The drawing room doors clicked shut softly. Blaise dug his fingernails into his wingback's fine French brocade to keep from throwing them open again and following Lucius and Draco. He knew better than to try. If he did, the Manor would hide its masters' steps. Blaise hadn't yet endeared himself to the building and lands in this life. He would be as confused by its protective nature and changeable walls as much as any stranger. This was not his home, yet. It wasn't even a safe house.

It was, however, safer than Hogwarts. Hogwarts was dangerous, now, with the attacks, with that thing—No. Blaise mustn't even think of it, not until they had a proper plan in place. Hadn't he just drilled that into Susan, Percy, George, and Fred? Blaise could hardly go and fuck up himself. He had to remember what Mother had taught him, so long ago. He had to remember how such things were done.

Those lessons were in the future, now. How would Blaise hide his knowledge from her when she tried to teach him again? Blaise had never been able to hide anything from his mother. He rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the headache that thinking about their time travel problems always gave him.

He just had to focus on not feeding it anymore power. Names, more than anything else, were powerful. They were just lucky it—or rather, who it had once been—wasfinally losing attention in the papers. Merlin, there he went again, drifting onto the topic. Disgusted with himself, Blaise tugged on what Draco generously referred to as his "dubious" Occlumency skills and forced the thoughts away. For a moment, his mind was wonderfully blank, an empty journal peaceful in its untouched potential.

His eyes fell on the drawing room doors. His fingers, momentarily relaxed with the emptiness of his mind, clenched into fists. How fucking ridiculous you're being, Blaise chastised himself, struggling for calm. Draco and Lucius were just having a private conversation between fatherand son. Blaise had no frame of reference for such conversations, but he imagined it would be much like a conversation between he and Mother. Even the ears of lovers would not be invited.

Lovers. Fiancés. Husbands. Almost something else, too. Blaise had a sudden, crushing desire for a Firewhiskey. Emotional crutches apparently followed the soul, not the body.

Perhaps he would compose Mother a letter, Blaise thought, desperate for distraction. He could do it in his spare time before Draco returned to him—or before Blaise finally lost his patience and went to find him. He expected Mother would be pleased, though she had not made him swear to write.

Mother never bound anyone lightly. Promises were too powerful in the Zabini family. When broken, they had a way of growing teeth. 'Never forget why the vines of our crest are Devil's Snare, mi amore.' His father had made that mistake, and so had the several step-fathers after him. Blaise never had. Neither had Draco. Ironically, they had still both wound up dead.

Sighing, Blaise took a few minutes to reassess. He unfurled his fingers, ultimately grateful that he could do so, rather than be frozen stiff with rigor mortis. He had music in his trunk: another blessing. Just this morning he had shuffled Auld Lang Syne to the back of the sheaf, a Yule feast success. McGonagall had been so pleased she had even ignored his green tie long enough to honestly complement his harpwork. Draco, Blaise suspected, had merely been happy with the absence of the distinctly Christian Make We Joy Now in This Fest. To Blaise, both pieces were lovely. Draco, however, was a politician's son. To Draco, everything was a statement.

Blaise drifted further. Flitwick wanted Odi et Amo ready for full rehearsal upon return from winter holidays. An interesting choice, Blaise thought. A Latin, elegiac couplet from an unrequited lover to his mistress; the thoughts of a rumoured Dark wizard in love. It would never be performed in the Great Hall. All the choir knew that. Dumbledore probably wouldn't be pleased they even rehearsed it.

Blaise was certain they hadn't done it the last time around. Perhaps that they were practicing it now was a sign of larger things to come. Yet, Blaise was not Draco. He was content merely to feel the music in his fingertips, the notes in his chest, rather than read into its every implication.

On the drawing room doors, the first line's meter appeared to him, - u u / - - / - u u / - - / - u u / - u, and his lips shaped the words silently in time, Od'et a/mo. Qua/r'id faci/am, for/tasse re/quiris?I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask.

The next line, the meter changed, - u u / - u u / - / - u u / - u u / - Nescio, / sed fie/ri / senti'et / excruci/or. I do not know, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.

Had Catullus ever been tortured? Blaise doubted that. Love was not a crucio. It was not a bone-breaker hex. Granted, Blaise may be willing to rip off a toenail if it meant having Draco back in his line of sight.

Blaise was possessive that way. He always wanted Draco's shoulder brushing his, his steps a staccato echo of Blaise's. More so, he wanted their adult bodies back so he could wind his fingers with Draco's without disquieting the whole room. So he could kiss Draco again, properly, and desire it. Right now, everything felt off.His skin was tight on his bones, his bones wrong-wrought for his pulsing heart, his twisting stomach. He flinched when he caught his reflection in windows. He had headaches like his extra ten years of memories were trying to force their way out his skull.

The music reached crescendo and faded out. Blaise blinked blankly at the bare doors, staring at the tasteful ivory paint. There was no music on the doors. There were just too many thoughts in Blaise's head.

Blaise could tell them to Draco, but he didn't. Sometimes Blaise was dizzy with the things he didn't tell Draco. Watching the memories had made the dizziness worse. Like watching a terrarium teeter on the edge of a shelf, waiting for the shriek of broken glass and the silent escape of the spiders.

A claw sunk into his shoulder and Blaise jumped, then stared at the hand resting there. He followed the arm up and found Harry watching him, green eyes lit with concern. Guilt pricked him. He was fine, really, but Blaise found he couldn't quite dredge up a reassuring smile. He didn't shake off the hand, either. He was exhausted, he realized distantly. Draco's wrathful howls from the memory battered the back of his head. He heard the corpse-rocking wind in his own breath. His jaw stung with tension.

I feel it happening and I am tortured.

Perfectly calm, Blaise asked. "Do you ever get tired, Harry, of being in such terribly odd situations constantly?"

Harry blew out a breath. "I certainly wouldn't be opposed to a vacation, no."

Blaise blinked. He saw Teddy's dead little face cradled between Draco's palms, their skin equally pale in the moonlight. "What are the odds of us getting one, do you think?"

Coming up beside Harry, Ron laughed. Blaise bit his tongue, surprised. The room was crypt-silent, now, and deserted but for a small few. Neville, never far from Ron and Harry, smiled gently at him.

Narcissa was the only other occupant. She had acquired a teacup and a vacant expression at some point. Nominally she watched the peacocks in the garden. Her fingers twitched. She probably wanted a cigarette.

Blaise blinked again, suffering a flash of dead eyes for his small epiphany. He was likely the only person who knew that she smoked. In his last life Blaise had stumbled over her cigarettes while looking through her private rooms for the healing supplies Draco had sworn she'd kept there. Draco had been right, of course, but Blaise had also found the cigarettes tucked into the case's back pocket. A white and purple pack of muggle Silk Cuts, three missing and one half smoked, smeared with lipstick. Blaise had pocketed them on a whim and taken up her secret. He had quit with one cigarette left to go.

Once, Blaise had shared a secret with a dead woman. Now she lived again and he simply knew her secret. Time travel was so strange.

Why do I do this, perhaps you ask—

"A better bet would be on lunch, mate," Ron said. The new strain in his voice caught Blaise's attention. Ron had the look of someone who'd had to repeat himself, but his manner was purposefully casual. Blaise must have drifted off again. Oops.

"What do you say, want to pull up a chair with us?" Ron prompted again. "I reckon Harry here can cajole at least one House Elf into topping off our drinks." He added a wink. Harry snorted but didn't deny Ron's claim. Neville snickered, but not meanly. Together, they made contrived joviality look natural.

Blaise considered his options. Truth be told, he didn't want for company and he knew he would add little to the assembly. He had half a mind to skip lunch all together. He could write Mother. But would he? More likely he'd simply sit as he was now, alone. He had so many thoughts in his head. He couldn't imagine sifting through them and drafting an appropriate letter of them. Maybe he should just sleep for a bit. Maybe he should play.

Why do I do this—

Narcissa stirred her tea rhythmically. She hadn't paused or looked up the whole time. She was as if in the world alone. Her eyes never left the garden. Could Draco and Lucius be within the garden walls? She must be worried.

"Blaise," Neville said softly. Blaise blinked at him. Briefly, he was again in the Malfoy Mausoleum, clinging to Draco's trembling shoulders to make sure the last living Malfoy remained that way. "Come to lunch with us."

I do not know—

Blaise breathed. The gallows creaked. "My apologies, but I don't—"

"Draco and Lucius will wind up there first," Neville continued, speaking over Blaise. "You might as well save yourself the search. Now, come along." Bemused, Blaise found himself shuffled off.

The doors closed behind them, leaving Narcissa truly alone.

I—

Midway down the hall, Harry bumped Blaise' shoulder companionably. "We'll be fine, you know."

Blaise hummed, thinking of all the ways they were and weren't. As they turned the corner, he swore he heard a child laughing. "We shall see."

There was, of course, no child there.

Od'et a/mo—

I hate and I love—

A distinctive box waved in front of her nose, the contents chattering invitingly. "Your favorites, straight from London."

Narcissa didn't take her eyes from the garden. She sipped her tea instead. Darjeeling, hand-picked in West Bengal, no milk or sugar or calming draughts. She sipped again and then, only when she felt her voice wouldn't crack, she finally replied. "You were always so insistent those would kill me. Seems like an odd choice of gift."

"Yes, well. You made it a bet, didn't you?" She could picture Kingsley's grin in her mind, the slow spread of it across his face until his teeth showed, gleaming like a mouthful of pearls.

Her eyes flickered to him. She was wrong. He wasn't quite grinning; smirking, more like.

Narcissa arched an eyebrow. "Remind me of the terms?" She knew perfectly well what he referred to.

With deft fingers, Kingsley popped the lid of the carton, shaking one out. He held it out for her. "You bet me the cigarettes wouldn't have the chance."

Narcissa accepted the stick between her teeth, eyes locking abruptly with his. She knew her face was blank and dry, now. Polite and composed. Not cold, but not inviting prolonged association, either. Not even Kingsley would know her mind from her face.

In the grip of Draco's memory, she had let that mask slip. Her emotions had controlled her. She had barely maintained the presence of mind to disperse the guests, so caught in her own distress over events that wouldn't even happen. Silly. Childish. She'd behaved practically like Bellatrix, throwing a fit, though at least Narcissa had managed to avoid cursing the guests. Andromeda, then. She'd even had the moral justification. How tasteless.

Narcissa was confident she'd corrected herself, now. As was her way.

Still, undaunted, Kingsley watched her.

'The Light cries, Narcissa. We do not waste the time.' Her mother had told her that, many years ago, when the Black family had gathered to inter an empty casket for Regulus. The funerals had quickened after Reggie was given his rest, in spirit if not in body, and Narcissa had taken her mother's point for her own. Her creed made her cold, she supposed, but by the end of the Second War Narcissa had been the only Black sister alive with a living child and husband. Her ice was protective.

Besides, Lucius was with Draco, and she had watched Blaise Zabini be shuffled away with the promise of joining him. Her son had all the emotional support he could need. Thus Narcissa would make much of the available time, as was her nature. She was silly for entertaining the thought of anything else.

Narcissa bounced her cigarette suggestively on her bottom lip. She enjoyed how Kingsley's expression gentled, how his smirk finally slipped into that slow smile. He snapped his fingers, sparking a flame that danced on his thumb. Together, they lit the cigarette.

Narcissa savored the taste before relaxing into the couch cushions with a long exhale, watching the smoke curl against the ceiling. She banished her cold tea, reveling a moment fully in her indulgence, letting her thoughts amass slowly.

When she turned her attention back to Kingsley, she didn't feel sixteen again. At sixteen she wouldn't have dared to look at the heir of a Light family, forget sit alone smoking with him. She would have died before marrying him, if only to spare her family the shame.

Narcissa took another puff. She'd known nothing at sixteen. "I didn't really want to win that bet, you know."

Kingsley inclined his head, joining her on the couch with his usual elegance when she patted the seat beside her. They wound their fingers together. Narcissa felt an immediate pulse of want for their wedding rings. She wanted it known that they were one. Later, she chastised herself. For now, she had a more pressing goal.

She needed to secure her family's safety. She needed Dumbledore gone. She needed the Ministry properly manacled. The Dark Lord business could wait for further consideration.

Taking a final puff from her cigarette, Narcissa neatly banished the butt and tucked the package away in her pocket. With a deep breath, she curled herself into Kingsley's side, inhaling deeply the notes of his clove cologne. Her high heels were abandoned on the drawing room floor. Her chin settled delicately on his shoulder. He watched her still, rapt, as though she were something powerful, dangerous.

She brushed the barest kiss to his lips, so as not to distract herself. He was one of the few who noticed her lethality and didn't run or beg or attack. She loved him for that.

"Tell me, beloved," Narcissa murmured. "Tell me about the new Minister Bones and what she wants from our dear Ministry."

The stately grandfather clock in the drawing room struck two in the afternoon as the last stragglers meandered back from lunch. There had been no official announcement made, but the general sense was that everyone wanted these memories dealt with. Harry was just fine with that. He'd underestimated the toll the memories would take.

He glanced around at his friends. Susan was red-eyed, standing alone even though her aunt kept glancing at her Susan pointedly. The Weasleys had closed rank around a tired-eyed Arthur. Dean and Seamus were grim-mouthed and silent. Theo kept a possessive hand on Luna. Marcus looked to be supporting Oliver, but his shoulders slumped. Not even Parvati could lift Daphne's mothering attention from the bone-pale Astoria. Draco, tucked between his parents, looked ill and Blaise no better. No one spoke. No one smiled. Theo set up the spell without being asked.

"I'll go," Parvati said, exchanging a glance with Harry. His memory would be best last, she supposed. "May as well get it over with."

Sirius rubbed a hand over his face. "Dare I ask what?"

Parvati grimaced. "My death, of course." In short order, her memory burst from its vial.

She had cropped the memory nicely, Harry mused as the scene played. No muss, no fuss. Parvati, early twenties and clad in formal robes, strode into her living room with arms full of scrolls. She hadn't even put them down before the first attacker struck.

Colours blurred across the room as Parvati exchanged fire, her surprise melting seamlessly into defiance. But there were multiple attackers and Parvati was a lawyer. She'd trained and fought the war, but she still spent most of her time behind a desk. As the fight dragged on, she slowed. A lucky kick to the gut dropped her to the floor.

In the present, Parvati winced as she watched her older self struggle to drag her body away from her assailants. Blood smeared into the carpeting as she crawled, then one of the black-clad figures stomped a booted foot between her shoulder blades. She was pinned down. Parvati gasped in time with the wet gurgle she made in the future-past.

A hand slipped into Parvati's. She dragged her attention away from her fatal beating to meet Daphne's cool blue eyes. Daphne smiled, small and soft. Empathetic. She rubbed a pale thumb across the back of Parvati's hand. Parvati breathed, watching from the corner of her eye as two black shadows pulled her to her knees, holding her listing half-corpse up.

"Parvati Patil," the right shadow declared. "The Ministry has hereby found you guilty of treason against the Wizarding World, and in particular British Wizarding Society."

"Fuck you," Parvati sneered, head rearing back, revealing her bloodied face. "I've not done anything wrong, I've not been arrested."

"On the contrary," the other figure snapped. "Ample evidence has been turned over to officials showing your willingness to consort with werewolves, among other creatures, and Dark magicals. These actions are in direct conflict with the well-being of British Wizarding Society. They are a betrayal of that society and a treasonable offence against its people."

"That's not legal," Parvati coughed. "Fuckers, it's not—"

"But it is," a calm voice replied. "There are new emergency measures, implemented just this morning." Padma Patil revealed herself serenely, stirring a dainty cup of tea. She tilted her head slightly. "Don't feel badly for missing them. They were passed quietly, and I made rather sure you wouldn't be informed."

Sirius gaped. "That bitch!"

Squeezing Daphne's hand, Parvati laughed. "She's a real piece of work, isn't she?"

"I'd say," Sirius muttered.

"Padma," the older Parvati gasped, interrupting. She stared at her twin, shocked, blinking through blood. "Padma, what—"

"Shh, shh, shh," Padma murmured, placing her teacup down. Her face held a placid smile. Gracefully, she knelt across from her sister, then raised her hands to cradle Parvati's face. "Just be quiet now."

"Fuck, no," Parvati spat, wrenching her head away. "What the fuck, Padma, you lunatic."

Padma sighed. She snapped her fingers. The guard on the left smashed his fist into Parvati's face. The bone snapped, loud over the sound of Parvati's pained squeal and heavy breathing.

Padma leaned forward again, brushing her sister's hair behind her ear. When she pulled her hand away, laying it on her lap, her fingers left bloody stains on her paisley skirt. "You never could be quiet, could you? Father saw it as a strength, but Maman and I always knew better. That's while I'll live to see the new world, sister, and you will not."

"Padma," Parvati wheezed, "You're my twin, we're all we have left."

"No," Padma said firmly. Fury glowed in her eyes. "You are not mine. You were Father's, and I was Maman's. We were never each other's." She brushed gentle hands along Parvati's face, brushing away the dripping blood and disarrayed hair, straightening her clothes. Finally, Padma stilled, hands back on her lap. "Maybe if we had been each other's, I would not have become so used to being alone. But I did. And I built a life around that loneness, that quietness. Your loudness is jeopardizing it."

"Loudness!? You're not making any sense! What does that mean?" Parvati sobbed.

The guard moved to strike her, but Padma held up a hand. "Just that, Parvati. Your whining and crying and carrying on. Moaning about the rights of werewolves and Dark wizards and other monsters, like they're people."

"Because they are people!" Parvati roared, throwing herself against her captors. They held fast. "Merlin, Padma, what are you thinking!?"

"I'm thinking," Padma said, Tthat if I want any peace, I need to be the only Patil around." Her hand snaked out and snapped off the silver P from around Parvati's throat. She pressed the pendant to her lips and rose, ignoring Parvati's quickening breaths.

"Sister, Padma, please, no…"

Padma sighed again. Eyes mild, wand risen, P clutched in her hand, she said, "Goodbye, Parvati."

The memory ended in a flash of green. The light reflected on the young Parvati's face, who watched blankly as the figures and setting swirled away in billowing smoke. She sent a level look around the room and squeezed Daphne's hand. Daphne squeezed back.

"I was a lawyer," Parvati explained, "I specialized in civil rights abuses. That's what she meant, about my whining." Parvati straightened her shoulders. "My last case was for Mr. Malfoy, actually. Unfortunately, we never made it to trial."

"A case? About what, Lucius?" Remus asked, turning to his partner—once, and forever.

Lucius took Remus' hand, winding their fingers together. He locked eyes. "I could tell power, public and private, was shifting to the Light. I wanted to be prepared on all sides."

"So you tightened the wards at the Manor, replaced half the staff with security, and summoned up your lawyers," Remus muttered, suddenly comprehending. "That's why you were so eager to send Draco to Italy. You knew he wouldn't be content at the Manor, like Teddy and I, so sending him away was the next best option."

"I wanted to keep you safe," Lucius replied. "I thought, stupidly, I would only need a little time to assure that. All the rest... It was only supposed to be insurance."

"Nothing would have made a difference," Harry cut in. "We were all too late."

"How?" Amelia gritted. Her fingers ached at the joints, curled tightly into fists. "Why were we so late? What did we miss?"

Harry shrugged, removing his glasses to rub at a dirty spot that been driving him mad. "About fifty years of pent-up Light rage, I think. Grindlewald, Voldemort, Voldemort again. That's a lot of dark lords, almost back-to-back. Only makes sense that when the Light truly won, they were willing to kill babies to keep another one from springing up." He held the frames up to the window, satisfied when he could see through them clearly. Slipping them back on, he titled his head. "I think there's a muggle story that works on that principle, actually. More or less."

"More or less," Amelia echoed, grimacing. "I suppose you think we're less, Mr. Potter."

Harry paused, meeting her eyes. "If you're including yourself with the Light," he said slowly, "Then yes. At least, less than your own moralizing, Minister."

Amelia snorted. "Too true, Mr. Potter, too true. But I caution you, please do not think that we cannot become more again."

"Oh, Minister, " Harry said quietly, though forcefully enough that his reply rose over the various outcries at Amelia's comment, "I'm very aware of what 'more' from the Light looks like."

Upending his vial, the last vial, the room filled with smoke. Walls rose from the billowing white, and a floor of stone formed underfoot. The elder figures of Draco, Blaise, Daphne, Astoria, Dean, Seamus, Oliver, and Marcus solidified in a tight crescent, Ron, Neville, and Harry taking point at the center. The returned gasped and cursed at the group's condition: 'wounded' didn't begin to cover it. Obviously broken limbs, gashes, vicious marks from repetitive blunt force trauma and strangulation; missing pieces. The blood was immense.

There was no chance for anyone to ask for an explanation. As the first figures came to life, so too did the dominating form of Albus Dumbledore, flanked by Molly Weasley and the adult Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley. Minerva McGonagall hung behind them, face lined with sorrow and disgust. Behind her was a man none of the older returned quite knew, dressed in pin-stripe business robes, perhaps fifty or so crimson-clad aurors behind him.

Scattered about the room, like so much trash, were dozens of black-clad forms. Some lay in pieces, others crushed to bloody smears. More were simply still, slowly seeping blood or bent oddly, bones too broken to sustain life. Dumbledore stepped over them like they were rubble. He spoke as he walked, espousing his usual philosophy: all was worth sacrificing for the greater good—as long as that good was Light.

"I cannot begin to express how deeply pained I am by your change in allegiances," Dumbledore finally finished. "So much young potential tarnished by the Dark. I can only hope, after this night, there will be peace."

For the first time since the memories began, Severus closed his eyes. He was painfully familiar with the old man's double-speak. No one Albus Dumbledore did not control would be leaving that hall alive.

"What does he mean by that?" Sirius snapped, pale-faced and bright-eyed. He obviously knew, Severus thought, eyes drug open by Sirius' panic. Yet, Sirius was ever an optimist.

Mercifully, before Sirius could read the cruel answer in Severus' face, Harry went to his godfather. He locked one skinny arm around Sirius' waist in a hug. "It's okay," he said, "We made it back, Sirius. We're all safe now." He felt Sirius' fingers cradle the back of his head, pressing him close.

"Dear gods," Arthur breathed. He was horror-struck. The memory played on, his ex-wife taunting their only surviving son at what must be their boy's execution. Bile rose in Arthur's throat. How had this happened? How had he missed all the signs? If she had truly been behind Fabian and Gideon's deaths, as she said, how could he have not realized? They had been Arthur's friends; he had lived with the woman over twenty years! More than half his life. Now she'd killed all their sons and demented their daughter. Guilt choked Arthur.

"Mother?" Draco murmured, attention caught by the gentle path Narcissa's fingers were delicately moving across his face. Belatedly, he realized she was tracing the slash marring his face in the memory. She wasn't crying, but her face was heavy with sorrow as she dropped a kiss onto his hair.

"Never again, my dragon," she whispered, and slipped an equally promising look to Blaise, including him as her son by marriage.

Lucius nodded grimly at Narcissa's words. He had made many vows in his life. This one, made silently in his soul in time with the mother of his son, he would die to maintain. Remus caught his eye, revealing the rage of a wolf with a slaughtered pack, and Lucius knew he would have all the help he could need.

As the memory ended in green light, the accord was solidified.