Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable is mine :)

16 November 1998

Grimmauld Place never slept. The flurry of activity was not born from constant vigilance, but rather, by something as simple as necessity. Wards. Strategy. Burials. Injury. Training. Allocating money and stretching Galleons much farther than any of them had fathomed.

At 3:24 that morning, Kingsley Shacklebolt sat at his desk. His floor was littered with discarded parchment and broken quills, and in the corner of the office, under the dent in the wall, were fragments of ceramic instead of an oversized coffee mug. His shoulders were bent and his hands cradled his head, though they had started to slip from the sweat. He was tired, scared, angry, and ultimately desperate, and he prayed to whoever - whatever - might be listening.

Merlin, Godric, Salazar, Rowena, Helga, God, Allah, Buddha, get us all through one more day.

But his wartime existence had robbed him of faith, and he sighed heavily and straightened in his chair. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the drawer and resumed his diagrams and planning, trying to create something from nothing. In a magical world, it should have been easy.

It wasn't.

At 3:24 that morning, Alastor Moody paced in front of his door. His Sneak-O-Scope shrilled because it always shrilled, and his Foe Glass was alive with shadows so corporeal he swore he could feel their breath when he stared at the whites of his eyes. They called him Mad-Eye, and it wasn't complimentary. He didn't mind. He might have been mad, but he was still alive, and that was more than could be said for the people he had killed. He was bitter and grizzled, and he was horribly disfigured. His leg seemed a small price to pay for justice though, and he truly felt his magical eye was an improvement over the one he had been born with.

Mad-Eye Moody paced in circles in front of his door and wished the adrenaline in his blood would dissipate so he could sleep -really sleep- because he hadn't been able to really sleep in more than twenty years.

At 3:24 that morning, Luna Lovegood sat at her windowsill and searched for stars between the clouds. Her window was open, and she had charmed it so that the rain fell straight instead of inside her room. Her nails tapped lightly on a tarnished silver bell as she drummed out a rhythm for Scottish Pixies, hoping that it might bring light to their life as she had found in hers. In a world fractured by conflict, Luna was serene. Maybe she shouldn't have been - her father's body had been deposited in front of Hogwarts only two months ago. He was captured by Death Eaters in an attempt to locate his wraithlike daughter. Luna's father's love prevailed for her then and he took her secrets with him to his grave.

Just like it did with the others, the war stole away with her innocence… but in the wake of her pain, her friends drew together tightly, desperate to protect her, desperate to protect each other. She watched as the war and their loss brought people closer together. The war united them like nothing else could have ever done, and though she mourned the loss of her father, there were few things Luna held closer to her heart than her friends.

At 3:24 that morning, Severus Snape flung open the front door with such a bang that the windows rattled. Kingsley jumped. Luna smiled and put away her bell and slipped between the sheets. With a yell, Moody sent a jet of red light careening towards the intruder. Severus deflected it, and it shattered a lamp on his left.

"That was highly unnecessary, you deranged old man. You keyed the wards yourself, and they change every four hours and eighteen minutes. This location is Secret-Kept. It is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Surely this is sufficient, Alastor?"

"The Dark Mark on your arm is one of the reasons the wards change every four hours and eighteen minutes. If I could manage it, they'd change every two!"

"How very…touching that the sacrifice of my soul means so little to you. And admirable, really, that you think so highly of Dumbledore." His voice was like black velvet and colder than a winter frost. The smooth barb pertaining to Dumbledore served to incense Moody, and his face darkened abruptly. With a strangled motion he started to speak when a quick pop! diverted the' attention of both men to Madam Pomfrey.

"Enough, gentlemen. Alastor, your wards are due to change in twelve minutes. Severus, hospital wing - room, rather." With her hands on her hips, she was a force to be reckoned with, and she marched from the room with perfect certainty that she would, indeed, be followed. She was not disappointed, and with his opponent somewhat forcibly taken from him, Moody muttered and stomped back to his room to prepare the next change to the wards.

Constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance.

"You. Bed. Now. Lie down. And do remove the Glamour when you remove your robes, Severus. I can only help you as much as you let me." She sighed and cast worried eyes from his head to his toes. Behind the privacy of locked doors, he allowed himself his first grimace since arriving, and he moved gingerly, carefully bracing each joint - toes, ankles, knees, hips - as he settled himself on the bed. He winced as he fought the silver fastening on his cloak with stiff fingers and muscles that still jumped beneath his skin. He shivered a bit, pulling the white sheet over his narrow hips.

"He started it, Poppy."

She smiled then, turning back to her patient and handing him a potion that smoked faintly around the edges.

"Tremors from the Cruciatus first, but I am sure you were as innocent as the day you were born."

"Of course."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips as she flitted around him, gentle pokes and prods from her wand repairing the damage to his body. Surface wounds were easy, and as she closed shallow cuts and smoothed bruises from his pale skin, she tried not to think of how they formed. They were too shallow and too insubstantial to have been intentional injuries… they were where he damaged his own body when he fell and flailed from Cruciatus. When she straightened and reset the bones in his wrist, he hissed, and it was by sheer force of will that he didn't jerk away from her and re-fracture them.

"Gentle, woman!"

"Hush, Severus. Now, do us all a favor and rest, won't you? Merlin knows you're less pleasant than usual when you're in pain."

He scowled and muttered something that sounded roughly like "interfering" or possibly "meddling", but he rose gingerly and moved to his own quarters. She frowned. He shouldn't have moved so soon after taking the potion, but it was a longstanding argument between them, and it was one she never won. Severus wouldn't rest, let alone sleep, unless he was behind his own doors… doors she had carefully arranged to be a mere six steps from the hospital room. Given Moody's reaction to him, she sighed, and decided that traveling those six steps was the lesser of two evils.

At 3:24 that morning, Hermione Granger turned over in her bed, lost in a blissful, dreamless sleep where she failed to exist in this world.

Dialogue is the bane of my existence - have I butchered it horribly?

I'm anticipating a bit of controversy regarding the Snape-Pomfrey exchange, and I'd like to explain a bit here. With his role as a double (quadruple?) agent, and the rather sadistic demeanor of Voldemort, I think it stands to reason that Snape has been coming to Poppy for many, many years to let her put him back together. By extension, I think it's logical that they have forged a special relationship, one where he can let down his guard a bit, relax, perhaps even confide things such as pain to her. Now, would he ever admit this? I think he'd rather die.

Thank you so much to my reviewers- Her Royal Goddess, disposable-view, Looney Lovey, and heartmom88. You are too kind 3

Love always,
Threnody