I'm staring at my reflection in the mirror which is mounted inside the open door of my magically-enlarged wardrobe. I'm applying a final layer of mascara and trying my hardest not to actually look at my dress.

This nineties thing is fucking ridiculous. What's more, is how positively literal all these witches and wizards take muggle fashion in the nineties. When Tonks and Moody had presented me with this dress last night, I had laughed in their faces. When they did not join me, I felt my features shift to pure, unadulterated horror. Tonks had scoffed. "It's not so bad," she had glanced down at it, draped over her arm, "You're supposed to be the saucy American. No one will think anything of it."

But I will. God help me, I will.

The Malfoy gathering has been described as 'formal,' so I'm pretty sure I'll fit the bill so long as Destiny's Child shows up in their matching kimonos or whatever. The dress itself isn't necessarily risqué, all my bits a pieces are covered, but it's made of acid-washed lavender denim, cutting perfectly along my figure down to around mid-calf. A band of extra material accents my waist, and a thin slit is cut from the hem to the knee in order to facilitate basic movement. Nicki Minaj would definitely wear this and consider herself formal.

To offset the fact that I'm wearing a goddamned jean dress, I'm bedecked with some wicked expensive jewelry. A diamond-encrusted collar necklace matches an equally priceless wrist cuff. My earrings are all single diamond studs, but they glitter ominously beneath my mass of hair. According to McGonagall, who presented these items to me an hour ago, each of these pieces are goblin-made. And, as such, are practically shield charms in their own right due to their innate protective qualities.

Where in the fuck is Kingsley?

As though by magic – ha – my fireplace suddenly roars to life with green flame. The dark-skinned, imposing wizard steps across my hearth, and wastes no time in striding to me.

"I could have been naked you know," I tell him, half-kidding, "Ask Moody. You people need to learn to knock." He ignores me, which is normal. Kingsley Shacklebolt is an immensely serious man with a lot of diverse responsibilities. Jokes are not yet on his radar.

"Sjofn," he rumbles a quick greeting, "Minerva and Alastor are escorting Viktor to the front door as we speak. We will need to be fast."

From the inside of his cloak he withdraws a simple brown sack. I hold my hands out, and he plops the sack into my ready palms. Inside is a myriad of different pieces of jewelry and a couple of other accessories. I spy a red leather watch, a charm bracelet, a bulbous gem ring, a pair of earrings shaped like cherries, and a tortoiseshell hair clip – to name a few. I continue to inspect the seemingly-innocuous items with awe. "And they're all…?" I let my question trail off, looking up at him uncertainly.

"They're all transfigured and charmed with the same spells we had discussed, yes," he rumbles in his low baritone, explaining, "Each of them have the same button of sorts-" He takes the hair clip out of the bag and shows me what appears to be a small dangling charm or tag. It's smaller than my pinkie nail, silver in color, and adorned with what looks like a fancy, cursive 'S'. "-which you will twist," he mimes the motion, "and it will begin the spell transfiguring your current adornments into the preferred tactical gear you had chosen."

Basically a mobile telephone booth, for any necessary costume changes.

"Fabulous," I mumble, inspecting the clip closely, "And my weapons?" Kingsley clears his throat before answering, "The gear is ready-equipped, with the rest of the clothing." He suddenly gets even more serious, if it were possible, and narrows his eyes at me just a little, "Do not take this as carte blanche permission to perform executions on any and all affiliates of You-Know-Who." His voice rumbles dangerously, "Many of these people are not truly lost, they are redeemable. You are fully expected by us Ministry-affiliated Order members to proceed with discerning judgement."

I keep my tone light and unassuming as I drop the hair clip back into the bag, "That's not exactly what Dumbledore and Moody-"

With a swiftness which betrays his training, Kingsley is suddenly a step closer, bent at the waist to bring his face threateningly close to mine. "Moody does not expect to live through this confrontation," he hisses, "thanks to your intel." I keep my face impassive, struggling not to take this turn of events personally. He's stressed; we're all stressed about tonight. Kingsley straightens with a flickering wince, "I do not believe," he continues in a much calmer tone, "that enough of the Order is considering the long-term effects of the role you have been-" He sniffs, looking me up and down, but ultimately his gaze falls on the drab brown bag, "-invited to play."

I dip my hand inside the bag, scrounging until I find the large gem ring. Slipping it onto my ring finger, I give him a pointed look. "Trust me," I murmur to him, "when I tell you I would much rather be keeping my guns at home." His shoulders are still stiff, but his face is composed.

I continue with a slight edge, feeling irritated at his judgement, "I'll do as you ask, Shacklebolt-." I stride around him and head for a dazzling, glittering clutch which contains my 'wand' and my lipstick. He follows me as I scoop it up, and we both turn and head towards the door. "And not that you cared to ask-," I bite out in a rush, overtaking him and spinning around so that he's forced to stop in the doorway, "-but I would have done it anyway. I'm not a mindless serial killer." He takes only a moment, scanning my eyes, but ultimately he inclines his shiny head. I turn on my diamond-lined, spiky, sandaled heels, and we proceed to the staircase.

We traipse upstairs in silence. All of the past two weeks' preparations have led us to this evening, my first real trial-run as a potential asset. The atmosphere is tense. Everyone has been on edge these last 48 hours, but true to their word no one has dared contradict my involvement. Molly brought over a tray of tarts last night, seemingly as a gesture of confidence. But, the bottom line has been that most folks simply can't bring it up to my face.

Which is fine. They can be as skeptical as they want, just stay the fuck out of my way.

Sirius, especially, has been treating me very gently. It's been hard, really fucking hard, to not be able to share with him the full context of my newfound reality here in 1996. Ever since his, admittedly drunken but painfully sincere, apology to me the other night, I've realized my crush on him is a lot more than an above-average amount of sexual interest.

I can feel myself drawn to him. I'm constantly wondering where he is in relation to myself - like a stalker satellite. It took a lot of balls for that cocky son of a bitch to put himself in my shoes and apologize, and, for some reason, finding out he has the capacity to be that self-aware has catapulted my attraction to him to a totally new plane. I want him to know everything; I want him to always give a shit the way he gave a shit about me that night.

Goddamn I'm such, SUCH, a fucking loser.

Rationally, I know this isn't an amazing focus to have developed. I should probably keep my attention on not dying, staying charmingly verbose, and blending my foundation correctly into my neck. I can't explain it.

I've never met anyone else in this life or my last who I genuinely thought would understand me in all of the ways I want to be understood. No one has ever really come close to truly empathizing in a well-rounded way with the shitshow that is my existence. And now I'm equal parts excited but wholly terrified that I'm wrong.

You're putting this man up on a pedestal; you haven't even known him a month. Is this really the right time to be taking chances like this?

Yeah, no.

So, I'm not. I'm hovering around him, but evading him simultaneously. I stalk him, because I'm compelled to be near him all the time. I want his company and I crave his attention, BUT I avoid him because I look like a hyperactive psycho who zones out and stares at his chest. And because there is no way in hell his level of interest/fixation matches mine at this point. Also, because I need to focus on not dying.

Super fun. Well done, Finnie.

Kingsley and I arrive in the foyer of Number Twelve. We're greeted by the sight of McGonagall, Moody, Arthur, Bill, Mundungus, Professor Flitwick, Fred, and George. Standing next to McGonagall, his attention diverted by Mundungus, is my date – Viktor Krum. I scrutinize him; his brow is extremely pronounced like a caveman's, with dark eyebrows and bottomless eyes. The bluntness is offset by other pronounced features, such as his cheekbones and shoulders, making him more balanced. Overall, not a bad looking dude. His dress robes are sleek, silver and black.

A figure lounging broodily against the banister of the main staircase catches my eye. Sirius' body is tense, but his carefully blank expression shows no outward disquiet. His lithe and muscled form towers over Fred and George, who are closest to him. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

Not even comparible.

I forcibly switch my gaze to Arthur, who's smiling in greeting, albeit slightly strained. I stop to stand next to him and Bill, who simply nods impassively. Kingsley begins a quick, hushed conversation with Flitwick, McGonagall, and Moody. "The children are all at the Burrow-," Arthur murmurs to me, "-as you requested. They'll stay there until we bring them back tomorrow, once this errand-," he clears his throat and flits his eyes to Krum, "-is complete."

I nod, but say nothing. Bill flicks a thumb over to the twins and grunts, "Almost all of the children, that is."

Fred catches this and lifts his chin defiantly, "Oi! We're adults now, alright?" George narrows his eyes at his oldest brother as he chimes in, "Business-owning adults, for certain." Fred nods once in agreement and finishes, "And as such, we are entitled to full-fledged Order of the Phoenix membership, and all that it entails. Secret meetings and all." Bill is resolutely staring at the ceiling, obviously having already lost this argument. Arthur just pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighs. "Lupin is upstairs," Fred offers to me helpfully, "He's going to have the change tonight. We figured you could use the extra hands on deck." I say nothing to the darling nineteen-year-olds, but I smile ruefully.

"Sjofn?" A low, heavily accented voice says from my left. I turn to look up at Krum, who is standing next to me, hand outstretched.

"Hello, darling," I grin at him, placing my hand in his for the first time tonight. He seems to steel himself slightly at my extremely familiar greeting, but gets over it. "I haff been informed to the extent of our deception. I am confident ve vill emerge from this evening unscathed," he says heavily, squeezing my fingers once, then letting them go. His lips make an odd pouting shape while he talks, and it's a little distracting.

"Vicky, baby," I continue to smile up at him, radiating my surety, "not only will be unscathed-," I wink, "-we'll be unstoppable."

He starts to catch my vibe and gives me a very small smile. I'm glad; this will be a much easier time if we relax.

Our introductions are interrupted by Moody's sudden bellow, "Sweet Merlin, Shacklebolt, it's a bit late now for molly coddlin' the Death Eaters-"

"Alastor," McGonagall admonishes softly, her creased face looking more severe with stress this evening, "You know perfectly well that is not what he meant when he-"

"It don't matter," Moody growls at his contemporaries, eyes narrowed at Kingsley, who looks as though he's just sucked on a lemon. "She's trained. She knows what to do, an' how to do it. You lot just need to sit back and let. This. Work."

"I hope you don't mind if I get started," I hear a raspy, high-pitched voice aimed somewhere near my navel. With a start, I look down and see that Flitwick has extracted himself from his colleagues' heated conversation in order to stand in front of me. I must have looked suitably confused because he squeaks in explanation, "Concealment and protection charms, my dear. I've altered a couple of my favorites to perform for you in a way that I believe will fully disguise your…er… muggle genes from magical detection."

"Ah, yes," I nod smartly, as though fully educated on the subject. I raise my arms up in a 'T', like I'm being scanned at airport security, "Carry on."

With no further ado, the already tiny wizard stoops to a crouch at my feet and begins singing something that sounds like extremely complicated Spanglish mixed with Swahili. I stand very still, and it takes several minutes, as he traces his wand in waving patterns around my person. It's crazy, but I feel like my skin tightens as he furthers the spell. Almost like the pores close and refuse entry or exit to any data which could be interpreted by a magical TSA-muggle-detector. His eyes flutter as he finishes the last stanza, and I can tell it took a lot out of him. Fred and George catch him by the elbows immediately following his final syllable, and guide him to a chair nearby.

Before I can open my mouth to get this show on the road, the three senior Order members are still kind of fighting, my attention is diverted by Sirius. He stands abruptly from his slouch against the stairs, striding purposefully to me. Everyone's focus is thoroughly diverted either by the argument, or by Flitwick, and only I am able to hear as he mutters to me under his breath, "May I speak to you?" His silver eyes are boring into mine with a not-entirely-unwelcome intensity. "Just very quickly," he finishes.

Mute, I simply nod, my eyes caught by his. My stomach does a flip as he takes my hand, his large, calloused fingers warming mine. Silently, and without attracting the attention of the room at large, he navigates me only as far as one of the adjacent hallways.

I lean against the wallpapered wall, looking at his collar instead of his painfully handsome face. This is the first time I've been truly alone with him since the motorcycle ride to Wheezes. His stubble-covered throat in my line of sight convulses as he swallows, and I feel the electric current which seems to flutter over my skin when I'm near him spike in intensity. I ache, literally ache, to just run my hands along his front.

I'm not picky. Wherever he'd let me is fine.

"Fin-," he starts in his low, sexy voice, and my eyes flit up to meet his. He looks suddenly a little unsure, "I…Well-" He thrusts a hand into his jeans pocket, and I raise a teasing eyebrow at this rather bullshit communication method. Surprisingly, he doesn't meet my eyes as he pulls his hand out, clutching something in his fist. "I'd like you to do me a favor," he finally says, taking my hand by the wrist with his. He forces his closed fist into my waiting palm and drops something into it, "I'd like – No, I need – you to wear this for me."

It's a ring. My first reaction is to shriek with glee and confusion, then maybe throw it down the hall. Instead, I catch his eyes with my widened ones, inviting explanation.

"It's spelled," he explains in a rush, looking adorably flustered. His one hand still cradling mine, he fingers the ring resting in my palm as he continues, "To change the color of the gemstone upon request." The ring itself is a plain bronze band, but there is a strand of amethyst embedded within it along its length, making it rather stunning in a minimalist kind of way.

I'm trying hard to listen, but I'm incredibly distracted by his nearness. His scent – always the cinnamon and evergreen – is muddling my ability to focus, and the heat radiating off his body is acting like a beacon calling me to inch closer to him.

"Okay," I manage to mutter, gazing down at our interacting hands.

He decidedly takes the ring into his own grasp in order to slip it unerringly onto the thumb of the hand he still holds. "If you're ever in trouble-," I hear him say, though I continue to look at the ring,"-all you have to say is, 'Padfoot, I'm in trouble.'" I inhale sharply as the color of the gem shifts very quickly to black. I finally raise my eyes to meet his, which are gazing at me with an intensity I long to understand, but also want to run from.

"But, how will you-?" I start, but before I can finish, his hand not holding mine reaches up to his neck, dips down into his collar and pulls out a chain. On that chain, dangling innocently, is a matching ring, but with a band of silver. Its embedded gemstone line is onyx, just like mine.

My eyes still captured in his, he bites out, "Now say, 'Padfoot, I need you.'" Held captive by the look on his face, and my own racing heartbeat, I barely manage to breathe, "Padfoot, I need you."

The gem along my ring brightens to a ruby red, as does Sirius'. Accompanying the color change is a searing heat which is too brief to be unpleasant.

The air between us is suffocating. I feel fear and exaltation in equal measure, not daring to really hope. He's leaning closer to me, my hand still caught by his and his ring dangled for me to see.

"Now say," he continues in a gentler tone, his eyes and face relaxing a little, "'Padfoot, I'm coming home.'"

My heart squeezes, but I grit out, "Padfoot, I'm coming home." Immediately, heat sears my thumb, and both of our rings turn a brilliant blue.

Unsure how to address the overbearing tension, I mutter halfheartedly, "Sapphire for home?"

Surprisingly, his mouth lifts in a half-grin. "Blue, to calm me," he answers, unabashed. I feel a blush suffuse my cheeks.

He feels anxious being away from me?

Abruptly, I blurt, "Does it work both ways?"

He's nearly pinning me to the wall with his sheer presence alone, but at my words he withdraws just barely. His mouth frowns a little, and his brow puckers with doubt. I feel the miniscule distance between us cooling my heated skin, so I push off from the wall and lean towards him, bringing us even closer than before. "I'm not certain," he rumbles, "I hadn't spelled it in reverse." His striking, silvery gaze flits all over my face, to my collar bone, to my décolletage, and back up to my mouth.

His one hand is still holding mine poised between us. I lift my other to touch his ring as it floats on the chain. "It should," I hold his eyes, trying to convey how I'd want to know if he…needed me.

Shit.

"After tonight," he mutters, still gazing directly at my mouth, "I'll make sure it does."

"Okay," I breathe back, leaning even closer. His muscled front just barely grazes my chest in my tight dress, and I feel electricity jolt down between my legs.

"You look stunning," he rumbles lowly, his eyelids drooped down to take in my person. Our faces are an inch apart, and I barely stall my stomach flipping long enough for my eyes to flutter shut and close the remaining gap between us, when I hear Krum just on the other side of the wall.

"Sjofn?"

My eyes spring open of their own accord, in time to see Sirius' doing the same. He takes an immediate step back, making my body cry out in protest. With his scent still making me hazy, I sway a little on the spot, feeling abandoned. Sirius is breathing heavily, and upon reflection I realize I am as well. His bright gaze is still holding mine with an intensity which remains despite the distance now between us.

"Now say," Sirius continues, in a voice decidedly huskier than before, "'Padfoot, I'm safe.'"

I hear Krum come around the corner a few paces from where we stand, but I look down to the ring on my hand - breaking our eye contact at last - and murmur to it, "Padfoot, I'm safe." The color of the gemstone river on the ring returns back to amethyst, and I feel my heart rate struggle to return to normal.

"Are you ready to depart?" Krum asks from down the hall. He's polite, but he clearly means 'bitch, it's time to go'. I struggle to give him a weak smile, still trying to bounce back from the sensory overload of the last few minutes, but I answer, "Yes, of course."

I glance back up to Sirius as I begin angling away, but upon seeing his face, I freeze. He looks agonized, like he wants nothing more than to stop me from leaving using any means possible. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back," I whisper to him, and try for a small, reassuring smile. His mouth-watering chest expands with a deep breath, and he extends one hand to cup the side of my face. In an instant, my breath is gone, stolen from me. He uses his warm, calloused thumb to caress from my cheekbone to my jaw. With a somewhat strangled voice, he murmurs, "Just use it."

I search Sirius' silver eyes with my green ones, trying to suss out his innermost thoughts. "I will," I murmur back. His face is utterly unreadable as he drops his hand and I turn to rejoin Viktor. I feel colder with each step I take away from him, ending my progression with a shudder when I reach my date's side. To my surprise, Krum doesn't take my arm or acknowledge me; his eyes are glued to Sirius, intense.

"I veel make certain that she comes to no harm," the Bulgarian wizard announces. Whipping my head around, I see Sirius give him a nod, his face looking rather thunderous despite the encouraging words. His arms are now crossed, his stance wide. I sigh, feeling more nervous than I did ten minutes ago.

Krum and I step back into the foyer, where a tense sort of quiet has fallen among the other Order members present. As we unceremoniously head for the front door, I catch Moody's eye. His magical one is pointed in the direction of the hall I just vacated – probably at where Sirius still stands. Despite this, he gives me a pointed look while Viktor opens the door, a warm breeze fluttering my hair off my shoulder.

"Give 'em hell, girlie," he growls.