"Do you think this is where it began?" the head of the council asked. He loomed over the room, his head brushing the domed ceiling. He easily surpassed twelve meters, and his features were skeletal. With one black boned arm, he leaned forward, holding his chin, to examine the man before him. The man, though young, already had grey hair littered throughout his scalp.

The young man closed his eyes, "No. I used to, but now I believe it started much longer ago."

"The Peverell Brothers' time, perhaps?" the head suggested with a booming, sinister voice, as if he already knew the answer.

"Perhaps," the man said, on edge, "but I think the World has always been expecting it."

"Hmm," the head hummed, "then what significance do you think the Bonham woman's death had to do with it?"

The man opened his eyes and looked into the head's vacant ones, "Her death was the linchpin to what followed afterwards. There's no denying that."

The head smiled, "Then you remember what happened afterwards."

The man let out a quivering sigh, "Like it was yesterday."

XXX

The day carried on like any other day. In the Great Hall, the breakfast bustle was well under way, and the owls were due at any moment. Cheerful laughs and the sound of milk being spilled over wooden tables were abundant. It was a peculiarly nice day in Scotland, and the sun cast a warm glow on the Hall and the students within it.

Dishes were passed, cups jostled, and last minute assignments were being scrawled on as the owls came bursting from the aerie. And suddenly, the Hall was no longer as cheerful.

It started with the single black owl, which soared over the heads of the students, and at last landed at Dumbledore's seat, bearing with it a rich black envelope. Silence got acquainted with the hall. The headmaster pursed his lips. One long, bony finger broke the seal, and the students held their breath as his eyes skimmed the parchment. When he set down the letter, there was something solemn about him. He stood up gently and walked over to a Ravenclaw fourth year girl.

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and she quickly glanced around her to see if the headmaster was approaching one of her friends. No such luck. He gave her a serene smile, and soon, he ushered her out of the Great Hall away from prying eyes.

As if on cue, the other owls rushed down simultaneously from the rafters, bearing with them The Daily Prophet, other papers, and an assortment of letters. Suddenly, things made sense.

The Prophet screamed in bold, black ink, "Heir to Founder of St. Mungo's, Lisa Bonham, Found Murdered in the Healing Halls."

Witch Weekly was not as sensitive; its headline read: Death of Prominent Witch Saddens the Nation, Which Mourning Outfit Will You Choose? Options on Page 5.

And The Quibbler, quirky and avant-garde as always, said, "Special Edition: A Conspiracy Afoot? Was Lisa Bonham's Death Part of an Elaborate Ministry Scheme?"

Marlene gingerly set down her copy of The Prophet, her fingers shaking as a numbness swept over them.

"That's horrible," Mary whispered, and Lily echoed the sentiment with a nod. They did not know what to do in the face of a tragedy; tragedy had never walked into their lives before, only took off its shoes and stood at the welcome mat.

The light mood of the Hall seemed to darken, and though the sunlight still shone on the wooden tables and silver plates, it seemed to cast everything in a blinding reality that stayed, even as the first students peeled away and headed early to their classes. The Hall grew more and more empty, and Marlene found herself sitting with Lily, Mary, and a few other stragglers. They seemed to be waiting for her, and they shared worried looks.

"You coming to History?" Lily finally ventured.

"No, you go on without me," Marlene said at last, standing up from the bench. She brushed off the crumbs of her biscotti from her lap.

Lily's brow furrowed, "You can't just skip class, a prefect could duck points for that."

Marlene raised a challenging brow, "Are you going to?"

Lily finally sighed, "No, I won't. Just this one class, right?"

"Right," Marlene confirmed, "Binns won't miss me anyway. Too delighted by the sound of his own dull voice," she gave the two a weak smile.

Mary returned it and gave her a concerned one in return. She stiffly patted Marlene's shoulder and followed Lily up the grand staircase. Marlene watched them disappear.

After a few minutes had passed and she was certain that they were in class, she began to dash up the stairs. She jumped right before her staircase moved, and then she was off again. A few paintings shook their head at her, going on length about the cons of tardiness. But at last, she reached the fourth floor. Slightly out of breath, she walked directly to the tarnished mirror that hung lopsided on the stone wall.

She knocked on it furiously, "James! Open up, please!"

No response. She knocked again, "James, I wouldn't come here if it wasn't important."

Finally, the mirror slowly creaked open to reveal a hazel, bespeckled eye and disheveled hair. He cleared his throat before saying, "First of all, shouldn't you be in History right now?"

"Shouldn't you?" she said pointedly.

He chuckled grimly despite himself, "Fair point. Secondly, how'd you know I'd be here?"

She sighed, "Followed you one night after Quidditch. You were acting suspicious. Imagine my surprise to find that you snagged yourself your own secret passageway."

He seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, "You alright?"

She gave him a weak smile, "I could lie and say yes, but you'd know." He reached out and grasped her hand, squeezing it as a comfort. She continued, "I just need one small favor."

"Anything," he said earnestly.

She let out a deep breath, "I know you have a way to know where people are," his brows shot up, "I don't know the exact inner workings of it, but you always seem to know how to find people, even in this hulking seven floor monstrosity, and I need to find someone."

"Alright…"

"It's Breen Bonham."

His face darkened, "I don't think she wants to be found today."

"James, I know her."

He seemed surprised at her statement, "You do? She's a fourth year."

She was half-pleading now, "My dad knows her family. She might think she wants to be alone, but she could...she could use someone with her."

James swallowed, "Okay. Fine. Wait here."

She watched as he let the passageway swing close, catching the briefest glimpse of his fingers in the doorway, before the mirror slid back into place. A little later, he opened the passageway again.

"She's on the fifth floor corridor behind the boar tapestry. It's across the huge portrait of-"

"Got it," she said, and James blinked, watching her flash of blonde hair disappear.

"Thanks!" she called out, and he nodded, a furrow forming between his brows.

"Welcome," he said quietly to an empty hallway. His voice quivered in the still air.

XXX

The boar tapestry was rather well-known for a tapestry. It had gained renown for always leaving its domain and was often seen charging into every piece of art imaginable. The woven piece was worn, and only the faintest sounds came from the boar that ran on its fabric fields.

Behind it was an old room. Quite small, only slightly larger than a broom cupboard. Few knew about the room, but Breen Bonham seemed to have stumbled upon it.

The thin window inside the room, paneled with diamonds of wavering glass, brought in a semblance of light. Breen gathered her knees to her chest, and she felt altogether too small.

Her mother had been a short and curvaceous woman: on the larger side of the spectrum, but with the best embrace. She styled her auburn hair in looping pin curls, and her perfume was warm. That was the best way to describe it, really; she gave off the sense of warmth and home.

Breen took after her father, a skinny broom of a man with dark skin and a cloud of hair that only added to his lanky height. She was a mirror image of him with her mother's short stature. The result was Breen, who, though she was fourteen, looked more like a second year. Even Madame Malkin, who had taken her measurements since she was barely eight, had thought she was twelve, going on thirteen, when she had come into her summer robe fitting.

Her chest felt tight, empty and overflowing at the same time. Nostalgia, Shock, and Disbelief were her companions, and they, too, settled into the small room, lounging on the one wooden bench.

Breen was a Ravenclaw, and because of this, she was well-acquainted with logic and fact. Leave the fantastical to the bold, reckless Gryffindors and their heroic acts or the daydreamers of Hufflepuff; Breen understood the world through a series of researched and proved statements.

Fact: Her mother was dead.

Fact: Her mother was murdered.

Fact: She would never see her mother again.

This, perhaps, was the hardest concept to grasp. She had not always been kind to her mother. Truth be told, she found herself sometimes embarrassed of her: her mother was too loud, too demanding, too large of a presence, too different in appearance from her. The small things she had found fault in she now missed beyond measure and would give up her soul seven times over if it meant she could see her again.

The world was funny like that. Only absence made something more valuable, more cherished, but by then, it would be too late.

Gone, gone, gone. Four letters, but an idea that was too outrageous to understand. Her mother would never brush her hair away from her forehead and smile sadly when Breen pushed her away? Her mother would never hold her hand as they wound their way through Knockturn Alley, gathering medical herbs, and Breen would pretend that she was doing her mother a favor by intertwining their fingers instead of the other way around? Her mother would never come home late from St. Mungo's on the summer hols and use her last bit of energy to make a breakfast for Breen, which she could warm up in the morning? Her mother would never come home?

Breen now understood the quest for immortality that so many wizards and witches had sought. Immortalize your loved ones, immortalize yourself, and you would never not be loved, never be forgotten, never be lost, never have to deal with loss. Immortality's price seemed a kind thing compared to this gaping, clawing heaviness that weighed down her heart.

What was the last thing she said to her mother? What was the last thing her mother thought? Could she bring her mother back? What boundary was there between Death and Life? And could she cross it? Surely, there had to be research in the library on necroma-

The door creaked open slowly; the hinges, rusty as they were, groaned in protest. Breen looked up, stiff, on edge, her dark knuckles turned intensely lighter from her harsh grip around her knees.

"Breen?" a voice called out gently. The unanswered question filled the small room. But that voice - she recognized it. It was rash and laughing and soft when need be.

"Yes?" Breen decided to answer. She had tried to make her voice sound like she was alright, that she was strong. Instead, her "yes" turned out more like a raspy croak, clear evidence of crying.

She knew it was Marlene even before she saw her. Marlene was everything Breen was not: reckless and courage-filled with an unordinarily pretty face, fox-like in its mischief. Her most striking feature, her large brown eyes that always seemed to carry a lilt to them, were creased in concern. She had brothers, a number of them, and she wore their school jumpers proudly on mufti days. She had family, she would always have family. She had her mother. Her mother was alive.

And that was the most cavernous difference between the two.

XXX

Marlene sat awkwardly next to Breen on the hard-backed wooden bench. She shouldn't have come, she realized that now. In theory, she would've comforted Breen, smoothed her hair, offered a conjured handkerchief for the tears. All the things she wished someone had done for her when Manning -

She squeezed her eyes shut. Today was not her tragedy.

But Breen was not crying. Instead, she sat stiffly, back ramrod straight, and stared blankly at the stone wall in front of her. Breen was lost in her own head; her mouth opened and closed, mouthing words that Marlene only caught snitches of. Her eyes were glassy, pensieve-like, and they rippled with something Marlene could not identify.

Sadness? Yes, but it was something more than that. Loss? Fear? No. It couldn't be. But Marlene recognized that look that glinted behind the dark irises. She had seen it on her brother, on the malicious smiling students that wrung in and out of the Hogwarts halls. Ambition.

"Breen?" Marlene ventured again. This seemed to snap Breen out of her muddled reverie. She glanced at Marlene. Her dark eyes now seemed blank, sad, a night sky with no stars-

(No, that wasn't right either)

They gleaned from the faint morning light like obsidian, hardened and calloused with a hint of cruelty. Breen held her gaze level with Marlene's, before slumping her shoulders and cradling her head in her hands.

Breen bit out a bitter laugh, and it sounded so unnatural that Marlene winced as it twirled in the air of the room, "And to think," she spat, "that only yesterday I thought the biggest concern of my life was that someone had rummaged through my things." She ran a shaking hand through her tight coils, and her small face faltered and turned stone still.

"Breen…" Marlene said again, her voice a strain of comfort. It seemed to be the only thing she could say.

"Why are you here?" Breen asked, and there was an accusation laced in.

"I-" Marlene was surprised, "I thought you wouldn't want to be alone."

"Know a lot about my thoughts, huh?" Breen snapped, "you haven't spoken more than a dozen words to me since I've come to Hogwarts."

Marlene faltered, "I know I've been absent. I'm sorry, Breen. You know I care about you. I've known you your whole life-"

Another dark chuckle, "Ah, yes. Marlene, the prodigal goddaughter with her famous father and talented brothers. You can't imagine how proud my parents were when your dad got Order of Merlin for the polyjuice potion. That's your godfather, Breen, they said. When mum came home and told us that she'd be working with your dad on a project, I thought, Maybe mum will get an Order of Merlin too. But what good did knowing your dad do for her? She still died, didn't she?"

"Your mum was working with my dad?" Marlene echoed. Breen shot her a glare.

"Please leave," Breen said primly, "I want to be alone, actually."

"Breen-"

"GET OUT!" she shouted suddenly, and a spark of wandless magic lit up the air like lightning. The door slammed open, and the sound of the wood hitting the stone reverberated throughout Hogwarts. The door splintered. Marlene could hear the cracks of the wooden panels as they sliced through the stillness.

"GET OUT!" Breen yelled again - there were tears in her voice - pointing at the open door. In her anger, in her emotion, she had turned manic. Her hair exploded, her eyes widened in madness, Breen had become something else entirely. Or maybe this had been her all along, and Marlene just hadn't bothered to find out.

Marlene glanced at the girl and stood up slowly to leave. Halfway out the door, Breen shouted again, "YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT LOSS!"

Her words were measured, chosen precisely to hurt. Breen wanted to hurt Marlene, because Marlene hadn't bothered until now, and Marlene was beautiful, but fragile, and fragile things were so easy to hurt, their little bones going snap, snap, snap, and she wanted someone else to feel that same hurt that coursed through her veins. Breen wanted to hurt Marlene, because Marlene had a mother, and she didn't. Marlene had brothers, five, and a mother. Breen just had her mum and her dad, and now she didn't even have that.

Marlene froze, her feet just inches away from the threshold. She shut her eyes tightly again and swallowed. Inside her ribs, her chest beat something fractured and without rhythm. She opened her eyes and walked out the door.

She couldn't help but wince when she heard the door slam back into place.

XXX

The secret group the Ministry had put together was in disarray. Chaos ran and spilled over their headquarters, a hidden hallway between St. Mungo's and the Ministry.

The proper people had been enlisted to clean up, and their confidentiality vows sat in a pile on Avior's desk. He rubbed his face. Headquarters still lingered with the smell of their robes, a disinfectant spell that clung to every surface and wandered aimlessly. It was repugnant, but there were only a few spells that could get rid of the rust of blood. The walls had been stained white again, evidence gathered and sent to the proper Aurors, who would stay hush, hush, and Avior could almost pretend that everything was okay.

But he was too smart for that, and he knew better. Lisa was dead. How could that be? His consultant, his friend, his first friend. There was a time when Mckinnon had been synonymous with cold-blooded, but Lisa had looked past that and befriended him anyways. Gone? Lisa Bonham, fierce and valiant, who refused to take on her husband's name and insisted that her surname be given to her daughter, had not survived Death. That was an idea Avior could not understand.

"Mckinnon?" Alastor said at last, standing uncomfortably on the other side of Avior's desk. His lips twitched, "the Minister wants to see you."

Avior let out a sigh, "I figured it might come to this. I guess I should go."

He began to shrug on his outer robe, but another voice joined the fray.

"No need, Avior."

Avior found himself looking into the battle-hardened eyes of Harold Minchum, the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain.

"Please," Harold said, gesturing back to Avior's seat, "sit down. It appears that the press is catching up to us. We need to have a plan for when they do."

Avior slowly sank into his seat, "Yes. Yes, we do."

Mourning could wait until the dirty work was done.

XXX

Daily Prophet Headline: Department of Magical Law Enforcement Uncovers Motive Behind Bonham's Grisly Death. (Cont. On Page 9.)

Quibbler Headline: Parent of Healer Bonham's Sick Patient Revealed to Be Her Murderer. Can You Spot the Gaps in this Ministry-Spun Story?

XXX

School fell into the humdrum routine that followed closely on the heels of mid September. Students filled the cracks and crevices that the student body made for them, and all was seemingly normal. The days were getting shorter, slowly but surely, and the oil lamps in the library burned longer.

Marlene and Lily ran down the near-empty hallway to Defense. They did not exchange any words mid-run; their language was fear of tardiness, and their frantic footsteps were their vocabulary. Mary was usually the one who woke up first, always ready and clean even in the early hours of the day. But, Mary had been in bed for a few days now, and she had a vial of Pepperup Potion by her bedside at all times. So instead, Lily and Marlene tried to wake up early, but some things, even in the magical world, were very hard.

At last, the wooden door came in sight, and they hurried in just as the second hand on Professor Dearborn's watch marked the time for class to begin.

"Ladies," he greeted the two sternly, and they took his greeting with an embarrassed blush and a scurrying for their seats, "don't get yourself too comfortable."

The pair froze mid-journey and glanced up at him, confused.

"Sir?" Lily ventured softly.

"We're going to be doing a rapid instinct dueling drill. Hopefully by now, you've all reached out to your assigned dueling partner," many heads ducked in shame, "so you should be accustomed to their style of dueling. Today, you'll pair up with someone you haven't dueled and switch when I say at the three minute mark. Pair up now, please!"

Dearborn effortlessly waved his wand, and the desks and chairs went scattering to the sides of the walls, leaving a large space suitable for dueling. Lily and Marlene shrugged and stood, facing each other. Around them, the Gryffindor boys banded together, and Slytherins found other emerald ties.

"We really need to start waking up early," Marlene commented, waving a casual stun. Lily blocked it easily and groaned, "But sleep is such a lovely thing. Who are we to tarnish it?"

"We've lost ten points in the past week since Mary got ill," Marlene pointed out, throwing up a light shield to block Lily's hex.

"You think she's alright? Should we levitate her to the Hospital Wing?"

"Nah," Marlene brushed her off, "Mary's strong, but she's always had the immune system of a bat. She's well enough to give us her essays and schoolwork to turn in, so I reckon she's not on the verge of death."

"Fair," Lily nodded as she blocked a curse, then grinned, "bats have weak immune systems?"

Marlene laughed and quickly silenced it when accusatory heads swung their way, "Don't know, actually. It just sounded right."

Lily grinned as she hurled a particularly nasty hex that Marlene barely dodged.

"Nice one," Marlene commented, throwing up a shield, "you met up with James yet? For the simulation practice?"

Lily groaned audibly and blocked Marlene's disarming charm, "Not yet. We'll figure it out when we get there, yeah?"

"When you say 'there', you don't actually mean the simulation, right?"

Lily threw a stun, "Well, what's wrong with that? He seems to be a decent dueler, and I'm a decent dueler. What's the worse that could go wrong?"

"Hmm..let me think," Marlene blocked a hex, "you could fail the simulation, therefore failing the class and your N.E.W.T.s, and your entire future would fall apart like that. Zip, bam, boom."

Lily glared, "Well, have you met up with Bonnie yet?"

Marlene's nose wrinkled in defeat, "Alright, you've got a point there. No, I haven't."

Lily actually seemed surprised as she dodged a spell, "Really? She lives with us, Marlene."

Marlene rolled her eyes, "Not really. She's always hanging around her Ravenclaw and Slytherin friends. Probably has a bed in their dorms honestly. She's always gone when we wake up."

"We wake up late," Lily pointed out, "still, we don't even know what kind of dueler she is. At least I know James can cast a decent hex, but if you're stuck in the simulation with a dud of a dueler, you're fucked."

"Gee," Marlene sent a hex Lily's way, "that's a reassuring thought."

"Alright, look," Lily said, taking a deep, relenting sigh, "I'll schedule my meeting with Potter, if you do the same with Bonnie. Let's actually manage to finish this year without failing anything."

"Fine. But I really hope she's not a dud of a dueler."

"And I really hoped I wouldn't get partnered with a massive school bully who gets his kicks from torturing other students, but alas, alack."

Marlene faltered, "He's a good person, Lils. I don't think he ever means to hurt anyone, just wants to get a laugh out of a crowd."

Lily's pretty, thin face screwed in confusion, freckles turning into abstract patterns amidst the wrinkling of her nose; her normally bright, amused green eyes shone with dislike.

"Well, he has a terrible way of going about it."

"Your opinion is noted, but please," Marlene held a shield, "don't kill him."

Lily managed a weak smile, "No promises, but I don't think murdering my partner wouldn't help my chances at the simulation."

"What a reassuring thought," Marlene said, just as Dearborn shouted, "Switch!"

The two jokingly bowed to each other and set off to find other partners. Dorcas tapped her shoulder lightly, and Marlene spun around, nodding to her as they faced each other.

"It's been a while," Dorcas commented briskly, as they walked a few paces away from each other, "haven't seen you in the library as much. Not during regular hours, that is."

"I know, I know," Marlene sighed, holding up her wand and waiting for Dearborn to announce the start, "I've been working on a project."

"I noticed," Dorcas said coolly, "you usually let me know about your projects."

"I was going to," Marlene defended weakly.

"Hmm…"

"I just had to get basic research done. I'll let you know about it this week. We can meet in the library in our usual spot, yeah?"

Dorcas seemed to falter, surprised at Marlene's easy relent, "Alright."

"And...START!" Dearborn announced, and a curse zipped past her, barely missing her cheek by a hair's width. She raised her brows, almost challengingly, and she sent another spell back.

Dorcas was unreadable. She was angles and steep slopes; the combined result was a striking look. She was not pretty by any standard (but there were plenty of other pretty Chinese girls to fill that role.) No, Dorcas' stern, dark eyes and strong jaw, paired with a brusque Scottish accent made her iron incarnate. Her expression never twitched, never gave away her next move.

Her grandparents and parents had taught her spells known only by witches and wizards in China, spells that the students of Hogwarts would never learn and could never hope to counteract. Dorcas was formidable, a slashing wave of elegance. She did not duel, she danced, casting spells that Marlene could only attempt to block. Magic sizzled around Dorcas like a storm, tangible, and she exploited it for her own gain. Marlene was simply trying to get by.

At last, Dearborn called the end of the duel, and Marlene noticed that almost all eyes and gaping mouths were on Dorcas. Even Dearborn sauntered over to her and told her she had dueling skills reminiscent of his old colleagues - high praise from an ex-curse breaker.

She took the laudatory comments with a stiff nod, and the corner of her mouth raised imperceptibly.

"I didn't even recognize half the spells you threw out there," Dearborn said, and there was something like pride glittering in his eyes.

Dorcas nodded again, "Ancient Chinese spells, passed down for generations. You wouldn't find them in a run-of-the-mill textbook."

"Brilliant," he said, "nice work. Good job keeping your head on straight, Ms. Mckinnon," he acknowledged.

Marlene gave him a tired smile - dueling Dorcas wore her out- and murmured a quick thanks.

"One more duel! Someone you haven't dueled before. And then we'll get settled back in our seats and take some notes."

"Up for it, Mckinnon?" A taunting voice asked from behind her. She spun around to see Sirius, twirling his wand absent-mindedly in his left hand. His tall figure rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulder-length black hair, gathered now at the nape of his neck by a band. Bored, glinting grey eyes. Dark brows paired with broad, square shoulders gave him his lazy, masculine confidence.

"Alright," Marlene said slowly.

Their last encounter had not ended well. He had come seeking peace, and she had brushed it away with fear and prejudice. Watch out for those Blacks, Gaolach. You never trust a Black. Not with your money, not with your friendship, and definitely not with your life. They had come one step forward and two steps back.

"START!"

The stinging hex cut across her nose, and she was too slow and surprised to avoid it. She let out a breath and gingerly touched her face, feeling the indents of a slash that whipped across the bridge of her nose. Sirius almost grinned.

So, the dog was out for blood.

He was relentless, throwing a barrage of hexes and curses (some, she was sure, were not approved for school). She countered them, holding her stance. If she started to back up, she'd be losing a chunk of her pride. A hex slipped through her shield, clipping her ear. Her eyes widened when she felt the warm rush of blood drip onto her shoulder.

"Afraid?" he asked, "like you were the other morning?"

She composed her face again and continued to counter his attacks. He'd wear out soon...right? Fear crept into her heart.

"Afraid Sirius Fucking Black is going to devour your soul? Feed your heart to my dog?" He was angry, a hurricane, a path of destruction in his wake.

"I've heard it all before, Mckinnon."

She dodged a curse. Though she was barely keeping up, she had a sense that this was only a glimpse at the true destruction he could cause.

"I know why we aren't mates now," he said casually as if he was talking about the weather, "you've always been afraid of me."

"Stop it," Marlene gritted out. Her wand arm was growing tired, straining under the effort.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently.

"This isn't the time or place."

He raised a brow; it was the glove thrown on the drawbridge. It was a challenge. It was asking: If not now, then when?

At last, her wand arm gave out, and her shield dropped. She thought fast, and levitated a desk from the outskirts of the room, sending it hurtling towards him. His eyes widened infinitesimally, and he sent it back her way. She tossed it to the side, and it went skidding across the wood. Her breath came out heavy. She was tired, she was exhausted. Her arm felt like it was seconds away from falling out of its socket, but damn him if he thought she was the only one leaving with a scar. She had grown up with five brothers. Revenge and competition pumped easily through her blood, but she was sure it made up Sirius' very core.

The slicing hex surprised him. It left an almost identical slash across his nose as hers. It was almost poetic. After all, they were two sides of the same coin. He grinned. She wasn't surprised. Sirius was a child of anger and abuse, forged in the burning sparks of fire. A child weaned on poison's milk found comfort in hurt.

She could accept defeat now that he would leave with a mark too. She barely even felt the stunner as it knocked her on her back. When she finally felt strength returning through her veins, she slowly sat herself up.

Sirius was standing in front of her. He grimly offered her a hand, but she glared at it, getting to her feet and pushing away the proffered help. Once again, she felt the silence of the room, the terrible awe that pushed against the windows. The feeling that everyone's eyes were on her.

What was worse was the horrified look on James' face. Maybe he didn't know that beneath the skin of his best friend was a beast: a blood thirsty, rabid thing. Maybe he didn't know that beneath the skin of his other best friend was fear and prejudice, bubbling and waiting. Maybe he didn't know that there was a monstrous thing lurking in all of them. James had always been naive. His spectacles were rose-colored, and they loved him for it.

Dearborn broke the silence, the breath everyone was holding, "That was," he began to search for the right word (violent? savage?) "quite something. You two should go to the Hospital Wing for those scars. Mr. Potter? Care to accompany them?"

James swallowed and then nodded. The class twittered with whispers.

XXX

The Quibbler: A Notice of Retraction

It has come to The Quibbler's attention that the article we authored and published was flagged as problematic in a national database. In editions of the latest paper, it was proposed that the Ministry had falsified information concerning Healer Lisa Bonham's death and passed it along to the Daily Prophet, which The Quibbler writers hinted at to be corrupt.

The Editor and Publisher regretfully retract the article as there were undeclared competing interests on the part of the author. Furthermore, post-publication peer review raised concerns about the validity of the article, therefore the Ministry of Magic Research Committee no longer has confidence in the soundness of the findings. We apologize to all affected parties for the inconvenience caused.

XXX

"You're playing a dangerous game," Alastor said, standing in the doorway of Avior's office. Avior slowly lifted his head up from the wide mahogany desk, forehead throbbing heavy from sleep and potion fumes.

"What?" he croaked.

"You keep on delaying the press release. It's only a matter of time. The trial's coming up soon. Wouldn't it be better to let the public know now instead of during the trial?"

Avior glanced up, his eyes weary, "The public can't handle news like this."

"The public will never be able to handle news like this," Alastor spat.

"We're at a tipping point, Alastor. One wrong move, and the entirety of magical society will fall."

A sigh, "I think you're being dramatic, Avior."

Avior cradled his head in his hands, running a few shaky fingers through his greying hair, "I'm not. People aren't happy with Minchum's administration. They're calling him paranoid, and unrest leads to anarchy in a situation like this. We need more time."

"We don't have any more time! The woman's to be tried in less than two weeks, Avior!"

"Then we have to make a breakthrough in less than two weeks," Avior stated simply. The mere thought of it sent him in a whirlwind of exhaustion.

Alastor paused, "You've been working on the cure for over a year now. Has there been no progress since then?"

Avior sighed, "Some. The disease is difficult and different this time. Harder to understand than ever."

Alastor seemed to accept this with a nod, "What's the real reason for the delay?"

"I told you. The public would go in a frenzy if they knew there's been a disease running amuck. The Ministry would be criticized for erasing memories, keeping it all quiet, making the parents of the sick children swear confidentiality vows. If we have to announce it, we have to have some progress on our side. A promise of a cure."

"No, Avior, the real reason."

The small office grew quiet. Overhead, the swinging warm light seemed to make the room uncomfortably hot. Heat gathered and pushed against the bookshelves and the one singular window. Silence filled the rest of the space.

"You've heard about Voldemort, I presume," Avior said at last.

A gruff laugh, "Yeah. Shows up in the Prophet with five sentence clips every now and then."

"I wouldn't laugh if I were you, Alastor," Avior said steely.

Alastor raised a brow, "He's a lunatic. Goes off spouting things about blood purity. He can't actually gain a following."

"Don't overestimate people. There's been unrest brewing in the pureblood circles for a long time, and Voldemort is taking advantage of it. When it finally bubbles over, I don't want a cure that extends life to fall into the wrong hands."

Alastor made a low, assenting sound, "Maybe we should start thinking about a contingency plan. To hide the research on the cure. Worse comes to worst."

"Maybe we should," Avior said grimly.

XXX

James had walked side by side with his two close friends, his long legs making big strides to keep up with them. An uncomfortable quiet carried over them, and he looked at his feet for something to do.

When they got to the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey jumped up from her chair. Her kind, warm face grew stern with concern as she glanced at the pair's matching scars on their noses. She gathered her wand from her white robes and instructed the pair to take a seat on the beds lining the cavernous stone walls.

She tsked over the two, as her wand traveled along their cuts, scrapes, and bruises.

"All you young folk, always getting hurt in skirmishes or, Merlin forbid, Quidditch."

She brought Marlene to a screen to check over her bones and made Sirius wait so that his ribs could get a look at too. James leaned against the entrance, waiting, and tried to understand the shocking turn of events he had witnessed.

The look that glimmered behind Sirius' eyes was one that James had only seen while in his Animagus form. It was blood thirst and vengeance rolled into a grey iris. At last, Madam Pomfrey dismissed both James and Sirius. The scar on his nose was already fading, but Marlene had a bruised rib or two and needed some Skelegrow. Pomfrey advised that they leave and "didn't dawdle."

The two sauntered out silently from the Hospital Wing, until at last, James asked, "Mate, what was that?"

Sirius looked at him blankly, and when he answered, James knew he was being honest, "I don't know."

"You have to apologize," James demanded. There was anger laced in his voice, and there was the unspoken, "I won't forgive you if you don't."

XXX

He found her name on the Map, easy. Even in the night, even without his lighted wand, he probably could have found it. The curls of the M's made it sound like poetry, ink swirling the consonants and vowels. Marlene Mckinnon. What he found was not as pretty. She sat alone in the stone hallway, the grim darkness almost swallowing her whole. Her back leaned against the wall, legs extended, head tilted back. She held a cigarette in her hand, and it was burning.

"You hate me," he said, and she, startled, glanced up at him with surprised eyes, nearly dropping her cigarette.

"What?" she asked hoarsely.

"Do you hate me? Because you certainly seem to act like it," he nearly spat.

Her brow furrowed, "I don't hate you. Why would you think that?"

"You looked at me as if I was worse than the vermin underneath your foot. At breakfast the other day."

"Sirius-"

"So do you hate me?"

She took a small puff of her cigarette, "No. I thought it was the other way around, frankly," she said cooly.

He took a seat on the ground beside her, a foot away, "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it-"

"-Seems like something you should figure out," she said evenly.

"You're scared of me."

She raised a brow, "It takes a lot to scare me. But, you did just attack me in class."

"No," he frowned, "before that."

"Oh."

"You're not denying it?"

"No," another puff, "my grandparents told me the Blacks were sadistic scum. They had plenty of stories to fuel the fire too."

He laughed bitterly, "I reckon they did."

She shot him an unsure smile and took another puff. Night greeted them with her song: crickets, torches flickering, and sighs. It was almost peaceful, just the two of them sitting there.

"You know," he began, "I was angry that you were afraid of me for my name. I mean, of all things, my name. I just thought...I thought I had proved myself to everyone. That I wasn't Sirius Black, just Sirius. That I was something beyond my last name."

"That's fair. Still not a good enough reason for attacking me."

"Yeah," he said, leaning his head back against the wall, "that's fair too."

"You never answered my question," another puff, "do you hate me?"

"Not...hate, exactly," Sirius began uneasily, "I think jealousy might be more of the right word."

"Jealousy?" she raised a brow, "that's...unexpected."

He scoffed, "Oh, c'mon Mckinnon. Like you didn't know."

"I didn't."

"Not everyone gets seven bloody owls from their family a day in the post!"

"Six," she croaked softly, "not all of them write me anymore."

"Six is still fucking more than none," he spat. He looked at her, and something about her seemed broken. His short-sparked anger began to subside.

"Why just six?" he finally asked.

The look on her face was almost heartbreaking, "Otherwise occupied, I guess."

He sighed, "You're a shitty liar, Mckinnon. Is...one of your brothers dead?"

In his words was the unspoken Manning. She swallowed and took another puff.

She closed her eyes and at last said, "May as well be."

Something in her erupted, and a sob came to her throat. Sirius, unsure of what to do, edged closer to her and eventually put his arm around her shaking shoulders. He rubbed her arm slowly and swallowed, something reminiscent of guilt bubbling in his chest. He did not have anything to say. So they sat in silence.

XXX

Daily Prophet Headline: A Week After Healer Lisa Bonham's Tragic Death, the Accused Murderer Will Stand Trial in Wizengamot In Two Weeks.

XXX

The alley was plunged in darkness. He had been gaining more and more traction, and as a result, he had become more and more wanted by the proper authorities. His hiding places had become spots like slick, greasy alleys where prostitutes reigned and claimed their territory, the embodiment of all he hated about the Muggle world. The dirty, the disgusting, the lowest of the low.

His cloak let him blend in with the shadows, and the silver watch on his hand ticked impatiently. It, too, knew that his companion was late.

At last, he arrived in a swirl of night. The crack of apparition was masked by the silencing spell he had cast in preparation.

"You're late," he warned.

"I know. I'm sorry, my lord," the man gasped out.

Voldemort raised a cocky brow and began pacing, his wand held firmly in the hands clasped behind his back. His face still bore signs of a handsome youth. The horcruxes had not completely obliterated his good looks, but he did look sickly pale, and in the night, when the shadows inhabited the gaunts of his cheeks and hollows made by his angular face, he looked terrifying.

"The trial is in two weeks. Are you ready? Has everything been set in place?"

"Yes, my lord."

"You erased all traces of the Imperius from your wand? And from the woman?"

"Yes," the man said and then seemed to remember himself, "my lord."

"Mhmm," Voldemort made a pleased sound, "you were very clever this time. Cleverness is rewarded among my followers."

"Thank you, my lord."

"How are things with the team? The research for the cure?"

"Coming along slowly," the man informed him, "but my assumptions were correct. They're rushing to provide something for the trial. They're being careless, haphazard. They'll leave their research out in the open soon. And when they do-"

"You'll bring it to me first opportunity you get."

"Yes, my lord."

"The Ministry is about to fall, do you feel it?" Voldemort uttered, and his breath came out in wisps in the cool night air, "announcing the disease is going to make their very foundation crumble. You were right. Having someone kill that Bonham woman was the linchpin in our plans."

"Thank you, my lord."

XXX

In The Leaky Cauldron, conversations drifted in the air easily, and witches and wizards, who had seen better days, nursed their cloudy glasses of firewhiskey. Tom, the barkeep, wiped down the bar with a wet rag and a lazy wand. Music and news came out in static from the Wizarding Wireless. Tom hit it with a hand, and it began to play smoothly again. The dusty chandelier swung from a water-stained ceiling.

Alastor and Avior sat in a dark, dingy corner.

"Your entire plan rests on the shoulders of a sixteen-year-old girl," Alastor said, narrowing his eyes, "why her? You have six children, don't you? Surely one of her older brothers is stronger."

"Marlene's the most resourceful out of the bunch."

"Really? Always thought that was more of a Slytherin trait. Don't you have a boy who was in Slytherin?"

"Maddox. He's in Wizengamot and not skilled at Occlumency. He'd be vulnerable."

"But still, why the girl? I don't think she'd be great at Occlumency either."

"She's safe at Hogwarts."

"Ah," Alastor said and took a gulp of Ogden's.

He asked uneasily, unsure, "You think she'll figure it out?"

"She will. She's a bright child."

They pondered on the thought for a while, and they both grimly looked over their contingency plan.

Avior started, "Alastor...should anything happen to her-"

"-I'll make sure she's safe."

"Promise?"

"Swear it on my left eye."

A/N: Finally know what direction this story's going to go (not plot wise, seeing as the plot's been sorted out for quite a while now.) But, I've decided that this story will be around twenty long chapters. The next one should definitely come within the month!