, since he was the one that had transfigured it in the first place, but…scars weren't an issue for Hope, using magic on her was.

Her shoulder warmed, pulsating under the skin before abruptly easing and Hope didn't need to look to see that it was gone.

"Anything else?" he asked and Hope offered her hands where the blood runes were carved into her skin. Those ones burned more, but Hope didn't show if it hurt. It had been years since her skin had been that smooth. And then her bad leg tingled and she looked at the shadow in surprise.

"That matron minimized your scarring," he grated out and Hope stared at him, unblinkingly. "I know you noticed."

"I did," Hope agreed, "I'd almost forgotten about it…but you remembered."

"I remember all the things that bring you discomfort," the shadow said simply, "even ones as miniscule as that."

Warmth bloomed in her chest. "You're working your way out of the hole you dug," was all she said.

"I'm more than willing to put the work in, especially when I know I'm in the wrong."

Hope rolled over in her bed, her back to him, but her smile stayed. "Goodnight, Phogra."

"Goodnight, sweetling."


"I need a man."

"What you need is someone to put up with you," Hope muttered, making notes in her notebook and frowning at her father's journal. She'd dug it out of her trunk, more to have something to do than anything else, but it was impossible. Either her father was brilliant or insane because it was impossible to navigate.

As it was, they were supposed to be studying for an exam in Complex Communications, but they were taking a small break. They were still in Thalatta, as Hope and Dean were still in the process of moving the last of their things to the new place. Marwan, at least, liked their new place, which he'd said in front of Dean, just to make him glower -Marwan had been delighted to discover that Dean didn't like him.

Marwan huffed but his kind eyes twinkled in a way Hope preferred over Dumbledore's any day. And it caused her less misery to be in the company of the one person she knew would make it out alive. "Know any hot Italian men?"

Hope snorted. "What happened to the first one? The one that captured your soul? Emilio, right?"

Marwan's eyes slid out of focus and he sighed. "Ah, Emilio…angels couldn't compare to Emilio…did I tell you that I wanted to marry him?"

Her pen stilled across paper and she looked up to arch an eyebrow. "What went wrong?"

Marwan's mouth thinned and Hope felt like she was stepping on an open wound. "My parents and I were in an accident, they were killed…and Emilio's parents thought I made him gay."

"Ooh," Hope winced. "That must've been awful."

Marwan hummed tiredly. "The next thing I knew, I was being sent back to Tunisia and I never saw Emilio again."

There really wasn't a way to break that awkward silence.

"So, are we ever going to meet your husband?" Marwan asked instead, the subject change so sudden that it gave Hope whiplash.

Hope gave a startled laugh. She hadn't told anyone at school about their split because there would've been too many questions; she'd only told Asti, really (and by extension, Asha, because those two couldn't keep secrets from each other for the life of them). "You wouldn't like him."

"What? Why? Don't tell me…he's English?" Marwan was immediately horrified and Hope laughed. Her accent more closely resembled

"With red-hair and freckles," her lips curved so fondly. Even though they weren't together right now, that didn't mean that Hope didn't love him or think he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. "The man is the sunset personified."

"Okay, that could be hot, I'll admit," Marwan conceded. "What does he think about Charlie Quinn chasing after you?"

Hope pursed her lips. "Charlie Quinn is just chasing a high," she said simply. "Besides, my husband may be a wizard, but he's a brilliant tinkerer and I never want for anything when he's there." It was the honest truth, but she couldn't help but think of the anger sparking when they'd had their fight.

Marwan didn't notice her smile falling, his eyes still closed. "Clearly, you've been taking the poetry to heart."

"Eh, he's into it," Hope shrugged, and Marwan positively howled, but they both stopped short at a sudden noise.

"What was that?" Marwan whispered. It was late and dark, and Dean had long-since gone to bed. "You've got barriers around this place, right?"

"Shut up!" Hope hissed. "Of course, I do!"

There was a shuffling noise and they both leapt to their feet. "There's a bat by the door," Hope muttered as Marwan looped an arm through hers, suddenly nervous.

It was short work to shuffle into the foyer to grab the bat and shuffle back towards the kitchen where the noise was strongest. Hope had the strongest nerves and shot around the corner, bat raised high and giving a mighty yell.

The other person gave a loud yelp, followed by an even louder "Hope, what the fuck!"

"Oops," Hope muttered as Dean came running at the noise, flicking on the light to see the comical scene of Fred on the ground with Hope holding her bat above him looking incredibly sheepish and Marwan behind her, absolutely befuddled.

"Wazzingon?" Dean asked, still a little asleep while Fred pulled himself upright.

"Your sister's psychotic is what's going on," he complained before jabbing a finger at her. "You know I'm here!"

"When are you lot here this late?" Hope demanded back, her free hand on her hip. "The last time someone snuck up on me in the dark, I got knocked out and Crouch was murdered!"

"How is that my fault?"

"I'm going to make George twin-less!"

"That doesn't make any sense!"

Marwan pointed at Fred. "He's not the husband, is he?"

"Don't be ridiculous," they scoffed as one.

"Oh, good," Marwan breathed out, "he looks way too young for you."

"Oi!" Fred said hotly. "Don't let that face fool you! She's just shy of fifteen!"

"You're what?!"

Hope scowled fiercely. "Real mature, Fred. You see, this is why George is my favorite."

"Baby, you know you're the only one for me," Fred crooned and Hope rolled her eyes. It didn't sound right coming from him. 'Baby' was Hope's word to George and George alone…and on very rare occasions, his for her. "Don't let Georgie come between true love."

Hope laughed.

"Back up, back up, you're only fourteen?" Marwan demanded, still stuck on that, because currently Hope certainly looked older that fourteen, so she could understand the confusion. And then she shifted her appearance to the one she'd been mostly sporting for the past year, dark hair, hazel eyes, with scars across her brow. "Wait…aren't you that famous girl, that witch from the UK?"

"Unfortunately," Hope said dryly, more impressed that people down here didn't seem to know more than 'famous witch from the UK' before turning her attention back on Fred. "Fred, what're you doing here? George was the only one that usually stayed this late."

"Probably because he gets distracted," Fred grumbled half-heartedly and Hope smirked privately. Startling him in the middle of potion-making had become a favorite pastime, and one time he'd almost screwed up a potion and had scowled at her in irritation, pinning her against the wall and pressed down hard on the scars on her thigh and had actually given her a sharp bite to her throat, heated eyes boring into hers.

("Don't do that again," he'd said firmly and Hope had swallowed thickly, trying to squirm, but he'd had her effectively pinned and it was so very hot.

"What if I like you like this?" Hope breathed, hooking her leg over his hip, which only made him press down harder and Hope had had to stifle a moan. He knew all her weak spots and he wasn't afraid to exploit them, ruthlessly.

"I know you do." He tongued the line at her throat and Hope choked. "But you'll like me better when I'm not fixing a potion you screwed up by distracting me."

His grip was like iron and if there was one thing George didn't mess around with, it was potions. "Promise?" Hope asked, eyes gleaming.)

"I like it when he's distracted," Hope said and Fred rolled his eyes. "Where's he hiding the ring?" she asked, just to see if he'd say. She knew George had one and not being together currently didn't stop her from wanting to be with him.

Fred scoffed. "Nice try. I'm not telling you."

"You suck," Hope decided, "this is why I'm marrying your brother, not you."

Dean gave an audible groan and declared "I'm going back to bed," and stomped up the stairs to slam the door behind him.

"Fred Weasley," Fred extended a hand to Marwan, "I'm her future brother-in-law."

"One of five," Hope rolled her eyes. "Four, if I don't murder Charlie."

Fred grinned.

"Marwan Abdullah," Marwan shook his hand once, regaining his wits and calming down a bit.

"You're not related to someone named Mahdi, are you?" Fred asked suddenly, eyeing him with consideration.

"Cousin," Marwan muttered uncomfortably. Not that he disliked Mahdi; Mahdi was a decent person, albeit one that liked to be right, but their sides of the family were estranged. Marwan hadn't even seen Mahdi since he was eighteen, a few weeks before his parents' accident.

Hope poked Fred in the chest with the bat. "And now you're going to go home and get some sleep, yes?"

Fred groaned, sagging his shoulders. "You're as bad as Mum!"

"I know for a fact I'm not," Hope snorted. "But speaking as someone who operates on very little sleep, trust me, you need it."

He conceded the point and held out a bit of parchment to her and Hope took it with an arched eyebrow. "You're almost out," he said as an explanation.

"You two are robbing me blind," Hope grumbled looking at the list and Fred darted forward to kiss her cheek lightly.

"You're my favorite," Fred promised.

"Don't tell George," Hope said absently. "He'll never recover."

And Fred laughed, giving her a small wave as he headed back up the stairs and disappeared.

"I see what you meant about sunset personified," Marwan muttered once he'd gone. "Damn."

Hope snorted, hiding how much it ached.


When Hope had done that spell last year, the Letum Ultima, she had gotten it to work. It had nearly killed her, but she'd gotten the result she wanted; two small metallic orbs that contained the destructive power to level a three story building.

In packing up her things, she made sure to take one with her; you never knew when you'd need something like that.


"You don't have to take my advice on this, but it might be helpful to get your mentor in your corner. Quinn knows a great deal about your situation and it might alleviate the pressure you're currently feeling to know that someone knows what you're going through."

Hope had to concede the point and it was getting kind of awkward now to be avoiding Quinn when she and Marwan used the shortcut past their office to one of their classes…retrospectively it was a bit like salt in the wound and Hope hadn't really intended that, it was just that they were both so distracted that they had a tendency to rush to be on time to their classes.

So here Hope was, pushing open Quinn's door cautiously to peer into their office. It was empty and Quinn hardly ever locked it, even when the day was done. Diane had lectured them about it before, but Quinn had just rolled their one good eye.

The drapes and crystals were how she remembered them and Hope twisted her fingers together uncomfortably, wondering if she should cut and run or wait however long it took for Quinn to finish their class.

Hope swallowed her roiling emotions, instead allowing herself to be distracted by the pictures in the frames on the wall that she'd never really looked at. They must've been students that Quinn had had before, but none of them looked all that familiar. There was one with Quinn and a few others that must've been from their school days, because Diane was in it -on the opposite side, which didn't seem right-, her face softer and hair that was tightly braided, a far cry from the baldness Hope knew too well.

But one picture made her heart rate tick up and up until it was racing in her chest. She pulled the picture frame off the wall and stared down at Quinn's careless grin, an arm around the shoulders of a young woman with long blonde hair and glittering eyes.

And Hope back slid hard.

–hard and pulsating against her chest, burning through her as it sank right though and lodged where it should've never been

–cold and pale eyes unfeeling above her

–she couldn't even scream!

–the hand on her pale with a black pattern against the skin, holding her down

–she was burning alive!

"Mari?" A hand reached out to touch Hope and she flinched back hard, losing her grip on the frame. The glass shattered when it impacted with the floor and Hope could barely look up from the broken pieces to meet Quinn's startled eye, their sunglasses removed and their hand still outstretched, concern vibrating through their whole body, but Hope couldn't deal with that.

She couldn't even fucking breathe.

"I've-I've got to—" and then she was lurching around them and out of the room to an even more concerned "Mari!" called after her, but she didn't stop running until she was banging on Bigby's door.

Bigby's surprise was palpable as Hope went past her to huddle into a corner, braced between a wall and a cupboard, wanting to be where no one could see her.

"Hello, Quinn," Bigby said loudly over Hope's tense breathing, clutching her chest as she tried to regulate it, and that made her tense all over again. "What can I do for you?"

"Can I just—"

"No," Bigby said flatly, like she'd never intended to give Quinn the time of day and Hope wanted to be that brusque in certain aspects of her life. "If she's here, then there's a reason for it. Let me do my job and don't pry." And then she slammed the door in Quinn's face, moving to where Hope was nestled.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked wryly and Hope swallowed thickly, nodding. Bigby sighed heavily, settling down on crossed legs, not close enough to touch but not far enough that it felt like she needed to shout to be heard. They'd discussed extensively how Hope didn't like loud and sharp noises or shouting. "All right, tell me what happened…but take your time. It's okay, you're okay, and I don't tell Quinn anything that goes on in here."

And Hope knew that, she did, but it helped to hear it again. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly and Hope counted in her head -like Jeanna, her old therapist had taught her to do, to focus on anything else- and the tightness in her chest eased.

"I was—" Hope swallowed again when her words broke before continuing in a voice even more brutally raw than usual, "I was going to talk to them, but…"

"But something went wrong," Bigby surmised. "Was it Quinn? Something they said?"

Hope shook her head quickly. Of course, it wasn't Quinn. Quinn was wonderful and they had been from the moment they'd met Hope. Quinn was everything that Hope would want in a mentor, and they were everything she would need in one too. "I hadn't even gotten to that part," she forced out, just slightly frustrated with her inability to articulate what had just happened. "It's just-there was a picture."

"A picture?" Bigby asked, honestly surprised. "Quinn's got a lot of those in their office. Most of them are old students…did you recognize one?"

"You know, the memories I had when I was a baby were, um, suppressed." Hope had told her that before and Bigby watched her as she rubbed at the back of her head where she'd once said a god had pulled it out without any regard to her pain.

"I do," Bigby said carefully.

"And we've talked about the, um, forced magical implantation," the words were said a bit stilted, like it was something that she had to repeat over and over again, like she was trying to keep herself from saying something else, and Bigby knew exactly what that terrible word was. "But, that happened when I was a baby, and it-it always felt like it had happened to someone else, you know? I couldn't remember it, so why get upset about? It was just something in a long line of things that were unfortunate to happen to me, you know?"

Bigby nodded carefully. "But that's not the case anymore, is it?"

A sob rose up in Hope's throat and she had to squelch it because if she started crying she'd never stop, and this was important.

There was the weight of a hand on her shoulder and Hope reached back clinging to the shadowy hand that could barely be seen. "When it happened," she said thickly, "I wasn't in control of my body, I'd—" She glanced suddenly back to Phogra. They were on much better speaking terms now, considering where they'd started, but he'd put the work in…but was it wise to tell Bigby about everything that happened that day?

"I'm not going to tell them, anything you tell me is between us," Bigby promised.

"I'd just been killed," Hope sighed heavily. "She'd crushed my heart in my chest -I,uh, have this ability to survive murder—" She told Bigby, who barely blinked. "—so, I wasn't really in control, Phogra was, and he's the one that pulled the memory patch out of my head, but then I was really not doing well because—"

"Possession Sickness," Bigby realized. "Damn."

"Yeah, and Nath took me to the Underworld, he said I was down for about a week, but I never told him about any of my dreams when I was down there, no, they weren't dreams," Hope corrected herself. "They were memories, suppressed ones…but I was like an outside perspective, you know? I was watching it happen, but I wasn't experiencing it."

Bigby didn't speak and Hope tightened her arms around herself.

"I knew what she looked like -blonde, blue eyes- I just figured that, you know, she was a witch, because she'd said something about my mother. I-I wasn't expecting to see her in Quinn's office and I just—"

"You were triggered," Bigby gave the word for it. "And it wasn't the outsider perspective anymore, was it?"

Hope shook her head, wiping at her cheeks. "And I know it's stupid because it was just magic but she was holding me down and I couldn't even scream when she shoved this thing inside me—"

"—it felt like rape," Bigby told her and Hope flinched. "What you're feeling, it's not stupid, it's very understandable. Your body was violated against your consent. That is rape. And if anyone tests magic on people that is outside mild pranking, if they do it intentionally, against their will, knowing that it will hurt, that it will change them, that is rape. This is a good school but it doesn't always have good students and I've had a lot of students in your position, telling me that they know it's not the same…but it is…and it's important that you know that. I want you to say it out loud."

Hope didn't really want to do that, she wanted to go and smoke her way through a whole pack of Nath's cigarettes. She wanted the strongest drink that Asti could make her. She wanted to ignore the world. The realization was the thing that hurt the most.

"You should've been rendered mute long ago."

Snape had said that to her once, when she was eleven and in detention. She'd been incensed at the time, but now she was just furious. Because she'd been silenced before, an adult had done that to a kid before, a lot of adults had done that to her, perhaps not effectively as the woman, but Hope had been silenced.

And Hope was done with being quiet.

"Forced magical implantation is rape," Hope said thickly.


"What picture did she break?"

Quinn glanced at Bigby over a mug of straight black coffee and Quinn didn't even like. Bigby took a drag of her cigarette. "The one with Victoria."

Bigby's mouth twisted into something Quinn couldn't describe. "Did she—"

"You know I can't talk about what she said," Bigby said sharply, blowing out smoke. "I can say that she was going to talk to you about what's been going on with her…but I think it would be wise if you gave her space. She's reopened old wounds she didn't even know she had and being around you has already caused one breakdown, let's not cause anymore."

Quinn flinched hard, drowning their thoughts in too-bitter coffee.


"Is it George-related?" Dean asked her when he saw her curled up in the dark.

"No," Hope muffled into the pillow.

"Okay…do you want to talk about it?" Dean knew she'd say no, but he figured he'd ask.

She didn't say anything for the longest time, so long that Dean thought she'd forgotten that he'd asked anything. "It's kinda fucked up," she said quietly. "It's a fucked up thing that happened to me."

There was nothing but ice carving down his spine. "I'll listen," Dean promised.

"I just, I wanted to be able to deal with it on my own and—"

"Marina," Dean said patiently. "Standing between you and everyone that's ever hurt you is exactly where I want to be."

And then she told him, everything she'd been keeping to herself, the reason why she and George had that fight (Dean found that he was actually on George's side this time, but he wasn't going to tell her that), everything with Phogra (he was still mouthing the name wordlessly while the shadow under her rippled in annoyance), her death and resurrection, and what had been done to her as a child that was the reason her magic was so messed up, the thing that she'd glossed over so much before.

Dean wasn't like Hope, he wasn't strong or enduring, but she was being vulnerable so he had to be. He took her into his arms, kissing the top of her head, rocking her like his mum had always done when he was a kid who'd thought his other mother didn't love him.

"Thank you for telling me," he said when her breathing had calmed, wishing that he'd never been jealous that she'd told Ron and Hermione or George even a fraction of what she'd told him, "that was really brave."

"Don't feel brave," she muttered, rubbing at her face.

"Well, you are, trust me on that."

She hiccupped a laugh and Dean thought it was well worth the effort.


"Okay, what about a spell to cleanse negative energy from the campus?"

Charlie was at his wit's end with Mayakovsky's damn project. It was supposed to be application of magic in a way that hadn't been done before. Which was honestly a lot to ask for some first years, if you asked Charlie.

"Get real," Marina huffed, she'd been in a mood for the past few weeks, "once you add in all the suicides at Woof Fountain, the murders in the West Dorm—"

"There's no West Dorm," Charlie retorted. "You're losing it."

"That's because its buried, numb-nuts," Marina rolled her eyes, "apparently having a haunted dorm was bad form in the '40s instead of now when they put it on the goddamn brochure."

Charlie thought it was best not to ask how she knew that; Marina was known for getting a lot of her information directly from the Dean.

"My point is," she added, "that there's too much negative energy to wipe clean. We'd both Niffin-out."

Charlie deflating, leaning back against the couch amongst a clutter of balled papers. "Okay, point."

Marina stared at the ceiling. "Okay, I've got a new one."

"Better than the last one?"

She punched his arm and he muffled a complaint. "Okay, so magicians aren't necessarily human, right? I mean Bigby's a pixie, Quinn's a traveler which are supposed to be a mix of human and something else, right?"

"Right," Charlie agreed.

"So, what about magicians that don't know if they're human or not? Like an orphaned magician would have no way of knowing if they're human or not, not if they appear to be human. So, what if we made a spell that could tell you your roots, humanity or otherwise?"

"Is it that important?" Charlie asked vaguely before looking at Marina, startled by the look on her face. For a moment he wondered if she wasn't nearly as human as she seemed, with those unnerving dark eyes that seemed to stare right through you and into your soul. "I-I mean, that sounds like a good idea, that could have a lot of applications."

Marina nodded and started to scrawl some possible equations.


There was a telephone in the library Hermione went to, but she had her own and since the Order had stopped following her to make sure she wasn't meeting Hope, she had no problem using it to call Hope just outside it, sitting on the bench, keeping a hand on several heavy books on her lap.

"Your article is going nuclear," she said quietly, so as not to disturb anyone that was entering or leaving the library. She was used to speaking in a low voice on the phone by now, though, because of the number of times she'd used it in the bathroom in the dead of night after a nightmare. "Sirius is preening, but there are some people who think it was…"

"Childish?" Hope offered on the other end, sitting on a bench under and elder tree, shaded from the sun, which did nothing for the humidity. "Like throwing a tantrum?"

Hermione winced. Ron hadn't been impressed by that line of thought, but he'd held his tongue, his eyes far too calculating, which was a very attractive look, Hermione had to admit. "Yeah, like that."

"Tou anthrópou," Hope huffed in annoyance, using one of the Greek phrases Nath was known to spout. Humans. "I thought it was pretty eloquent, for me. Poetry's not really my thing."

Hermione bit back a smile, knowing full well that she was taking a subject on it and excelling.

"Shut up," Hope muttered, looking out on the courtyard where students were practicing magic in the sunlight, laughing, enjoying themselves in a way Hope never had at Hogwarts. She soaked it in, breathing out easily. She was feeling better since her breakdown and subsequent therapy session, but the discomfort she'd always felt under her skin remained; she just knew what and who was the cause now. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Hermione said quickly before sighing in the doubtful silence, "it's just my parents."

"Still hating me?" Hope asked conversationally. If she got offended every time an adult didn't like her, she'd have no willpower to speak of.

"They just don't understand," Hermione took great pains to quiet her explosion, "magic, I mean…they don't understand what it is to me…they were talking about university, about me going to a 'real' school after this 'Hogwarts nonsense'."

Hope paused. "Ah," she said slowly. "That didn't go over well, I'm guessing."

Hermione wiped at her eyes. "I feel like I'm stuffed in a cage and I don't know what to do."

"I know the feeling," Hope hummed sadly, "Hermione—"

"MARINA, GET OVER HERE!" the sudden bellow startled Hope and she nearly dropped the phone "Ho-ly Hades, call you later!"

"Ok—"

Hope had already shut the phone, stuffing it back into her pocket, jogging over to Noriko who was standing with Chiara, both trying to calm down Emily, who was close to wailing. "What happened?" Hope asked startled.

"He-he broke up with me!" Emily sobbed.

Noriko twitched in annoyance. "Emily was sleeping with Mayakovsky."

Hope wrinkled her nose. "Okay, first of all why? He's so old! Second of all, he's a teacher, Emily!"

"I know!" Emily wailed into her hands and Chiara gave Hope a look that reminded Hope so viscerally of Hermione.

"Sweetheart," Chiara said gently, kind where Noriko was crass, "Mayakovsky's with Lipson, you had to know it wasn't going to end well."

Hope winced. She actually liked Lipson, though her taste in men was clearly questionable.

"B-but I just I-I love him so m-much!" Emily sobbed harder and Hope, who had never been faced with a situation like this, looked at her helplessly.

Hope knew all about loving someone too much, but George was like the sunset, constant even when not seen, and no less beautiful when she'd been deprived of it.

Noriko, ever-helpful, held out a flask that had been tucked into her pocket out to Emily and she swallowed the alcohol and coughed and choked.

"Ice cream and booze," Chiara decided, taking one of Emily's hands and looping through Hope's crooked arm, dragging her with them.

Hope allowed herself a faint smile, calling Dean to say she'd be a little late for dinner.


She didn't know where it had come from, and she'd only just found it when she was cleaning out her room, emptying her trunk of all the stuff she didn't need anymore, but it made her stomach twist in on itself.

It was folded into a paper airplane, but Hope didn't recognize it. It was the kind of thing that George would've done, enchanting a paper airplane to reach her, the contents a love letter.

But this wasn't from George.

Hope opened it and stared at the words: Will you play with me?

They were written in rich red and Hope swallowed thickly. It was probably a prank…but what if it wasn't?

"Hope!" Dean's voice startled her. "Dinner's ready! You coming?"

Hope shoved the paper airplane under her bed, calmed her heart, and shouted back "Coming!"

It was probably nothing, she assured herself.

But it still felt like an empty promise.


Hope opened her eyes and she wasn't where she'd started. This wasn't a nightmare, Hope knew nightmares, and they were more often plagued with the Blood-Soaked Tree. The Tree wasn't there now…Hope didn't really know where she was. She'd fallen asleep on the couch in the sitting room of the new place, her book open on her chest and then next thing she knew…she was here, wherever here was.

She turned around. There was a fireplace with snow raining down rather than fire flowing up. The picture on the wall was of someone's back rather than their front…and everything was black and white.

"The Mirror Realm," Hope murmured to herself, looking around in apprehension, her voice echoing eerily in the silence.

Quinn had told her all about it, how dangerous it was. It was another of the reasons that they'd placed that grounding sigil on her arm. Sure, it wasn't a good thing to accidentally find yourself in the presence of the Dark Lord who wanted you dead because you dreamed about him, but there were worse things, Quinn had assured Hope.

"We live in a world that is one world among many. Monsters from other worlds are just as bad as monsters from this one. Now, to end up in the Mirror Realm would be infinitely worse. Everything is backwards and upside down and if you're not careful, your magic can kill you."

Hope swallowed thickly, steeling herself and stepping forward. The whole place made her uneasy. Like someone had turned her blood to ice in her veins, like she'd stepped off a haunted garden path, like she was somewhere she knew she shouldn't be.

She continued to walk, because being scared had never stopped her before so she wasn't about to let it start now.

It was a library, she realized as she continued, but not like any she'd ever seen before. And the whole patches of random snow that never stopped in certain areas was…weird. Her feet brushed against something hidden under the snow and Hope knelt down to brush the snow off the book. "A Complete Compilation of Greco-Roman Deities and Spirits," she read out loud before the book flipped open immediately to the E section.

Erebus was a primordial god, one of the first beings to emerge from the void that was Chaos, at the beginning. He was the god of darkness and the consort of Nyx, goddess of night. His dark mists encircled the world and filled the deep hollows of the earth. The ancient cosmogonies, the heavenly ether, and the dark mists of the netherworld were regarded as the sources of day and light rather than the sun. Erebus is also a name for a realm of darkness between Earth and Hades where the dead pass immediately after dying.

Hope closed the book quickly, pressing a hand to her brow, a headache brewing underneath. She'd thought the place was familiar…in a way that she couldn't quite name. Like after the accident, when she'd felt like she'd been floating in nothingness and a hold hand had gripped her tight, pulling her back; the next thing she'd known, she was breathing again on the hard ground wet with her blood spilled around her.

She shook her head, trying to focus and stood, taking a few more steps forward, but she definitely jumped a foot when another book fell out to land open at her feet. It was like the universe was screaming at her to pay attention. "Motherfuck—" she hissed under her breath, pressing a hand to her chest.

She knelt down to grab it, checking the title. "The Bestiary…hm." She looked back to the page that was open.

Banshee, also known as bean sidhe, is a supernatural being in Irish and other Celtic folklore whose mournful "keening,", wailing, screaming or lamentation at night was believed to foretell death. In Ireland, banshees were believed to warn only families of pure Irish descent. The Welsh counterpart, the gwrach y Rhibyn ("witch of Rhibyn"), visited only families of old Welsh stock. The banshee's ability to predict death is so precise they can know a death date down to the minute. This has brought on the misconception that banshee are the cause of death rather than its harbinger. To know and be unable to change death is what has led to such short life spans within the species. Although the banshee is associated with screaming, they do not need to, even when sensing death is near. The scream is little more than an absolute defense to a being so hated and feared, it can shatter stone, rip apart walls, and reduce a living, breathing being to ash.

Hope shut the book quickly, looking for where it was supposed to go, but there was no shelf.

"What the fuck?" Hope muttered, looking up, but the ceiling was too high up to see. "This place is too fucking trippy, holy—"

The wind whispered and Hope could've sworn she heard someone say in a ghostly voice "Mareeeeeenahhhhh."

Hope made a squeak-like sound, clenching the books to her chest like a shield, nearly running to the door at the end of the hall and rushing through it to brace herself against the door as it shut.

"I am never watching another horror movie with Dean ever again," Hope vowed, looking around the new room. She was still in the library, there were enough bookshelves, but this room was different. It was open, but where there was no top, it wasn't the sky she saw above. It was almost like looking up from the bottom of the ocean to the surface of it.

The wood floor was rotting through and there were statues, some Greek, some not, in a solid circle, the marble or whatever they were made of partially eroded.

"Wonder if Quinn's ever been to this place," Hope muttered to herself, more to break the silence than anything else. "Because I don't think the Blood-Soaked Tree ever creeped me out this much…"

The floor creaked under her feet and Hope paused, eyes fixing on one shelf. "Hang on…what?"

There was a book with the title 'James Potter'…and then one before it with the name 'Charlus Potter'. She knew her grandfather's name, and his book was much thicker than his son's. She brushed her fingers along her father's name. "Dad," she whispered.

"It must be quite aggravating, not knowing anything about them, being spoon-fed singular traits like that's all they were, smart, or cruel, at a single point in their lives."

Hope gritted her teeth together. Selenar was getting in her head and she wasn't even here…and the worst part was that she'd been absolutely sincere.

She picked up the book, adding it to the growing pile in her arms, looking at the other names down the line. Theia Blackwood, Merope Gaunt, Morfin Gaunt, Fleamont Potter, Henry Potter, Polymene Blackwood, Peleus Blackwood, Vivienne Peverell—

Hope stopped at that name. Peverell…Marina H. Peverell. Did that make every person in that line of books someone she was related to? Hope frowned deeply, continuing.

Iolanthe Peverell, Percevel Peverell, Achilles Blackwood, Antigone Peverell, Europa Peverell, Ignatia Peverell, Adelaide Peverell—

Hope paused again. Adelaide. Nath's Adel…could it really be that simple? She'd known they were related, but she hadn't thought that Adel was a part of her family as well…Adel who was identical to Lily Potter for reasons no one could explain.

She leaned back and sighed heavily. Everyone liked to get on her about secrets, but what about the rest of them? Dumbledore was always hiding something, only telling her what he thought she needed to know…Quinn and Diane certainly had their share of secrets.

For once Hope wanted to be the one that knew everything while everyone else floundered. That would be a nice turn, wouldn't it?

There was a humming in her ears like when someone was about to die, but it was different. There was no one here but Hope to die, and Hope wasn't to die yet. She blinked and suddenly she'd changed places and she was standing before a door.

It didn't seem like much, just an ordinary door, but it gave her such an unnatural albeit familiar feeling, like she was approaching a dangerous place, but one that she'd been to before.

But Hope hadn't let that stop her yet. She opened the door wide and stared.

It was the Brakebills lab, for some odd reason, but empty and with something large hidden under a sheet in the center.

Hope dropped her books onto a nearby table, approaching the sheet in a way that was almost magnetic. She gripped it tight and pulled it down. White fabric pooled at her feet to reveal what could've been a mirror…but wasn't.

It reflected nothing and at the center, floating in nothingness was what could only be described as a rip of blackness, fluctuating and shifting. She couldn't quite describe how it felt looking at it…it was like she knew it, or it knew her. She tilted her head, reaching a hand out to touch it.

"You shouldn't be here, daughter of ravens."

Hope's eyes shot open and she threw herself up into a sitting position, heart beating erratically in her chest, but the room was dark and she was alone.

And there were three books that had tumbled to the ground that hadn't been there before.


"Marwan!"

Hope waved him down between Beginning Conjuration and Complex Communications where he was gleefully watching Marik trounce Samuel in chess.

"Mari!" Marwan beamed at her and a glance at the papers spread out on the table clearly showed that he and his partners for Mayakovsky's project were taking a break from their hard work. "What's up?"

"You're obsessed with magical libraries, right?" Hope asked without preamble. "Do you know anything about a library in the Mirror Realm?"

Marwan was briefly surprised. "The Mirror Realm?" he asked, suddenly intrigued and both Samuel and Marik looked up as well. "You found the Library of the Neitherlands?"

"Mirror Realm not, uh, whatever that was," Hope muttered waving a hand. "I'm not sure what the Neitherlands is."

Samuel scrutinized her intently behind thick glasses. "Isn't Professor Adiyodi your mentor?"

Hope shifted uncomfortably and glowered. "My mentor put a grounding sigil on me when I was thirteen so I wouldn't accidentally teleport to dangerous places," she said pointedly.

"Touché," Samuel gave a conceding mutter.

"The Neitherlands is supposedly a world between worlds," Marik informed her helpfully. "It has all these fountains that are portals to other worlds and the Library used to be located there, like, centuries upon centuries ago."

"The Library?" Hope inquired.

"Capital T, capital L," Marwan agreed, as Marik took Samuel's knight when he wasn't looking, "it's supposed to be this multi-versal archive that contains all knowledge in the multiverse. There are books there about magic that no one studies anymore, books about entire lives. Supposedly travelers founded it and filled it with knowledge from across the universe. But it was moved and humans haven't been allowed access to the Library in ages."

"Why?" Hope frowned.

"I'm guessing we fucked up, or something like that." Marik shrugged helpfully. "It's probably the same reason that only so many gods answer pleas these days."

"Maybe why we get magic brownouts too," Marwan added contemplatively.

Hope thought it was a bit ridiculous that wand-magic didn't stutter but magician magic did…but wand-magic rarely had consequences, it was like it skipped right over it. Like someone had designed it that way…

She wondered if Henry was actually right and magic was actually drawn from a wellspring. Maybe they'd overdrawn the well water. Her eyes flicked over to a few illusion students, practicing in the quad, cursing when their spells faltered and loud voice blared "Magic Brownout! Cease Spellwork!"

There was a little magic available during the brownouts but not nearly enough to manage most spells, and Hope enjoyed it immensely; every once in a while, everyone else was about as powerful with their magic as Hope was. It was gratifying.

"Maybe," she murmured more to herself, "thanks Marwan."

"Hey!" Marik complained as she walked away, laughing. "What're Samuel and I? Chopped liver?"


George had been limiting his time in Thalatta, even though Fred had told him that he'd literally had a very mature conversation with Hope about how she wanted him to keep working -they had the shop to think about after this year- and that her having issues shouldn't stop him from working towards his dreams, he just didn't want to make things awkward or uncomfortable.

(The idea of running into Dean, who had a glare to curdle milk -not as terrifying as Hope's, but certainly as threatening- and was undoubtedly planning some cruel retribution for breaking his sister's heart, had made George leery)

But eventually, he found himself back there and he found himself standing in her kitchen and seeing no hint of the girl that lived there. There was no ever-present baklava settled on the counter because Hope was incapable of studying without a plate sitting next to her…next to the bowl of pomegranate seeds that she would inevitably knock over -which had happened three times at least and walking in on Hope apologizing to the fallen seeds while glowering at him when he laughed had always made his day-, there were no dishes waiting to be put away, or spare sketchbooks and or forgotten notebooks covered in equations…

Flags were waving but George wasn't sure if they were red yet.

"Hope?" he called cautiously. "Dean?"

The silence was oppressive and he dashed back up the stairs. Dean's room was impossibly clean, but he'd never actually been inside it, just to know which room it was, but Hope's, he knew that one well. He threw open the door to stare.

The bed was made, the desk was absent of clutter, the pictures of her and Dean, and the one of them together were gone. In fact, there was no hint of her in any corner of the room.

There was just a letter taped to her mirror in her slanted script: George. It was thick when George pulled it off, breaking the seal and sitting on the bed he'd once fallen asleep next to her in. The envelope held a small journal with a note taped to the front. Read me, it said, but only when you're ready.

George was man enough to admit he wasn't.

"I'm sorry," Fred said later, long after he'd returned to Grimmauld Place, much quieter than when he'd left. "She didn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"Me?" George choked a little. "I don't care about—"

"Yeah, she knows that," Fred snorted. "She and Dean got a flat closer to the school. Apparently, Dean's not interested in the place's style, but she really likes it."

If George was annoyed that Fred seemed to be in the know with his (ex-)girlfriend, he gave no indication, but Fred and Hope were beings of chaos who existed on a wavelength George thought it was best to stay away from; it would only result in dead bodies, he was certain.

"How was she?" he asked instead.

"You know, tired, like usual, but…lighter. She said she was going to therapy and that it was helping." Fred shrugged carefully.

George tucked her journal deeper into his pocket. "Good," he said thickly, "that's good."

"You know, I was looking for spine of lionfish the last time I was there and you'd moved so much shit around that instead of finding it I found unicorn blood—"

"Okay, first of all, I move things around so that they're easier to reach," George started before pausing, "wait, unicorn blood?"

"I dunno how to tell you this, but your girl is into a bunch of shady stuff," Fred snorted. "I found unicorn blood, powdered cerastes horn, phoenix tears, caladrius ashes, basilisk venom, gorgon blood—"

"Where does she find this stuff?" George asked, more impressed that she had it than the fact that it usually wasn't used for very good things.

"—and then I asked her that, and you know what she says? 'Wouldn't you like to know, wizard-boy?'!"

George allowed himself a snort.

"What does that even mean?" Fred demanded, aggrieved.


They'd only just completed their project, with about a few hours to spare, which both Hope and Charlie exalted to the gods, because it was a tough project and they'd put a lot of work into it. They weren't totally sure if it worked, though, but it could at least tell that Charlie was 100% human, so there was that.

The heavy parchment had runes running in a heavy circle and it had been an absolute bitch to enchant. So, it would be staying with Hope until their presentation tomorrow…mostly because Hope didn't trust that Charlie wouldn't lose it in his room at the Physical Kid's Cottage, which he didn't appreciate, but still acquiesced.

She waved him out the door, knowing it would be minutes before Charlie Quinn's name would have to be crossed off her growing lengthy list of those to die. One today, thirty-one tomorrow. Somehow Hope doubted that those two events weren't connected, but she tried not to think about it.

It hurt to think about it.

She'd tried so hard not to get too friendly, to stay apart; it was hard to be hurt by death when you didn't know the person well. But now she knew that Charlie would make glass horses for his little sister, that Emily's favorite color was green for irony's sake, that Samuel was terrible at chess and Marik good, that Marwan was an artist, that Noriko had absolutely no filter, and that Chiara filtered too much.

It was going to hurt so much more that Cedric's death had, somehow Hope knew.

But Hope was accustomed to pain.

She sighed heavily, looking over to where Dean had fallen asleep on the couch, his sketchbook open on his lap, his brow still creased in annoyance. He and Seamus had been going back and forth, picking fights with their words. Hope had never had a full-on fight with Hermione or Ron, so she didn't know what that was like, but it wasn't hard to figure out what it was about.

Seamus' mother believed the Daily Prophet, Seamus didn't know what to believe, and Dean trusted Hope wholeheartedly and without reservation.

Hope had told him he left his heart too open. Dean had told her to fuck off.

She took the pencil and the sketchbook gently from his grasp and pulled a light blanket over him, looking at the page he'd been working on.

It was Hope and Charlie. Well, Marina and Charlie, she surmised. And the more she heard the name, the less she enjoyed 'Hope'. He'd gotten her determined scowl right and Charlie's habit of fiddling with his pen when he talked.

She tore a blank paper out of the back, scrawling 'Go see Seamus' on it in and placing her phone on top of it for him to call Quinn for a ride to Ireland.

Dean didn't so much as stir and Hope smiled fondly, dropping a kiss to the top of his head like Nath often did to her. Then she slumped down to kneel before her and Charlie's parchment and press her palm to the center of the runic circle.

It glowed red under her hand, the runes moving in a solid circle before new words and percentages formed on the space to the right that had previously read 'Human -100%'.

But Hope's read different.

'Human -4%'

'God -38%'

'Banshee -50%'

'Other -8%'

She frowned at it. The banshee she'd come to understand; no wonder Selenar had laughed about calling her 'Bean'. And with all the death predictions, how could she not be…but Hope also remembered the banshee boggart Seamus had had back in third year, and she looked nothing like that…but that was a problem for another day.

The god part she understood, too.

But the 'other' part made her pause.

"What d'you think?" she murmured to her shadow. He tended to wait until she started the conversation.

"Other implies something that your spell doesn't factor in," Phogra replied.

"The spell factors in everything," Hope snorted.

"Then it is something older and unnamed," he said.

Hope frowned deeply. "What's older than a god?" Surely there was nothing, right? Gods came first, then they made everything else.

"You'd be surprised," Phogra said cryptically, but refused to elaborate. Hope's eyes flicked towards the numbers. The number next to 'Human' dropped by one and the one next to 'God' increased by the same amount.

Talk about having an identity crisis.

What exactly were James and Lily Potter?


Emily Greenstreet's face was twisted grotesquely and Charlie Quinn burned with blue fire that consumed him until there was nothing left.

Emily barely felt it when someone coaxed her down from standing on the edge of the Van Pelt fountain, ready to dive, ready to die, taking her away, all the way to the infirmary with stony-faced Lipson.

Emily felt so ashamed, but Lipson didn't say anything about how Mayakovsky had cheated on her with Emily, even though she was certain she knew, Lipson just spoke quietly to the person that had brought Emily in.

She blinked her only good eye now to see Marina's thick curls, speaking seriously with her and with the Dean. And then she was gone and Emily still wished for death.


The buzzing in Hope's ears was so strong when she set her books down on the table, keeping her bag strung across her shoulders. She'd left their project at home; there was no need to bring it with her. She strained to keep her hands from shaking, giving a tired smile to Noriko as though she didn't know what was coming, as though she didn't know what had happened.

Mayakovsky rarely made it to class on time, but all the students were there, just waiting for class to start.

All the students sans Charlie and Emily and Marwan. Marwan's grandmother had passed away rather suddenly and he'd left for Tunisia two days before and wouldn't be back for another three and Hope had never been so relieved, even knowing he wasn't on her list. But Hope knew exactly why Charlie and Emily weren't there.

"Where's your partner?" Samuel asked and Hope opened her mouth to speak, not really sure what to say, when a spray of crimson flashed through the air, and, as if frozen, everyone turned to stare in horror from Hope, gagging on blood, clutching at her throat that was pouring and pouring bright red, to Charlie, glowing with violent blue magic, a malevolent smirk on his lips.

Hope fell back, her vision going fuzzy, feeling like lead was weighing her down, like she couldn't catch her breath. The world was fading away, so Hope closed her eyes, went still, losing track of the pandemonium.

The buzzing deafened her until the blackness overtook her.


Hope awoke a short moment later, throat on fire as skin and tissue stitched itself back together, gasping and wheezing like she'd inhaled coarse smoke, to Noriko screaming before a hole was blasted through her chest and Hope was stumbling upright amongst the blood, amongst the corpses.

The Niffin looked at her with bared teeth, blood splashed across cheeks and hands. "Still alive? We'll fix that."

Her neck gave a sickening twist and Hope lost the plot after that.

When she awoke again, her neck was aching where it realigned, and she was dangling in the air with a hand around her throat, not choking her, just holding her there.

"What are you?" the Niffin mused, considering her amongst the carnage and blood. Hope grasped at his hand, trying to loosen it, fear sharpening her mind like a knife. Niffins were dangerous and powerful and no one had killed them before but all Hope wanted to do was get away. Voldemort had been a man, more powerful than she, but this was a malevolent being of pure magic who had just killed her entire class. "You smell…" He inhaled sharply. "…positively ancient. A relic of a bygone era…tell me, how many times must I kill you for you to stay dead, Child of Ravens?"

Hope thought of Morrigan's dark eyes and her lips thinned into a hard line, and the feathers of her cloak. She thought of how George's smile lit up his whole face. She thought of Ron's calculating eyes and Hermione's twitching muscle in her jaw. But most of all, she thought of Dean's comfortable presence beside her.

She'd stopped being afraid of death at least three deaths before. And she was the queen of getting in the last word.

"At least once more," she bared her teeth and then opened her mouth and did the thing she knew never to do; she screamed.

The hand released her and there was a painful slice across her chest, but Hope didn't stop. Her scream cracked the floor, blew out the windows and absolutely shattered the Niffin.

She didn't even see the shadow hanging over her, of a tree with a thick trunk and winding roots and twisted branches, she didn't see the blood staining the bark, and she certainly didn't see the gaping hole in the trunk opening up to pull her through.


AN: And we've reached the end of part one! This was a true labor of love for about eight months, holy shit. There were so many heavy topics that I didn't think we were going to touch on, even when they'd been referenced before, but here we are.

Ron's Seeing ability is going to come up more, as will 'the Fox' that Perenelle referenced, Marwan is going to be a very important character, and if I screwed up any Greek or Arabic translations, I apologize, I'm using WordHippo.

For someone so afraid of change, she's going to be going through a lot of it in the upcoming book.

There's a lot of interesting stuff coming up, I promise.