Remus frowned, holding up two ties to his reflection. He had no preference, and less idea of which was more appropriate. Growing up poor to a lifetime spent coping with his little furry problem's Ministry-installed limitations hadn't left Remus with much of a personal style. The closest he had come were the hand-me-downs foisted on him by James and Sirius. Remus had only accepted his friends' help when his own things had looked so ratty even his pride wouldn't let him refuse.

Then, his friends had died or been imprisoned. Remus had been the last Marauder left standing. He would have laughed at the irony had the grief not choked him. Cursed and scruffy, without an ounce of James' bravado or Sirius' cunning, but somehow still uselessly moving through the world. Not even able to protect James' boy, a child Remus had loved the moment Sirius had thrust the infant into his arms. A final wound dealt to him by his affliction and, ultimately, the Ministry.

He couldn't think about Peter. The Kiss was too good for him, enough said.

As a rule, Remus was not the vengeful kind. Unlike others bitten and abandoned, Remus had never hunted Greyback. Neither had he protested when the Ministry layered their dubious regulations on his life. His greatest temptation had been Peter, that night in the Shrieking Shack. Yet even then he had turned away and let the matter go to the authorities. Remus was no Ahab, tormented by his losses to the point of madness and death. Remus had made his peace with cruelty. He had no desire to commit more to comfort himself with.

But, for his children… For his children, Remus Lupin wanted blood. He wanted to spill it without losing a drop of his own. He wanted his children unscarred, if not unburdened. He would not be a martyr. His children would not be victims. His husband—and Lucius would be again—would not die.

(He'd clutched Teddy, blond and grey-eyed like his father that day. The warm burst of air as the floo lit up and the Malfoy security head, Millicent Bulstrode, stumbled in. Her face was blank with shock. "Remus," she'd gasped, "I'm so sorry.")

Remus wanted revenge. That was his ambition. For the first time in his life, he was ready to bludgeon whatever stood in his way. Including, Remus had been surprised to find, his old grudges.

Remus had never hunted Fenrir. That said, Remus had done his level best to put the bastard down during the Wars. But, officially, the Order didn't kill their enemies, and Remus hadn't ever had an opportunity when fighting Fenrir where 'officially' could be blurred. When Bill Weasley had stumbled out of the Last Battle, beaten and abused, Remus had very nearly ended the monster anyway. He'd been halfway through an Avadea Kedevra when Bill had interceded.

"Please, Remus." Remus could still hear the exhausted, numb horror in Bill's voice. The resignation and creeping desperation. "We're mates. You'll kill us both."

Remus had expected Fenrir would be smug. The son of a bitch had killed dozens, turned more, and joined Voldemort. Now he couldn't be Kissed, imprisoned, or executed without doing equal harm to a popular war hero. In that moment after the Battle the public would have never abided such an action. Remus had also known that Harry's first post-war act would be to strike some kind of deal for Fenrir, for Bill's sake.

Instead, he had looked into the alpha's eyes and seen only a broken man.

Fenrir wasn't broken, this time around. Remus saw caution in how he touched Bill, but he did not flinch when Bill frowned. He was protective of Bill, and wrathful to their enemies. He had a plan.

And he had invited Remus to join in.

"I need a man on the inside," Fenrir had greeted bluntly. Lucius had left to go speak with Draco after that last awful memory, leaving Remus to his own devices. Mindlessly he had wandered to a secluded games' room, seeking quite. After those memories, after seeing his pup hang, only silence would help him muzzle his raging wolf.

"Now is not the time," Remus had growled. His fangs had garbled his words, pushing against his lips. He'd wanted to tear something apart. Fenrir would do, if Remus couldn't calm himself.

"Are you one wolfsbane?" Fenrir had asked instead, casual as you like. "No wonder why your mate's been human so long. It itches, doesn't it?"

"What do you think?" His claws had bit into his palms.

Lucius Malfoy was precisely the reason Remus shot Wolfsbane like vodka. Or else, vervain—a plant toxic to werewolves, but able to more or less subdue their natures. For years Remus had used both to beat the creature to silence when it howled, locking the door on its whimpers. To do otherwise was to take Lucius while they battled, Death Eater and Dumbledore's man, Lucius supposedly made anonymous by his mask but always, always known to Remus. Not to lock him up like a Death Eater should have been, or to interrogate or torture or kill him like many were, towards the end. But to take him. To claim him, uncaring of human mores or codes or conceptions or humanity at all. To take him away from humanity, forever.

If he'd committed that sin, Remus could never have lived with himself. Lucius would have lost everything, just as Remus had. Not even after they'd married would Remus consider the subject, this evil thing that he craved. Instinctually his wolf knew that turning Lucius would grant them perfect harmony in their bond, link them on so deep a level that nothing could tear them apart and they'd both be stronger for it. But that wasn't an option. Not when they'd been enemies, and certainly not now that Lucius was the most important man in his life.

So. Potions and plants it was.

"You're trying to protect him. It's the same for me and Bill," Fenrir explained. "But it won't be like this for much longer. This deal I'm working with the Minister? It's everything our kind's ever wanted."

"You're the one who made me like this!" Snarling, Remus had whirled on the man. "If not for Bill, I'd kill you."

Fenrir had met him calmly, unrepentant. "Don't pretend like it hasn't gotten you everything you wanted."

Remus had stared at him in horror, the suffering of a lifetime charging through his mind . "What the hell are you talking about."

"You think Malfoy would have ever looked at you if not for the pull?" Fenrir sneered, his fangs catching the light. A blatant challenge. Then, his face softened. "The Moon doesn't compel you to love, but she makes damn sure you can't ignore your perfect match. And you got a pack out of that, didn't you?"

Remus had reared back, stung, Teddy's face sharp in is mind. Draco's indulgent smile as he took the baby in his arms. Narcissa's sisterly teasing. Lucius' stunned glee when he fell pregnant. His own bewildered happiness when Lucius had marched up to him, a week after changing sides, and boldly declared for all and sundry, "We're mates, aren't we?"

Fenrir had smiled, "Hate me all you want, but work with me on this. To protect both our packs."

"The blue," a mutter interrupted, jerking him out of his memories. Remus blinked, realizing that he was still holding up the ties. "It compliments your eyes," Lucius added sleepily.

Remus turned, clever quip on the tip of his tongue, but was silenced by the sight that greeted him. Silk sheets twisted serpentine around long, alabaster legs, just suggesting modesty as they dipped over Lucius' hips. His platinum hair spilled over the hand that supported his head, glinting in the morning light. Remus swallowed, eyes tracing every contour of his broad, sculpted chest, flicking up to get caught on his mercury eyes, that arrogant, knowing smirk.

"Lucius," Remus said, a sigh and a moan. In two quick steps he was kneeling on the bed, ties forgotten. He cradled Lucius' jaw, drawing him in for a kiss.

Lucius acceded easily, malleable and soft as he never was otherwise. He let Remus roll him back, spreading his legs invitingly. A knowing hand slipped down Remus' fitted trousers and he swore.

"Narcissa will kill us," Remus groaned, caught between bliss and misery. They'd had a lie-in already. If they weren't dressed quickly, they would miss breakfast. Narcissa had made the consequences of missing breakfast very clear.

"Narcissa is my best friend," Lucius replied, efficiently unfastening the neat pearl buttons holding Remus' robes together. He shucked the Amantula silk-wool blend off Remus' shoulders carelessly. "She wants me to be happy. You, generally, make me happy." He nipped Remus' lip, sparking hot desire low in his gut. His fingers didn't let up, stroking that desire to flame. Remus whined.

"So," Lucius purred, settling smugly back into the pillows. "Take your trousers off and make me happy."

"As you wish," Remus breathed, sufficiently distracted. In his soul the wolf chuffed contently, pleased by mate and home and pleasure. But also by Remus' lingering certainly that there would be blood, soon, on the horizon.

"You are late," Narcissa declared thirty minutes later, raising a dry eyebrow at Lucius as they took the pair of seats at her elbow. On her other side, Kingsley smirked.

Remus blushed, but Lucius was unruffled. He greeted Narcissa with a kiss to the air by her cheek so as not to disturb her makeup.

"It takes so long to select just the right tie," Lucius said, in a tone one would use to describe a great tragedy. "It pains me to have delayed."

"Oh, yes," Narcissa replied, with empathy was genuine as Lucius' woe. "I imagine you were terribly pained."

"Just terribly," Lucius concurred. They shared a smile.

A few seats down, Draco pulled a face. "Good Morgana. Promise me if we ever have children, Blaise, we won't be like that."

Blaise's cutlery shrieked as his misjudged a slice. "What?"

Draco frowned at him. "Nothing, Blaise. Just a joke." He brow wrinkled with concern. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Draco had spent the better part of the morning trying to convince Blaise to sleep in. His husband had looked pale and drawn ever since Draco had returned from his talk with his father. While Draco had been much settled by the conversation—and Father, too, Draco suspected—Blaise had scarcely let Draco out of his sight and stewed all the while.

Draco was worried. He didn't like to be worried. Blaise wasn't telling him something. Draco hated not being told.

Blaise sighed, setting down his fork and knife. He felt ill with guilt and dread, made worse by upsetting Draco. His poor love had fluttered around him like an anxious butterfly, surreptitiously checking Blaise's temperature that morning when stroking back his hair. Draco was a terrible worrier. He could make himself sick with it. Blaise was definitely not fool enough to think that Draco would let it go.

This could not go on, Blaise realized. If not for Draco's sake, then because Blaise feared this wound would fester. It was already festering. Phantom laughter and wandering thoughts… Blaise couldn't afford such distraction. Not with waited for them in the castle.

Blaise frowned, irritated with himself. He had brushed those thoughts away so carefully, locked his mental doors so tightly, yet still they trickled in. With greater determination, he fixed the lock back in place. All in due time. First…

"Later today, let's tuck into the back booth at Fortescue's," Blaise offered softly, stomach twisting. "I'll tell you what's bothering me there." But not here, in the family home Draco already had so many difficult memories of.

Biting his lips, Draco nodded and took Blaise's hand in his lap. He watched Blaise with quick glances from the corner of his eye, but after several minutes of Blaise holding it together, Draco let himself be drawn into a complicated chess debate with Ron and Susan.

Blaise twined their fingers together, content to live in the background for the time being.

Arthur Weasley would do anything to protect his children. To make them happy. Even with his piecemeal memories, Arthur knew that as surely as he knew that he was a Weasley, a father, and that he didn't hold with the Light or the Dark.

Oops. That may not be a fact to share, quite yet. See, this recollection was among the instances that made Arthur's life strange. The twenty years he had spent, quite literally, out of his mind had left his psyche a mangled jigsaw puzzle. In the couple of months since his liberation from that woman, he had been forced to sift through the pieces, judging where to fit each one with perilously little context. Some, he felt, belonged to a different puzzle entirely. Others were so badly damaged he couldn't tell. Still more felt so intimate, so precious, that Arthur was sure no one else had ever seen them.

Light and Dark. Supposedly, every magical felt a pull one way or the other. The purifying, sanctifying Light aura attracted egalitarians and humanists, people with the highest hopes for the world. Or there was the protective, possessive Dark draw, for those who believed in surviving the world rather than saving it. Politics were as deeply woven with the sides as tradition, ritual, and magic itself.

The longer Arthur had his mind to himself, the more certain he was that he had never picked a side. Magic to Arthur was like water to a fish. It sustained him. He breathed it in and it gave him motion. He could read entire epics in the wavers and dips of latent magic that hung in the air. Those instincts had made him the best in his department because he could predict what the magic would do. He adhered to no one side because Arthur simply did not see the point in picking just one.

At some point in his history, Arthur suspected he had acted on these feelings. When Draco had brought up those keys, Arthur's magic had shrieked with recognition. The information had leapt to his mind, whooshing forward with an exultant They worked! In his excitement, Arthur could no better stop the words he'd spouted than silence his heart's beating on command.

But Arthur needed to be careful. Obviously, he hadn't been careful enough the life before. Something had gone terribly wrong. People whose lives went terribly right never wound up back in time, Arthur felt sure.

Time travel. Arthur could cope with that. If not, his devoted sons were doggedly determined to support him. Should they for some reason fail, Arthur also felt confident in his new association with the Malfoys. To an outsider, he supposed this friendship was rather strange. But most oddly, there was no strangeness to Arthur. In fact, the time Arthur had spent at Malfoy Manor had been the most comfortable he could clearly remember.

It was almost like he has spent time here with Lucius and Narcissa before.

Arthur idly skimmed his fingers over the fine marble banister. Huge and white, the grand staircase dominated the foyer, feeding into a wraparound veranda that let those above survey entering guests. Arthur's eyes flicked up habitually, searching, desiring, expecting a gaze that was never there. His heart ached and he rubbed at his chest, like to soothe a physical wound. As was usual, the pang persisted despite his efforts.

At first Arthur had thought that these sensations were lingering Amortentia trauma. He had pulled Narcissa aside soon after their formal acquaintance to discuss it. Somehow he had known her to be as excellent a healer as a confidant—which was to say, very.

He'd seen from the disconcertion on her face that no one readily approached her in either capacity, and certainly not after meeting her for all of a half-hour. But Arthur had simply known.

Arthur had been having many mysterious epiphanies, lately. Within days of righting himself, Arthur had quit the job he'd thought he loved just to avoid the Ministry. In removing Molly from his life, Arthur's gut had refused to let him step foot in the Ministry and so he had gone right to the Goblins for an annulment. Even before those atrocious memories—his children's memories—Arthur had followed this strange guiding something that had assured him that he could trust Narcissa.

So far, so good.

A little bemused, Narcissa had dispersed his worries. Amortentia, apparently, quickly lost its grip if not regularly administered. "The only enduring worry," she'd told him with a rueful, gentle smile, "Is the time you have lost."

Time. Molly had married him in 69', barely graduated. He could remember happily eloping with her at Ottery St Catchpole's magical chapel. Sickeningly, Arthur had no clear memories of her before that.

Time rushed forward. Arthur's next crystal-clear memory was of unbridled joy, while holding his sweet William for the first time. The year was 1970. He remembered coming home always exhausted from work but thrilled to play make-believe with his boy. "Bill, Daddy! I'm Bill the adventure-wizard!"

Charles had wanted to be at least a hundred things over the years. But he had always been kind, the boy Bill had dubbed 'Charlie' his first time holding the baby. Charlie rescued birds with broken wings and nudged snakes that wandered onto the road back into the grass, fearless of being scratched or bitten.

Percival had been quiet. Born quiet, and too early. The nickname had been Arthur's fault. The little boy who loathed to leave Arthur's side hadn't fit such a stoic, knightly name. But still waters ran deep with his Percy.

The twins' were a surprise. Fred hadn't given George a full minute alone, and they had fought to stay that way ever since. Arthur indulged them. Whatever heavy punishments Molly insisted on for exploding toilets, vanishing crockery, or prank chocolates, Arthur had quietly mitigated. Better she be wrathful with him than his children.

Arthur had nearly missed Ronald's birth due to a triple-shift at the Ministry. Arthur remembered beaming down at Ron's irritated little face. The baby had easily been the fussiest and loudest of Arthur's children. This one will make the world bend before he does, Arthur had thought.

Arthur had the fewest clear memories of Ron. He wasn't sure how the nickname had come about or what Ron had wanted to be as a child. In 1980, Bill was two years shy of Hogwarts and Arthur had never worked harder.

Hogwarts was a damned expensive school. But Arthur would have died before denying his children the best education. He had worked with many wizards and witches who had been home-taught. From them he had heard first-hand what a hell it was to try and work upwards in a society that placed such an importance on Hogwarts, its connections, and its Houses.

With his last child, Arthur's hours had increased until he all but slept at the Ministry. Arthur hadn't cared. Arthur had loved his daughter the moment he knew she was on the way. His princess, opinionated and strong and flying circles around her brothers the moment she had a broom, laughing.

Arthur stumbled on the last step, surprised by pain. His daughter, Ginevra. Not his daughter, anymore.

Arthur had not just divorced Molly. He had stripped her from House Weasley. Thereby, he had taken away her parental rights to Weasley children. He had erased Molly, as if she had not borne his children at all. Such extremes were almost never gone to for even the most traditional, radical purebloods. Children were sacred in the Wizarding World. What Arthur had done was an equivalent to the Kiss. Hence, children, even young children, were given the choice of parent. They had to lose one—at least, at the legal level—but their subsequent lineage was entirely up to the child. His sons had all chosen Arthur, but not his daughter. In exorcising Molly from his life, Arthur had banished Ginevra as well.

Arthur had been horrified by her choice. His sweet girl, left with a poisoner. He had nearly retracted his decision, dismayed that somehow Molly had swayed his girl like she had him. Bill had stopped him.

"You don't know, Dad," Bill had grimaced. "And I'm so sorry to tell you."

Learning about Ron and Harry's murder had hurt the worst. Sirius' death, too, the better Arthur came to know the man. All the little manipulations that Ginny must have made for all her brothers to die added up, making Arthur absolutely ill. Already weak from Amortentia withdrawal, he'd been made sicker by guilt and remorse.

As of September's end, Arthur had only six children. He would perhaps go to Hell for this choice. Or become a wandering spirit, bound to earth by his sin. What else do the Gods do with a man who exiles his child for crimes she cannot remember, may never commit? Arthur did not know. However, those memories… After watching Ginny enact evil firsthand, Arthur's mind had come to spite his heart. Preventative action, he now thought numbly in the face of his pain, was the only action he could take to protect his boys.

And he would protect his boys. To do so, however, required information Arthur could not remember. There were so many pieces floating in his head, disassociated and dangerous. He could not make plans uninformed. It would be like experimenting without a hypothesis. The father, tactician, and scientist in Arthur all rebelled. He would have to research. The best place, Arthur thought, would be where Arthur had began: Merriweather Hall, the ancestral home of the Weasley family. His home, until Molly had interceded.

Arthur had been removed from the wards and barred from inheritance as punishment for wedding her. With the truth out, his aunt had remorsefully removed those barriers. "I reinstate thee, nephew," Aunt Thessaly had written, her scrawl as spidery as Arthur remembered, "And welcome you home."

Arthur had thrown the original letter into the floo after sending a copy to the Goblins. He didn't need her remorse. It had come twenty years late for his children, who had grown up on the cusp of poverty. For himself, languishing under Molly's perversions. Had she cared for him at all, surely his aunt would have noticed something was off when he threw away his life for a woman Arthur couldn't properly remember. He'd sworn to himself that dear Aunt Tessie would die before he stepped foot on the grounds.

That had been before Arthur knew how much he was missing. Now, Arthur didn't have a choice.

Coming to the bottom of the steps, Arthur rounded the corner and paused in the open archway leading to the reception parlor. A grand fireplace, tall as a man and at least five-feet wide, dominated the opposing wall, framed by towering windows. Silhouetted perfectly by the roaring flames, stood Narcissa.

"Arthur," she greeted warmly. "I thought you might be the first one ready." Then she frowned, taking in his light indoor robes. They were an obvious contrast to the heavy weave of her own. A thick emerald cloak trimmed in white ermine finished her glamourous outfit, perfectly constructed for a day of traversing Daigon Alley's shops for the perfect Yule gift.

"Narcissa," he replied, bobbing his head informally. She returned it with a friendly little grin. "I fear I need to miss the shopping. However, I wanted to ask your permission first."

"You have business elsewhere," Narcisa said, not a question but an observation. "And not the pleasant kind."

Arthur grimaced. He felt no need to pretend with her. "Correct."

With a sigh, she gamely patted his shoulder. "You will be missed, but I'm hardly the obstructionist sort." She smirked.

Arthur laughed. "Of course not." He reached for the floo powder, but a delicate hand trapped his to the pot lid.

Narcissa met his eyes knowingly. "You will tell us if you run into trouble, won't you?"

"Of course I will," Arthur smiled, and nimbly extricated a handful of powder. As he dashed into the green flames with a cry of "Merriweather Hall," he didn't even feel like he was lying.

Neville smiled. He was cold, his cheeks stung, and he feared frostbite if he removed his gloves. His cloak's hem was soaked and pulling heavily on his shoulders, and his arm hurt from where he'd clipped a bookshelf he hadn't noticed in Flourish and Blott's. Despite three hours spent hunting through shops, he still had a present for neither Ron nor Harry. Also, Yule was a day away, so this was his last chance to find them something. Yet, Neville was the happiest he had been in recent memory.

He had been resistant to this shopping idea. The last thing Neville had felt comfortable with after viewing those memories was surrounding himself with the Wizarding public. However, after Ron's wheedling and Harry's practical assertion that they could use this trip to procure certain "materials," Neville had relented. He could always be tempted with the promise of a new sharp implement, it seemed.

Following breakfast, a surprisingly lively affair, he had allowed his loves to maneuver him into his winter things and into the parlor. Promptly at ten, Narcissa marshalled their forces and lit the floo. Only Mr. Weasley had been missing.

"Poor Arthur is already with the Goblins," Narcissa had explained, the slightest irritated twitch in her eyebrow. "Supporting three new bloods apparently bombards one with paperwork. Is there really nothing you can do, Bill?"

Bill had laughed, his shoulders relaxing. Bill trusted the Goblins with Arthur, Neville had surmised. The other Weasley sons obviously trusted their older brother's opinion, judging from the wave of relief that flooded through the redheads. "Sorry, Narcissa," Bill had grinned. "That's not my department for a reason."

"Pity," Narcissa had sniffed, then ordered them into the floo with military precision.

"Okay, it's safe," Harry called, breaking up Neville's thoughts. His adrenaline spiked, but then he remembered there was nothing warzone-like about this Daigon Alley. Harry's face-splitting grin confirmed it.

Neville perked up from his sentry posting at the threshold Quality Quidditch Supplies. "You've got it, then?"

Harry patted his pocket approvingly. "One Nimbus 2000, custom-painted Chudley Cannon orange. The sales assistant looked about a minute from calling St Mungo's on me, but she handed it over."

Neville grinned. "Do you think you can actually commit someone for their Quidditch preferences?"

Joining the pair on Neville's side, Dean snorted. "If it's the Cannons, I'm sure they'd make an exception."

"Or, at least, they should," Draco added, having walked over with Dean. "Is this where all us split-off halves are congregating, then?"

With the exchange of some giddy, mischievous looks, most of the couples had parted ways upon entering the Alley for the sake of Yule morning surprises. Neville, who had not a clue and had yet to be inspired, had elected to help Harry keep Ron from finding out about the broom. Perhaps Neville could get him a maintenance kit? But that was hardly special.

"Well," Harry declared, "I vote we move this meeting somewhere warmer. Where's good around here? I only really know the Leaky."

Neville frowned. Times like these, Neville remembered Harry had never had much exposure to the Wizarding World, not even to a relatively confined place like the Alley. Living muggle for eleven years and then running from successive maniacs just wasn't very conductive to cultural exploration. Well, Neville could help there.

"What about Morrigan's," he offered. "They're not far."

Draco nodded discerningly. "Casual but classy, with soups that manage to make up for their uninspired desserts. Blaise swears by the tomato-basil. I'll meet up with you there."

"Where are you off to?" Harry asked. "You can't tell me you're still looking for gifts."

Neville winced, pointedly looking elsewhere. Dean noticed and gave him a conspiratorial grin.

Draco snorted. "Of course not. I catalogue-ordered everything in November. Blaise wants to meet, though. Catch a few minutes together away from you scoundrels," he said with put-on derision.

"Pah," Harry scoffed. "See if we save you a seat. Pass the word along to anyone else, yeah?"

"Certainly. Don't bother with the adults, though. Father is hosting an unpublicized, but very obviously public luncheon. The Wand opened half an hour late, Mother had them in such a tizzy with the preparations," Draco boasted.

Neville's eyebrows spiked. There was generally a three-month waiting list on The Wand, the Alley's premier eatery. And they never took hosted events. He guessed the Malfoys were the exception to the rule, just as always.

Harry frowned. "What for? I thought we were just shopping."

Draco laughed. "My dear, sweet Harry. Nothing is ever just anything. The new Minister Bones and a dozen other Ministry notables will be there, including Kingsley as Bones' pick for the new Head Auror. There will also be names from the Wizengamont and House of Lords. Among them, Sirius Black making his first public appearance as Lord Black and Arthur Weasley as the first proper Lord Weasley in half a century, and as the new Lord Prewett."

Draco paused to take a breath. He grinned widely, as though gaining a high from the political fumes.

"If that weren't enough, the werewolf Alpha Fenrir Greyback will be attending as a political figure with a head of state's diplomatic immunity for the first time in British Wizarding history. He will also be introducing his British Ministry liaison, Remus Lupin, the first British werewolf to ever hold such a prestigious position. William Weasley, Lord Weasley's heir, will be attending as Fenrir's mate and fiancé. Mother will be there, representing her half-dozen charity and interest groups and using Lady Malfoy Black title for the first time publicly. Representing the British Wizarding world's most powerful trade guild will be our own Severus Snape, something they've been after him to do for years but he has since refused until now." Draco sighed blissfully. "And all of it organized and presided over by my father. The only way it could be better is if I had done it myself."

"That's…" Harry started, staring.

"Intense," Dean finished, round-eyed.

Neville found himself nodding in agreement. He was more used to pureblood life than the other two, but Neville had never been involved in the likes of this. His grandmother's machinations had been done over intimate teas or, at the largest, a garden party. But then, Augusta Longbottom had cut all ties with the Dark after his parents were attacked. Maybe Neville wasn't as abreast of Wizarding Britain's political scene circa. 1990 as he'd thought.

Draco glowed with pride. "I should think so. Mark my words, this event will be taught at Hogwarts one day. Well, if we ever get a competent history professor, that is. Hell, even just a living one!"

With a chuckle, the group broke apart. A gentle snow began to fall, and in a fit of whimsy Neville turned his head to catch a flake on his tongue. The wind whistled, blowing down a tall wizard's hood as he dashed down the opposite street. In the corner of his eye Neville caught a snapshot of red hair, and on instinct double-checked over his should. He paused, blinking. He swore he had just seen Arthur Weasley dart into Gringott's. But Arthur should be at the luncheon. He had been to Gringotts already, right?

"Neville, what is it?" Harry asked, tugging gently on Neville's hand.

"Nothing," Neville replied immediately. "I just thought…"

Harry had stopped walking and was looking at him intently. Worry swirled in his eyes, which flicked restlessly around the street. Neville felt immediately guilty. How stupid, now he'd gone and put Harry on edge for nothing.

Pasting a grin in place, Neville leaned in. "I just thought I saw Ron go into the Quidditch shop. The teller won't give us up if he asks about Cannons things, will she?"

Harry relaxed instantly. "Nah, I tipped well for her silence. We have nothing to worry about."

That was perfectly right, Neville decided. Perfectly, entirely right.

"What can we do for you, Lord Weasley Prewett?" the bank manager, Gargott, asked. Goblins were much more polite once you had millions of galleons to your name, Arthur thought distantly.

Arthur had been shown to a rich office concealed discreetly at the back of the building. Gargott had met him there in less time than it took Arthur to turn down his assistant's offer of tea. Now they were both seated in a pair of luxurious chairs, divided by an ancient oak desk.

With hands that slightly shook, Arthur placed the relevant, special key on the desk. "Access to Bellatrix Lestrange's Vault, please."

The Goblin manager's face blanked briefly, before a slow, maniacal smile spread across his wrinkled mouth. "Fortius Quo Fidelius," he murmured to himself. Then, firmly, "Come right this way, Lord Weasley Prewett. We've been waiting for you."

A part of Arthur wanted to hesitate. To reconsider. To summon the others and discuss what he had discovered, to proceed with caution and many, many fail-safes. But he couldn't.

Arthur had sat through two days of talk. Of anger and sadness and terrible uselessness. He had gathered all the information there was to find. Now, there was only action.

His heart palpated, beating like a hummingbird against his breast. A cold sweat broke on his brow. But. His magic hummed contently, purring and twining languorously around his core more and more, the further down they traveled. Like it was just now waking after a long sleep—or a coma. It tingled his fingertips, his toes. If felt like joy.

Bolstered, Arthur walked on. His magic was thrilled by his decision, moving more happily with every step. Arthur could not stop. He didn't want to.

There was a cup waiting for him in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. Arthur would not leave without it.

Updated 20/08/2022