Oh hey. This is AU. If you want to know what's going on with more of these characters, read my other stories. Thanks and cupcakes.

An owl, a dark sky, a tall house on a city street: nothing in this scene is particularly novel, or fascinating. Only the letter matters. Its message, brusque and to the point, bears little meaning, but he has anticipated it for several months.

Vassikin had spoken to him last Easter, told him what he had learned from a network of Durmstrang graduates: expect something to happen. Expect change. Again? he had asked. What more change can there be?

Very much, Vassikin said.

But he had not expected it to come so soon.

Ministry came here, made arrest. We are going to London to help. Likely that there will be an investigation.

He burned the letter, went upstairs, and poured himself a drink.

On a crisp evening in early May twenty years ago, much of the future was decided in one simple action.

There were five people standing in a forest: three Death Eaters; two of those were veterans, a third, younger, recently joined; and two of the Order. The way he imagined it, a blanket of silence fell about them as they saw one another. Who reacted first? He liked to think it was one of the Order, that sometimes they fought back without technical provocation, but he considered it unlikely. Their reputation existed for a reason.

So he assumed Bellatrix Lestrange moved first and killed the Metamorphmagus that happened to be her niece. This left her husband, Remus Lupin, who indubitably—well, he had no ability to see into the mind of a werewolf. But even a werewolf had to have some kind of human instinct towards revenge.

At that point Bellacine Black interceded and killed Lupin before he could kill her aunt, who would die later that evening anyways. Nobody but the other two Death Eaters had seen her do it.

So who had called her to trial?

He stared at himself in the mirror, pale skin and ginger-brown hair.

"I'm Graham Pritchard. Slytherin. Fourth year during the Battle of Hogwarts. That was twenty years ago. I never did anything wrong."

"Of course you didn't," said the mirror.

"I never—"

"Look around you," snapped the mirror. "Why are you here? Because they all love you? Because you all have the same precise definition of wrong?"

"I don't even know why I keep you around," he said. He thinks it's because he's scared of disappearing if he can't see himself.

That evening, Sasha Vassikin came by after supper.

"We need to talk."

"We do. What's the news?" They went into the parlor and sat down.

"Well, some of us are leaving tomorrow morning for England—mostly the older crowd, those that went to Durmstrang during the Tournament." Vassikin himself had gone to Hogwarts for that purpose, though he had not been chosen. "Nobody's called for witnesses, but Vasily Pyotorovich says they won't." The man of whom he spoke—Vasily Gnedich—had been at times a classmate, acquaintance, friend, and boyfriend of the woman in question; even a proper rumor mill couldn't sort out the current status.

"Does he?" Pritchard frowned. "But why? They've got to have a proper trial, at least. Shacklebolt knew her—he'll step in."

Vassikin laughed. "Shacklebolt's been Minister for the past twenty years, my friend. I doubt he has ever considered stepping down—why would he bother to step in? For all we know, he turned her in."

"It's possible. Who else?"

"Dolohov—the father—was there also, but he's been in Azkaban. I suppose he could have gone for some sort of plea bargain, but why bother after twenty years? He seems to have little desire to leave. At the least, Anton hasn't tried to help his father, even though he's got the money to spend the rest of his life suing whomever he pleases." Vassikin laughed shortly. "I can never decide if I like him or not. Anyway, the rest of them are dead or incarcerated—convenient, isn't it?"

"We're the only ones who know," said Pritchard. "And that's very few people—perhaps fifteen families, not counting her."

"That's why I'm worried. Obviously this is a very, well, very closed community—we can't have just anyone involved, they wouldn't understand."

"Exactly. What do you want me to do? I can come to London if you give me a few days to tie up business," he suggested.

"No—no, we need you here, poking around. I'm going, Vasily's going, Isay Poliakoff, and there's a Ravenclaw family as well."

"Sounds good."

"No," said Vassikin, "this isn't good. Can you not see? First they take Bella Regulovna. Then they come back for more of us. I'm quite sure the Ministry can do whatever they like to our people if it means 'preventing' another 'holocaust.'"

"Sasha Aleksandrovitch"—Pritchard still stumbled over the curious names they used, the patronymics—"I hope you are mad."

"I hope so too. Start investigating, or we will find it necessary to do more than hope."