Chapter Two: Aftershocks

August drew on. Lucy, still buzzing from her success at Fleamont's wedding, impatiently awaited the start of the new term. She couldn't wait to have free periods – it really wasn't fair that Charlus had had them for an entire year already.

Following the wedding, the house had emptied. Trisha had returned to her husband's house with her three daughters, Cecilia and her family had retreated to the Potter family's mansion in Wales, and Monty and Mia were visiting Euphemia's French homes, at the same time as visiting her uncles and cousins.

Lucy had made it her mission to show Olive around her new home. The mansion was large and the grounds even larger, so there was a lot to see. The seven-year-old made a good audience, impressed by everything, fascinated by the portraits of long dead relatives that Lucy viewed in the same she might view an elderly, slightly embarrassing aunt and the plants that moved themselves around if they felt they were too much in the shade. Lucy spent several pleasant afternoons telling Olive the history of her home and family, enjoying Olive's look of astonishment as she described the war in 1574, when the Manor had been laid siege to for a week before Herid Potter lost his patience and blasted the attackers to smithereens.

Charlus joined in with many of the girls' escapades, helping Lucy to stage plays for Olive's entertainment and telling them wild stories of Potter ancestors that probably weren't true but left them desperate to hear more.

Edmund, delighted to be home and safe after months in a war zone, was spending as much time with his children as he could. The four of them spent hours zooming through the air on broomsticks, shrieking with laughter, before returning to the ground for the lemonade and cookies Gertrude had provided. It was a golden summer.

When the first of September arrived, Lucy woke up early. Much too excited to sleep, she scrambled out of bed and dressed in her new school robes, admiring herself in the mirror. The high of returning to school never wore off.

When Gertrude popped her head round the door an hour later, Lucy was hunched in front of her trunk, her long hair tied back in a basic ponytail, repacking her school things.

"Come down for some breakfast," Gertrude said, smiling.

Lucy hurried after her mother.

Charlus was already sitting at the table in the smallest dining room, black hair as messy as ever, stuffing toast into his mouth. Olive was watching him and giggling.

"Pig," Lucy said as she passed by him to reach her seat.

He looked up at her. "Why are you in your robes already? You don't need to be."

"I wanted to ensure they would fit," Lucy said, with dignity.

Charlus snorted.

"We'll leave at quarter to," Edmund said, entering the room. "We're just Flooing in, but I don't expect we'll be able to escape a few delays, so better safe than sorry."

Lucy groaned. "I can't wait until quarter to eleven!"

Charlus grinned at her. "I don't know why you're so excited, it's just Hogwarts…"

Lucy gasped, indignant. "You take that back!"

"I'm sure you're both excited to be going back to school," Gertrude said, soothingly. "I'm sure you'll both have a lot of fun this year. And I'm sure that you'll both be good, hmm?"

"Yes Mum," the siblings nodded. Lucy caught Charlus's eye and grinned wickedly.

"Hmm," Gertrude said.

"Let them be, dear," Edmund said, laughing. "Albus will be able to handle whatever they decide to throw at him, and we all know he's basically taken over for Dippet at this point."

Gertrude sighed. "Just don't get too many detentions, alright? Charlie, it's your last year and you are Head Boy, do try to earn that position."

"Don't worry, Mum," Charlus said. "We won't get caught."

He and Lucy dissolved into laughter. Gertrude shook her head, but she was suppressing a smile.


Dorea Black sat alone in her compartment on the train, hands folded in her lap, stiff robes itching against her skin. Her older brother's scolding still rang in her ears.

Dorea knew that she was a disappointment. Ever since she had been Sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin, her family had viewed her as a 'mistake', a failed attempt to secure the inheritance. Already, as a girl, she wasn't much better than a bargaining chip to secure an alliance with another pure-blood family. Now…

Dorea sighed. Maybe she would be able to marry a Fawcett. They were too close to blood traitors for Arcturus's tastes, but they were a wealthy pure-blood family, and Daniel Fawcett, two years older than Dorea, was nice.

It had never occurred to Dorea that she might be able to make up her own mind about who she married and what she did with her life.

The compartment door swung open and a girl who was probably a sixth-year entered. She had long strawberry blonde hair loosely tied back and she was also already wearing her robes. A Gryffindor, Dorea noted. She recognised the girl. She was Lucinda Potter, whose magic had made such a splash at her brother's wedding. Dorea shuddered to think what would have happened if she had tried to spruce up Arcturus's wedding.

"Hi," Potter said. "May I sit here? Everywhere else is filling up really fast."

"You may," Dorea said. She tilted here head. Surely Potter must know who she was? And yet she had chosen to sit here anyway, with a second-year whose family was entirely opposed to her own.

"You're Dorea, right?" Potter said. "I've seen you around. Good at Transfiguration. I'm Lucy."

She talked very fast, as though she had a lot to say and wanted to say it quickly before she forgot any of it.

"Yes, I'm Dorea," Dorea said, slightly taken aback by Lucy's rapid-fire speech. "I'm passable at Transfiguration."

"No, you're good, really good," Lucy said. "I've heard Dumbledore talk about you, he thinks you could do a lot of really good stuff if you wanted to."

"He… does?" Dorea asked.

Lucy nodded quickly. "Yeah, and he says you're really good at talking to people, he reckons you could have a shot at being Minister if you wanted to."

"I could?" Dorea felt dazed. Even before Hogwarts, no one had ever told she could be anything as important as Minister for Magic.

"Yes," Lucy said firmly. "And I think he's right, though of course I haven't seen much of you yet. I bet you could, though. You'd probably be better than old Aeneas Black – but I suppose he's your relative, isn't he? Sorry, was that frightfully rude of me?"

Dorea shook her head. "I know nothing of politics. I've never met Aeneas. I think he is my father's second cousin."

Lucy sighed in apparent relief. "Thank goodness, I was terribly afraid that I'd offended you. Truly, I only wanted to be friendly – you looked so lonely and it's rather my job to comfort lonely students."

She tapped her Prefect badge.

"But I don't want you to think you're only a charity case, either!" Lucy hurried to add. "I did see that you looked a little lonely, so I thought I wouldn't be interrupting anything and maybe you wouldn't mind, but Dumbledore has truly said that you're very talented and I was curious – Blacks are hardly ever in any house but Slytherin. You must be very unique."

Dorea blinked. Lucy was so different from everything she was used to. She was loud and quick and overwhelmingly talkative – and supportive. She hadn't said that Dorea was wrong or a disappointment or even just different. She'd said Dorea was unique. Somehow, that was much better.

Cautiously, Dorea offered the Gryffindor Prefect a small, hesitant smile.


Charlus wandered disconsolately down the swaying corridor of the train. He couldn't find his friends. Jared Shacklebolt, Atticus Bell, and Kayden Willis should have been in one of the compartments. It was unlikely that all three would have decided not to come back to Hogwarts this year, although Kayden's Muggle father would certainly have leapt at the idea. No, they were all hiding somewhere, just to mess with him. Punishment for abandoning them during the Prefects' Meeting, Charlie suspected.

He heard his sister's voice from one of the compartments nearby, talking a mile a minute, and he peeked in. Instead of her usual crowd of friends, she was sitting with a small, pale girl with tightly bound black hair and a Hufflepuff tie. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her. Certainly she wasn't like any of Lucy's usual friends. A student she'd stopped to comfort?

"No, stop asking me!" a girl's voice drifted from another compartment ahead. Charlus recognised it and his spirits lifted. He hurried over and opened the door.

Eleri Wilkins was standing, arms folded, in front of Jared, whose slumped shoulders and kicked puppy expression suggested he'd just asked Eleri to marry him again. Charlus rolled his eyes. Jared had been in love with Eleri for as long as anyone could remember, and she was definitely not in love with him. (Well, she was definitely not prepared to marry him yet.)

Atticus and Kayden were there as well, laughing, and Eleri's friends Maya Daniels, Kitty Spinnet, and June Ronalds. Atticus noticed Charlus and waved.

"Where've you been?" he asked. "You missed Red humiliating himself again."

"I was looking for you lot," Charlus said grumpily, sitting down. "Did you deliberately find the most obscure compartment you could?"

Kitty and June giggled.

Jared slumped next to Charlus with a sigh, tugging at his Gryffindor tie. Eleri plumped herself down between Kitty and Maya and began talking to her friends, pointedly ignoring Jared and the boys.

"Better luck next time," Kayden said, not quite sympathetically.

"I'm in love with her," Jared admitted, making heart eyes at Eleri.

"We noticed," Charlus said.

Jared scowled. "When I'm married to Eleri you'll all eat your words."

"Sure," Atticus drawled, patting Jared's arm.


Golden sunlight lanced through the gaps in the lace curtains. A few motes of dust glinted in the early morning light. Euphemia lay in bed, her head resting of Fleamont's chest. He was still asleep, his body rising and falling with every slow breath.

The temptation to leap out of bed and start doing things nagged at Mia, but it was faded, stifled under the enjoyment of a slow, lazy morning in bed with her husband. They weren't fighting Grindelwald anymore. They were on their honeymoon, simply enjoying one another's company.

Monty stirred underneath her and opened his beautiful blue eyes. He smiled sleepily.

"Good morning, darling," she said.

"'Morning, love," he mumbled, and leaned up to kiss her.


Camille Dearborn sat in a window seat in her father's house, her chin resting on her knees, gazing out at a sweeping gravel drive. She was twenty-one years old, beautiful, with long blonde curls and gentle curves. She was still unmarried.

Currently she was awaiting the arrival of her cousin, Euphemia, and her new husband. Her brothers and their pretty young wives, and even her little nephew, were also here, along with her happily married parents.

Camille sighed softly. She felt lonely and left out. Her sisters-in-law were nice, but they were so busy with their new married lives, so devoted to their husbands, so eager for children to care for. Camille wished she had that prospect.

"You are young, ma chèrie," her mother had told her. "You have time."

Camille hoped she was right.

Down below she say a carriage drawn by two hippogriffs making its way along the gravel drive to the mansion. Camille jumped up, her pale blue robes swishing around her, and hurried down to the hall.

The rest of the family had already gathered. Adelaide, still beautiful despite being well into her forties, beside her husband. Lucien with his silvering hair. Leon and Adrien, identical but for their different shades of hair – Leon as blonde as his sister and Adrien with a hint of their father's auburn. Ocèane, holding her golden-haired toddler, and Lucille, radiant with the glow of her pregnancy.

The doors swung open. Camille had a momentary impression of sunlight, of her English cousin arm in arm with a tall, dark-haired man, before Euphemia was flinging herself into Lucien's arms with a cry of, "Uncle!".

"Mia!" he greeted. "My goodness, you've grown! And this must be your husband."

"Yes," Mia said. "This is Fleamont – Heir Potter."

The dark-haired man stepped forwards, bowing, and politely shook Lucien's hand. He was Mia's age, about thirty, and not exactly handsome. His black hair stuck up wildly from his head, his nose was too long and narrow, and his eyes were a washed-out shade of blue. Still, when Mia took his hand, he looked at her with such an expression of love that Camille thought she had never seen a more beautiful man.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said in perfect French. "Mia has told me so much about you and your family. This must be your lovely wife?"

Adelaide let him kiss her hand, smiling. "What a charming young man. Euphemia, you have good taste."

She turned to her children. "You must allow me to present my sons, Leon and Adrien, and my daughter, Camille."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," Fleamont said, shaking hands with Camille's brothers and kissing her hand. "And these charming young ladies?"

Leon and Adrien hastened to introduce their wives, Leon proudly presenting his son for Mia to coo over.

"Do come upstairs to the parlour," Adelaide invited. "It is so awkward to stand around like this."

Fleamont and Mia followed her up the stairs. Camille could see that their hands were still intertwined.

In the parlour, she poured tea while Adelaide settled down to her favourite pastime: gossip.

"I'm so sorry that we couldn't stay longer for your wedding, Lucien unfortunately had some unavoidable duties. It was quite spectacular. Was it your brother who created the doves, Heir Potter?"

"My sister, actually," Fleamont said comfortably. "She's always doing things like that – she likes experimenting. And please call me Fleamont, Heir Potter feels so formal."

"Of course, Fleamont," Adelaide said, smiling. "I must say, I was impressed. Such talent for one so young… I do hope she won't let it go to waste."

Mia laughed. "Oh, there's little chance of that, I think, Aunt. I can't imagine Lucy wasting her magic."

Fleamont smiled. "I suppose it only depends on whether what she chooses to do with it matches everyone's expectations of her."

Adelaide laughed. "Oh, I quite know what you mean. Do you know, I had my heart set on Adrien becoming a Healer, and what does he go and do? Only decides to work with magical creatures instead!"

Camille's brothers joined in the laughter.

"I'm hardly surprised," Mia said, giving her cousin a teasing look. "He's always loved animals."

Leon leaned forwards. "I heard you were fighting against Grindelwald, before that British man – what was he called, Dummledore? – put a stop to him."

"Albus Dumbledore," Fleamont said. "Yes, we were fighting him."

"We're both Aurors, you see," Mia said. "I suppose that means that neither of us are the sort to let innocent people die if we can do something about it."

"It must have been awful," Camille said, thinking of the pictures and reports in the newspapers.

Fleamont nodded gravely. "It wasn't pleasant. Grindelwald didn't care who he hurt as long as he got his way."

"I can see where he was coming from, though," Leon said. "All those horrible things the Muggles were doing to one another – I'm sure you heard about it? Their 'World War', wasn't it? I can see why he would want to stop them."

Fleamont shook his head, but it was Mia who spoke.

"Yes, the Muggles were doing horrible things – but Grindelwald started preparing for this years before the Muggles started their war. He was expelled from Durmstrang – Durmstrang – for being too violent and too dark. The violent subjugation of a group of people is never the right thing to do, regardless of whether it is a Muggle or a Wizard doing it."

"Quite right," Adelaide said, nodding decisively. "Grindelwald was an awful man – and that lieutenant of his!"

She shuddered delicately.

Camille stirred her cup of tea. Although she hadn't been very interested in the war against Grindelwald, she hadn't been able to avoid hearing about some of what had happened – names, dates, places. One of those names had been that of Carlos Iskalas.

Mia shuddered. "Oh, yes, Iskalas. Yes, he was horrible. Even after Grindelwald had been defeated he wouldn't come quietly, did you know? They had to kill him to get him to stop."

"I heard," Adrien said, "that he was the one behind the massacre in Russia – an entire wizarding community, gone with a flick of a wand!"

Fleamont nodded sombrely. "It was terrible."

André, who had so far been surprisingly well behaved for a two-year-old, started to cry, effectively breaking up the conversation. Ocèane immediately started fussing over him, and Mia and Adelaide set down their cups of tea to help. Normally, Camille would have been the first to reach her nephew's side, but today she felt that Mia should get the pleasure. Instead, she listened to the conversation of the men. They'd moved on from war and were discussing Lucien's estate.

"It's not as big as your father's," her father was saying, "but it's a pretty reasonable size all the same. An awful lot of work, though."

"I imagine it must be," Fleamont said. "I'm not looking forwards to having to deal with my father's, I don't mind telling you. But yours looks lovely – I especially like the forest to the West. It looks good for hunting. Is it all yours?"

Lucien settled himself proudly in his chair. "Yes, it's all mine. Pretty good timber, and the hunting is excellent. Tell you what, you come back in October or November and we'll make a day of it."

"Better make it middle of October," Adrien said. "Lucille is due then and I imagine Mia will want to see the baby then anyway."

"Probably," Fleamont said. "I expect she'll want to join us hunting as well. Is it all Muggle game or is there anything magical in there?"

Lucien laughed. "Oh, yes, Mia and her hunting. I'll have to get her old horse ready for her. Yes, there's some magical game. Mostly hybrid, now, I think – Leon saw a rabbit-Crup hybrid last year, isn't that right?"

Leon nodded. "It nearly scared the life out of me, jumping in front of my horse. Poor thing got itself trampled pretty badly. I think it was more of a mercy killing than anything else at that point."

Fleamont winced. "I had a dog belonging to a Muggle in the village jump out in front of me one year. Fortunately Golder is a quick beast and thought to rear up until the dog had gotten clear."

Adrien laughter. "I have a Crup, Princess, who is always jumping in front of me – on a horse, on a hippogriff, just walking along, whatever. Sometimes I think she does it just to test me."

"I can imagine my sister doing that," Fleamont said. "Lucy has no concept of self-preservation. She'd jump off the roof to test whether she could perform a Cushioning Charm."

Camille felt her lips quirk up. She could remember when Adrien had done just that, and from his red cheeks she imagined he did too. In the end, his Cushioning Charm had worked, but it softened his father's anger.

"Do she and your brother attend Hogwarts, then?" Lucien asked when the laughter had calmed down a bit.

Fleamont nodded. "Yes, she's going into her sixth year there. Charlus is in his seventh already."

"Hogwarts is near Hogsmeade, is it not?" Lucien asked.

Camille expected Fleamont to be angry with her father's prying, or at least not to answer, but he assented with perfect readiness.

"I wish I'd had a village to visit at Beauxbatons," Leon said. "It would have been nice to have somewhere to go blow off a little steam."

"Beauxbatons is very strict," Adrien agreed. "I have often been jealous of the freedom Euphemia enjoyed at Hogwarts."

Camille wasn't sure she agreed. She had liked the stateliness of Beauxbatons, the way everything had its proper place and everyone had their proper behaviour. Hogwarts, full of scandals and dangerous sports, had always seemed to her a little outlandish. But she knew that Euphemia had loved it, and Fleamont wasn't quite able to hide his proud, slightly smug, smile as he began detailing the charms of the British wizarding school.


Euphemia and Fleamont stayed for five days with the Dearborns. On the last day Jules Dearborn, whom Edmund Potter had described as Mia's 'rather dodgy uncle' left his townhouse in Paris and Apparated up to see his niece and her new husband.

Courtesy dictated that witches and wizards did not Apparate directly into the homes of other witches and wizards. Most British homes had wards that prevented such a thing from occurring. In France, however, it was common practise to simply screen out all but family members, to avoid the inconvenience of having to go outside if it was bad weather. It wasn't bad weather and Jules hadn't specified a time for his arrival, but he Apparated directly into the foyer of the mansion anyway. He'd never had much truck with courtesy.

As it happened, Mia had suspected that he would arrive at the most inopportune moment, and was waiting in the foyer. She looked striking in elegant robes of a dark green, her hair tied back in a loose bun, her brown eyes already laughing at him.

He spread his arms. "My dear niece, what a delight to see you again."

She hugged him. She was nearly as tall as he was.

"It's lovely to see you, Uncle. Come upstairs and meet Fleamont."

"Ah, yes, your young suitor. Ought I to duel him for your honour?" he joked.

"We're married, Uncle," Mia told him.

"Good," Jules said. "I'm glad to see he's made an honest woman of you."

Mia rolled her eyes.

The family were seated in the smallest parlour, missing only Lucien, Ocèane, and André (rather a relief to Jules, who detested children). They rose when Jules and Mia entered. Adelaide curtseyed with the polite, formal, slightly cold air she reserved for her brother-in-law.

"My dearest sister," Jules said, kissing her on both cheeks. "You look ravishing."

"Jules," she greeted. "I see you are as you ever were."

Her eyes lingered pointedly on his unshaved stubble.

A young man stepped forwards, undoubtedly Mia's new husband. His messy dark hair stuck out vividly against the backdrop of blonde and auburn heads that made up the Dearborn family.

"You must be Fleamont," Jules said, shaking his hand. "My niece's… lover."

"And you must be Uncle Jules," Fleamont said, smiling. "The one with the… extensive library."

Jules raised an eyebrow. "Touché, young man. Well, and why don't you tell me all about your wedding? Young couples do love to boast."

"No wonder you haven't married," Mia sighed. "You're so cynical."

"Merely realistic, ma chèrie," Jules said.

Mia snorted. "I'm not sure your reality and mine quite coincide, dear uncle, and I'm the one recently returned from a warzone."

"Ah yes," Jules said, raising an eyebrow. "That ghastly Grindelwald. Do tell me all about the final duel. I'm sure it was simply thrilling – and undoubtedly much more exciting than a wedding."


"This isn't right."


It was a cold, bright day. Hints of brown were showing in some of the trees and bushes. A brisk wind caught a few leaves that had fallen prematurely.

None of the signs of Autumn had prevented Marigolda from sitting outside in her new thin silk robe, an ornately decorated book held delicately in one hand. Probably, Rabastan thought sourly, a blizzard wouldn't have prevented Marigolda from sitting outside in her new robe.

"Are you joining me, husband dearest?" she asked, not looking up from her book.

Reluctantly, Rabastan sank down next to her. He felt jittery and unable to concentrate. Really, what he had wanted to do was to go hunting, but Abraxas had cancelled on him at the last minute. That hadn't helped his nerves.

"Is something wrong?" Marigolda asked idly.

Marigolda put Rabastan on edge as well. She was always so calm, so in control, always smiling that self-satisfied, aloof smile, always working on the next assignment for Tom.

That was Rabastan's real problem. The upstart half-blood who had wormed his way into the ranks of the pure-bloods and won the complete loyalty of everyone around Rabastan, from his wife to Abraxas. They all worshipped him.

The worst part of it was that Rabastan could see why.

The thing that drew most of the old pure-blood families together, the thing that separated Slytherins from the crowd, was the craving for power. The desire to possess more wealth, to have more influence, to be more powerful. It was why pure-bloods fought among themselves rather than coming together under a single banner to wipe out their biggest threat, why they spent their days searching for new spells and potions when the old ones worked well enough, why there were so many assassinations and plots and kidnappings and threats.

And Tom? Tom just exuded power. He had more magic than most bloodlines. He could create new spells apparently effortlessly. He had a way of speaking to people that made them feel small, as though he were the pure-blood and they were lowly Mudbloods. He made people feel like he was holder of all power and that the only way they could get even a glimmer of it was to follow him unquestioningly. And they did.

He still hadn't answered Marigolda's question. She was still reading, evidently not interested in anything he might have to say. Rabastan hadn't expected a loving marriage. Even as a small boy he hadn't expected a loving marriage. He had hoped, maybe, in his lowest hours, that he would have someone he could tell his problems to, even she couldn't love him. Instead he had Marigolda. She would bring him power and wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

"It's getting cold," he said.

She shrugged her elegant shoulders. "I suppose."

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Something for Tom," she said.

They sat in silence. After a while Rabastan got up and walked back to the mansion. Marigolda still didn't lift her eyes from her book.


"Isn't it?"


Hepzibah rarely received visitors these days. Her mother's family were all dead and her father's family avoided her as thoroughly as she avoided them. They were jealous of her inheritance; they thought that, because her mother hadn't been born in Britain, she didn't deserve the property that had belonged to the Smiths for centuries, some of which came directly from Helga Hufflepuff. They would have preferred that her father's wealth go to his second, English, wife, and her daughter, a silly little thing nearly twenty years younger than Hepzibah.

This was partly why her house was so cluttered. She'd inherited her father's fortune at only twenty-three and, never having married or been particularly inclined to spend the money on other people or lavish, adventurous experiences, she'd had little else to do with herself other than collect hundreds of useless, barely even pretty, rubbish. After all, there was no one to see, except her and her house-elf.

Until the day Tom Riddle appeared on her doorstep, smiling his charming smile, offering her the purchase of a necklace with Mr Borgin's compliments.

Hepzibah was enthralled instantly.


Jared stared longingly down the table to where Eleri was sitting with her friends, paying him absolutely no attention. His apple pie lay untouched in front of him.

Charlus elbowed him. "Are you going to stop staring and eat your dessert, or can I have it?"

Jared shrugged. Eleri had thrown her head back in laughter, her dark hair glinting gold in the candlelight.

"Why do you get it?" Atticus complained. "You had a massive slice, I saw you."

"I asked," Charlus said. "Get your own, Atticus."

"We should share it," Kayden declared. "It's only fair."

"No – get off – it's mine now–"

A scuffle broke out beside him. Eleri glanced over and rolled her eyes at the boys. Jared perked up. She would see that he wasn't involved in the fight, that he was more grown up than in his friends! Her eyes met his. He held his breath. She looked away and started giggling with her friends.

Jared slumped. He turned to glare at his friends, who'd settled down now, having separated his dessert into three portions.

"What?" Charlie asked.


The heavy hangings of her Hogwarts bed blocked Eleri off from the rest of the dorm. She sat with her back to the headboard, bent over her diary, carefully inking in the details of a sketch she'd drawn of the Great Hall. Jared's face was most in focus, for reasons she chose not to explain to himself, his hopeful expression clearly visible against the backdrop of his fighting friends and the other students in the Hall. It was only a sketch, but for Eleri, that meant little more than that it had been done with a quill and didn't include colour.

Somewhere to her left, Maya and Kitty were whispering to each other. The occasional muffled giggle made its way to Eleri's ear.

Eleri wasn't jealous of Maya and Kitty's close friendship, although she thought June was. It was just the way of things. Kitty and Maya had met on the train and hit it off immediately. Eleri, who had been casual friends with Kitty for years, had joined their friendship group pretty quickly. Shy June had taken a little longer.

Poor June, Eleri thought. She only had Eleri, Kitty, and Maya. She'd never really bothered to get to know the other girls in their dorm, or in their year. She had grown up with her Muggle mother and simply didn't have the network of previous friendships that other girls did. Though their friend, she was excluded from Kitty and Maya's close relationship, and Eleri had a connection with Jared, the boy she'd essentially grown up with, that none of others could hope to imitate.

Eleri thought of Jared again. It was quite sweet, the way he hung after her like a little lamb. He clearly adored her, and Eleri was clear-sighted enough to admit that she liked the attention. It wasn't always easy, being the daughter of a pure-blood line originating from a bastard son, and having the Heir of a family like the Shacklebolts trailing after her had done wonders for Eleri's reputation. Hogwarts was a place of gossip and whispered spite, and it was always nice to have something on your side.

Anyway, no matter how much she moaned, she knew she could do a lot worse than marry Jared Shacklebolt. She'd known him since they were babies and they'd always liked one another. Eleri knew she would be happy with him.

It wouldn't hurt to make him wait a bit, although not too long, of course. After all, it was her last year here.


Darkness closed in around him, thick and heavy, choking him. He tried to call out, tried to summon fire from his wand – nothing. The darkness had shut off his magic as surely as it had shut off his sight.

It was approaching him. There was nowhere to run to. He could feel its presence getting closer, though he could see nothing and hear nothing. His breath came fast and hard and silent.

The object was still in his hands. Even its otherworldly glow had been dowsed by the encroaching darkness. I should have known, he thought bitterly. I should have known it would be the end of me.

It had reached him. There was nothing he could do now. The object dropped to the floor of the cave.

There wasn't even a scream.


What had drawn him here again Tom couldn't say. The cave was unremarkable, set low on the side of a jagged cliff much more forgettable than the iconic white cliffs of Dover. It wasn't visible from the clifftop and it was inaccessible to all but the hardiest of rock climbers, or those with magic.

Yet something about it called to him. It was more than merely the memory of the trip from the orphanage so long ago, although he thought of that day with slightly more fondness than most of his childhood. No, there was something about that cave, something that had called him even when he was a child. The whole place reeked of Dark Magic.

He Apparated straight into the cave. The tide had gone out and the small antechamber had only a little water at the bottom. A crude arch, the sort that might have been formed naturally or by magic many years ago, led to the second chamber. The dark lake remained unnaturally still.

He'd made them beg here, those two foolish children. He didn't remember their names or their faces, but he remembered their pleas. He remembered their screams. The caves had seemed to suck up their voices and then echo them back, just too late to be considered normal.

Tom narrowed his eyes. He could just see, in the centre of the lake, a small island of rock. He hadn't noticed it last time.

Curious, he levitated himself and floated easily across the surface of the water. The island was small, a mere outcropping of rock that rose a few feet out of the lake. The Dark Magic felt strongest here. If Tom concentrated he could just feel the edge of human pain, hear the murmur of a scream. Someone had died here.

Tom gave the island one last cursory glance. There was something glowing beneath the dust and the dirt. He picked it up.

A small silver chalice lay in his hands. Despite the dirt that had covered it only moments before, it gleamed as cleanly as the day it had been created. Despite the purity seeping from it, Tom knew immediately that this was the reason for the Dark Magic.

On the edge of his consciousness he felt something stir.

Tom eyed the chalice. It was probably some magical artifact that endowed great power on the wielder. However, despite the darkness around the glowing object, the thing itself filled him with nothing but revulsion at its goodness.

He dropped it into the lake and Apparated away. He was nearly late for his shift at Borgin and Burkes.


Orion sneezed. Cedrella, who had been reading next to the window, glanced over. The house-elf, Thinga, glanced at her mistress and hurriedly began rocking the baby, who seemed to have grown bored with his surroundings and had started grizzling. Cedrella watched them for a while, though she had no real desire to. There was nothing else to do.

Cedrella had always known that her main aim in life was to marry and provide heirs. She'd looked forwards to it. It sounded like a fairly easy task and the reward would be a comfortable life in suitable pure-blood family – in her case, the family she'd actually grown up it.

The problem was simply that no one had told her how boring it was going to be. At least until Orion was a little older, she had nothing to do but sit at home and dutifully dote on him while the house-elf did all the real work. She could be like Marigolda, living in society! She was a mother, not a useless old woman! She was eighteen, not eighty!

But Arcturus had told her to stay at home with the baby and Cedrella was a good, obedient pure-blood wife, so she read her book and stared out of the window while Thinga took the now-wailing Orion upstairs for a nap.


"I'm not sure I quite understand what you mean," Marigolda said blandly.

Lady Zabini, clutching another glass of elf wine, giggled and hiccupped a little. "Oh, pardon me, dear. Why, all I mean is that I understand your position. My husband tells me he has met your – I mean, young Riddle. Quite a charming, handsome fellow, he said."

Yes, I'm sure he did, Marigolda thought. She pasted a polite smile on her face. "Yes, Rabastan seems quite taken with him, they're very good friends. I haven't seen him much recently, of course – we're no longer forced together every day at Hogwarts, and Tom is such an ambitious boy, he has no time for old schoolfriends."

Lady Zabini patted her hand, swaying slightly. "There, there, dear. I'm sure he'll make time for you. You are rather beautiful."

"Thank you so much, Lady Zabini," Marigolda said. "I can never hope to achieve the same beauty as you had in your heyday – Daddy tells me you were quite the heartbreaker."

Lady Zabini giggled again. "I remember your father – ooh, he was a charmer!"

She attempted what she probably thought was a sly wink at Marigolda, but she'd had to lot to drink and all that happened was that one side of her face twitched massively. Marigolda's smile froze on her face.

"I'm sure he was," she said, a little more coldly than she had intended. "Of course, I wasn't there then – ah, there's Cedrella! You must excuse me; I've hardly seen her since Orion was born–"

Marigolda swanned off into the ground, leaving Lady Zabini to her wine. She hadn't lied; Cedrella had just entered the ballroom on Arcturus's arm, smiling widely at the witches and wizards who passed to greet her. Marigolda moved effortlessly through the crowd, reaching Cedrella's side and smiling at her.

"Cedrella, darling! So glad you could make it. Lord Black," she added flirtatiously, bowing her head at Arcturus, who flushed slightly and mumbled a greeting before looking away.

"Marigolda, dear," Cedrella greeted. "I'm delighted to be here; I've been so frightfully dull for weeks."

"I'll leave you two to it," Arcturus muttered, slipping away.

Neither witch bothered to acknowledge his absence with more than a nod and a smile.

"How is little Orion?" Marigolda asked.

"He's doing splendidly, he's already starting to talk, his father and I are so proud of him…"

Cedrella caught Marigolda's eye. A flash of understanding passed between them. Marigolda knew immediately how bored and lonely Cedrella had been, how sick she was of tending to her son, and yet how proud she was of producing an Heir. Cedrella knew at once how fed up Marigolda was of Rabastan appearing more powerful than her, and how much she enjoyed the perks of her new position, how pleased she was with Tom's trust in her, how much she enjoyed playing with people as though they were pawns in a game of wizard chess.

The witches moved off, arm in arm, through the crowd, chattering inanely about the running of their households and the gossip they had each picked up, as well as what precisely their husbands were doing.

"We've finalised Orion's engagement, it'll be such a good match," Cedrella said. "It won't happen for years, of course; Orion's only a baby, and Walburga isn't much older, not quite four yet, but I'm sure they'll suit each other wonderfully, Walburga already seems so fond of him–"

"Rabastan spends hardly any time at home. I believe he mostly goes hunting, with Abraxas and dear Arcturus, of course. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I don't mind terribly; he's always getting under my feet, and of course men are never good for much around the house–"

"I'm often very lonely at home, Arcturus is so busy, but my dear mother-in-law and her sister, Walburga's mother, are always dropping in, giving me such good advice–"

"I shall have to invite you to one of my dinner parties. I'm sure Orion could stand a night alone with your house-elf, and it would be so good to really catch up with you, somewhere away from the masses. I shall have to mention it to Rabastan. I'll have to see if I can organise a time when Tom's free; he sometimes drops in, you know."

Cedrella stopped. Marigolda turned to her, an expression of mild concern on her face.

"Oh, yes," Cedrella said. "I've been meaning to ask you about that. I'm not saying I believe them, of course, but Lady and Madam Black have mentioned that – well, that there are a few rumours – silly things, I don't believe them, of course, it's worse than Hogwarts – but – I have heard some rumours that you and Tom are – well, very good friends. Um. More than friends, actually. And I didn't believe them, of course, I know you'd never be so indiscreet, and – well, I like Tom, but – he is only a half-blood. I can't believe you would ever – with a half-blood."

She looked at friend nervously, as though to check that Marigolda was not offended. Instead, Madam Lestrange was only mildly amused.

"I think Tom's a little more than just a half-blood," she said lightly. "I take your point, however. I like to think I'm a friend of Tom's, but I'm certainly no more than that. I am devoted, mind, body, soul, and magic, to Rabastan – at least for the moment.

"Besides," Marigolda added, "as I'm sure you remember from Hogwarts, Tom has no interest in, ah, physical forms of affection. Or any form of affection."

Cedrella sighed, relieved. "Of course. I knew you wouldn't, but I had to make sure. It isn't just his Blood Status – I mean–" She glanced around, then leaned in and lowered her voice. "I don't know if you'd noticed – certainly Arcturus is staying out later and later and he comes home reeking of – well, Dark Magic. I have nothing against Dark Magic, of course, a lot of my pure-blood ancestors used Dark Magic, but – well, it's dangerous, that's all. I think Tom's organising it – hard to believe, but that's what I think. And I didn't want you mixed up in that, that's all. I don't know what they hope to achieve, but I think – certainly I can't risk Orion growing up motherless, and you shouldn't endanger any future children. Just – stay safe, please, Marigolda."

Marigolda looked at her friend. Cedrella's eyes were wide, earnest; she looked less like a society pure-blood Lady and more a seventeen-year-old fresh out of Hogwarts. She didn't, couldn't, know that Marigolda was already 'mixed up' in Tom's plotting.

"I shan't get myself into any danger," Marigolda assured her. "You needn't worry about me."

Cedrella breathed a sigh of relief.


Aeneas Black, Minister for Magic, sighed. He'd finished another long work day and was currently alone in his office, which was the only reason he felt comfortable letting his guard down and showing discomfort.

It had not been a good day. Following Grindelwald's defeat, Aeneas had hoped that wizarding politics, particularly international relations, would calm down a bit. Instead, the wizarding world had been thrown into chaos when the American Muggles had dropped their atomic bomb. Aeneas thought it had shown a shocking lack of consideration for his already overwhelming workload.

Aeneas had had two meetings today, one with the Muggle Prime Minister to talk about the Muggle response to atomic bombs and one with the American Ministry of Magic to talk about their shameful lack of control over their Muggle government.

Aeneas was dreading tomorrow. He had a meeting with the Japanese Ministry of Magic and, if there was one thing Aeneas was really not good at, it was being sympathetic to people with problems he had no experience of.

"Minister?" Aeneas's secretary stuck his head around the door frame.

"Yes, Cauldwell?" Aeneas asked.

"I've got the French Minister in Fireplace One, something about an Auror discovered in one of Grindelwald's bases – and an American Auror looking for her fiancé."

"Tell someone else to deal with her. I'll get the French Minister."

Aeneas heaved himself out of his chair. He had never considered himself fat – at least, not until he'd found himself surrounded by young, fit Aurors.

The Muggle Prime Minister would probably have had a heart attack if he could have seen what Aeneas was currently seeing. The French Minister for Magic's head was sitting in the crackling flames of a fireplace. He didn't seem at all unhappy in this position. He was rattling of a string of hasty French sentences, which were being franticly noted down by a tall, thin young man – the second Selwyn boy.

Aeneas lumbered across the hall and lowered himself, with difficulty, to the floor.

"Hello, Minister," he greeted.

The French wizard broke off in the middle of his sentence. "Ah, yes, 'ello, 'ello. I 'ave somezing for–"

Aeneas sighed. "Must we, Julien? I know you speak perfect English."

Julien sighed. "We have to find humour where we can, Aeneas. How's your wife?"

"Fed up with my long absences," Aeneas told him. "What's this I hear about an Auror?"

"We found him when we were clearing out Grindelwald's old bases. I'm not even certain he's one of yours – he looks vaguely British, but he's still unconscious and he's in Muggle clothes, not a uniform."

"I'll send someone over to have a look," Aeneas promised.

They sat in companionable silence for a minute, one kneeling uncomfortably on the floor and the other with his head in the fire.

At last Aeneas said, "These Muggles, eh?"

The French Minister made a noise of assent.

"Still, what are you going to do?" Aeneas said, starting to haul himself off the floor. He glanced down. "I'll get the wife to send you an invitation for dinner some time."

"That would be lovely, thank you," the French Minister said.

He pulled his head out of the fire. Aeneas retreated to his office, where he sat in gloomy silence for five minutes before his secretary popped his head round the door to draw his attention to the sudden spate of owls from Quidditch managers across Britain insisting that the Quidditch World Cup go ahead as planned.

Downstairs, a young American Auror was starting to panic, because she'd had no news of her fiancé since April and no one could tell her where he was.


"Dear, there's an owl for you!"

Edmund sighed. Since he'd returned from Europe following the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, he'd found himself subject to a deluge of owls from the Ministry. This was mostly due to his promotion to Head of the Auror Office – a position he'd been avoiding for years because of the amount of paperwork it was sure to involve.

Gertrude hurried into the smallest dining room, where Edmund was eating his breakfast, a crisp, official-looking letter clutched in her hand. Edmund slit the heavy envelope open and shook out the parchment inside. He sighed again.

"Sorry, Gertie, I've got to go. The Minister reckons they've found another Auror in one of Grindelwald's hideouts in France," he rolled his eyes. "Not that I've got any unaccounted for Aurors, but I've got to check it out."

He finished his breakfast hurriedly, kissed his wife on the cheek, and made his way to the fireplace in the entrance hall, planning on Flooing into the Ministry.

Selwyn, one of the Minister's most junior secretaries, was waiting.

"Lord Potter," he said, as Edmund brushed ash off his robes. "Come this way. He's still in a hospital in France, we haven't been able to move him yet – he's got some rather bad injuries."

"Has anyone from St Mungo's been to see him yet?" Edmund asked, following Selwyn across the Atrium to a line of departing fireplaces.

Selwyn shook his head. "We've been trying, but most of the Healers are busy with other Aurors, the usual cases, or the after effects of the Muggles' bombs. L' Magique Hôpital say they've got everything under control at the moment."

"I'd like someone from Mungo's to see him if he really is one of ours," Lord Potter said.

"Of course, sir," Selwyn replied. He stopped beside an empty fire. "Just Floo straight to the French Ministry of Magic, someone there will take you to him."

"Thank you."

The wizard waiting for Lord Potter in the French Ministry was short and plump, with sleek black hair and a small moustache. He bowed when Edmund stepped out of the fire and immediately began to fill him in, in rapid French, on the details of the young Auror's condition. Edmund followed him through the halls of the foreign Ministry, interjecting only occasionally to ask for some little detail about the Auror's physique or current state. By the time they reached the small room where the wizard was currently lying, he was frowning deeply, certain that he'd never met an Auror matching this one's exact description.

"The Healers are asking that he be kept quiet, so try to keep your voice low, monsieur," the French Ministry member warned.

"Of course," Edmund assured him.

The French wizard opened the door slowly. Inside, there was little more than a cabinet lined with potions and single bed, on which lay a pale figure swathed in blankets. A Healer, dressed in red robes (Edmund would never understand why l' Magique Hôpital Healers wore red), glanced up from the figure on the bed. The French Ministry member hurriedly waved her away and led Edmund round towards the still figure's head.

The Head Auror knew at once that this was not an Auror. He recognised the young's man brown hair, the slight crease on his face. The young man's brother was an Auror (had been an Auror, anyway), but he was not.

"You found him in Grindelwald's dungeon? You're sure?" Edmund asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Do you recognise him?"

"Yes, but not from the Auror Office. Would it be possible to wake him up?"

The French wizard called the Healer back and they spoke rapidly in low undertones. At last the Healer seemed to lose the argument. Slightly grumpily, she approached the young man in the bed, pulled out her wand, and began to mutter spells.

"It may not work, monsieur," the French Minister warned. "He has not yet woken once."

Edmund ignored him. He kept his focus on the unconscious wizard, frowning slightly, hoping he would wake. At last, the figure gave a start, a gasp. His eyes flew open.

"I– What– Where–?"

The Healer shushed him and forced him back onto the bed. The young man's panicked eyes flitted across the room, finally resting on Edmund, who smiled.

"Good morning, Newt. How are you feeling?"