AN: And we're back in action!

Hiya, lads and lasses! Hope you've been doing okay? As you might have noticed, it took a little while longer for me to get my act together. In my defence, I might also add that it usually takes me about a week to finish a single chapter. In that sense, a few months weren't exactly unexpected. Anyway, the third year has presented me with a rather unique challenge: too much stuff had to happen. In the end, I think I did reasonably well, streamlining the plot and smoothing out the edges.

Before we finally start, a few short announcements.

On a personal note, I've released a short story (~20k words) called 'Things you cannot leave behind' earlier this year. I'm quite enamoured of the concept, and I did my best to do it justice. I think it turned out well, which is why I'd invite you to give it a shot. Please tell me what you think!

As previously promised, I'll be releasing one chapter a week for the remainder of the book – unless I get sick again. This'll help understanding, I hope.

One last time, I'd like to call attention to the fact that this work is meant to address an audience of some maturity. I know you all made it through the sacking of London, and while I generally dislike crassness, I would like to caution the reader one last time that they should expect mature and less than pleasant topics. This really isn't a fairy-tale, and you're bound to get angry if you expect it to be one.

The first few chapters are, once more, mostly a very light read, but there's a lot of important information hidden in what appears to be light-hearted slice-of-life.

Cheers,

AN2: Have a close look at the dates or you might get confused.

Black Luminary – Memory Lane

Prologue – June 1997

Alice Longbottom wrinkled her nose. The stench of germicide permeated the air, soaking her clothes and – or so she felt – her skin. Ever since the birth of her son, she'd had a rather severe aversion to the smell of hospitals – Muggle or magical. As far she could tell, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the Royal London Hospital, but the scurrying nurses, grouchy patients, and cold corridors made for an inhospitable environment. Given enough time, she was sure such company would make anyone sick.

She would have been glad to delegate the duty that had brought her here, but it wouldn't have felt proper, so she had decided to come herself after all. She owed them that much. She drew her overcoat tightly around herself as if to ward off the cool, infectious atmosphere of barely alleviated suffering.

Echoes of laughter, so out of place, caused her to turn around. Dashing in her direction were a young boy and a girl, no more than eight years old, giggling, closely followed by an exasperated and rather portly nurse who was trying and failing to keep up.

'No running! Joshua, Emily, please!'

The girl had her arm in a sling. The boy, on the other hand, looked superficially healthy – if a bit weak, wan. There was a thin film of sweat on his brow, and Alice could see that the exertion pained him underneath the bravado he feigned to compete with the girl. Stealing a glance to make sure there weren't too many onlookers, she 'accidentally' stepped right into the boy's way at the last second.

'Oof!' With a muffled yell, the boy collapsed at her feet – almost comically bouncing off her.

He's so light, thought Alice sadly. Skin and bones ...

'Oh, I'm ever so sorry, dear,' she said in a worried tone, kneeling down to have a look at him. 'Are you all right?'

'My nose ...!' cried the boy, tears in his eyes.

The girl, coming to a screeching halt, looked suspiciously at her, but Alice merely smiled. 'There, there.' Making sure the chubby nurse was still out of earshot, she winked at the boy. 'Do you want to see a magic trick?'

'W-what?' he asked.

With her left forefinger, she flicked the boy's reddened nose – just as she flicked the wand in her pocket with her right hand. 'Pain, pain, go away!' chanted Alice in a dramatically hushed voice.

'Ow! That hu-' The boy stopped mid-cry. Bewildered, he looked at her, disbelievingly rubbing his nose and then – eyes practically popping out – his chest.

Puffing and blowing, the nurse finally arrived. 'Thank you, ma'am. He didn't trouble you, did he? He's a troublemaker, all right, that one. Escapes from the ward every other day.'

Alice smiled kindly. The boy stared at her in awe. Already, he didn't look quite as sweaty and pale. 'Oh, no! It was no trouble.'

'Apologise, Joshua!'

'Sorry, ma'am,' said the boy with the mischievous grin of the unrepentant prankster.

Alice stood up. 'Don't worry about it, dear.' Waving one last time, she turned around, humming under her breath, remembering how often she and Frank had got into trouble back in the day. Admittedly, their little exploits had gone mostly unnoticed thanks to some of their fellow Gryffindors who had kept Minerva on her toes day and night. Those were the days; life had been so simple back then.

Eventually, her silent reminiscing came to a halt in front of a family ward. Casting a very inconspicuous little Muggle-repelling charm on the door, she knocked and smartly stepped inside.

The parents were asleep. The girl, however, was wide awake, her head buried in some Muggle book, devouring the text in a way that – with a twang of guilt – reminded her of Neville happily brooding over some gardening instructions.

Hearing the clicking of the door, the girl looked up at her through her long mane of brown hair. 'Hello,' the young woman said politely. 'We haven't met, have we? Are you the specialist they were going to call in? Should I wake Mum and Dad?'

And Alice's heart sank.

Tinker, Tailor or A plethora of late visitors

July 1996

The current Auror commander of the ICW moaned, tugging the damp and blessedly cool towel back over his eyes. His temporary office in Britain had undergone some drastic changes; the wide, luxurious windows had been bricked, the doors and walls were plastered in egg cartons and silencing charms, and – most importantly – he'd delegated all his paperwork and given orders not to be disturbed by anything less than a full-blown catastrophe.

The hustle and bustle of rowdy coppers had been turned into a fortress of soothing silence.

With extreme care, Antonius reached out to lift a glass of icy water, trying not to produce any sound whatsoever. Fumbling blindly in his pockets with his other hand, he produced a handful of white pills, dropped them into the water, and chugged it all.

His headache was killing him.

For a few weeks now, he'd been suffering from the worst migraine imaginable. Healers, doctors, and all the other physical specialists he had access to were helpless. It got worse whenever he started thinking back to what could have triggered such a strange reaction, so he'd temporarily given up, resigned to the damnable pain. It had to blow over at some point, after all.

There was a loud knock from downstairs, causing Antonius to wince, hissing and massaging his temple.

The knocking was immediately followed by bossy shushing sounds. Thankfully, Antonius wasn't able to overhear the ensuing conversation. The makeshift sound insulation did that at least, though it did little to nothing to keep him from hearing the murmuring. He could, of course, silence the door, but since he was still technically at work, he couldn't just shut himself in completely.

There were footsteps climbing the stairs leading to his office. Antonius grimaced. This better be important ...

Antonius lifted one corner of the towel to peek at the entrance of his office. The door swung open with enthusiastic gusto, revealing not – incidentally – one of his subordinates but the amused visage of one Rendall Prewett.

'What's this?! What's this?!' the man barked, giving a booming laugh. 'Been drinking too much? You're getting too old, my friend!'

'What do you want?' growled Antonius – not because he didn't appreciate his current company but because he didn't appreciate the sound intensity said company all but guaranteed.

'Your little Japanese minion said you were under the weather, but you look like you've been under a herd of Thestrals!'

Antonius gripped his desk so hard his knuckles whitened. Rendall Prewett couldn't lower his voice to save his life. 'Yes, and what is it that you want again?'

Rendall grinned, casually swinging one of the chairs in front of the desk around and taking a seat, leaning his body forward against the chair-back. 'I need to ask you a favour.'

'If it'll get you to shut up, I'll gladly consider it …'

'I need you to dig up dirt.'

'On whom?'

'Harry Black.'

Slowly, the towel slid off Antonius' face. He squinted through bloodshot eyes at the political powerhouse in front of him. He had to remind himself that his friend really was just that – albeit a powerhouse with the grace and subtlety of one of those Muggle bulldozers.

'Listen here, Rendall,' he said, speaking slowly. This little interjection was seemingly enough to mar the man's jovial smile, giving it a touch of disappointment and impatience. It was ridiculous how easy to read he was. If not for the Longbottoms, he'd never be where he was. 'I'm currently not at my best.' For emphasis, he waved the moistened towel. 'And you're asking me to stick my head into a Doxy nest? Far be it from me to comment on what you and your friends are trying to do here in Britain, but haven't you learned anything from last time?'

Rendall flicked his tongue angrily, jumping up in agitation. 'You don't understand! You don't know how it was just a few decades ago; the old pure-bloods could basically get away with murder.'

At this point, Antonius carefully refrained from commenting that his vis-à-vis was likewise the descendant of a very old pure-blood family.

'I'm not going to let that happen again,' Rendall continued irritably. 'I know that little brat was at the Ministry. Dumbledore knew too! Whyever the man decided to let it slide, I can't even begin to … Just because it all worked out shouldn't mean the Blacks are allowed to get away with it!'

Antonius felt the heat rise in his head, accompanying the pain with a surge of fury. It had all worked out?! He could still vividly remember Torres and Williams, both executed with the most detestable of curses. But he swallowed his anger; it wouldn't achieve anything with the man in front of him. 'Even so, what are you going to do about it? I've told you already we couldn't find any traces. Someone did a good job sweeping the place, and you can bet it wasn't a Black – even if he was there.'

Antonius also severely doubted that a fifteen-year-old could overwhelm his Aurors, spewing Unforgivables like it was nothing.

Rendall, predictably, was neither convinced nor pleased. 'What the bloody hell gives you that idea?!'

'Because it was artfully done.' Seeing the man's dismissive scowl, he added, 'I'm serious, Rendall. That was the work of a professional criminal or Auror – I'll let the judges puzzle over the difference. It couldn't have been the boy, no matter how advanced he is for his age.'

'You don't know him as I do! When he was younger, he was discouraged from learning magic so he could grow up with all the rest at Hogwarts.'

Antonius managed to refrain from retorting that this particular measure more than likely had also served to make it easier to control the child. 'Your point being?' he said in a bored voice.

'He shouldn't have known anything about magic! And still the maids found him fiddling with charms in the library.'

'The boy is talented, Rendall. That's no crime.'

'So you say,' replied the Auror-turned-teacher nastily.

Antonius' patience, however, was waning – mostly because his headache was not. 'Then what the hell did you expect?' he spat sharply. Rendall gave a start, taken aback by his outburst. 'You've been forcing him into a corner ever since his parents died! And what have you got to show for it? You lost a talented, influential wizard in the making to your most troublesome adversary. You fools, have you ever actually thought of approaching the boy?! You knew his parents, didn't you?! Weren't Alice Longbottom and his mother best of friends?!'

'It's far too late for that sort of nonsense now. The boy will never trust us.'

Antonius snorted, leaning back again, placing the towel gingerly over his eyes. 'Nor should he if he's got any sense at all.'

Rendall, by the sound of it, had started to pace in front of his desk. 'It could still have been the old fossil.'

'No, it couldn't have been him,' replied Antonius wearily. 'I told you; that was the real Arcturus Black with us at Hogwarts. He couldn't be in two places at the same time, which – if they really were involved – might well have been one of the reasons for his personal attendance in the first place! It wasn't the boy, and it wasn't the old man. Ergo, it wasn't the Blacks. Aren't you just upset the boy one-upped you with that gossip?'

His guest came to a stop. For a few seconds, Antonius didn't hear a thing, but then his old comrade spoke in a lower, more pressing voice. 'It's not only the two of them.'

Antonius frowned, lifting one corner of the towel once more. 'What do you mean, it's not only the two of them?'

'Branch families.'

Antonius stared at the man. Slowly, the towel slid off his face again. It fell to the floor with a sad little flop. 'When you say branch families, do you mean ...?'

'Yes! Magical, hereditary blood contracts of servitude.'

Antonius grimaced. 'How many?'

'We don't know.'

'Approximately?'

'Really, we haven't got a clue. From what we can tell, there were some leads and tells on a few of them, but the Recondebamus Familias effectively prevents us from doing any meaningful research.'

'How can you be sure, then?'

There was the sound of someone cracking his knuckles in anger. 'My wife,' growled Rendall, trembling with fury.

Antonius stared at the man. After a few seconds, he asked, not unkindly, 'Lucretia? What about her?'

'She was commanded to assassinate me!' screamed Rendall, a vein on his forehead bulging.

Alarmed, Antonius stared at the man he'd known for decades. He'd never quite understood where all that frothing anger directed at the Blacks came from but now … 'How can you be sure?'

Rendall roared with rage, swiping the desk lamp off his davenport. It crashed into the far corner of the room, precious crystal flying everywhere. Antonius serenely ducked out of the way of a few shards.

'DON'T! DON'T TELL ME I'M WRONG!' Rendall stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving. After one or two seconds, he clenched his fists, collecting himself enough to speak. 'I knew Lucretia from the time I was five. FIVE! I knew her better than I ever knew myself. Can you imagine waking in the middle of the night with the love of your life standing above you, knife raised to strike, tears streaking down her face?'

Antonius shook his head. He doubted any man could imagine what that must have felt like.

'She couldn't do it!' Randal's voice was breaking, yowling. 'She couldn't allow herself to do it, and the exertion of fighting the curse nearly ripped her in twain! I had to kill her! I had to kill my own wife, or the curse would have torn her soul in two! And do you know what she said?'

Antonius shook his head once more, but Rendall was barely paying him any attention anyway.

'Dying in my arms, smiling at me, she said, that she was glad … Glad! I'll never forgive my esteemed father-in-law,' spat Rendall, hitting the wall of Antonius' office with enough force to rattle the floor. 'I'll see that family extinct for what they did to my wife! I'll see them all finished!'

For a few seconds, Antonius allowed his thoughts to catch up to the situation. 'I'm really sorry,' he said – and he meant it. 'But you know how it is. Investigating the Lethifolds was a direct order. I can bend the rules a bit, but I can't just dive head first into Britain's proverbial nest of snakes just because you're personally convinced of their guilt. Believe me, I want to catch the madman who killed my people as much as anyone, but–'

Rendall's patience, however, seemed to have reached its limits. 'I get it. If you won't help me, I'll find others who will!'

Without another word, the man yanked at the door with enough force that one of the hinges came off, stamping down the staircase.

Antonius stared wordlessly after the man, one hand slowly opening a drawer of his desk. A handful of crystal shards glittered within, not unlike those of a phial perhaps, resting upon a cushion. With a frown, he closed the drawer again, offhandedly picking up his towel. 'Don't stare too long into the abyss, my friend …'

Memory Lane

Esmerelle Greengrass rapped smartly on the dark, heavy oaken portal. The knocker, standing in stark contrast to the black, rustic wood, gleamed and twinkled softly.

She scoffed. Why, it wasn't even gold – just polished, charmed brass. Typical! For a handful of seconds that felt like an eternity, she stood uncomfortably in front of the entrance to Selwyn Manor. She didn't like being here. Oh, who was she kidding, she despised being here, and she dearly hoped nobody could see her lurking in the shadows of the bleak door with its ugly granite gargoyles looming threateningly over any oh-so-unlikely visitor of the Selwyns.

Eventually, the portal opened with an ominous creaking, causing Madame Greengrass to scoff again. Was this charade supposed to intimidate visitors?

An elf clad in pathetic rags that fluttered loosely on her skinny body tried to bow politely whilst struggling with the heavy door.

'Evenings, Madame!' it squeaked.

'You will tell your master that Esmerelle Greengrass wishes to have a word.'

'Is– Is Madame having an appointment?' asked the elf timorously.

Madame Greengrass glared. The audacity! 'I've got one now.'

The elf gave a flinch, waving her inside with a low bow. 'Refreshments,' she squeaked, pointing towards a small suite with a bar of spirits and wine. 'If Madame would be liking to take a seat, Topsy will be informing Master immediately.'

The head of House Greengrass didn't respond, stalking over to the small bar without another look at the dirty creature. She gave the assortment of spirituous beverages a cursory glance but even a week-long trek through the Sahara couldn't have tempted Madame Greengrass to have a taste. She trusted her host about as far as her advanced age would allow her to throw him. But right now, she didn't have much to lose.

'Ah, Esme.'

Madame Greengrass turned around. Leaning confidently against the frame of one of the many doors leading from the foyer to the chambers beyond stood a raw-boned man in his late fifties. His unnaturally straight hair that almost reached the small of his back was hoary, but his sharply cut deep black goatee stood in stark contrast to the sallow skin of Zadie Selwyn. And the teeth! While other people only opened their mouth to speak or smile, snarling toothily was Zadie Selwyn's state of being. Madame Greengrass had often thought how the man looked like a greying, superficially benign wolf. Even at his now noticeable age, he retained his powerful frame and toned muscles.

She clenched her fists. 'Zadie.'

The man smiled, baring his teeth and indicating for his guest to take a seat. Without so much as offering her something, he rummaged at the bar, fixing himself what looked like three scotches in a single glass.

'What brings you here?' he said, taking a seat opposite her. 'Catching up for old times' sake?'

Madame Greengrass scoffed. 'Don't flatter yourself. I'm here to get reassurance.'

'Reassurance?' The man grinned again, his pointy, blindingly white teeth shimmering with the light of the candles.

'Yes.' Without further ado, Esmerelle Greengrass produced a parchment from within her clutch, holding it out for the man to accept.

Her host tilted his head. Eyes steadily narrowing, he skimmed the parchment. Then, he looked up, his beady eyes narrow and cold. 'Explain!'

'No, take it or leave it. But I'll say this much; I have a bad feeling about the state of Britain. I haven't heard as much as a word from my daughter about the family business – or my granddaughters. Even that brat the old charlatan adopted hasn't put up a significant fight. The man himself lost seat after seat in the Wizengamot, and what does he do? Nothing! I don't like it, I don't like it at all – it's as if the Wizengamot and his political weakness won't matter in the long run.'

'And so you come to me?' jeered Zadie maliciously. 'Why not go to your best friends? Surely the Ministry would be willing to give you, what did you call it, "reassurance".'

'No. You and I both know that it's unwise to store all your Galleons in one vault – especially with the Blacks still around. My great dislike for you is common knowledge. I bank on it.'

'Ah, reversed expectations. How … quaint. But I'll have you know that my own plans are progressing very smoothly indeed. Everything's on track! Seven Hells, I've even come to an agreement with the Rosiers at last; they'll throw themselves in with us during the next Wizengamot session.'

'The Rosiers?' repeated Esmerelle Greengrass, genuinely taken aback. So far, that particular clan of pure-bloods had remained outside of the political arena, watching it all play out from afar. The Ministry, as well as Longbottom and their pet idiot, had done their best to woo them into an alliance. The Rosiers were filthy rich – and magical Britain needed money. Over the years, certain pure-blood clans had hoarded gigantic amounts of wealth, and slowly but surely, they bled the rest of them dry. The head of the Rosiers, the old crone they called the Fuming Devil, had rebuffed them all until now – quite rudely, too.

'Yes,' said Zadie smugly, treating himself to another scotch. 'What worries you so?'

'In all my years, the Blacks have never laid low for so long. It's … unnatural! They know something we don't. I'm just here to make sure nothing "unfortunate" happens to me or my family.'

'And you're willing to gamble so much?'

'It's just money,' said Madame Greengrass snidely.

'It's all of your money,' Zadie corrected her.

'And what do I care?' she spat. 'You'll only get it if something happens to me or my family. In that case, the name of Greengrass is finished either way! My daughter doesn't have the spine to meddle with politics, and my granddaughters are still head over heels into their puerile childhood obsession. If something happens to me, I want the Blacks to pay by hook or by crook – even if I have to pay you of all people to make it happen!'

Memory Lane

Somewhere else entirely, near the centre of London City, one of those girls with their 'puerile childhood obsession' was trying her hardest to ignore the persistent calling of her mother.

'Are you up yet, sweet pea?'

Daphne Greengrass blinked through droopy eyes. She cherished sleeping in on her holidays, but – to her annoyance – her mother and her boisterous sister both seemed to be conspiring to keep her from her well-earned beauty sleep. It wasn't even eleven in the morning yet!

She sighed, rolling around again and drawing the blanket over her head.

'Daphne!' called her mother again. 'Tracey's coming in two hours, and I need you to do a bit of shopping for me in the city.'

'I'm getting dressed already!' shouted Daphne reproachfully, her voice muffled by the fluffy blanket. She stretched her arms, suppressing a yawn. Maybe it wasn't too much to hope for that she'd at least have the time for some Potions experiments later.

Fifteen minutes after her mother's third call, she entered the kitchen.

'I really, really, really hope I'll make Slytherin,' said Astoria as if it were a matter of life and death. Daphne yawned again. Her sister just wouldn't shut up about the Sorting. It had been like that all summer. 'But do you think Harry will still talk to me if I don't?' Astoria persisted fretfully.

Their mother rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. 'Of course, he will, Sweetheart. Oh! There you are, Daphne.'

'Morning,' said Daphne with a little wave, taking a seat next to her sister. Leisurely, she contemplated what to eat (and, more importantly, what to avoid).

'You'll have to hurry it up a bit,' said her mother, pointing her wand to fold some clothes.

'What?' asked Daphne groggily.

'The groceries, remember?' said her mother. 'Honestly …'

'Can't Astoria do the shopping?' grumbled Daphne, reluctantly choosing an apple and ignoring all the delicacies. Her stomach growled at the meagre meal, but she still wanted to fit into her dress come her birthday.

'No way!' yelled her sister so loudly that Daphne had to hold one hand protectively over her left ear. 'I've got to go to Diagon Alley! I've got to! We're going, aren't we? You promised, Mum!'

'And we're still going, dear,' said her mother with an exasperated smile. 'You'll have the rest of the day free, Daphne. But I'll have my hands full getting Astoria a new wand, trunk, and everything. You can come with us and help carry it all if you want.'

'No, thanks,' said Daphne with a snort.

For a few seconds, Ophala Greengrass needlessly tugged at a few perfectly ironed robes. 'While we're on that subject, I need to talk to you – to the both of you – this evening.'

Daphne narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'Gran isn't trying to marry us off again, is she?'

Her mother faltered, surprised. 'What? Oh, no, nothing of the sort, don't worry. That's all over and done with.' She tugged at the robes again, avoiding Daphne's inquiring look.

'Well? What is it, then?'

'This evening, love.'

'I want to know, too!' protested Astoria. Frowning deeply, her gaze flickered from her older sister to her mother and back again. 'It's got nothing to do with me going to Hogwarts, does it?'

Her mother looked up, smiling at her daughters. 'This evening, Astoria,' she repeated patiently. 'That's the list of what I need you to fetch, Daphne.' She put a small note next to Daphne's plate, wordlessly loading her eldest daughter's plate with a few grilled tomatoes and three huge scoops of scrambled eggs.

'Mum!' whined Daphne, ignoring her sister's sniggering.

'Don't argue! You're slender enough.' With a smile at Daphne's sceptical expression, she kissed her daughter on the cheek, nuzzling her hair. 'Finish all of that and please hurry – do the groceries with Tracey if you must, but we really need Floo Powder; we're running low again.'

'All right, all right,' replied Daphne listlessly, rolling one of the tomatoes that had been forced on her plate this way and that way. Astoria sniggered again.

'Astoria, dear, you are ready, aren't you?' called their mother from the door. 'We'll be leaving in half an hour.'

Daphne's little sister jumped up. 'But I haven't even finished breakfast yet!'

'Half an hour,' repeated Ophala. 'Better hurry it up, young lady.'

In the end, Daphne took her sweet time regardless. Her mother suspiciously sneaked a peek into the kitchen every now and then, presumably to check if her daughter really did eat more than some fruit. As soon as Daphne finished, she put the dishes in the sink, stretching once more. Now she could tackle whatever the day might throw at her.

'Daphne, please – the shopping!'

'Mum, don't nag,' she said in a whinging tone. 'I'll go together with Tracey; we can do some window shopping while we're at it.'

It was perfectly possible to get everything Muggle London, Paris, and Madrid offered combined in Diagon Alley, but Daphne, having been introduced to the concept of window shopping by her best friend, took great joy from looking at and touching all the different merchandise in a comfortable environment. It also helped that Muggle money was so cheap. Tracey, who didn't have quite as much endurance for shopping, often spoke of that fateful day of inducting Daphne into the Sisterhood of Window Shopping as her 'one great regret'.

Daphne had a shower, brushed her hair for ten minutes, and racked her brains about what to wear until she settled on a simple, snugly fitting forest-green sundress.

Astoria, who had been busy pestering their mother for more pocket money, poked her head into her room at some point.

'You want to wear that?!' she asked, glaring enviously at Daphne.

'It's rather nice, isn't it?' said Daphne earnestly, twirling playfully in front of her large mirror.

Astoria scowled, her eyes flickering from her sister's rather voluptuous figure to her own measly front. 'I hate you,' she said conversationally, blowing a raspberry and making a face at her. 'We're leaving! Tell Tracey I said hi!'

Tracey arrived through the Floo ten minutes later – ahead of schedule, as always. She was wearing simple and plain anthracite-grey robes that, together with her thick, ashen hair, made her, more than ever, look less like a wallflower than a mouse – or possibly a chimney sweeper.

Her best friend, too, was goggling at her outfit while she was dusting herself down. Daphne wondered why she even bothered; she loved Tracey to death, but in her current outfit, the difference between soot-covered and clean was debatable at best.

'Hey. Er, say, are we going somewhere? Like, to a meeting with your new secret lover or something?' asked Tracey, nodding meaningfully at Daphne's dress.

'Mum wants me to get her some stuff, so I thought we might have a look at some things in the city.'

'You mean squander your allowance,' corrected Tracey astutely.

Daphne smiled. 'Well, yes.'

'Fine by me, but I didn't even go Muggle!'

Daphne shrugged. 'We'll rectify that!' Dragging her best friend towards the upper floor. 'Come on! You can borrow some clothes.'

Tracey moaned, but Daphne didn't let up. Tracey let herself go far too often – she didn't even try! Well, not today.

One hour later, Tracey's patience was already wearing thin.

'Enough!' she snapped, glaring at Daphne, who was highly entertained. 'I'll go with the blue shirt!'

'That's azure – not blue.'

'Yes, fine, whatever. I'll go with the azure shirt. Happy?'

Daphne simply smiled. 'It's you who doesn't look too thrilled. What's up? You can't honestly tell me you want to go to town wearing that floorcloth.'

Tracey stuck out her tongue, cutely huddling against her robes. 'They're comfy!'

'I'm sure they are,' said Daphne, rolling her eyes.

'And … and it's embarrassing that I have to borrow your little sister's clothes!'

'To be fair, they fit you pretty well.'

'That's exactly what I mean,' said Tracey with a nasty scowl. It might have looked off-putting, but – as it were – Tracey's face wasn't made to express something as serious as contempt. Daphne thought she looked like she was about to sneeze. It made Daphne want to cuddle her.

'I'm sure Astoria won't mind. Oh, she asked for you to remember her, by the way.'

Tracey sighed ruefully. 'Give her my love. Well, all right, but I'll be wearing my shoes.'

Daphne looked at Tracey's worn trainers, biting her lip.

'What?!' said Tracey defensively.

'Nothing.'

Tracey groaned, throwing herself onto Astoria's bed and pummelling the pillow. 'Fine, shoes, too! But I'll be wearing my jeans, capisce?!'

Memory Lane

'Look at that!' squealed Daphne happily. 'That handbag's so cute, don't you think?'

Her best friend sat at the reading area of the department store, one girl next to about a dozen exasperated husbands and boyfriends, all of them (Tracey included) reading some magazines about cars.

'Yes, dear,' said Tracey without looking up.

'You aren't even looking!'

'No, it's wonderful, dear,' said Tracey in that same calm, hollow tone again. 'You should totally get that one. It'll go great with that one dress of yours.'

A few of the middle-aged men chuckled, and one of them grinned at Tracey, muttering something under his breath. Tracey laughed but shook her head.

'What was that?' asked Daphne suspiciously.

'I just had to clarify that we're not married and that I'm not paying for your shopping.'

'Lucky you,' mumbled the hassled-looking gentleman who sat next to Tracey. He was out of breath, three bulging bags filled to the brim with clothes in each hand.

Daphne scowled but – in the end – continued to fawn over the merchandise regardless. For some reason she couldn't comprehend, their two-hour stop at the lingerie-store had apparently been too much for Tracey, who couldn't see the point of 'tarting oneself up when it's supposed to be dark anyway'.

'Blimey! Daphy, come here a second!'

Curious, Daphne looked up, reluctantly letting go of the fine leather strap. 'What's up?'

'Isn't that Hermione over there – with Draco?!'

It was Granger and, most mysteriously, Malfoy. They sat opposite each other under a huge parasol, seated among all the other Muggles. Granger was enjoying a humongous sundae. Malfoy, looking uncomfortable with the loudly chatting Muggles in the café, was stiffly sipping coffee.

Daphne gasped. 'You– You don't think they're on a date, do you?'

Tracey turned her head, looking at her with something akin to pity. 'Daphne, that's Draco we're talking about. D-R-A-C-O! Close your eyes and tell me you can imagine Draco dating a Muggle-born.'

'Shhh!' Daphne threw a nervous look in the direction of the Muggle men, but, unbidden, the image of Draco, wearing pompous robes and a smug expression, waving from a cabriolet in front of a church materialised in her mind. 'That'd be really weird,' she said with a laugh.

'Exactly. Should we go over?' asked Tracey, sounding a little too eager for Daphne's taste.

'I don't know …' said Daphne, casting longing looks in the direction of the handbags.

'Oh, come on! Enough of that!' Tracey grabbed her arm, dragging her along. 'I had to suffer your shopping-spree; now you get to suffer Draco.'

They navigated the densely packed streets. Half of London was on its feet, or so it seemed, following the call of the mild summer. It was weird how normal everything was, only a few months after the horrific invasion of Lethifolds.

Hermione spotted them first, waving wildly. 'Tracey! Greengrass!'

'Hey!' called Tracey with a big smile. Daphne suspected part of that smile was at least relief from the temporary break they were taking.

Deciding that completely withholding a greeting might be a tad too much, she raised her hand, giving it the tiniest of waves, nodding at Granger.

'Looking good, Greengrass!' said Draco, whistling loudly, his eyes glued to her dress.

'Thank you,' she replied icily, considering for the first time that it might have been prudent to wear something different – like a snowsuit. 'So, er, what are the both of you doing out here? You're not, you know …'

Granger looked at her blankly before she gave a rather hysterical yelp of shock. 'What?!'

Daphne didn't blame her. The thought of going out with that sleazy little mutt was rather revolting.

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Draco. 'No, this is about Granger's education. Seeing as she bragged about finishing her homework on the first week of the break last year, I thought she might as well be doing something useful with her time for once.'

'Homework is useful!' protested Granger, looking somewhat hurt.

Tracey rolled her eyes, patting the Muggle-born's hand. 'Of course it is, honey.'

'Anyway,' continued Draco, 'since I'm away for a few weeks, I asked a few people and – you know what – there actually are people offering their services to uplift Muggle-borns from the bog of banality.'

'Uplift?' repeated Granger, narrowing her eyes. 'And you said there weren't any teachers!'

'There weren't last time I checked. But, truth be told, it's not like I'm overly fussed over the topic.'

'Wait, so you're arranging for her to have professional lessons?' asked Tracey.

Draco took a sip of his coffee, his eyes looking unfocused, wandering all over the place. 'More or less. Mind you, the teacher won't have my distinct background, of course, but I suppose they'll have to do until we're back at school. I've already contracted the most expensive one.'

'Of course, you have,' said Daphne, sighing.

'Er, how much exactly–' began Granger.

But Draco interrupted her immediately, waving his hand. 'Don't worry about the small stuff. Anyway, her name's a bit queer, but she's got credentials from the Ministry.' He produced an envelope, pushing it across the table towards Hermione. 'You'll find everything you need to know within.'

'Oh – thank you,' replied Granger with what Daphne considered a rather respectable bow, pocketing the letter.

'Anyway, it's been nice meeting you all,' said Malfoy pompously, speaking to Daphne's dress yet again, 'but I've got to pack for our vacation.'

Nodding towards Daphne's face for once, he rose from his chair, disappearing within the crowd only moments later.

'What'd he leave that quickly for?' asked Granger, confused.

'Don't ask me,' said Daphne, 'but I'm not complaining.'

Tracey sniggered. 'It's probably because he doesn't have any Muggle money. I'm sure it'd wound his pride if Hermione knew he couldn't pay his tab.'

'Ridiculous. It's the least I can do. I'm sure the teacher won't be cheap …'

'Probably a few hundred Galleons a month,' said Daphne conversationally, ignoring Granger's second yelp. 'Or maybe … he was uncomfortable that we interrupted your 'Not-A-Date'?'

'It wasn't a date!' snapped Granger.

Daphne grinned. 'No need to get defensive with me if it really wasn't a date.'

'Don't worry,' said Tracey, patting Granger's hand again. Daphne had to suppress a laugh at how her best friend had to stretch to reach the Muggle-born's hand, seeing as she was more than a head shorter. 'He's good for his looks and money, at least.'

'Anyway,' said Granger with an air of finality born of discomfort, 'I should probably be heading out as well. I wanted to buy a bit of charmed parchment in Diagon Alley, but, at this rate, the shops are going to close.'

'Oh, drat!' yelled Daphne, hitting her own forehead. 'Mum's shopping list!'

'Right, you mentioned that,' said Tracey, sniggering. 'What's on it? We can go with Hermione.'

Daphne perused the little snippet. 'Floo Powder, Lacewing flies, a pint of pure mercury – why didn't she get all that in the apothecary with Tori?!'

'Is your mother a potion mistress?' asked Granger excitedly.

'Oh, no – not really. I mean, she brews the odd tincture or elixir, but nothing like Tracey's mum does.'

Tracey wrinkled her nose. 'Wish she wouldn't. I don't like potions – they reek!'

'There are nice-smelling potions,' said Daphne reproachfully, remembering some of the experiments with love potions she'd done for the giggles.

'Maybe they're bearable when they're done,' continued Tracey, 'but the brewing always stinks like hell. And the mess! You ladies can cook with intestines, dung, and sundry excretions however much you please – even though I reckon there's something seriously wrong with you if you actually enjoy chopping worms and skinning snakes! Comes down to all the fumes, I expect …'

Memory Lane

'You sure you don't want to sleep over?' asked Daphne, lounging on her chair at Florean Fortescue's. Dusk was falling, the last deep red rays of warmth bathing the girls in a mellow light. The crowds were finally calming down a bit as well. Daphne usually enjoyed all the hustle and bustle, but the endless chatter could wear you out. Still, she was in a very good mood, so she suggested – for the third time – that Tracey really should stay overnight.

'Wish I could,' said Tracey with a dramatic sigh, watching Granger's bushy mane weave through the crowd until it disappeared. 'But my mum's really busy with work or whatever, brewing some complicated potion and not leaving her study. And guess who's got the short end of the stick at home?!'

'Your dad?' asked Daphne, playing along.

'Ha! Dad! Good one.' Tracey cutely wrinkled her brow, slurping her third milkshake with obscene audibility. 'I love Dad, really, but he's not … the most organised of people. No presence of mind …'

Daphne didn't respond. Her best friend probably needed to vent a bit of steam.

'… but really, is it reasonable to demand of a sixteen-year-old girl to spend her vacation cooking and cleaning?!'

'You cook and clean?' asked Daphne with a laugh. 'That's hilarious! Please remind me not to visit.'

'Haha,' grumbled Tracey sarcastically. 'That you of all people make fun of me for cleaning stuff. I'm actually scared of entering your room at this point!'

'It's not that bad!'

'It so is!'

'And what about the cooking bit?! You would even burn toast whenever I came over, remember?'

'But not even I burn pasta! Not very often anyway … Wish we had a house-elf.'

'Oh, I so get that,' said Daphne, nodding fervently. 'I wish I could call Lobbo more often, but, you know, being my gran's elf and all …'

'Harry has three elves looking after him. How lucky is he?!' demanded Tracey enviously. 'No wonder he's so pampered.'

'Harry is not pampered!'

Tracey stared at her, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

'Yeah, okay, maybe he's a tiny bit … sheltered.'

'A bit?! You did see that ridiculous quill he's been writing with, didn't you? You could buy a house with what that must have cost.'

'It was a present! Harry didn't ask for it.'

'A present?' Tracey sighed wistfully. 'Sometimes I wonder if I have the wrong family …'

Daphne laughed again. 'I'm not so sure. He told me the quill was from Aunt Narcissa.'

'What – Draco's mum?! Merlin, never mind then. Imagine being closely related to Draco.'

Daphne flinched. 'Thanks …'

'You don't count!' said Tracey hastily. 'I mean, aren't you only related through Phineas Nigellus? Draco told me once that he's a shared ancestor. That's like being fourth cousins!'

Daphne didn't look up from her own drink, playing with her straw, immensely grateful that her long hair was finally useful for something – like hiding her burning ears. 'Er, truth be told, our grandmother, ahem, well, she,' Daphne was speaking rather fast now, 'she's present on two sides of our family tree, you see …'

Tracey, who seemed to immediately realise what she was getting at, winced. Daphne was glad how fast on the uptake her best friend could be.

'She was a bit unstable, too, Grandma Walburga.'

'Sorry … I suppose it didn't help that she had to marry her … second cousin or something?'

'Good guess,' said Daphne, nervously fiddling with the hem of her dress. 'Honestly, I don't know all that much about her. Let's talk about something else, please.'

Tracey nodded. After a few seconds of an entirely transparent attempt to come up with a topic, she said, 'How's the planning for the party going?'

Daphne smiled at her best friend in gratitude. 'It's going to be great! Just you wait …'

They talked about this and that, sombre matters like her perhaps slightly too familiar family all too soon forgotten. In the end, Tracey decided that she should, at the very least, accompany Daphne home.

'How very gallant!' quipped Daphne with a grin.

'That's me! Gallant Knightess Davis, at your service,' said Tracey, puffing out her chest that – unfortunately – probably was the most chivalric thing about her.

Daphne laughed anyway. She adored Tracey's easy-going side. 'Knightess? Shouldn't that be Dame?'

'Oh, no. That's for mollycoddles who like debating and stuff. I'm more of the kick-ass persuasion.'

They took their time, chatting about anything from boys, school, to Quidditch, passing the flower shop next to the hidden entrance to Daphne's home. The potty Muggle lady who owned the shop, Mrs Spencer, was just closing up.

Exchanging cautionary, polite greetings, they walked past the boundary of the charm that concealed the orchard and the small house at its centre.

'I'm back,' called Daphne as soon as the door closed behind them. 'You really sure you can't sleep over? It's been ages!'

'One year doesn't count as ages!'

'Does too!'

'Oh, Daphne, there you are. I was beginning to worry.' Daphne's mother gave both her daughter and Tracey a hug. 'Good to see you, Tracey. Are you staying over? Can I tempt you with some cake from yesterday?'

Daphne could see the determination of her best friend wavering. But, or so it seemed, even the customarily effective secret weapon didn't seem to be enough this time around. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Greengrass, not today.'

Daphne's mother inspected Tracey as if she were ill. 'Do you want me to wrap up a slice or two? It'd be no trouble at all.'

But still Tracey hesitated.

Daphne, with an enticing smile, added, 'It's a chocolate sponge cake.'

'Yes, please!' squealed Tracey immediately.

They all shared a laugh at Tracey's hungry expression – even Tori, who had come poking her head around the corner to see what all the fuss was about.

Daphne led the procession to the living room while her mother dashed off towards the kitchen. Tracey, without any reservation whatsoever, threw herself on the couch. 'I'm knackered.'

'Shopping too hard?' asked Tori with what her sister considered to be an unnecessarily accusatory tone.

'It was barely five hours!' protested Daphne snappishly.

Tori rolled her eyes. 'Well, as long as something came of it. I like your shirt, Tracey. I've got one just like that.'

Daphne coughed awkwardly. 'Let's not talk abo–'

'It's yours, Tori,' mumbled Tracey, her head pressed against the cushion. 'I borrowed it because I didn't dress up Muggle.'

Daphne winced. Despite what she'd said, she wasn't at all sure her sister wouldn't throw a huge tantrum.

'Oh,' said Tori, looking astonished. Then, she grinned. 'I guess that explains why it looks so familiar. No biggie!'

'What?!' Daphne cried out. 'You bet it'd be a biggie if I'd taken anything of yours!'

'Well, yeah,' said Tori in that sort of patient voice adults use to explain why A isn't B. 'But you're you and Tracey isn't.'

'Thanks …'

'Oh, sisterly love,' said Tracey loftily, lifting her head from the cushion with a grin. 'There's nothing like it.'

'You wouldn't say that if you had a sister,' said Tori emphatically.

'My words exactly,' agreed Daphne with a serious expression.

'So, will you be staying here all summer?' asked Tracey, stretching sleepily.

'Yeah! I think so. Probably. Mum said something like that – I think. She did, didn't she, Daphne?'

Daphne rolled her eyes. 'Yes.'

'I like this place better than your manor; it's comfy!'

The sisters, most unusually, nodded in agreement again.

'Not to mention that we're safe here from that creepy skeleton with the mushroom hat.'

Tracey giggled, but Tori looked nervous. 'Shh! Don't let Mum hear you talk like that about Gran!'

'Plus,' continued Daphne, unimpressed, 'there aren't half as many portraits here.'

'Oh, yeah,' said Tori. 'I always feel like I'm under constant watch over there …'

'Probably because our delightful grandmother is keeping an eye on us,' responded Daphne thoughtfully.

'Maybe she's just worried,' speculated Tori.

Daphne sighed. Tori could be so simple-hearted. 'Worried that we'll "sully our honour" and "damage her goods" more than likely.'

'What?' asked Tori, looking from Tracey to Daphne.

'Daphne means that your gran is worried that you'll pop your cherry whoring around Knockturn Alley.'

'Tracey!' hissed Daphne. 'She's fourteen!'

But, to Daphne's annoyance, Tori was laughing just as hard as Tracey. Daphne was even more disturbed when she saw one of the few ancient portraits, a distant ancestor or relative of a bald man in his forties called Taurus Blackthaw, wink saucily at Tracey. Through squinted eyes, she glared at the man, who looked suitably ashamed of being caught, pretending he hadn't done anything.

Memory Lane

The woman styling herself as Aenor Rose gazed at the setting sun, her long, slender legs dangling over the brink of the jagged bluff. Stretching with an unseemly little yawn that her grandfather would surely have reprimanded her for, she leant back with a relaxed little smile. An excitedly croaking flock of ravens glided through the evening air, circling above.

The sun was smiling back at her, rosy red light emblazing the vast, fathomless sea in front of her like a million twinkling rubies. She purred jauntily, taking a deep breath of the salty air, revelling in the melancholy. Not too long ago, she'd been constantly nagging about the solitude of the ocean and the little, cramped cabin – but today, only a few years after she'd been rudely kicked out to 'finally see the world', she couldn't help longing for those simple days.

Was it that way for everyone? Deep down, she suspected, most people craved simplicity, a tomorrow that wasn't too different from what they had today. Going to work, complaining about work; talking to the neighbour, slagging the neighbour off; striving for change, and trying to keep everything in balance – that was how most people preferred their lives. A life of predictable unpredictability. Change was very welcome, as long as it came slowly, in small doses, and wiped its dirty boots – thank you very much.

Her gaze swept over the vast, daunting sea, revelling in both the sight and the chilly evening breeze that ruffled and tossed her hair, twisting and turning her formerly tidy, meticulously coiffed hair.

Change … the word did something to her. It had a slightly melancholic, tragic taste she couldn't bear to hate or love. Change, 'brydning'¹, was a cornerstone of her grandfather's teachings – arguably tragically so.

She'd come to Britain on a hunch, knowing that there was at least one connection she could exploit. In truth, the danger of that connection was very much pointed both ways, but Aenor trusted a stand-off threatening mutually assured destruction more than feigned words of compassion.

She sighed again, painfully aware of how she had wasted two years – more or less. True, she didn't have a schedule or even a plan, but looking after a now almost-sixteen-year-old certainly wasn't what she'd envisioned when she'd set out. And yet, dropping him, dropping it all would be such a waste.

Harry and the Blacks were interesting. Never would she have dared to dream that she'd get a chance to study one of Europe's oldest magical clans and their rather dastardly magical background. She still got a pleasurable shiver of excitement when she thought about how the ancient Blacks had shared their blood with Lethifolds. It was … beautiful. Reckless, insensible, borderline-harebrained – true – but also … lovely … in its single-minded pursuit of power and knowledge. An honest wish and no excuses; a problem and a solution. No scruples, no reservations. Only limitless brilliance and academic ambition – exactly how magical research was supposed to be. Too bad their experiments had ultimately failed, but it was the thought that counted, right? Small wonder her grandfather had always shown a vague interest in that family.

Truly, despite how annoyed she'd been to be dancing in the palm of the older Black, she couldn't help feeling grateful. But there was even more, wasn't there?

The Lethifolds, yes, they had explained Harry's incredible night vision, his affinity to the beasts, how the pack hadn't tried to lacerate him and his friends in the forest. That strange darkness charm, too, had turned out to be an imitation of the Lethifolds' natural magical aura. Its weakness to the Patronus made an almost painful amount of sense.

But there was still more. The barrier … the barrier had been what had initially awoken her interest in Harry beyond his family background. How had Harry seen it? Lethifolds were physically strong monsters that paralysed their victims with mental attacks. They were hard to ward off, but – just like Dumbledore had proven – it wasn't impossible. It was difficult to tell if Lethifolds were intelligent. In fact, until Harry's strange reaction at the ball, Aenor hadn't even considered the possibility. But despite it all, she doubted Lethifolds had any interest in studying or comprehending foreign magic. To them, all that mattered was the next feast, be it critter, person, or nation.

Yes, there was still something different going on with Harry, something unique. Bellatrix Lestrange, who was almost assuredly related to the Blacks, could not perceive magic like Harry did. She would have seen through Harry's little trick last summer otherwise. Was it another case of family magic? But even the Blacks surely knew better than to push their luck …

No, it was something different, something mysterious, a unique talent – and it got her blood boiling.

So what was the harm, really, in playing around with young Harry for a bit longer? She wasn't bound to her grandfather's destiny or plans; hadn't he himself told her so?

So how to best go about forcing Harry to grow up and relinquish his secrets? In her mind, Aenor once more heard her grandfather's words: 'Progress can only exist when there's a need to change.'

One of the ravens from above landed with a whoosh near her left hand. With a grouchy croak, the wild animal rubbed its feathered head against the back of her hand. When Aenor didn't react, it stopped just long enough to give her another sharp caw of complaint, resuming its rubbing almost immediately.

Smiling softly, Aenor petted the raven. It stopped its antics immediately, relaxing noticeably under her touch.

'You're a fastidious little critter, aren't you?' she asked the raven.

The raven blinked slowly, giving one more content little croak.

The forefinger of her other hand pressed to her lips in the characteristic pose of the innocent thinker, she stared pensively at the murder above. Above the swarm, a few clouds were slowly drifting north-east, towards the looming spires of the monstrous fortress that was barely visible on the horizon.

With a playful smile, she stood up, rolling her shoulders to get a bit of feeling in her back after an hour of leisure and sunbathing on hard rock in the middle of the sea.

The raven at her feet croaked again, clearly displeased with her lack of attention.

But Aenor's smile only widened. 'Sorry, but we're all selfish creatures like that.'

And then, the decision made, she flicked her wand. Maybe she'd get the ball of change rolling from there. In any case, it was just another purulent pustule in need of puncturing. She was doing Britain and those rotting wretches a kindness, really.

On the horizon, the black towers of the cursed fortress stood strong, standing out against the mellow dusk. Ten minutes later, an enormous crash and the following gigantic cloud of dust and soot put an end to the peaceful summer evening. For a few minutes, it was as if the ghosts of shouts and cries could be heard dancing above the waves – until they returned to their ethereal origins.

The murder of crows drew north, following the scent of the feast.

Memory Lane

It's true what people say. History may be changed, fate overthrown by the merest touch of a finger at the right point, causing the literal snowball of change to set off the avalanche of destiny.

Problem is, reality has more directions than just 'downhill', and as such it's often hard to tell where the avalanche will go. In that way, the image of an avalanche might be slightly misleading; a real avalanche seldom rolls up the mountain to bury its catalyst.

¹NB, brydning: I'll spare you the effort. In its figurative sense, it means fight or even upheaval. More commonly, it refers to wrestling as a sport. It's Danish. (Second time that language's popped up. Cookies and honorary mentions to anyone who manages to find the first piece of Danish!)