Winter passed remarkably fast for us. Other than a minor kitchen fire, brought on by one of the boy's experiments that I swear happened on purpose to frighten me, the snowy months passed with a refreshing calm. Angie spent the holidays with her family, and we made rounds visiting the Weasleys and the Order. And, I received my first real mission as a member of the Order.

It surprised me to receive a large package from Moody for Christmas. In the past, my fellow fighters chipped in for one large Order present. Not this time. This time, I found a large box sloppily wrapped in plain bronze paper with a blue ribbon wrapped around it and tied in a knot, not to be confused with the traditional bow, on top. Only the finest. I suppose I should have appreciated that he thought enough about me to wrap it in my old house colors.

Opening the package unveiled a container of lacewing flies. Antimony in its crystalline form. Boomslang skin. A small phial of mercury. An identically sized phial of iron filings. Crushed saltpeter. A bicorn horn wrapped in some cheesecloth. Knotgrass. Sal Ammoniac. A jar of leeches. Fluxweed.

In other words, everything I needed to brew a polyjuice potion.

Just to clarify, I asked, "Moody, would you like me to brew you a polyjuice potion?"

"Whatever gave you that notion, Harper?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Well, she really does have the Sight."

So, the potion sat in my beautiful gold cauldron, waiting for the day we would need it. And that day would come; we all knew it would. That was why Mad-Eye wanted it, for this unknown day when a person (or persons) would need to look like someone else. In a matter of months, and a strand of hair or toenail clipping later, we would be prepared. For that reason, and because I adored the opportunity to brew something more challenging than the Boil Cure needed for the boys' candy, I loved the present.

Until the potion was needed, though, the Order had very little to do. There were attacks occasionally, but Voldemort's forces were relatively quiet during the holidays. That suited us just fine. While we knew in the back of our minds that they were most likely preparing for something bigger than we could even imagine, something terrible, we had other things to focus on.

Like how Angie seemed to be spending every night in Fred's room, particularly after their Valentine's Weekend trip to the Cotswold District – Angie always did love the countryside, and Fred seemed to not only survive a particularly mundane weekend of muggle life but to actually enjoy it. Sometime in late February, George and I decided this had been going on long enough to mean her original bedroom was forfeit and took it upon ourselves to remove any of her remaining belongings – of which there were very few since most had found their way across the hall to Fred's – and make it into my workshop. I needed one since the boys did not like have mysterious potions in their workshop and I did not like them experimenting near my delicate brews.

"If we put the bed…" George frowned at the room. "Against the wall. Just, like, shove it against the wall. Like…" He scrunched up his eyes and held out his hands to get a better visual on the room's dimensions. "Like, against the wall there. Yeah? That'd give you more room in the middle."

"George, do you think we should put the bed against the wall?" I laughed. George dropped his hands and gave me a look that said not to make fun of him. As if that would happen, and he knew it. "Yeah, I think that'll work. We'll have to clear her shoes out of the armoire so I can put my ingredients in it. Oh, wait!" I leapt from the doorway, shoved past my boyfriend, and flung open the doors. "Yeah, I'll need a shelf in here. Can you build me a shelf?" I gave him a wide-eyed stare and stuck out my bottom lip ever so slightly to ensure getting my way.

He slapped a hand over his eyes and dragged it slowly down his face. "Mellie, I'm not a carpen…yeah, I'll build you a shelf." He shook his head at how easily he gave in to me. "I'll get her shoes out if you'll strip the bed."

The sheets had just landed in a heap on the floor, flung unceremoniously from the bed, when we heard the laughter coming up the stairs. George swore and dropped his armful of shoes onto the floor, but there was nothing we could do about the room's state of transition. All our hopes of moving Angie's things before she and Fred got back from buying groceries were out the window now. We were caught.

The duo came up the stairs and rounded the corner right into the middle of our mess, and there was absolutely nothing to do but own it. George and I plastered matching disgustingly sweet fake smiles on our faces, and I even let out a nervous giggle and waved at the pair.

"Heeeeeey!" George beamed. "Did you…erm…did you remember milk?"

Fred stared wide-eyed and slack jawed at the mess we made – sheets piled in a heap on the floor, about five or six pairs of shoes scattered about, armoire doors wide open, the bed shoved halfway across the room to reveal a dusty patch of floor – but still answered. "Yeah. We got milk. I even, erh, even got you that…that…"

"Chocolate?"

"Yup. It was on sale."

While Fred was stunned, though, Angie was fuming. And she rightly guessed the mastermind behind this plan. Me. Who did she direct her anger at? Me. Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, jaw set, and glaring at me. Right at me. She stared at the mess. And at me. Shoes. Me. Bed sheets. Me. Armoire. Me.

Of course I knew Angie's temper, and I knew going in to expect it, but I had really hoped to deal with it after having the rooms arranged. Better to apologize after I had my way than to appease her in the middle of the process when she may demand to put everything back. After the rooms were rearranged, she would be piping mad but would deal with it. In the middle, anything could happen.

"Are you moving my things?" she demanded, eyebrows twitching.

"Mmmmmaybe?" I winced.

"Why would you touch my stuff?"

"Beeeeecause I want the room?"

"You can't have the room, Mel. It's mine."

"You don't use it," I answered evenly, careful not to let a dangerous edge slip into my voice. Setting her off was the last thing I needed; Mount Angelina would blow any second anyway and did not need my help setting the eruption over the edge. "And I need somewhere to work."

"I need somewhere to sleep!"

I admit, the control she displayed over the volume of her voice was commendable. Personally, I had expected her to begin shouting as soon as she discovered our scheme, but Angelina showed a great deal of restraint that day. Venom laced her every over-punctuated word, but she had yet to shout.

Naturally, I tested just how far I could push this.

"I hear the left half of Fred's bed is quite comfortable these days. Or nights, rather." I wrinkled my nose and added, "The odd morning, maybe."

"Ewwwwww," George groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes as if that would help erase the mental image we would never be able to remove.

This officially broke Angie's resolve. She charged at me, stunning the boys, and I squealed and scrambled for the bed, narrowly rolling to the other side of it to use the piece of furniture as a buffer between us. "OUT! I WANT YOU OUT!"

"I want you out!" I countered, my voice sounding significantly less threatening much, much whinier. "You don't sleep here, anyway! You sleep with him!" I pulled out my wand and gestured towards Fred with it, but quickly pointed it at my best friend to defend against a spell she might fling my way with the wand she drew at that moment.

"Not every night, Mel! Now, put my room back together!"

"Well, you damn well should be sleeping with him every night!" I huffed, fixing my friend with, I imagine, a near-perfect replica of the exasperated look my mother gave me every time I did something she found utterly ridiculous. Which came up quite often. "Look at the boy, Angie! He's bloody gorgeous-"

"We-ell, hey, listen to that!" Fred grinned, slapping his brother proudly. "We're gorgeous!"

"-And you know I didn't always say that! If I've come around, what is taking you so bloody long to wrap your head around this?"

"Wait." George held up a hand. "Can we back that up a bit?"

"You and Fred were snogging way back at the Yule Ball, and here we are aaaaallthis time later, and you still refuse to admit to anybody that you like him! Just admit that you like him, Angie! You do the stupidest things with him, you spend the nights in his room, and then you turn around and tell me you're not his girlfriend? Get over yourself! You are!"

The wand pointed at me dropped as my best friend opened her mouth to say a thought that her mind could not quite form. This was rare, Angelina Johnson stunned into silence – maybe from the outburst itself or from the revelation happening inside her head – and I took advantage of it to unfairly pile on. Because, what kind of best friend would I be if I didn't make her feel as terrible as possible in front of the whole household in this, her most vulnerable of moments?

"You're afraid; that's why you won't do anything about Fred. And, frankly, I'm quite insulted, because I'm supposed to be the one who is afraid all the time. I never gave you permission to take that title. You are the brave one, Angie, the one with no qualms about trying to kill me over moving your shoes down the hall-"

"You could've at least asked first," she mumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Fair enough," I agreed as I climbed onto the bed. I crawled across to sit on the edge on her side and patted the pair mattress next to me, where she then sat. "Now," I wrapped my arm around her waist, she did the same to me, and I tugged her over so her head rested on my shoulder, "let's call this what it is. You snog Fred. A lot. You sleep with Fred. A lot. You do stupid, mundane, domestic things with Fred, things like buying groceries and cleaning the bathroom and setting the table. A lot. You do stupid, mundane, domestic things for Fred. A lot. Like, picking up his laundry when he throws is aside and bringing him lunch at work and making him do the dishes when it's his turn. A lot. That's a relationship. That's what we do with guys we care about, Angie. And, frankly, it's ridiculous that you keep dancing around this because you're scared of, what? Of being attached to someone? Of becoming a monster-couple like George and me? Of not being independent? Believe me, it's not nearly as bad as you think."

Angie mumbled incoherently and buried her face in my shoulder. I nudged her with that arm to get her to repeat herself without my body as a blocker, but she cast a look at the boys. Of course. No more heart-to-heart with them still around. "Oy. Out," I ordered.

George gave me his wide, puppy-dog eyes. "You didn't always think I was gorgeous?"

"I'm very confused," Fred added. "Why are the bed linens on the floor?"

"Out!" I ordered, snapping my fingers. The twins grumbled and started to shuffle out, leaving empty-handed. "George!"

"What?!" he snapped from the hallway. "I'm leaving just like you told me to!"

"The shoes!" I turned to Angie and asked, "Can he take the shoes?" She nodded. "TAKE THE SHOES!"

"Right." He re-entered the room just in time for me to see his eye roll. "The shoes. Can't forget the shoes. Because that's what's important right now. Shoes."

"Just take them."

"I am!" he insisted with a little grin. "This is me. Taking the shoes. Doesn't it make me look manly? And gorgeous."

To help, I enchanted the last few shoes onto the pile in his arms so he could take them all in one trip. "Merlin, is this our new issues?" In response, he stuck his tongue out at me. Yes, I would spend a long time reassuring him that he was the most gorgeous man in the world, although doing that honestly after seeing Pierce Brosnan as James Bond could prove difficult. Not that George knew who Pierce Brosnan was. Or James Bond, for that matter.

I gently coaxed her into looking at me. "They're gone now, Angie, so you have to answer one question for me." The boys' voices carried down the hall to us, but couldn't quite be understood. Probably arguing about something ridiculous, knowing them, like which of them looked more gorgeous.

"Yes."

"Do…" I stopped and made a face. "I haven't…no, Angie, that's wrong, I haven't asked it yet. You can't answer if I haven't asked."

Angie huffed and sat up. "You're going to ask if I'm in love with Fred. Yes. I am. Figured I could save some time by just answering."

"See, you're clearly spending too much time with him. That was such a male thing to do, answering the question before I asked it." I shook my head. "Ridiculous. Disgusting. Preposterous!"

"You're just using big words now, show-off," Angie laughed.

I giggled and tugged on one of her braids. She retaliated by grabbing one of my curls, pulling it straight, and letting it spring back into place. Fully intending to escalate this into something completely ridiculous, I pulled on her braid again. As she reached for my hair, we heard the crash.

Mind you, we were used to crashes. Crashes happened all the time in that house. Experiments gone wrong. Potions misbrewed (not that that happened often!). Someone tripping. Customers knocking things over. In fact, it was an odd day when there were no crashes in 93 Diagon Alley.

Our experience with bangs and shatters and explosions told us that this one was different. Dangerous, even. Angie and I listened to the silence that followed the series of sounds – skwick, THWACK, whump whump whump whump whump, "Ooof!", whubbathubthubthubthubababa– stared at each other in shocked silence, and waited for the other to know what to do. Because, maybe the other person stuck in the room with no view of the hall had supernatural knowledge of this mysterious event.

"Little help!" Fred snapped, and that brought us back to attention. Angie and I rushed out into the hall, where Fred tried to help George sit up from his current position, sprawled on the floor in the doorway to Fred's (and Angie's) room.

"What happened?" Angie asked as I ran to George's side, kicking shoes and, for whatever reason, a large rubber ball out of my way in the process.

"Tripped on…" Fred looked around, found the ball bouncing down the hall, and pointed, "that. He hit his head on the doorframe on his way down and took a couple shoes to the head on top of it."

Suddenly, a dozen images of how this could go horribly wrong flashed through my mind, and I acted on what felt like the most logical solution. I shoved Fred away from George, which made him fall back down. That seemed preferably to agitating a neck injury, which I felt absolutely positive he had at the time. In fact, in the heat of the moment, I was convinced that George was dead. Clearly, he broke his neck and cracked his skull and was bleeding all over the floor even though I could clearly see that none of that was true. No, in my head, he was in grave danger at this moment. His life was in peril. Because he fell on a rubber ball.

"Are you all right? Where does it hurt? Angie, get some ice! Post the healers." I rammed my fingers into his shoulder. "Does this hurt?"

"No. Ow! Yes, it does! Mellie, calm down!" He pushed my hand away, grabbed Fred's wrist, and used his brother to pull himself up. "Mellie!" He snapped at me and pushed my hands away as I tried to urge him back down. "Mellie, I'm fine. I hit my head." He frowned at his brother and grumbled, "Does hurt, though."

That did it. Obviously, he had internal bleeding. His brain was swelling. A concussion. A hemorrhage. Amnesia. "How many fingers am I holding up? What's my name? What's your name? Who's the minister?"

"Merlin," he groaned, massaging the back of his head gingerly.

"No, that's wrong!" I panicked, looking at Angie, who had not moved despite my earlier orders. "Angie, he thinks I'm Merlin!"

"I don't quite think that's what he meant, Mel," she corrected.

George heaved a sigh and rattled off, "Melbecka Harper, George Weasley, Rufus Scrimgeour, and you have to hold up fingers for me to know how many there are."

"Right!" I shoved my hand in his face. "How many?"

"Gahhh…three." He pulled his head away sharply. "Mellie, would you please breathe? I'm the one that hit my head, not you. Could we at least pretend that I'm the one with the reason to be panicking right now?"

"Attention always has to be on her," Fred agreed. George shared a smile with his twin at my expense that, for whatever reason, actually helped calm me. Not entirely – growing up in a house where eating too fast brought on stories of how the greatest witch of her age died by accidentally swallowing too much cheese at once did quite a number on my nerves – but it did help. Years ago, a dear friend of mine tried to teach me to calm down by getting me to take a deep breath, hold it for ten long counts, and let it out very slowly and evenly. It apparently worked wonders for Cedric Diggory when he got flustered, but it only rarely and marginally helped me. Still, I tried it this time and found that it at least helped calm my rattled nerves to the point that I could take offense at the boys' mocking.

"Oh, honestly!" I huffed. "Sorry for being concerned."

"Apology accepted." George ignored the glare I shot at him. "Help me up?"

"Stay down!" I insisted. "You might not be dying, but you're probably concussed."

"She actually might be right about that," Angie piped up. I always could count on that girl to have my back. "Let's get him to his bed, and I'll take a look. You do think it's all right for me to heal him, yeah?" At first, I thought she might be mocking my admittedly-ridiculous fear of using wands to heal, but her face was the picture of sincerity. To be honest, while only George could ever use his wand to heal me up, Angie would be the next person I trusted. So, I nodded. "Good, then, let's take a look at him. He'll be just fine, Mel. He only hit his head. We all know there was nothing important up there."

To let you know, school is starting for me again, so my posting might get a bit slower as I adjust back to dorms and classes and deadlines. I'll do what I can to keep the effects to a minimum!

Next Chapter: The Descending Dark