Chapter 53: Just Like Fire

Fred and George clinked glasses, draining them in a celebratory toast.

They had just finished one of their greatest inventions to date. Then, not twelve minutes later, their dad's head appeared in the fireplace and said the Ministry wanted to buy the rights to their invention for an astronomical sum. The twins responded they would need at least five minutes to think about it.

"Whatdya think, Fred?"

"Well, George, I think we're about to start an international joke shop franchise and turn Zonko's into a sad little dot on the map."

"That was easy. Let's let dad know after we've let the bigwigs stew for a few minutes."

As they dreamed of how they were going to design their joke shop in Brazil, a package arrived by owl and landed on their work table. Fred opened it.

A few minutes later, holding the bound sheaf of papers in their hands, Fred and George were completely speechless for the first time in their lives.

"So. This changes things," said Fred.

"Just like a falling off a broomstick changes your spine," said George.

Fred had nothing to say to that.

"I'm not doubting our abilities," said George. "But this is a pretty big trick, even by our standards."

"We don't really have a choice," said Fred. "Events have already been set in motion, and we can't stop it. We can't save everyone, but going off script would make things worse—"

"I know!" shouted George.

It was even rarer that they snapped at each other.

After a look of regret, George said, "Remember when we swung the sword of Gryffindor at the troll? That's what I wish we could do now."

"Me too," said Fred. "But there are a lot of people who can swing swords. We're the only ones who can do this."

George nodded, resigning himself. "What do we tell dad? We can't give the Ministry what they want."

"No, but we can give them something similar. A restricted version." Fred frowned. "We won't accept payment."

George grabbed a metal tray from a box, setting it on the table. "Do we already have all the supplies we need?"

"I think so." Fred set the papers on the tray. "Do you have everything memorized?"

"I do, but it's a lot to prepare. I hope we have enough time."

"Me too, brother."

Using the tinderbox their dad had gifted them with last year, the twins struck a match. They set the tip to the papers, stepped back and watched them burn.


As she headed for the Hogwarts train, Lavender reflected on her harrowing year, her trunk floating behind her. While it seemed innocuous at the time, she could see the steps that led her down the horrid path to the worst mistake of her life: studying divination.

It was hard being a Gryffindor and being so painfully ordinary. She wasn't very brave or charismatic, at least not by Gryffindor standards. She wasn't funny, smart or pretty. Her friends liked her, but she was nobody's favourite, like a pair of shoes that didn't match most of your clothes. No, worse, she was that brown colour of shoes that people hated but decided to buy anyway, just because they matched everything. She was as plain as plain could be.

So, when Parvati suggested they take Divination, Lavender decided to give it a try. It only took one class for Lavender to fall, hook line and sinker. Peering into the future to read its signs was mysterious, fascinating, and even a little dangerous. Divination became Lavender and Parvati's thing, until finally it was her thing, what made her unique.

But then Lavender experienced a real prophecy, and it was nothing like she imagined. She blacked out at random moments like she was having a seizure, and came back with fractured memories that bled into her own. She had nightmares and saw faces of monsters, heard voices speaking in cryptic syllables, felt terrors brush past her mind like a portent of death.

The worst part was that Lavender actually felt like it was her mission to suffer this. She believed herself the lone oracle crying out against an apocalyptic future, and heeding her warnings would be the only way they could stop it. Luna was her companion for a while, but she never spoke out like Lavender did, never made it her calling.

But in the end, all her visions ever brought was pain. Depression, bullying, jeers from people who didn't understand. In the end, she couldn't even make sense of the prophecies, as they were so tangled in her mind that unravelling it was impossible. She felt like she was sinking into a waking nightmare, into a devil's snare that would swallow her whole.

One day, after she'd been hiding for hours from yet another bully, she completely broke down in McGonagall's office, begged her to Obliviate her. The headmistress said she would do what she could, tried to comfort her. McGonagall suggested she visit a healer, but all Lavender wanted was to see Trelawny.

Her mentor said nothing at first, just patted Lavender's back while she cried and apologized over and over. Dropping out of Divination class felt like losing a part of herself. When she was all cried out, and there was nothing more to say, the witch gave Lavender a potion and told her she wished her pleasant dreams for now and always.

The next morning, Lavender woke up without having a nightmare for the first time in months. Feeling lighter than air, she raced down to the Common Room, found Ron and hugged him so tight her arms ached. Then, she dyed her hair a normal colour, changed her robes, and locked those six months away in a box where they couldn't hurt her.

Giving up her gift wasn't very brave or very glamourous, but it was still the best decision she'd ever made. She felt newly minted, and she was proud because it was an identity she'd worked hard to create all on her own.

But that didn't mean all her demons were in her past.

As Lavender walked down the hall, her trunk snagged on the carpet. Lavender rolled her eyes at the ornery thing, and turned around the hex it into submission. But before she could, it flew into an empty classroom.

"What the—" she raced after it, then stopped short at the entrance. Standing in the empty room, tinted by the light of arched stained-glass windows, stood Romilda Vane. Dressed in a rumpled nightgown, her hair a static storm, she grinned madly like a character that had stepped out of a horror story and into Lavender's life.

Except it wasn't fear that came over Lavender at the sight of this girl, but rather scorn along with an eye roll. Romilda had been her friend once, but she became obsessed with gathering any and all prophecies for her 'project.' For a while, Lavender had been convinced that Romilda was her archnemesis, and in their delusion they'd taken things way too far. It got so bad that Lavender slept in the Beauxbatons dorms for a while, but Romilda continued to hound her even there.

In the end, Lavender realized Romilda was just another bully, but that didn't seem to matter to her nemesis. Some people just couldn't understand when to let things go.

"Romilda," said Lavender. "Enough. Give me back my trunk."

But the mad Gyriffindor just smirked, stalking closer as if trying to corner prey.

Lavender sighed. She would feel pity for Romilda if the girl hadn't spent the last few weeks making her life a living hell. "Seriously, Romilda. I hope you get some help, I really do. But I'm not going to miss the train home because of you. Goodbye."

"Three will enter, one will leave," sang Romilda. "The one who saves the world will surely destroy it."

Lavender stopped in her tracks, as if the words were a hook. She didn't remember any of the prophecies, but she knew the cadence of a real one when she heard it. "How did you—"

"They're never gone," said Romilda, tapping her head. "You can erase them a thousand times, but the etchings still remain. And I can see it all, Lavender. I can smell it in your thoughts, your wishes, your late nights in fitful sleep and I can peel you open, take whatever I want from inside, soak up every last drop of what makes you, you."

Ohhhkay, seriously creepy. Lavender drew her wand. "Stay away from—"

Romilda lifted a hand and Lavender went flying across the room, smashing into the stained glass window. It cracked, the pieces falling around her as Lavender crumpled to the floor. Lavender tried to move, but her body refused to obey, captured by a body bind…or damage that was worse than she could feel.

As the horror played out, Lavender's mind fractured into two sides. One of them refused to believe this was happening. Romilda couldn't do wordless wandless magic, no student could do that! Was she possessed, was she polyjuiced, what?

But the other side of her hummed a song without words, the cadence of a forgotten prophecy, its warning drowned out by dread.

Romilda's laugh escaped her as she straddled Lavender's waist. Wild hair whipping around her face, eyes burning red like a drug addict's. Her gaze bored into Lavender's and a sharp pain pierced her through, splitting her thoughts into fragments.

Lavender's eyes widened as the forgotten prophecy, the very first one she'd ever had, flowed into her mind. The demon will kiss you, peel you open to feed your essence to her master…

She thrashed, her hands clenched against her head, crying out against destiny. Forgetting was supposed to protect her! But Romilda pressed, pressed, kept pressing, the pain sharpening until it was unbearable.

"Tell me," Romilda said, her voice an unshakable command. "About the nightmares!"

Lavender screamed as the nightmares poured forth from their box, and she didn't stop screaming until darkness took her.


"Three…" said Romilda, leaning her head against Lavender's cheek.

Footsteps sounded, barely an echo against the floor.

"Two…one…"

The door unlatched, and her captor stood before her.

Romilda stayed where she was, prone over the form of her friend. Everything was hot, so hot, the fever burning clarity into her brain. Every memory, like a drop of ecstasy that delighted as it pained and she didn't even care if it burned right through her. It was the right of truth to be as bright as it wished to be.

"Foolish girl," he said. "What have you done?"

Romilda was humming, running fingers of colourful fire through Lavender's hair. So many secrets here. She kissed her forehead.

He shook his head. "Draco made a mistake with you."

"The dragon will be the first to die," she murmured. "And the only one to live."

"Stop."

"You will not take me, traitor."

"Wrong," he said. "Little girl, you know nothing of true power."

Five.

She stood up, the force of flame rising inside her.

Four.

Boris drew his wand, Romilda screamed. The footsteps outside grew faster.

Three.

Romilda and Boris, at the same moment, turned invisible.

Two.

His hands—that were not hands—pressed against her ribs, crushing her. Suffocated by his bulk, she could no longer even scream. Soon a second body pressed against her, crushing Romilda in between.

One.

The door flew open.

Sectum Sempura! cried the voice of the all-seer, but that chance for salvation was soon a distant memory. Even as she thrashed, kicked, struggled and strained, she knew she was bound to the beast.


Draco hadn't ridden a broom since his last Quidditch game in 3rd year. It was uncomfortable and slow, but what choice did he have? Not even his house floo was working anymore. His hands nearly froze on the slick handle, he was so cold in the vortex of air left in his wake, but it didn't matter. He was too numb and in shock to feel anything besides the fear they wouldn't make it in time.

Boris had already filled him in on the worst of it. He'd found Romilda attacking another girl, and then Mad Eye Moody had found them. Boris did not know how much he'd seen, but considering it was Moody, chances were their cover was officially blown. Their only chance now was to hide before the Aurors found them.

Draco landed hard outside Malfoy Manor, not taking enough time to slow down before he hit the wet grass. Cursing, he righted himself and got out of the way. Boris landed beside him, the thud of his landing much more powerful than Draco's. After his hulking body shrivelled down to his human form, and he turned himself visible, Draco could see the two limp bodies in his arms.

It didn't feel real. How in Merlin's name did they get here?

Mist and drizzle clung to their clothes as they hurried inside. Draco let them in through the wards, shoving open the front door and ordering Boris to put the girls in the sitting room. He ran a hand over his hair, pulled out his wand to send his Patronus to the medic. She would be another five minutes. It seemed an eternity.

The lights in the parlour—only half lit—gave off a feeble glow as Draco stared at the girls. They neither moved nor spoke, and they hadn't during their entire journey. Draco noticed the rope used to bind them was so tight their skin was a discoloured purple. He got closer.

"Their magic burns," said Boris. "Be careful."

Draco did not reply, kneeling by the girls and casting an examination spell. They were still breathing, but Romilda's skin was clammy, her body feverish. He could barely look at the other girl, who was room temperature which was somehow worse. He gazed at Romilda's body, trussed up like a lamb for the spit, and of all things this was his breaking point. "You couldn't have simply cast body bind?"

"Draco." His eyes narrowed. "She is dangerous."

He knew, but it didn't matter, didn't make any of this right. A helpless whimper came to Romilda's lips, and her eyes fluttered open as he leaned closer, whispered her name.

As soon as his eyes locked onto hers, he felt a bolt of fire surge through him, rushing in like someone ignited fiendfyre throughout his entire body. Draco felt his brain screaming, and yet he could not move, his eyes fluttering as if locked in a seizure.

Boris yanked him back, and Draco collapsed against the hard stone by the fireplace. He felt himself heaving, a pain at his temples signalling the start of a migraine. This is all my fault.

The door burst open as the medic swept into the room, bag in hand. "What are you doing?" she snapped. "Get up and stand by the door."

Boris and Draco watched as the healer examined the girls, her mouth pressed into a hard line of judgment. She was an old friend of his family, bound by a vow not to reveal their secrets. Still, that did not stop her from voicing her opinion in scathing sarcasm. "The Malfoys, once upon a time, used to be men of character. They do not do this to young women." She pointed at Lavender. "Her mind has been obliterated to the brain stem, and her last moments were spent in terrible pain. I can do nothing for her."

Draco felt his stomach drop, his voice foreign in his ears. "And Romilda?"

Her mouth twisted in scorn. "There is enough raw magic trapped inside her to bring down a herd of nundus! I find it hard to imagine how it was even done, and I cannot examine her fully until it is released." She turned from the girl, dug in her bag. "Can your house's wards absorb it?"

"Yes," said Draco. Aside from his mother, who rested upstairs, the entire house was empty. Much of their wealth had been sold off to meet their war reparations, including the majority of their ancient magical items. There was little else in the house to stress the power of the wards.

"Very well, then," said the witch. "Leave me to work."

The witch knelt beside Romilda, her clothing soaked with sweat as she mumbled incoherently. Finding a vein, the healer pressed her knife. Romilda's shriek echoed throughout the empty room. Boris watched, an impassive expression on his face, gripping his wand.

Draco felt the bile rise in his throat. His head throbbing, he escaped into the hallway and sank to the ground. His breathing came so fast that he felt lightheaded, his thoughts a frantic jumble. He had failed his mission, a girl was dead, and he was too worried for Romilda to even imagine the consequences to himself.

"Well, well, well," said a high, quick voice. "I knew you'd be in a bad mood, but this is just pathetic."

Draco looked up to see his Aunt Bellatrix. He clamoured to his feet, his hand gripping the doorframe to steady himself.

"What are you doing here?" asked Draco.

She raised an eyebrow. "In my sister's house? I didn't know I needed permission."

With a sort of reverent curiosity, Bellatrix peered into the room where Romilda was being treated. She said nothing at first, not until another scream had filled the air and faded away.

"Draco, no one was supposed to know we were at Hogwarts. Not yet."

He stared at the floor. "Will you tell her?"

"The Priestess?" Bellatrix snorted. "Why would I take it upon myself to bother her about your mistake?" She folded her arms. "Rest assured, the Priestess will find out, and soon." She moved away from the door. "Along with the rest of the Wizarding world. The Factionists will be suspected, if not outright accused. You're done, Draco. Let's hope the information from your little bird was worth it."

Bellatrix walked to the other room, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. They swirled in chaos, the pounding against his skull accompanied by the flash of images. He realized Romilda had given him her memories—though whether whole or in part, he had no idea. He wouldn't be able to truly examine them until the pain had subsided.

It felt like a parting gift, and that shook him all the more. He desperately wished his mother was awake and lucid. He needed her to tell him what to do.

When Bellatrix returned, she was shoving items into a pouch, vials of some kind. When she saw him, she sighed in exasperation. "Oh, come on now, Draco." She grasped him by the shoulders and said, with strange tenderness. "You made a mistake. It happens. Now, you need to take care of the loose ends. You know what needs to be done, don't you?"

Draco nodded, the cold realization of what she was suggesting washing over him.

"It's all up to you now. Prove you're capable of something, and maybe you'll achieve greatness like your father did. Well…like he almost did."

She pulled him closer, whispering into his ear.

"Do not fret, child. You have not yet disappointed the one whose commands we truly must obey. Wherever his will takes us, we follow."


Romilda woke to find herself bound in chains to the bed.

She groaned, inwardly railing at her confinement. Since Draco gave her the artefact's power, one would expect she'd be given permission to use it. Instead, she was trapped in Boris's stupid…

Raising her head slightly, she examined the large, ornate parlour room around her. This was not Boris's dorm room, and she wasn't chained to a bed, either. It was a large, white couch that probably cost more than everything her father owned.

Romilda leaned back, reluctantly closing her eyes against a blinding headache. So, she'd somehow escaped Boris's room, then something crazy had happened and she'd washed up here, weak and utterly spent. Her arms and legs felt jellified, and if she had her wand, she didn't think she could even cast Lumos.

Connecting the dots was impossible, and this forced another groan from her. Having adventures wasn't so fun if you were just going to forget the entire thing afterwards, only coming to when you were captured by the enemy in the final act.

Speaking of enemies, stop romanticizing, you need to be taking this seriously. How do I get free?

Romilda heard the door click open, soft footsteps entering the room. "Check the bindings," said Draco.

Rough hands tightened around her wrists. "They're stable," said Boris.

She lifted her head, twisting just enough to see Draco's shadow at the door, stark against the white room.

"Draco?" asked Romilda. "What happened? Why am I tied up?"

He approached a few steps closer, into her line of sight. His face was drawn and tense, with no trace of the boyish smile he'd given her at the Spring Dance.

"There was a situation at Hogwarts," he said. "Do you remember it?"

Romilda shook her head. "No. I don't remember anything. Did someone get hurt?"

Draco said nothing, and that's when she noticed a small glass canister gripped tightly in his right hand. Something writhed inside it. Boris stood nearby, his wand trained on her like a criminal awaiting trial.

Alarm bells went off in her head. She tested the ropes with a light tug, but they held fast. Her voice trembled. "Draco, these bonds hurt. Please release me."

His eyes glanced away briefly, his jaw working. The alarm grew inside her. When he turned back, his face remained cold and impassive.

"You found us key information, Romilda. But you failed at following orders. A girl died because of you, revealing our presence in the school."

"What?" she breathed. "No, that's not possible."

"Why did you do it, Romilda?" he said, his voice soft and pleading. "Can you at least tell me that? The power of the ring wasn't enough to cause mental damage. I don't understand."

"Draco, please…I didn't do anything!"

His face was pale. "Do you remember our agreement? What would happen if you failed?"

Her brain raced in a frantic attempt to escape, her hands working against the rope bindings. Boris tensed in warning, while Draco poured the contents of the canister into his hands.

"What are you doing?" she asked, squirming away from him.

"This won't hurt much," he said softly. "Just hold still."

Boris cast a second binding charm, and she felt her body freeze, her breathing strained into shallow puffs.

"Draco," she croaked out, agony against the binding charm. "Please…I don't…understand…"

Boris grasped her shoulders, and Draco poured something slimy and cold into her mouth. His face contorted as if in pain. "I'm sorry."

They squeezed her mouth shut and forced her to choke them back, and the last thing she remembered as she cried was Draco repeating. "I'm so sorry, Romilda."


"We'll send her to Greece," said Draco, pacing the room. "No one will ever think to look for her there. She can live as a Muggle in a house by the sea, and she can go for a swim every day. She can have the adventure she always wanted."

Boris sat in a chair watching Draco, who was frantically trying to convince himself everything would be alright. Boris knew better than to try and convince him otherwise.

His eyes slid to the girl, sleeping in magical stasis. With her magic gone, she would not wake until they broke the spell. At some point, Draco would also have to go to sleep as well. Then Boris could do what needed to be done.

Draco stopped his pacing to stare at Romilda. He never got closer than a few paces away. Boris suspected he never would, due to his guilt.

No one could ever find the girls. The risk of exposure was too great. An Obliviated Muggle left evidence, but fire destroyed everything.


Igor Karkarov mulled over his glass of scotch, trying to decide what to do.

The birthday celebration for the British Minister of Magic was in full swing. As a foreign dignitary, Igor was expected not only to attend, but to mingle and make nice with the other politicians. He spent the first hour performing the usual duties—greeting old friends and former students, congratulating the Minister and breaking bread with potential allies. As the party progressed, the Minister took the stage for his customary speech. While the guests clapped politely, Igor stood at the back, barely listening, his mind consumed by other matters.

Last week, Madam Bones had sent him an urgent message, begging for his support in the war effort. He sympathized with her, and he was well aware of the political clout he had within Scandinavia and Eastern Europe. Madam Maxime expressed to him, privately, that she wished to throw in her support.

The argument for an alliance made political sense. If the headmasters and headmistresses of the leading magical schools in Europe joined together in supporting Britain, then they would have enough political power to swing the vote of the Wizarding conclave in their direction. Britain would be protected from the radicals attempting to destroy their nation and plunge it into anarchy.

On the other hand…

Igor considered his other role, as a member of the Factionists. If he publicly supported Madam Bones and the British Ministry, then he would likely be outed as a traitor to the Factionists. His life could be in serious danger, to say nothing of his academic career.

He took another sip of scotch, which was doing little to calm his nerves. He'd joined the Factionists after attending his first rally. He claimed it was out of a desire to keep abreast of what was happening within the movement, and that was true. But part of it was because he couldn't help agreeing with some of their points. While he had no desire to follow another dark lord, he did support the people rising up against poverty and prejudice. The hegemony of the pureblood British elite needed to end.

Igor frowned, considering how things had changed since the early days of the movement. He did not want things to end in blood, and he refused to be at the centre of another war. As for those prophecies about the end of the world, Igor was beginning to suspect this was nothing more than propaganda. Even if it were true, he was fairly certain attacking England would do nothing to stop it.

Igor went into the bathroom to splash water on his face, and perhaps to hide for a while. As a representative of the Cold North, he had some leeway in acting aloof and above it all. He could use a bit of respite to pull himself together.

As he climbed the stairs, he considered his options. Perhaps there was a way to spin this politically—make his joining look like a noble sacrifice. Or he could offer information to the Magical Council in exchange for protection. He sighed. If only it were as easy to leave the Factionists as it was to join. Damn it all, would he never learn?

As he entered the bathroom, someone grabbed him and shoved him into one of the stalls. A powerful binding spell fell over him, and he stared, transfixed by his attacker. He was unable to move except for to speak.

"Bellatrix," he whispered, the backs of his knees pressed against the porcelain of the toilet. "How did you get inside? The wards…they would detect you."

Minister Fudge was a miserable sop, but he wasn't a fool. The wards around his mansion were unspeakably powerful. No one could get in that he didn't directly authorize. He knew the Factionists would destroy everyone within this building if they had a chance.

But here Bellatrix stood, twirling her wand, a smirk of triumph crossing her features. It made her seem wildly pretty, and he was surprised at himself for thinking that.

"Indeed, the wards would detect me," said Bellatrix. "And you're the one who let me in."

"What?"

"Oh come now, Karkarov, don't act so surprised. We know you're playing both sides," crooned Bellatrix. "Do you think we're stupid? Once a traitor, always a traitor," she said sing-song. Tilting her head, dark eyes glittering as she traced a finger along his cheek. "And now, my dear, you will do a greater thing for our cause than you have ever done."

She pointed her wand. "Avada Kedavra."


Two girls who 'flew away' from Hogwarts still missing. Aurors point the finger at Durmstrang.

Igor Karkarov, suspected Factionist, found dead in the British Minister's bathroom.

Murder at Minister Fudge's party! Did the British Aurors do it? Inside exclusive!

A Deadly Feud: public outcry as Durmstrang students claim libel

Madam Bones' plea for support of the British Ministry falls on deaf ears.