Previously in The Soldier: the fifth year ended as Henryk disappeared, Alex and Regulus' relationship is heading... who knows? and as always, Altair Wymond left with a typically cryptic remark in Hogsmeade while Sophia Wilson's imprisoned under the Grimmuald Place. So continuing...

Alex sighed. The racket the boys were making on the piano was possibly the worst noise she had ever heard—and she was roommates with Rebecca Goyle.

She debated on whether she ought to shout at them to shut them up or ignore them. Based on past experiences, it was probably wiser to ignore them.

Once she had asked, nicely, if Potter could please keep the results of his Quidditch practices with Black to himself, seeing as no one else was really there to listen at all. This request resulted in insults, shouting matches and ultimately Mrs. Potter banning Potter and Black from playing Quidditch and a fluffy toffee on desk that Alex realized too late made her gag.

"Muffliato," she muttered dispiritedly at the door before returning to her Transfiguration essay.

It had been three weeks since she'd arrived at Potter Manor. Mrs. and Mr. Potter had welcomed with her with open arms, saying that they had always wanted a daughter as well as a son, but their sons, as they were fond of saying, were not so amenable.

Potter, for the most part, had no problem with Alexandra Wilson other than that she was a Slytherin and that Sirius Black, his mate of five years, had a problem with her. Sirius Black, who hated Slytherins with all his might on principle, hated Alexandra Wilson more so because she was a Slytherin who was apparently stupid enough to have been his brother's girlfriend, past or present. And how much he loved to vex Slytherins with ill judgement, Alex found out quickly enough.

Things started out innocently, with all her shirt dyed red and gold, and her soaps tampered with some potion that turned her skin and hair purple. Then, one morning, she found all her clothes swinging merrily on top of the trees in the backyard, followed by waking up and finding herself in middle of the Potters' grounds (Potter of course had a house with grounds, that spoiled git), lying on a bed that was neatly placed on dewy, green grass.

Alex suspected that Black actually considered himself gentleman for letting her sleep on the bed, instead of dumping her on wet grass itself.

Alex then had to borrow Mr. Potter's old broom to retrieve all her clothes and confess to Mrs. Potter about her predicament, risking appearing like a cowardly telltale. Really. It shouldn't have mattered to her how she would appear to Potter and Black, but she did not wish to appear cowardly. It simply wouldn't do.

Alex gritted her teeth, realizing that Muffliato didn't work. The racket only seemed to grow louder—it seemed that they were trying to play Satanius' piano etude and Beethoven's sonata at the same time, and poorly, too. Either they were having time of their lives playing the piano—which Alex doubted—or they were trying to rile her up again. Well, it wouldn't work. She would not be played with by some ridiculous boys who could quite probably win Peeves in "Who is the Most Immature Being in Hogwarts?" contest.

"Alexandra!" she heard Mrs. Potter shout. Alex sighed. Breakfast. Time to face those... marauders, as they called themselves proudly, as though they were proud to be thieves, cause havoc during lessons and terrorize younger students and practically every Slytherin that happened to cross their way. Groaning, she stood up, her shoulders stiff from hours of studying, and went downstairs slowly, treading carefully lest she might step on a dungbomb or some other trickery they might have planted.

It wasn't that staying with the Potters was in any way bad. Alex was deeply obliged to Mr. and Mrs. Potter for taking her in when she had practically nowhere to go to, and the mansion was lovely—there was a large library which she could use freely, house-elves did most of domestic work, and their grounds stretched to the point where Alex could only see a green horizon (if anything Alex found the newly founded luxuries rather uncomfortable). She was provided three square meals a day without anyone hinting that she ought to make compensations and Mrs Potter was very kind to her.

Still, she was constantly on edge. She had to keep a lookout everywhere she went, lest she should be attacked without any means of defense. She could only imagine how other Slytherins would react should they hear the news of her staying with the Potters. She had mentioned it to Regulus in passing during one of their—er, clandestine meetings, thinking that it was best if he knew—at least he wouldn't be worried about her whereabouts—and he had answered, rather ironically, "Well, I suppose you'd be safe, wouldn't you be?"

Her steps faltered momentarily and Alex looked down on the staircase, the ancient wood that had supported many generations of Potters before she entered the house.

And what? They were entering their sixth year. This wasn't the time to figure out the future—at least, it wasn't supposed to be, but even Alex, who was less involved in the wizard politics, felt her choices and freedom being taken away from her. It had never been much of a secret that Regulus was intent on joining the Dark Lord as soon as he got the chance, and she couldn't fathom a life where they were apart, standing on opposite sides of the battlefield. What if she—stayed out of it all? Not choose sides? But she had to choose, had to decide whether she would fight, choose what she would do for a living quickly, because no one could guarantee that her life would last ten years.

Just like her mother.

Alex ignored the last thought. No one knew what became of her mother, it seemed, and neither McGonagall nor Mrs. Potter could give her any new information on her whereabouts. If—but Alex stopped herself. Her mother must be fine. She was—smart, and quick-witted, and she would've survived.

Between her friends siding up with the Dark Lord, and her mother fighting against him, she didn't know whose side she ought to root for. Yes, most of wizard community would side with her mother, the good side, the better side. But she knew all the Slytherins who wanted to become Death Eaters. Yes, they did have problems, but didn't everyone else?—they mattered as much to her as other people's lives, and Alex didn't know how anyone could stand on one side and wish for total destruction and death for those on the other side.

Shaking from her reverie, Alex came to a scene that became familiar to her from her three weeks with the Potters: a large dining room, complete with wide, sturdy oak table and six ornate chairs that were more comfortable than they looked. A magnificent chandelier hung from the ceiling and in the corner stood a cabinet holding Mrs. Potter's finest china. The walls were light yellow, bordering on white, but Bordeaux-colored curtains and maple floorboards gave a majestic, grave air to the room.

"Hello, Alex," Mrs. Potter said, smiling. "The scones are freshly out of the oven. Raisin or cranberry?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter," Alex said for the uncountable time, sitting in her usual chair. Her tone was serene, but inside she was warily counting the seconds before Potter or Black would explode with a witty comment. She picked out a scone and began to split it in half slowly.

"Please, dear, Euphemia is fine," Mrs. Potter said for the umpteenth time.

"Slept well, Alex?" Potter asked briskly, his eyes sparkling from the piano exercise, no doubt. Alex felt her alarm heighten, but she merely straightened on the outside and said, genially,

"Very well, Potter, You?"

"Rather well, myself," he said.

They sat in silence. Alex wondered why Potter hasn't done anything outrageous by now, as was their usual morning exchange.

"I slept well, as well," Black said loudly.

"And that's wonderful, dear," Mrs. Potter said.

"Where's Dad?" Potter said, quite possibly trying to break the sudden tension that began when he'd asked the question. Alex tried to casually pour milk into her cup. Her wand was upstairs...

"Morning walk," Mrs. Potter said with good-natured exasperation that could only come from thirty years of marriage. "He found a Muggle milkman with a funny bag."

Mr. Potter was (Alex had hard time believing this at first) the inventor of the Sleekeazy potion who had sold his invention for a vast fortune, amassed from millions of young witches who felt insecure about their hair. Alex sometimes wondered ironically if Potter didn't feel the impulse to use his father's invention—surely, his messy hair could only profit from the remedy—but she valued her sleep too much to risk it for a moment of satisfaction.

"Oh," Potter replied easily.

"Do I still have to keep my motorbike hidden?" Black asked in a similar easy tone that suggested nothing of his status as a permanent guest. Alex stabbed a piece of fruit a bit too violently. Alex disliked seeing Black smile. That he could smile, after causing much heartache and disappointment to his family. Regulus, she knew, had never been quite the same after the Christmas incident, a haggard look in his eyes that most people failed to notice. Everyone had congratulated the new heir, saying that the place had finally landed upon the right owner, and that the Blacks were better off without the bloodtraitor. But Alex knew that he was not all right—Regulus being Regulus, constantly worrying about his brother as well as the rest of his family, trying to think of ways to keep everything together—

Clearly, he was mistaken to be so worried.

"Yes," Mrs. Potter and James said at once. Mrs. Potter was, Alex learned to her surprise, the prototype of James Potter, and often the partner in crime when it came to Potter and Black's new project—in this case, a Muggle motorbike that Black had found in a dumpster, and since taken under his wing. Mr. Potter, on the other hand, was a more peace-loving fellow than anything else who, while not directly disapproving of his son's shenanigans, refused to support them wholeheartedly.

Sirius groaned theatrically.

"The flying charm's almost finished," Sirius whined. "I just have to incorporate it into the engine. It'll be done soon!" he looked like a kid who wanted to go fly on a broom.

"Go play Quidditch," Mrs. Potter promptly said.

Both Potter and Black harrumphed. Alex raised her eyebrow—it was perhaps the first time these boys had shown anything but unconditional adulation for the sport.

"Two players," Potter grumbled. "It's no fun."

"Well, then, I'm sure that Alex would be happy to play with you," Mrs. Potter said, casually.

"But Alex doesn't play!" Potter blurted out, which was followed by a frown: "Do you?" he asked.

"No," Alex muttered quietly, keeping her eyes on her tea.

"Nonsense," Mrs. Potter said briskly as she poured milk into her son's tea. "Alex was excellent in gathering the clothes that you boys had strewn about." Alex didn't know how to say that picking up clothes from immobile trees was hardly a challenge, so she tried to smile without saying anything. James, on the other hand, perked up at the memory.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You were a decent flyer."

"Mail!" Black said loudly. "Look, we have the owls—Kaiser, and—" he frowned. "What are those?"

"Official ministry owls," Mrs. Potter's eyes grew wide. "Oh, your O.W.L.s results must be out!"

Several things happened at once.

Potter ducked under the table, as if the ministry owls outside the kitchen could somehow peck him to death. Black straightened his back and sniffed the air, oddly canine in his form, as if he could determine his grade by the smell on the parchment. Alex crouched even more on her muffin, feeling the grease on her fingertips and wishing that she could just curl up into a ball. O.W.L.s results. They weren't the end of the world, but Alex knew that the next—forty something years of her life depended on them. It wasn't like she wanted to become a billionaire—she didn't think billionaires got many O.W.L.s anyway, but still—but it would be nice to know that she would have options to support her in the future…

"There we are," Mrs. Potter was at a point in life where few excitements could really move her. "This one's for you, Jamie—Sirius—Alex…" Alex accepted the heavy envelope with dread clawing its way out of her throat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter," Alex said hoarsely. The envelope felt especially thick and unforgiving between her fingers.

On the envelope her full name was written in bold, green letters: Alexandra Sophia Wilson. Below her name was her home address, but on the side there was a carefully written note in purple that read: redirect to Potter residence. Alex looked glumly at the official ministry seal and pried the letter open with her fingers. Based on the noises coming from either side of her, neither Potter nor Black had bothered to look at the envelope and were now exchanging their results. Alex tried to block them out; it shouldn't matter how they did, what mattered was how she did…

Ordinary Wizarding Levels

Alexandra Sophia Wilson (Atria Polaris Wymond)

Ancient Runes—O

Arithmancy—E

Astronomy—E

Charms—E

Defense Against the Dark Arts—O

Herbology—E

History of Magic—A

Potions—E

Transfiguration—E

"Bloody hell," Alex murmured under her breath. Black, with his canine hearing, perked up at the sound.

"What was that?" he asked loudly, turning toward her. Alex looked around mildly, making sure to put down the letter face-down so that the boys wouldn't get a peek.

"Nothing," she said mildly. Potter's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but somehow Alex didn't detect malic in his looks…

"It's not nothing," he announced. "C'mon, Alex, how many O.W.L.s did you get?"

"How many did you get?" Alex shot back, feeling immature—but how else was she supposed to deflect the question?

"Seven," Potter said promptly. "Failed Divination and History of Magic, but it's not like I was going to continue with them after this year, so who cares?"

"That's wonderful, James," Mrs. Potter, apparently caring even less than her son about his score for Divination. "How did you do, Sirius, dear?"

"Six," Sirius muttered, "but I was taking eight subjects to begin with and—"

"Outstanding in Transfiguration!" James announced, patting Sirius on his back. "Outstanding, for both of us."

"Nice," Alex muttered, unsure if she should be appreciative or insecure. She'd certainly didn't get outstanding in Transfiguration, but she did get Os in Defense—her favorite subject—and Ancient Runes…

Alex paused and looked down at the parchment sadly.

It wasn't just her mother who had been out of contact all summer. Henryk Lee, wherever he was—Alex liked to think that he was somewhere in Bulgaria, in the high mountains or meadows perhaps (she didn't know what Bulgaria was like), happily settled back with his family. She didn't realize until she was on Hogwarts Express headed back to London that she didn't really know anything about him or his family, other than the fact that he had a sister—or was it two? —that she didn't know him at all, even though it had sometimes felt like she knew everything there was to know about him. How odd. But maybe that's why he didn't write. They weren't close enough to write each other letters. Alex supposed that Henryk would be happy enough where he was without knowing that she'd gotten an O in Ancient Runes thanks to him.

But that didn't explain why Regulus was not writing.

Maybe he was—maybe his parents confiscated his owls again. Maybe he ran out of ink. Maybe—but Alex remembered the last meeting they had before they had to part ways in front of Hogwarts Express, and Regulus had promised her, promised her, murmuring lowly in her ear, that he would miss her, miss her terribly, and that he would write to her every day if he could.

But so far she'd received nothing from him and all the letters she'd sent remained unresponded.

"Hey!" Alex yelled as she was shaken out of her reverie. Potter, the utterly immature tyke that he was, had grabbed her O.W.L.s results from under her nose while she was distracted, and managed to run across the room before she could even stand up. Damn his Quidditch reflexes.

"Let's see how the quiet Alexandra did, now, shall we?" Potter gloated.

"Give it back, Potter," Alex said exasperatedly, but the satisfied grin was slowly sliding off Potter's smug face as he read the results.

"Nine O.W.L.s, huh?" he said after a while, and handed the paper back to Alex's outstretched hand without fighting. "Congrats!" Alex wasn't sure if the congratulation was ironic or sincere, so she settled for a tight smile.

"Nine O.W.L.s?" Black repeated. "Blimey, just how many hours do you have to spend in the library to do that?"

"Too many," Potter replied, grinning. Mrs. Potter gave both of them her trademark stern look.

"Boys," she chastised, before turning to Alex with a warm smile. "But this is wonderful, Alex. Your mother would be so proud. She was one of the smartest witches in her year, you know."

The mention of her mother moved Alex more than the thought of Regulus, Henryk, and Black's snide remark put together and Alex blinked rapidly, trying to contain the sudden onset of tears that threatened to make its way through her eyes. She sniffled secretly before smiling at Mrs. Potter, who smiled back at her brightly. Potter, who had been observing the exchange with silent eyes, stood up from the table energetically and said,

"Who's ready for Quidditch?"

If Leila could best anyone with her collection of Quidditch Today magazines then the Potters could best anyone with their collection of brooms.

Or at least that's how it seemed to Alex, who looked around the Potter shed with some awe. The shed was easily bigger than her living room (Alex wasn't even sure what to make of this comparison), and a whole half of the space was devoted to all things Quidditch—old brooms, older brooms (some of them even looked like they were from the seventeenth century, when the earliest brooms were invented), crates and crates of old Quaffles and Bludgers struggling against their chains, rows of bats and—

"Wow," Alex said involuntarily, looking around. Even she, who didn't care much for Quidditch, could tell that this was an impressive collection.

"I know," Potter said, bouncing between rows of brooms lined up chaotically against each other. "What's your favorite broom, Alex? Cleansweep's a safe choice, but I feel like Nimbus has more gravitas, you know?"

"Gravitas?" Alex repeated with some irony. Black snorted from the corner.

"You'll soon learn, Wilson," he drawled, "that James treats his brooms as if they were endowed with natural human dignity."

"This should work," Potter, apparently unaware of the chatter in the background, bubbled up excitedly amidst dust and mold. "Comet sixty-eight. Springy. Fast, but reliable. You're not small, but you're that big, either." Potter's eyes gleamed in a mad way that reminded Alex forcefully of Mr. Ollivander, the wandmaker.

"Great," Alex said drily. "Where do we play?"

"Not so fast," Potter said, skipping out the shed. "We need to—stretch—warm up—get plenty of water—"

"This isn't a match against the Slytherins, Prongs," Black said lazily as he trudged after them, but Alex got a feeling from his smirk that this was, indeed, going to be an unfair game. "Take it easy."

"Easy? Take it easy?" Potter sounded horrified. "This is Quidditch! This is seriousness itself, Sirius."

"Pun intended?" Black drawled.

"Always!" Laughing, Potter mounted his broom and shot into the sky, becoming a small dot in the clear blue canvas within seconds. Alex squinted her eyes up in the air, trying to make out what Potter was doing. He was doing an odd sort of a gesture—

"See you later, Wilson," Black smiled nastily. "That is, if you make it out alive." With those words Black shot into the air and left Alex on the ground, gritting her teeth in annoyance.

It wasn't that she didn't know how to fly. In fact, she rather enjoyed the flying lessons during her First year. But that was more than four years ago, and Alex really hadn't many chances to practice flying. But she refused to be humiliated by these odious boys who decided to make fun of every single thing she did—the thought itself was not as dignified as she would've liked, but Alex told herself that beating them at their own game would give her some satisfaction.

Of course, she would have to temporarily forget that Potter had been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team since his second year. And that Black towered over her by at least half a foot. Never mind that. She mounted the broom and pushed against the ground, feeling the distance between her feet and the grass grow larger and larger. Vertigo gripped her stomach and her grip on the handle tightened as Alex realized that she could fall from the height and easily break her neck.

"Alright there, Alex?" Potter asked, grinning.

"Fine," she croaked hoarsely. "Perfect. Just… wonderful."

"Here's the rule," Black began, no-nonsense. "Whoever has the Quaffle's it. The goal is to get from that tree—" Black pointed at one of the many trees at the edge— "to that tree." Another indeterminate tree. "The other two people try to stop him at any costs. Questions?"

The instinct for self-preservation in her asked, quite plainly, what "any costs" meant in terms of actual action—if it would include bruising and breaking, for instance. But Alex refused to lose face, so she nodded.

"Great!" Potter said, somehow managing to keep his bouncy frame on his broom. "Ready, set—go!" Without a warning he snatched the Quaffle from Black's hands and sprinted toward the other side of the field.

"Hey!" Black protested, but Alex was faster; leaning her frame against the wind, she directed her broom toward where Potter was, feeling the cool morning air rush against her face. It was an odd sensation—a kind of serenity despite the speed.

When she got close enough to Potter, Alex swerved sharply to the left, trying to push Potter off balance. But Potter, experienced as he was, saw it coming and merely lowered his altitude to avoid her.

"Is that the best you got, Alex?" Potter shouted, grinning from ear to ear. Alex shook her head and sped toward the other side of the field so that she could meet him head-on. Meanwhile, Black was trying to outflank him by approaching him from behind.

"Wilson!" Black shouted. "You take his left, I'll take his right."

"Smart move, shouting your plan!" Alex said, but she complied anyway, having thought of a similar thing just seconds before.

What followed was hard to describe; Alex felt something inside her, a second instinct, perhaps, propelling her toward certain directions that she only later understood as having certain functions. What she felt at the moment were gushes of wind against her face, a kind of exhilaration that only came when everything just clicked into place; when Potter turned left, Alex knew which direction she should take to block him the best; when Potter tried to feint, Alex knew which direction he wanted to go, too. How the small hints and signs registered in her brain, Alex couldn't tell; they were all split-second decisions that caught her attention—a tightening of his left ankle, for instance, or a twitch of Black's shoulder, followed by a frustrated cry.

"Score!" Black yelled in disbelief. "Wilson—you just—"

"Scored!" Potter said, looking at her with newfound appreciation that Alex found more alarming than casual disdain. "That was—excellent, Alex!" From the way he said it, Alex got a feeling that "excellent" was not a word Potter used often on the Quidditch field.

"Alright," Alex said awkwardly.

"You sure you never played Quidditch before?" Potter asked. "As a child, I mean, anything can really help."

"Pretty sure," Alex said, remembering her Muggle home town with nostalgia for the first time. She missed her mom… "I dunno. I think my parents used to play Quidditch at Hogwarts?" Slytherin Keeper and Ravenclaw Chaser to be more exact, but Potter and Black didn't need to know the details.

Potter nodded, as if that explained all that needed to be explained. Black, on the other hand, was looking more and more sour by the second.

"Let's go," he huffed. "And I want the Quaffle." And muttering something about beginner's luck, he flew toward the center of the field.

Potter gave her a look. "He's a sore loser," he mouthed.

"I heard that!"

Beginner's luck or not, Alex managed to score a few more goals that morning even though Black seemed lividly intent on preventing that from happening (to the point where Potter had to tell him off by saying, full of exasperation, "Padfood, seriously?"). After the match something seemed to have shifted for them—for Potter, at least, who became more and more civil to Alex to the point where they could have a whole conversation together without implying that Slytherins were snakes or that Gryffindors were a bunch of brainless brawns. Sirius had been less than happy with this new development, but he seemed to take Potter's decision on the matter to heart and attempted to tolerate Alex, at least when Potter was around.

"Alright," Mrs. Potter said bracingly one August afternoon. "All ready?" The Hogwarts letters had come a week before reminding students that they needed supplies, and Mrs. Potter suggested that getting supplies earlier would help them avoid the crowd that inevitably came with the beginning of the school year.

"Almost," Potter said, skipping down the stairs. The reason for skipping became clear when he appeared in front of Mrs. Potter, Black, and Alex; the lace of his left boot was intertwined his right boot, and vice versa, to the point where he couldn't take a step without dragging another foot with him.

"What happened, dear?" asked Mrs. Potter, but was stopped by Black who began to crack up ruthlessly.

"Potter, you idiot," Alex said, rolling her eyes, before realizing that the mother of the said idiot was nearby. "Sorry, Mrs. Potter," she mumbled. Mrs. Potter brushed the insult off.

"What were you thinking?" she asked her son instead, who finally realized the problem of his boots.

"Well—Padfoot said—" Potter grunted, struggling to untie his laces.

"Sure, because everything good begins with the words, 'Padfood said,'" Alex said.

"I told him it was a cool Muggle fashion," Black said, still chortling. "He was hoping to run into a certain Muggleborn, you see—"

"Don't call her that," Potter snapped automatically. "She's—"

"A lot smarter than you, obviously," Mrs. Potter said, flicking her wand at Potter's boots. The laces straightened themselves out in a matter of seconds and Potter stood up, looking a bit dazed.

"Okay, okay," he said. "I'm ready."

It was odd to see Diagon Alley when it wasn't overcrowded with students, and it was even stranger to see it without her mom at her side. Granted, the presence of two gangly teenage boys ensured that she didn't feel alone, but it was still odd to walk through the alley without having someone point everything out to her. Not that she needed every single thing explained like she did when she was eleven, but still…

"Mum, seriously," Potter was whining, again, to Mrs. Potter, who was trying to hide her sadness by acting sterner.

"No," Mrs. Potter said. "You're not old enough…"

"I'm turning seventeen this year!" Potter protested. "Honestly, I'm old enough to shop school supplies by myself…"

"It's okay, Mrs. Potter," Sirius said in his trust-me-Professor-McGonagall voice, which never amounted to anything more than I'll-try-not-to-destroy-the-entire-castle voice. "I'll watch him."

"No," Mrs. Potter said. "But maybe Alex will!"

Alex felt a reluctant smile force itself her lips. "Me?" she asked.

"You're responsible," Mrs. Potter said.

"Yeah," Potter chimed in. "Super responsible. Prefect and all…" Black snorted.

"Okay," Alex said, still unsure exactly what she was agreeing to. Mrs. Potter beamed.

"Excellent," she said. "I was supposed to meat Dorea and Ilana at Daring Dashes, but you all can meet us there after you're done…" Trailing off ambiguously, Mrs. Potter smoothly disappeared into the alley.

"She's been planning this all along!" Black said in mock outrage.

"Yeah!" Potter followed immediately. "Let's go to Knockturn Alley!"

"Wait, what?" Alex said in confusion, but she had no time to react before the aforementioned two gangly teenage boys grabbed her by the elbow on either side of her and began to drag her toward a direction that Alex had never even set foot before.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait—" Alex repeated like a broken cuckoo clock.

"C'mon, Alex," Potter said bracingly.

"Yeah, Alex," Black said sarcastically. "Live once in a while."

"Um," Alex said, "couldn't we live in a brighter part of the alley? I heard that Fortescue's Ice Cream has excellent sunlight to live in. I mean—" Her words were stopped by Black, who suddenly halted in the middle of the street and stared into the dark side alley with intensity that threw Alex off. Potter, who didn't notice his friend's behavior, kept pulling Alex and stumbled backward as a result.

"What?" Potter said in genuine confusion. Black's eyes narrowed.

"Look," he said quietly. Both of them squinted at the alley.

A couple of figures, half a dozen at most, huddled in front of Borgin and Burke's, looking rather out of place in a summer afternoon. They were all cloaked in a dark shade with their hoods drawn up, and they seemed to be whispering amongst each other; whispering what, Alex couldn't tell.

As they watched, a new figure approached the group from other side of the street. Unlike the others, this one held up his head high, and his wizarding cloak, as the expensive fabric swished under his knees, was open and unhooded.

Alex's grip on her wand (she didn't realize that her hand had reached out to her pocket) tightened.

"Isn't that Regulus Black?" Potter voiced aloud her own thoughts. Sirius' mouth set in a grim line.

"Yeah," he growled. "What's that git doing there?" He shot Alex an accusatory look, as if she should know what his little brother was doing in front of Borgin and Burke's. Alex wondered how Regulus would have enough time to hang out on Diagon Alley but not have enough time to drop her a single line of letter—the line of thought didn't invite a particularly welcoming set of thoughts—but she remembered that Black didn't know about her and Reg's—ah, special relationship.

"No idea," Alex murmured. "But this can't be good news, we should get out of here."

"Get out of here?" Potter repeated incredulously. "What, this is the biggest thing we've seen all summer!"

"And dangerous," Alex added.

"Oh, look at that, a coward Slytherin," Black sneered. "How novel."

"And a reckless Gryffindor's such a hard find," Alex shot back. Potter shushed both of them.

"They're going in," he whispered, even though they were a good hundred feet away from them.

"We should go after them," Black whispered back.

"To what end?" Alex said in frustration. "Just walk into the store and ask for the nastiest artifact they have?"

"We'll figure something out," Black argued.

"Yes, that's a fine plan," Alex said. "Just spotted a couple of fishy-looking blokes, so go into Borgin and Burke's and say hello, just dropping in to see some fine new artifacts, have you got any club soda?"

"And what might you young fellows be doing, getting club soda?" an unsettlingly familiar voice said from behind them, making the teenagers jump in their places. "Just kidding, you're too old for sodas, though, aren't you?"

The smiling face of Altair Wymond managed to unsettle Alex to the point she temporarily forgot seeing her boyfriend walk into Borgin and Burke's.

"Dad!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Dad?" Potter repeated in confusion.

"Dad?" Black repeated suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. "You mean your dad?"

"Well, I certainly don't remember having a son," Altair said easily. "How have you been, Alex?"

Alex opened her mouth to respond, but something stopped her from saying fine—partly because she wasn't fine, as far as she knew—the entire summer had been a tense succession of days into nights, worrying constantly about her mom, about her future, about everything that was supposed to come to pass but she could never tell when—but as she looked at her father's face, she felt that something was off. He was—as pale as he'd been the first time they met about a year ago—strained. The wrinkles around his eyes were strained, as if it took effort for him to smile.

She found herself giving the conventional answer. "I'm fine. How are you?" Then she remembered where she was. "What are you doing here?"

Altair shrugged. "Running errands," he answered casually. "Who are your friends?"

"We're not her friends," Black grumbled. Simultaneously, Potter burst out, "hello, James Potter, sir—it's such a pleasure—" shaking her father's hand so vigorously that Alex thought Potter wanted to steal his hand.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," Altair said, sounding as though he had already heard so much about him when Alex had never talked to her father about her—friends. "The troublemaker."

"Marauder, actually," James corrected him without a hint of self-consciousness, beaming. "I actually wanted to ask you, sir, if you don't mind, what it was like to work for the Order?"

Alex started at James' words. His father, work for the Order? —no. But what was more astonishing was Altair's reaction, the way his whole face froze without any reassurance of thawing.

"What?" Alex said, her voice sounding rather faraway.

"What?" Potter said.

"What?" Black, who appeared less excited to see her father, seemed to catch on first. "Oh," he said. "No, no, we heard that Alex's parent was involved in the Order, and Prongs here just assumed that it was your dad—"

"No," Alex said, her voice still faraway. "No, I don't know what my father does." She turned to Altair. "What do you do for a living, by the way?"

Altair had regained his original cheerfulness. "Nothing special," he said. "So. Sophia has joined the Order, has she?" There was an undercurrent emotion beneath those words that Alex couldn't identify. The tenseness of his eyes struck her once again.

"You know what the Order is?" James inquired with alarm. Altair shrugged.

"In my line of work, it would be hard to miss." The smile in his eyes grew ironic. Taunting. An awkward silence passed. Alex scratched the back of her neck.

"Well," her father finally said. "I should get going."

"You don't have to," Alex said automatically. "I mean—"

"I'm afraid that I really was on an errand," Altair replied gently but firmly. "And they'll notice that I'm gone. School starts soon, though, doesn't it?"

Alex nodded quietly.

"Good luck," her father said, clasping her on her shoulder. "To all of you." Nodding at Potter and Black, his father broke into a jog toward the Knockturn Alley that they had been spying on moments ago. The group of cloaked figures was gone. Alex frowned, trying to will the hallow feeling in her chest to disappear.

"Potter, how did you know about my mum?" she asked in a strained voice.

"Huh?" Potter said intelligently.

"Mrs. Potter told us some things about your parent… your mum," Black spoke up, sounding non-aggressive for the first time. "She said that your mum was involved in some mission for the Order and that… well, that we should be nicer to you."

Alex swallowed. "Okay," she said eventually.

Potter understood her tone the wrong way. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed. "We'll never tell anyone, we swear, we know how important it is to keep things like this secret, and, you know, we would never want to put your mum in danger."

"Says the person who blurted the secret out to her father," Black said. "It looked like your dad didn't know about it, though, aren't your parents talking to each other anymore?"

"I don't know," Alex mumbled darkly, staring at her shadow on the cobblestone. It looked like some sort of monster… "C'mon, we need to get our textbooks, or else your mum's going to keep me from having desert."

The trio set off to Flourish and Bolts.

A/N: I'd like to thank RobynJerri21 for the message and encouragement, it really helped me crawl out of my bed and write again (and yes, I will try to update soon! :)

Also, do you hear the sound? The ticking of the time bomb? Book I is rapidly approaching its end and the inevitable explosion! Let us hope that I manage to finish the book before the month is over (huzzah!).