Rose and Sword

by SanaNGU

Draco Malfoy, due to the prolonged absence of the Ancient Runes teacher, has been stirring up the class as he pleases with the help of his cronies, preventing the other classmates from studying. Hermione Granger, a responsible and persevering student, is not going to sit idly by.

42. The Phoenix Masks

Hello everyone, how are you doing? 😊 Want to continue reading the story? I hope so! 😂

As always, thank you so much for your support, your comments and, in general, for being there 😍. I really love to know that you're liking the story. I keep repeating myself, but every single one of your comments is an awesome energy boost, thank you so much! 😍

In my head, after the last chapter, there is a turning point. You could say that the "Rose" part ends and the "Sword" part starts. A time of war begins, and the story will take on a slightly darker tone, as I'm sure you've come to expect, but I hope you'll still like it all the same.

There's quite a lot of narration in this chapter, but it's important to put us in context with this new phase. I hope you like it, and I hope you don't find it boring. The next one will have more action, I assure you *evil chuckle*😏

Keep your wands close, because we are at war...

---

CHAPTER 42

The Phoenix Masks

The double doors of the drawing room on the ground floor of Malfoy Manor opened inwards suddenly, crashing against the walls as if an explosion had been triggered outside. The people seated around the long table were startled by the unexpected event. Some rose to their feet. All had the hoods of their dark robes pulled over their heads, and silver masks with a carved skull covering their faces. Lord Voldemort, seated at the head of the table, the only one with his face uncovered, barely raised his chin slightly at the event. His snake, Nagini, coiled at the foot of his chair, let out a loud hiss.

Walden Macnair then crossed the doorway. But he did it flying. And screaming. Thrown unscrupulously through the air until landing face first on the cold black tiled floor beside the table. The people sitting closest to him rose from their seats in shock. Another figure then came through the double doors, this time running.

Bellatrix Lestrange's face was contorted with rage and her bushy black hair was dishevelled, following in the wake of her swift gait. She held her wand raised in front of her, still pointing it at Macnair's weakened body. With a violent flourish, the man flew back into the air until he hit the ceiling and landed back on the floor, barely managing to let out a yelp of pain.

"My Lord!" a new voice called out, as soon as its owner walked through the double doors. Narcissa Malfoy strode with eager steps, finally entering the place behind her sister. She wore no robe, no hood, no mask. She did carry her wand in her hand. His blue eyes were wide and his thin mouth twitched with anger.

Draco, seated in the centre of the table, was instantly on his feet when he saw his mother appear in such an upset state. Theodore, sitting next to him, still seated, reached out a hand and squeezed his leg discreetly. Holding him back so he wouldn't do anything. His blue eyes glinted with curiosity behind his silver mask.

Bellatrix, meanwhile, had thrown herself on top of Macnair with a ferocious howl and straddled his chest. She held her full weight in one hand, over his throat, while the other pressed her wand into his hollow cheek. Her dark boots held the man's legs so that he could not move. A few Death Eaters present let out exclamations of surprise.

"No! Stop it!" Macnair groaned, as best he could, under the witch's stranglehold. "M-Master!"

"What has happened?" Voldemort asked in a low but perfectly audible voice. His face showed nothing but subtle impatience. He waved his wand in a lazy motion, and the magical projections floating above the table, depicting a series of buildings and tunnels done to scale, made of tiny purple sparks, vanished. The particles fell on top of the dozens of scrolls that covered the long table.

"My Lord," Narcissa spoke again, decisively. She had stopped near the door, her eyes fixed on Voldemort. A few steps away from Bellatrix, who was still holding a panting Macnair on the floor, clearly intent on choking him. "It has happened again. I am sorry, My Lord, but this situation is unsustainable and I will not allow such a thing under my roof."

Her voice was unyielding. Her chest rose and fell beneath her dark, elegant wine-coloured robe. She seemed genuinely disturbed. And furious. Draco, who had rested his hands on the table as he stood up and leaned his weight on them, still didn't move. Alternating his gaze from his mother to his master. He could feel Nott's hand still on his leg.

"What are you talking about, Narcissa?" Lord Voldemort questioned, calmly, his eyes fixed on her. Ignoring Bellatrix, as if the fact that Macnair would end up choking to death was nothing to worry him.

"I went to the cell, to see the prisoner," Narcissa explained, vehemently, "and I found this... man," she slurred, and looked at Macnair for the first time with such distaste that she barely could breathe to finish the sentence, "with clear intentions of sexually assault her. And I will not tolerate it. It is not the first time I have found him in such a situation, and it cannot be repeated. That girl should not have to put up with such treatment," she finished effusively. Her pale cheeks were tinged pink with fury.

"Is that true, Walden?" Voldemort then questioned, averting his gaze to the floor. His voice was icy.

"Master, please..." Macnair repeated. In a whisper. Trying to draw in a deep breath. "I was just — I wasn't going to —"

Bellatrix let out a feral, almost animalistic growl and squeezed her hand even tighter. Her wand flared and Macnair let out a shriek. Where the tip rested on his skin, it began to burn and smoke like red-hot iron. The burn spread across the side of his face.

"Don't you dare make excuses for yourself," Bellatrix hissed against his face, mumbling. Eyes wild. Almost berserk. "She's not here to satisfy your vulgar needs, you filthy scoundrel..."

"Master, please!" Macnair managed to shout, trying to shake himself free of the witch, to no avail.

"Hold on, Bellatrix..." Voldemort demanded vaguely, waving one of his white hands. Almost listless. The wand was removed from the man's burned cheek, but the hand on his neck did not loosen. Bellatrix gasped, looking down at her prey beneath her with a definite air of eagerness. Wanting to make him suffer and not hiding it.

"What prisoner are they talking about, My Lord?" questioned one of the men still seated. Looking a little confused.

"The French girl," said another of them, in a tired voice. He sounded rather older. "The spy we got for the French school Beauxbatons a year ago, isn't she?" he asked, turning his masked face in Narcissa's direction. She nodded stiffly.

"That girl is a pure-blood," the Malfoy matriarch remembered, again looking at Voldemort. "She is not an enemy. At least not one that poses a danger. She's barely twenty, she's just a child," she added, as if she couldn't contain herself, her voice a little more stricken. "And I must tell you, My Lord, that if you still need this girl, you will have to rethink certain aspects of her stay here..."

"Bellatrix," Voldemort suddenly interrupted, still staring at Narcissa. Macnair was still groaning on the floor. "Take Walden and do what you want with him. Just keep him useful to me."

The witch's mouth opened in a wide, blackened-toothed smile. An almost childish chuckle left her throat. Her eyes glittered with wicked satisfaction. The man let out a panicked groan.

"M-Master... please..." he begged, but the next and last thing he uttered was a new shriek. Bellatrix leapt off him and waved her wand to make him crawl across the rough stone to cross the doorway and out of the room. With a powerful gait, and still a smile, Bellatrix followed him. Almost eagerly. The doors closed behind her. Narcissa suffered a visible shudder that did not show on her face.

"What aspects are you referring to, Narcissa?" Voldemort questioned deferentially, once Walden's screams in the distance died away. The woman blinked, pulling herself together, and lifted her chin a little higher.

"That girl is not well," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "She's skin and bones. She refuses to eat. I think she's trying to starve herself to death, My Lord. And she will if we don't do something. If you still need her for something, and I suspect you do since you've decided to keep her alive after extracting all the information you needed from her, let me take care of her."

"What do you suggest?" asked the Lord again. Without blinking. Narcissa took a deep breath.

"There are plenty of rooms in this house," she said, her voice firmer. "There is no point in her remaining in the cell. Not for so many months. Let me accommodate her in one of them. Give her warm clothes and decent food. A bed. She poses no danger, she won't be able to leave the Manor. We will implement all the necessary measures to this end."

"And let her wander around here freely, like a bloody guest?" said another man at the table. With displeasure. "I don't think it's appropriate, My Lord. She's not on our side. She's a prisoner. And I don't see what's so special about her. I agree with Mrs Malfoy that we can't allow Walden's actions, but I don't see that she needs so many comforts. If she starves to death, we'll just get another spy…"

"It was difficult to get her, from what I hear," Narcissa replied, calmly, but piercing the back of the man who had spoken with a cold stare. "And if our Master is keeping her alive, it is because he still needs her, because she is important..."

"We risk her hearing things she shouldn't. Or contacting someone outside of here," a masked woman replied. Drumming her fingers on the table. "I don't think that's a good idea either..."

"She won't try anything," Narcissa protested, frowning. "She's never tried anything..."

"Still, it seems to me unnecessary that —"

But then the Lord's white hand rose. And silence fell over the room.

"The prisoner is in your care, Narcissa," Voldemort decided. In his high-pitched but commanding voice. "If anything happens to her, you will answer with your life. Make sure you keep her alive. I have no intention of wasting my time getting another French school spy when I have that girl in my power."

And no one objected to a direct order from Lord Voldemort, of course. Narcissa took a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. As if she could scarcely believe she had succeeded.

"Yes, My Lord," she whispered, respectfully.

She gave a fleeting bow and turned, striding quickly out of the room. Draco, after a couple of seconds of hesitation, dropped back into his seat as he watched his mother leave. His heart was pounding.

Voldemort waved his wand and the model of tunnels underneath a building materialised again in purple before them. The light reflected off their silver masks. As if there had been no interruption.

---

Hermione carefully descended the narrow steps leading down to the underground kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Her head was elsewhere, specifically on the issue of The Quibbler she was carrying under her arm.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she confirmed that Tonks's indications had been correct. Harry and Ron were there. Harry was standing at one end of the long table, his arms folded. Near him, Ron had both hands resting on its surface, focused. They both seemed to be talking about the documents that were scattered all over the place. They ranged in size from small lists of names of people or places, to unfolded rolls of parchment containing plans of buildings or entire towns. There were also some colourful counters scattered across the surface, calculation tables, magnifying glasses, compasses, quills, ink and a few rulers.

These objects had ruled their life for the past two years.

That time had passed since that fateful day when Lord Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard of all time, finally managed to conquer Hogwarts Castle. A large number of students, the luckier ones, managed to escape both through the fireplaces in the Common Rooms, until they were disconnected by the Death Eaters, and through a passageway in the Room of Requirement leading to Hogsmeade.

But that passageway was not safe for long either. The Death Eaters finally broke through the barriers that the professors had placed between them and their students, defeated them, and took over the upper floors. The Room of Requirement tunnel was intercepted. All exits were blocked at last. And hundreds of students were left inside, at the mercy of the Dark Lord. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dean and Neville escaped at the last minute.

The Death Eaters blocked any way for the Aurors working for the Ministry of Magic to gain access to the school. Panic ensued for hours. The students who had managed to escape informed the Ministry. The entire wizarding world was mobilised. All eyes were on the castle.

But there was nothing they could do against Lord Voldemort's magic.

The people still inside, both students and teachers, seemed to be isolated. No one knew what was going on behind the walls. Official warnings were sent out by the Ministry. Threats. Several failed plans to penetrate the castle were attempted. But all to no avail. And whole days passed in complete silence from the school.

The village of Hogsmeade had been razed to the ground in the Death Eater attack. The few surviving witnesses corroborated what everyone had assumed: that the villagers had discovered their presence and stood up to them. All the survivors were evacuated as soon as the Ministry of Magic's special envoys arrived on the scene. Not a single house or business was left standing. And no one reclaimed the village. No one repaired the damage, no one rebuilt it. No one wanted to live there after what happened. They left the ruins of what had been the only all-wizarding village in Britain, as a reminder of what a single night of war could do.

Eight days after the attack, while the Aurors watched the perimeter of the castle, the unimaginable happened. To everyone's surprise, the students who had remained inside began to leave the school. On their own. They had been released. Safe and sound. With a clear message to distribute throughout the wizarding world.

Hogwarts was open again, under the absolute authority of Lord Voldemort. Classes would begin on the first of September. Mandatory for all young wizards in England between the ages of eleven and seventeen, without exception. And it was specified that no teenager from a non-magical family would be allowed to set foot in it.

As more and more students left the school, one detail became terrifyingly clear. They were all descendants of wizards. No Muggle-borns, no half-bloods, were freed by Lord Voldemort. And the young people who were pardoned and allowed to leave the school made it abundantly clear, in tears, that a rescue team was not needed. There were no more students left at Hogwarts. There were no hostages.

No one was able to contact the teachers who had fought so bravely for their students, though those who were released claimed they were safe and sound. They were under Voldemort's yoke, but they were alive. Hogwarts no longer belonged to them. It now belonged to Lord Voldemort.

And Hogwarts was no longer Hogwarts.

It was no longer a school. But it took a whole year to know that.

After a blurry summer, in which there was no movement from Lord Voldemort, to the confusion and terrified uncertainty of the entire wizarding world, the first of September arrived. And, with it, chaos.

Some wizarding families accepted the blackmail and sent their children there. Thinking the alternative was even worse. The reprisals seemed even more terrifying. Other families objected and asked the Ministry for help. The Ministry did everything in its power to respond to the thousands of requests. To give shelter and security to anyone who asked. But to no avail. Voldemort found them all. On the second of September, his Death Eaters moved across the country. Tracking down all the fugitive students and bringing them to the castle against their will. And unhesitatingly murdering anyone who resisted.

The students did not set foot outside the school again until June of the following year. Nor did they communicate in any way with their families during that time. No one even knew if they were alive. The families were kept in suspense for far too long, facing a whole year without news. Terrified of what that could mean. Of having sent their children to slaughter. And so Voldemort, through fear, kept the population at bay for a whole year. But, in June, they finally got answers. They were not comforting, though.

The students went home for the summer holidays, a frivolously peaceful idea coming from Voldemort. And they were barely able to explain to the wizarding society what they had been through.

The usual classes, timetables and syllabuses had been suspended. There was no longer any differentiation of Houses. It had become a military academy. A barracks, where students were trained to fight. To fight in the war for Lord Voldemort. They were instructed in obedience, respect and submission, in ancient magical history, in the traditional values and ideals of the pure-bloods, and also in duelling and the dark arts. They became soldiers. Trained to be an army. To kill.

It seems that the Dark Lord's intention, in addition to educating generations of wizards in his radical ideas of wizarding supremacy, was to create an army of young pure-bloods with which to take over the wizarding world.

The teachers, against their will, had conformed to Voldemort's syllabus. They swallowed their rage and impotence, and instructed the students to fight. It was the only way to stay there, to stay close to their students. They would never abandon them to their fate.

And everyone wondered where Albus Dumbledore was.

No one knew what had happened. No one knew why, when, or where, but the headmaster had disappeared without a trace in the midst of the battle. Even months later, rumours spread that he had fled, saving his own skin, leaving them all behind; but those rumours, while never entirely extinguished, never became prevalent. They had no credibility. Not about Albus Dumbledore. Another, more frightening rumour, was the possibility that Lord Voldemort had finally defeated and killed him amidst the din of battle. But with no corpse to prove it, and no taunts from Voldemort to confirm it, this rumour was not given credence either.

No one knew where the school's famous headmaster was. And the mystery of his disappearance left neither the castle walls nor the word of mouth of the frightened wizarding society. Suddenly finding themselves without a figure as important to them as the powerful wizard who had been responsible for the epic downfall of Gellert Grindelwald. But it seemed he had not been able to defeat Lord Voldemort.

The Ministry of Magic was experiencing an internal and external crisis. Wizarding society had lost faith in them, and resignations from high office were increasing daily. On the one hand, their hands were tied regarding the castle. Despite knowing what was going on there from the students who went home for the summer, they could not intervene. They could not stand up to Lord Voldemort's power. They could not stop him. And no family would risk not sending their children back to the castle in the second year the school opened.

On the other hand, the Ministry had more pressing matters to attend to than the military education of a hundred teenagers. They seemed ironically safe, for the moment. At least they were not in imminent danger of death. But Lord Voldemort had not stood idly by while the education he had implemented at Hogwarts ran its course. The war ceased to be something invisible, something that was only talked about by word of mouth, and began in full force without anyone really being prepared for it.

Voldemort's army was not as large as they had feared. But neither was it necessary. It was large enough to divide his enemy's forces and surround it from several flanks. In just five months, he had taken over the area around Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland; and, in three more months, Glasgow had fallen. Without the Ministry of Magic's Aurors being powerful enough to stop them. Death Eaters put up a fight in every major city in Scotland, winning a high percentage of them, and moving down the United Kingdom like termites for a piece of wood. They gained more followers. Many out of conviction, many more out of fear. They gained in numbers of soldiers, in territory and in new fortified infrastructure.

The Department of International Magical Co-operation, with the last of its strength, did its best to appeal for help to every European Union country it could contact, through the International Confederation of Wizards. Several requests fell on deaf ears, several members of the Department were killed, and everyone began to suspect that there were spies in the Ministry. Or, at the very least, that they were all under surveillance. The countries of France, Romania and Germany responded and agreed to send their own Aurors to fight. Other countries backed down when they saw the power and influence of Lord Voldemort. The speed of his rise. The values he stood for. Some, like Belgium and Poland, joined him.

The spread of Lord Voldemort and his ideals seemed unstoppable. It was only a matter of time before he took over the moribund and exhausted British Ministry of Magic. He almost didn't seem to bother to do it, out of sheer smugness. Proving that he didn't need it to win. That he could bend the wizarding world to his will and rule it anyway.

And so a whole year of war, uncertainty and fear passed. And, when the students finished their first year of school, and told the world that they were being turned into soldiers, it seemed that the wizarding world as they knew it was lost.

Fortunately, as the months passed, the wizarding society that opposed Voldemort became aware that they had more help than they realised. A glimmer of hope, which illuminated them in the form of small victories that began to become more significant. Neither the Ministry of Magic, nor Hogwarts, nor ordinary people, were completely alone.

The Order of the Phoenix, the secret organisation created by Albus Dumbledore during the First Wizarding War, and which had quietly followed Voldemort's every step since he confirmed his return, was set in motion with astonishing speed. All its component gears were cleaned, polished and oiled to work at full power. The disappearance of Dumbledore, their leader, was a heavy blow that they had to compensate by working harder than ever. New trusted people were enlisted, new spies joined the cause and new secure locations were set up all over England.

One of the main problems in fighting Voldemort's army was the anonymity of his troops. No one knew exactly, despite everything, who was part of the dark wizard's ranks. It could be any member of any respectable wizarding family, who in the public eye opposed the regime, now that its outright victory was not yet conclusive. And that made it very difficult to keep an eye on them and anticipate their steps.

The Order decided that they would fight with their own weapons. They did not fight side by side with the Ministry Aurors, realising that working on their own, in hiding, gave them a tactical advantage over the enemy. It was in their interest to have as many people as possible join them, without fear of being targeted by the enemy, so they made sure that Lord Voldemort didn't know who he was fighting either. He couldn't go after anyone. They created, as did the Death Eaters, masks to hide their faces, mandatory for use in any combat or mission. Silver masks, mockingly similar to those of their enemies, but with a graceful Phoenix engraved on their surface. The Phoenix Masks. Thus, despite openly facing Voldemort and his followers in battle, they did not reveal their identity.

And two years of continuous warfare, with Voldemort advancing and retreating across the map, gaining and losing followers, ensued.

The Order's Headquarters had been shifting from place to place throughout that time, trying to confuse the enemy and ensure the survival of its members. Relatively recently, that winter, they had moved the headquarters back to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with the insistent approval of Order member, and owner of the house, Harry Potter.

When Hermione arrived in the kitchen, Ron appeared to be reading aloud from a long parchment to Harry. But he fell silent and looked up when he sensed her presence, causing his friend to mimic him.

"Hullo," Ron greeted casually. Looking pleased to see her. "I thought we weren't going to see you until tonight?"

"Change of plans," the girl admitted, still with one foot on the bottom step. And a modest smile. "I'll explain later. And forgive me for interrupting, but, Harry, do you have a moment? I want to show you something."

"Sure, tell me," he said calmly, unfolding his arms and resting them on the table too, as did Ron. "Oh, hold on..." he held up a hand so that she wouldn't start talking yet, and his brow furrowed. "Kreacher!" he called louder. Rudely.

Hermione blinked in confusion and turned her head as she heard subtle footsteps behind her. She stepped aside, and made way for the small, elderly elf who appeared seconds later, descending the steps, grumbling under his breath in his deep voice.

"Yes, Master?" he asked in a mock moved tone, as he reached solid ground, making a pronounced bow that made his bulbous nose touch the floor. His voice then turned to an angry whisper, though it was still audible, "What does this mangy boy, godson of stinking Master Sirius, want now? Always in the company of the blood traitor and the Mudblood. I always have to put up with her nauseating stench. Oh, he won't leave Kreacher alone, he just wanted —"

"Get the hell out of here," Harry spat unceremoniously. "I know you came after Hermione to spy on us. You always do that. Go to your room."

"As you command, Master," he repeated the pronounced bow, then added, "He thinks he's so clever. He thinks he can command Kreacher, but he's no one, he can't —"

And, still muttering, the elf disappeared with a slight 'crack'. Hermione, smiling resignedly, joined her friends at the long, old-fashioned table, ignoring the perennially faint, musty smell that pervaded the subterranean kitchen.

Despite having spruced up the place as best they could to make it a decent Headquarters, there were things that were almost impossible to fix. Old enchantments that were difficult to counteract, Doxys in the curtains that were hard to chase away, and the occasional Boggart that appeared when you least expected it and could give you a very hard time.

In the basement of the ancestral four-storey house was the old kitchen, consisting of a long table, dozens of shelves on the walls, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and a huge fireplace at one end. Most of the pans were in a state not fit for cooking, but the skilful Molly Weasley, as housekeeper, had worked miracles and fed them day after day with her delicious dishes. They decided unanimously that Kreacher should not be forced to cook, even though, if Harry asked him to, he could not refuse. But they all shared the same desire not to be poisoned 'by accident'.

The kitchen table was the largest in the house, and so it was the one they used for the regular large meetings of the Order of the Phoenix. Except at mealtimes, when Molly had insistently asked them to leave the table free so that everyone who happened to be there that day could eat properly. And Harry, too, had appropriated it when he needed to discuss something specific with his closest people. He felt more comfortable there. He hadn't wanted to occupy any of the other rooms in the house as an office, as Mad-Eye had done, for example.

The Weasley family, Harry and Hermione had taken up permanent residence in the Headquarters, and slept in the bedrooms on the first and second floors. Most of the numerous rooms distributed around Grimmauld Place were very similar, both in the colour of the walls, a cold metallic grey, and in the arrangement of the furniture. There was barely a bed, an old chandelier on the ceiling, a plain wardrobe and a full-length mirror, and old windows boarded up with wooden slats and covered with dark curtains. There were few rooms that were more lightly furnished, such as Sirius's old bedroom, which Harry had not been able to visit more than once; his mother Walburga's, which Mad-Eye had turned into his personal office; and what they supposed must have been his brother Regulus's, but which they had not been able to open to confirm it.

On the first floor, in addition to the bedrooms, was the drawing room. It consisted of large windows that were also boarded up, an ornate fireplace, and the tapestry of the Black family tree, which took up an entire wall. There was also a desk in one corner, a couple of old-fashioned couches, and several shelves filled with nondescript utensils such as bottles, boxes, and a few books. It wasn't a room that was usually used, as no one had much time to rest, so Ginny, without thinking about it, turned it into her workspace. The youngest Weasley had decided to use her proficient spell and hex skills to sort out and unmask the Dark Arts that were being taught to Hogwarts students. Thanks to various spies, Severus Snape among them, the Order was managing to get hold of the school's syllabus. Knowing what spells they were being taught, they also knew what kind of magic the Death Eaters were mastering. Her brother Bill, a former Curse-Breaker at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, was in charge of helping, guiding, and instructing his sister whenever he wasn't in the middle of a fight. The two worked side by side to stay ahead of Voldemort and all the spells with which they would try to defeat them.

The rooms on the third floor had been enlarged and adapted to house a modest but effective hospital for any member in need of assistance. It was unanimously decided that they could not risk sending their injured soldiers to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. They did not know the extent of Voldemort's power. How far he controlled official institutions. If someone from the Order was injured in battle, and went to St Mungo's, it was possible that their information, their condition, and their life would be in the hands of the enemy. They could not allow that. Therefore, they had decided to create their own hospitals, with the greatest sanitary rigour and the best professionals they could find.

Augustus Pye, a Healer at St Mungo's Hospital, and a staunch advocate of Muggle healing techniques, had become a close friend of Arthur Weasley's as a result of having been his Trainee Healer when Arthur was hospitalised from the Nagini snake attack. At Arthur's discreet request, he quit his job and became a fugitive, joining the Order of the Phoenix to help heal their wounded. Although he covered a wide range of magical injuries, his speciality was creature-induced injuries. He was joined by his co-worker and friend Miriam Strout, also a Healer at St Mungo's, who specialised in spell damage.

Fleur Delacour, Bill Weasley's partner, also decided to contribute to the war by training as a Healer. She spent several months in hiding once the war began, training with various prestigious wizards, and returned at the end of the first year to put her skills to use in the service of the Order; under the supervision of Augustus and Miriam, who were more experienced than her.

Shortly before she joined as a Healer, Death Eater troops had already expanded their territory across the English Channel, spreading into the Nantes and Toulouse areas of France. Paris, on the other hand, continued to resist stubbornly, with the French Ministry of Magic being supported by Romania, Spain and their British allies. During an attack on the port city of Bordeaux, the Delacour family was caught in the crossfire of battle and her sister Gabrielle was murdered. Fleur was unable to return to her family when she heard the news. Communications were not secure at such a distance, and the journey there could have cost her anonymity as a member of the Order, so she stayed in Britain and continued to fight.

Among other acquaintances who joined the cause as Healers and Mediwizards, Hannah Abbott, Harry, Ron and Hermione's Hogwarts classmate, also signed up as a Trainee Healer. She learned quickly, specialising in artefact accidents. Even Mrs Weasley, with no specific training, was a great help as an assistant Healer when they were overwhelmed with injured people.

In addition to the third floor of Grimmauld Place, they also set up more modest hospitals at Shell Cottage, home of Fleur and Bill, and Muriel's house, a relative of the Weasleys. A secure network was set up between them, so that the various Healers could travel from one to the other without danger of being discovered by the enemy.

This was done by Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, close friends of Fred and George, among many others. They collaborated with the Order by keeping all kinds of communications active between the various refuges, and also between the refuges and the battlefield. They had hacked into the Wizarding Wireless Network, setting up their own server from which to send radio communications, and even controlled a secure, Order-exclusive, Floo Network, thanks to some contacts in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Transportation. His mate, Oliver Wood, was working side by side with them, as part of a division dedicated to intercepting and deciphering magically-protected coded messages from the enemy.

Fred and George, meanwhile, had built a more than decent workshop and laboratory in one of the rooms on the fourth floor of Grimmauld Place, near the cupboard where they had settled Kreacher. Here, aside from the amusing gag items from their Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes shop, they were busy building artillery and all manner of useful gadgetry that could make all the difference in a melee battle. From huge quantities of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, to bombs filled with different gases that triggered all sorts of reactions such as sudden shrinking, paralysis or blacking out, to clothing with spell-protection. Their great success had been the flexible, lightweight yet tough armour made of Blast-Ended Skrewt shells, which all members of the Order had become accustomed to wearing as their uniform. The shells of such creatures were known to deflect most spells, so that armour, properly made up in the form of torso, leg and arm guards, was the twins' great success. Their father, skilled with charms after many decades of enchanting Muggle implements, lent them a hand whenever he could.

The patriarch of the Weasleys, Bill and the twins, were forced to leave their jobs at the Ministry, Gringotts and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, respectively. They could not be seen. As Remus pointed out some time ago, it was known to all Death Eaters in the wake of the Department of Mysteries battle that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were friends. As a result, the whole family devoted themselves exclusively to fighting on the side of the Order, taking advantage of their anonymity. Charlie was safe in Romania, and communicated whenever he could to report on how things were going in that corner of Europe. His task was to recruit as many wizards and witches as possible to join them.

Life at Grimmauld Place was bustling. No two days passed with the same number of people living inside. The Weasley family, Harry and Hermione were its most permanent residents, but even they were not always there. There were fleeting occupants in the house, spending brief periods of time ranging from hours to days, depending on the tasks at hand, or possible meetings they had to attend.

In theory, the Order was not guided by a vertical hierarchy, but everyone agreed that Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shackelbot and Aberforth Dumbledore were best able to keep all the cogs and divisions of the society running. In practice, no one lifted a finger without the approval of one of the three men. Aberforth, brother of the missing Albus, who had turned out to be the mysterious and sullen innkeeper of the Hog's Head, was the one who had assisted in the evacuation of Hogwarts through the tunnel from the Room of Requirement to its chimney. He had been one of the few survivors of the Battle of Hogsmeade, and had not been able to give any more details of what had happened than everyone had already imagined.

Harry, for his part, had earned his place at the frontline of the battlefield. Despite his youth, he was a great warrior, skilled in duelling, with quick reflexes and a great capacity for leadership. An ability he had never sought, but which, over the years and the war, he had honed and accepted. The boy was too good at what he did to dispense with his services in leading divisions into battle, despite the reservations of some of the Order because of his great value to the enemy. It was clear that Lord Voldemort was eager to have him in his power, for a variety of terrible reasons, rather than any other member of the Order. But that did not stop the boy from risking his life on every mission, turning a deaf ear to the dissent of other members.

Ron, in turn, as well as fighting alongside Harry, and without him, in many battles, had decided to invest his more than clear strategic skills to help plan the battles. His knack for beating his friends at Wizard's Chess over the years was justified. He had great creative ability and exceptional tactical thinking, as well as great imagination in coming up with new combinations of attacks. He was able to rearrange the battle locations, and the people involved, and take care of the details with great skill.

His only shortcomings were his lack of self-confidence and his ability to deal with criticism. When he first became interested in devising strategy, accompanying the veteran strategist Mad-Eye Moody for many nights in front of maps of buildings, streets, and entire towns, he never imagined the level of responsibility it entailed. When you plan a strategy, you have to take into account a thousand factors that can go wrong; and, even if you do, you cannot anticipate the human factor, among other unforeseen events. You must be able to imagine precisely what your enemy will do, why they will do it and how they will do it. And anticipate it. Working with all the information you have, accepting that it is never complete. In the first tactics he planned with Moody, Ron was devastated to see how many casualties they had suffered, and all for sometimes not even winning the battle. Prolonging the war. As the months passed, after many tears, remorse, nightmares and anxiety, the deaths were received with a better disposition. Strategies improved, but none were perfect or guaranteed victory. Never. The realisation that you are sending people to die on the battlefield was a responsibility no one consciously wanted to take on. But Ron, with the invaluable help and moral support of Mad-Eye, did. The boy looked more seasoned than he had in his Hogwarts years, more responsible and more organised, but he had not stopped being himself. As long as his conscience allowed him to, he was still the same joking, fun-loving, pragmatic boy who lightened the tension in his friends, and who managed to keep the stress level under control in most situations.

Hermione did not usually accompany her friends into the same battles. Her task, almost from the beginning, had been to lead a division responsible for freeing hostages held by the enemy.

The Dark Lord was not wasting resources. He had found a way to further augment his army, just as he had done in the First Wizarding War, which was to use powerful dark magic to turn any enemy wizard he laid his hands on into Inferius, magically reanimated corpses, bewitched into an army. Both the corpses on the battlefield, which the Order strove to retrieve before the enemy got hold of them, and the prisoners he murdered and applied such terrible magic to. It was vitally important to rescue as many captives as possible to spare them a fate worse than death. And to ensure that Voldemort's ranks were not swollen by soldiers who could not be killed.

The Order's extensive network of spies was able to identify new hideouts from time to time. More or less temporary, undercover prisons in which Death Eaters held both Order members who had gone missing in battle and innocent people who simply opposed the regime. When that information came into their hands, Ron and Hermione would work together to create the best possible strategy for the girl and her division to assault the hideout and free the prisoners. Her task was never to attack enemy sites, but simply to free their people.

Hermione hadn't set foot in her home for two years. She hadn't seen her family. Her parents, Muggle dentists, had fled to America. Though not of their own free will, of course. She had cast a spell on them without their knowledge, altering their memory, covering all memories of her with others. Making them believe that they needed a change of scenery, and that Los Angeles was the right place to start. So they left, unaware that they had a daughter. Let alone one who was an active member of the Order of the Phoenix, a combatant in a proclaimed war. As long as her parents were safely away, the girl could keep her mind fully on her responsibilities. If the war ended, she would reverse the spell and uncover the sheet that hid any memory of her. In the event of her death, she had ensured that the spell would remain workable. That they would never remember her existence.

"He always does that..." Harry complained, giving Hermione a knowing look at Kreacher's interruption, once the elf had disappeared. Hermione, still smiling, sat down in one of the chairs, leaving The Quibbler she was carrying under her arm on the table.

"I think he's spying on us with the intention of finally hearing that we've all died in battle," Ron joked resignedly. But the bitterness in his voice, and the way he rubbed his closed eyelids afterwards, intrigued Hermione.

"Is everything all right?" she wanted to know, looking at the parchments before her. Trying to guess what conversation her friends had been having. There was a large blueprint spread out on the surface, with many small, parcheesi-like counters placed on top of it. Some black, some blue. There were also a few red ones.

Harry let out an exhausted snort and shook his head heavily.

"It's happened again," he confessed quietly. Looking down at the table, he said, "She's dead. Lucinda. They found her this morning."

Hermione's mouth opened to let out an affected gasp. Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. Feeling battered.

"What happened? How?" she whispered, her voice unsteady. Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"Just like the others. She was being moved to another safe house. But she didn't make it. They found her in an alley in the Walworth area. She was just dead. The Killing Curse. The Dark Mark has been placed."

"How did the Death Eaters find her?" Hermione despaired, leaning over the table a little more. "I thought it had finally worked out. That the Dark Mark on her arm had been completely removed."

"It had been," Ron said, drumming his fingers on the table. He pushed aside a magnifying glass that lay on the surface, for the sake of doing something. "But there's clearly something else. That doesn't seem to be why they're being tracked. It must be part of that ritual they've all said they did to accept the Mark, and there's no way to reverse it now. It's a kind of Unbreakable Vow. It doesn't matter if we remove the Mark, You-Know-Who finds them every time. We can't protect them."

"Is Higgs all right?" Hermione then questioned hurriedly. Harry nodded, scratching his jaw.

"Scared to death. But alive, for the moment."

That 'for the moment' sent a shiver down his friends' spines. It was a frustrating situation, and no one in the Order knew how to deal with it. As in any army, some wizards from the Death Eaters' side had tried to defect to join the Order over the past two years, either out of fear or dissatisfaction with their Lord's regime. But, as with Igor Karkaroff, none had lived more than a few months after defecting from Voldemort's ranks. Some, even days. Death Eaters always found them and killed them for treason, no matter how well the Order hid them. Lucinda had been a middle-aged woman whose son, also a Death Eater, had been killed in battle. She had fled Voldemort's ranks, and they had managed to keep her hidden for nearly five months. But they had found her.

Terence Higgs, a student a year younger than them from Slytherin House, had been one of the last to defect and join the Order in search of protection. He himself was clear that he was unlikely to survive, but he said he had no choice. He had always shared the ideology of pure-blood supremacy, but he could not bear the life he had as a Death Eater. He could no longer fight for Voldemort.

Unfortunately, the magic that bound them to the Dark Lord prevented them from revealing information of any kind. Besides, many of the defectors were not even close enough to the Dark Lord to be privy to his plans. To be more than just pawns on the board.

"What did you want to tell us?" Ron questioned, trying to change the subject. "Where did you come from?"

"I've been to the safe houses. I met Elphias at your Aunt Muriel's," Hermione said, reaching into the inside pocket of her robes and pulling out a roll of parchment. "He gave me a couple of documents, some for Ginny. Do you know if she's here?"

"Yes, upstairs," Harry said, gesturing to the upper floor. But he still looked distracted, possibly still thinking about how to save Higgs. He moved a counter on the map in front of him. "With Lupin. And that boy."

"Terry Bott," Ron said, looking down to see what Harry was doing as he spoke. "He's doing potions in the drawing room. He's moved his lab from Perkins' house to here. He's probably staying here for a few months."

"Well, that's handy, I've got some papers for him. I was thinking of going to the Tonks' house to give them to Oliver," Hermione said, unfolding the scroll and glancing at it thoughtfully. "Snape has sent a lot of information this time. There's a big section about poisons..."

"Do you know anything about Snape?" Harry questioned, his features darkening without him even realising it. Ron gave him a sideways glance at his aggressive tone. Hermione shook her head peacefully.

"Not really. From what Elphias has told me by way of summary, he's informing us of a new section in the second year syllabus. And more information about the subject Flitwick is teaching. And about poisons. But there's not much about life inside Hogwarts," she looked her friend in the eye, almost apologetically. "I'm sure it's business as... well, as usual. The way things are now. The students are relatively safe and that's what matters."

Harry said nothing. He just clenched his jaws. He always behaved the same way when they talked about Snape.

Severus Snape had turned out to be a double spy, under orders from both Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort. Or so Remus had explained to the surprised youths when they had had contact with him after the battle in which Voldemort had taken over the school. Once his suspicions that Snape had at least been in contact with Voldemort were confirmed, Harry was furious and shouted from the rooftops that, being an active Death Eater, he should have been aware that Hogwarts was going to be attacked, and it could have been prevented. But apparently, the Dark Lord didn't fully trust Albus Dumbledore's right-hand man and hadn't confessed his plans to him; something Harry didn't believe at all. He blamed Snape. He blamed him for being a liar, a traitor, and for abandoning Dumbledore, whatever had happened to the Headmaster. Harry was sure that Snape knew they were going to attack Hogwarts, and what they intended to turn it into, and he had done nothing to stop them.

His old Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was still at the school, training the students as well as McGonagall and the other teachers. As he was also a member of the Death Eaters, he had a little more freedom in and out of the castle, as he was sometimes required to carry out a mission for the Dark Lord. When that happened, he was sometimes poorly enough watched to send information to the Order.

Very few people were aware of Snape's true loyalties, even within the Order. For his safety. As one of those closest to Voldemort, he was one of those most at risk of being discovered if anyone made a slip or a mistake. Officially he was on Lord Voldemort's side, but clandestinely he informed the Order of everything he could. And it was good for the Order to have at least one spy inside Hogwarts. But Harry couldn't stand him. He didn't trust him. He argued again and again that it was possible that he was playing both sides. That he was also leaking Order information to Voldemort's ranks. And although Remus had assured him over and over again that, as a precaution, they had not given Snape any useful information about the Order or their plans, Harry's suspicions did not waver. And Ron and Hermione no longer knew how to answer back.

"Any news?" Ron added, trying to change the subject to appease Harry's obvious moodiness, pointing to the magazine his friend had brought. Hermione sighed gloomily as she opened it before them.

"Two more disappearances," the girl revealed quietly. She turned a couple of pages and showed them the news. "The third this week. But I thought there was something strange about these, and that's what I came to show you..."

"Any allies of the Order?" Harry wanted to know, in a more normal tone, forgetting his hatred of Snape for the moment. He held the magazine up to his eyes.

"No, two ordinary boys. Muggles. Just outside Surrey. Near Little Whinging," Hermione said, watching for Harry's reaction. Harry, as she had feared, frowned instantly.

"Privet Drive?" Harry blurted out, astonished. "Has there been an attack near the Dursleys?" Her friend nodded, but something in her eyes made him add, "Do you think the attack is related to them?"

Hermione sighed and twisted her hands in her lap.

"I have my suspicions, but I'm not entirely sure. I wanted you to confirm it for me..."

She turned to the next page and showed them the photographs of the missing people. Harry exhaled a startled sigh, and Ron opened his mouth in a perfect, huge 'o'.

"That bloke looks just like your cousin, Harry!" he exclaimed, puzzled, pointing to one of the photographs. "The other one's nothing special, but this one... Blimey!"

"I got the feeling that he looks a lot like your cousin, but I only saw him once, at King's Cross station, and I don't remember his face clearly," Hermione explained. "I wanted you to confirm that it wasn't just my imagination..."

"He looks a lot like him... but it's not him, the name doesn't match," said Harry, quickly scanning the news in search of his cousin's name. When he found the boys' identities, he snorted. "These two were friends of Dudley's, bullies like him. I remember them. They gave me a lot of beatings when I was a kid..."

"Well, they look a lot alike," Ron corroborated in amazement, examining the photograph more closely. "It's no wonder you doubted, Hermione. I did see your cousin a couple of times... Once in King's Cross, and once when we went to pick you up from your house for the Quidditch World Cup... And they look exactly the same, how weird."

Harry shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

"All his cronies looked like brothers separated at birth. They were equally huge, ugly and brutish. They went to the same boxing club."

As Ron chuckled, Hermione tried to return to the subject with an impatient look.

"Don't you get the feeling that's too much of a coincidence?" she said, emphatically. "Death Eaters capture or kill a couple of boys, friends of Harry Potter's cousin and, coincidentally, very much like him?"

"What do you mean?" Ron questioned, uncomprehending.

"Well, maybe they've made a mistake. Maybe their intention was to capture Dudley Dursley and get information out of him as to where you might be. But they got the wrong person," Hermione explained vehemently.

"I find it very far-fetched that they would try to get to me through my Muggle cousin," Harry replied, unsurely.

"They're your only relatives," Hermione objected gently. Harry agreed, arching his eyebrows and nodding. "It stands to reason that it's the most direct way to get to you. They might think they know where you are, or that you'll come to their rescue in the worst-case scenario..."

Harry snorted heavily.

"I suppose it's not impossible," he admitted, nibbling on a fingernail. "But why now, why not two years ago, when I left Privet Drive?" he added more loudly.

Hermione shrugged slowly.

"I don't know. Maybe now he thinks he's powerful enough to end you."

Her friends fell silent in thought. After the three of them had let out soft sighs, Harry unfolded another of the maps on the table, not looking at his friends, as if he needed to get to work immediately. Ron and Hermione exchanged a discreet glance. Full of unease. Ron then waved his wand to move a red counter in front of him, changing its colour and position. Ending the conversation. Hermione, after squaring her shoulders to regain her composure, stood up.

"I'm going upstairs to talk to Ginny," she reported, trying to regain a cordial conversation. Harry agreed to look at her again and smiled at her, both with his green eyes and his mouth, nodding his head. Ron raised his eyes to hers.

"Do you think you'll be free to cut my hair later?" he asked, an amused smile on his freckled face. His abundant red hair definitely needed some work. "You do it very well. I'm not going to let my mother cut it again, she made me look like a ten-year-old last time."

"Sure, I'll cut it later," Hermione assured him, with a motherly smile. As she walked behind Harry towards the door, she reached a hand up to his head and stroked his hair. "Since Harry won't even let me touch his..."

The young Potter was long overdue a good haircut. His jet-black hair, tousled and dishevelled, was growing with astonishing rapidity. Hermione had offered to cut it several times, but he had refused. He always claimed he didn't have time. He always seemed to be busy fighting the Dark Lord. In his eagerness to defeat Voldemort, because of the burden he silently carried on his shoulders, because of the responsibility he seemed to have to everyone around him, he considered anything but fighting, sleeping and eating to be time wasted. In fact, in the last few weeks, his hair had grown so long that he had decided to tie it at the nape of his neck with a hair tie, pulling it back into a small ponytail. It was nowhere near as long as Bill Weasley's, but Ron often joked that if he got an earring, Fleur would fall at his feet.

"I'll cut it off when Voldemort is defeated," his friend replied, daring to joke about it with a lazy smile. Ron struggled to let out a laugh.

"Great. At this rate, come winter, you'll be able to wrap it around your neck as a scarf."

---

Draco, not without effort, had managed to bend his long legs and wrap his arms around them so that he could sit sideways on the inner sill of his window. The rain was falling heavily outside. It was pitch dark, and hardly anything was visible in the vast gardens of Malfoy Manor. The only light, which illuminated a few yards in front of the house, came from a window on the upper floors. It reflected off the waterlogged, neatly trimmed grass, revealing how the rain was pouring down in the puddles. Draco's own room was in darkness, even though he was inside it. He didn't need to turn on any lights. Not to look out the window.

He could only hear his breathing. And the downpour outside. Everything else was silence. Because of that, he was able to hear a few barefoot footsteps walking down the corridor. Draco didn't flinch at the sound. He kept twirling with his fingers the silver ring on the ring finger of his right hand. He looked away from the window, half-heartedly, and raised his eyes to look at the large grandfather clock on the wall on the far side of his room. Squinting to sharpen his eyes in the gloom, he saw that it was twenty past three in the morning.

His lustrous, heavy door opened just a few inches, accompanied by the faint creak of old wood.

"Draco?" a soft voice on the other side called hesitantly, in barely a whisper.

The boy looked away from the clock and fixed his gaze on the doorway.

"I'm awake."

A moment later, the door opened several inches wider and a light-coloured, almost ghostly shadow stepped into the room, closing the door immediately behind it. Draco stared blankly at the person who had just entered. It was a young woman about his own age, dressed at the moment in a long white nightgown that Draco assumed had belonged to his mother, Narcissa. It was too big for her, and looked a little wrinkled, which suggested that the girl had been tossing and turning in bed. Her tousled, shoulder-length black hair told him the same thing.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Samantha, her back against the door, was still searching for him in the darkness of the room. The boy's voice finally gave her the clue she needed and she discovered him sitting at the window, staring at her.

"They've brought someone else," she murmured in a halting voice, moving towards him. Her bare feet were silent on the carpet. "They're above my room. Upstairs."

The young woman spoke English quite fluently, but there was a faint French accent in her pronunciation. Her father was French, but her mother was English, so she was fluent in both languages, having practised them since she was a child.

Draco lowered his feet from the sill, giving her room to sit down, before adding in a neutral voice:

"I know. A woman. I saw them through the window," he said, nodding at it. Samantha pushed aside one of the heavy green velvet curtains, so as not to sit on it, and curled up on the other side of the sill. "And they're questioning her now? I thought they wanted to wait until Dolohov was here, and he's not back until tomorrow."

Samantha shrugged helplessly. A visible aura of despair surrounded her.

"I was hearing everything," she added, as if trying to justify her presence there. "I was hearing their questions, though I didn't understand any of them. But I was hearing her screams... I was hearing the Cruciatus Curse..." She swallowed, and had to catch her breath before adding, "I couldn't sleep."

She sighed more heavily again, as if she couldn't quite puff out her chest, and hugged herself. The skin on her arms was goose bumps. Draco said nothing. He had returned his gaze to the window.

"Can I sleep here?" she questioned, raising her dark eyes in his direction. Dubitatively.

"Uh-huh," Draco emitted with his throat in an affirmative manner, in response. Samantha stared at him for a few seconds before breaking the silence again:

"Can't sleep either?" she wanted to know, in a quieter voice. She had noticed that the boy was still dressed in street clothes.

Draco stared at the rain for a few moments longer, but then agreed to look at her sideways.

"My mother isn't back yet. She's gone out, she didn't say where, and she hasn't come back. When I see her, I'll go to bed."

The girl nodded a couple of times. She also looked up at the tall window. The wind had blown the raindrops onto the glass, and the trickles had made the outside less and less visible.

"Maybe she'll be back in the morning..." she opined, hesitantly. He made no reply to that.

"You can go to bed if you like," he replied instead. Without looking at her. "Don't wait for me."

The corner of her lips twitched into a smile.

"Don't worry. I still... I still can't sleep," she confessed, in a whisper. "I'm a little nervous."

She shivered and looked around. Scanning the large room. The baroque furniture, not at all befitting a twenty year old boy. But in keeping with his family's status. She was overwhelmed by its elegance and coldness. And also by the shadows of the room. By the silence. As if it were a dark well. A very, very deep well. Deeper and deeper, the more she looked. And her chest began to rise and fall faster and faster without her being able to help it.

Draco glanced sideways at her sudden silence. Hearing her breathing louder. He noticed that her eyes had clouded over.

"Shall I turn on a light?" he asked, in a cautious whisper. Samantha, unable to look at him, merely gritted her teeth and shook her head. But Draco could see the tremble on her lips.

He scrutinised her for a moment longer, then decided to ignore her. He rose to his feet and strode across the room until he reached his desk in one of the corners. It was oak, large and elegant, luxurious looking. He could not remember ever having used it. During the summer months he always went to the manor's library, upstairs, to do the homework they were sent at Hogwarts.

On his way to his desk, he took his wand out of the holster hanging from his belt. He had gotten into the habit of always carrying it with him, even inside his house, and only took it off when he went to sleep, leaving it on his bedside table. And sometimes not even then.

When he got to the table, he reached out with his other hand to pick up a dusty old oil lamp on a shelf otherwise filled with books. He mumbled something between his teeth and a faint, flickering orange light invaded the room. Samantha watched him do it, silently, still sitting on the windowsill.

Draco could have generated a simple Wand-Lighting Charm without moving from the window. Or summoned the lamp with a Summoning Charm. But he saw fit to give the girl some privacy to compose herself and dry her tears, as he knew she had done behind him. He knew that, after nearly seven months of being locked in the cells of his manor, there were times when the darkness overcame her. It possibly transported her to that dungeon again.

Besides, he had been sitting on that windowsill for several hours, and he felt like stretching his legs. His back had begun to ache.

He went back to the window next to the girl, and set the lamp on the floor beside her. She was looking at him with embarrassed gratitude. Her lips had stopped trembling. And her breathing regulated itself without her noticing.

"Do you know if Nott is here?" Draco asked then, not giving her a chance to thank him for his gesture. He sat back down on the sill, and leaned his temple against the glass.

"No. I spoke to him in the afternoon, and he said he had to go to Nurmengard," she said in a muffled whisper. "It was his turn to — er — surveiller?"

"Stand guard, yes," Draco translated, impatiently. But he frowned and straightened up a little. "He was supposed to be on the eleventh," he protested, as if that invalidated the girl's information.

"They've changed his shift; I think they've rearranged the order of some of the missions and reassigned some people's duties."

"Mission? What squadron?" Draco mumbled, still frowning. "I haven't been briefed of anything."

Samantha hesitated, blinking. Trying to recall her conversation with Theodore.

"Rookwood's? Could it be?" she ventured, more quietly. "I think Nott mentioned him."

Draco seemed to relax. He leaned his back better against the window frame.

"It could be. It makes sense. It would be a 'snitch mission'. They'll want to get new spies. If many Death Eaters have been recruited, it'll be a big coup."

Samantha looked at him warily. Uneasy.

"Spies... by means of the Imperius Curse?" she whispered, as it was visible how the skin on her arms began to goose again. He gave her a sidelong glance. Knowing what the Unforgivable Curse meant to her.

"It's Rookwood's speciality. And his squadron's. Rowle's too. It's what they do."

Samantha swallowed and nodded. Lowering her gaze to her lap.

"Theodore will be out for three days," she commented, a little more curtly, as if to change the subject. Draco let out a faint sigh through his nose, not too fazed.

"He hates it when they send him to Nurmengard..." he mumbled, almost to himself. Samantha looked at him again. Waiting for him to keep talking. "There's no way he can pass the buck there. There are witnesses all the time. You're never alone. If a prisoner tries something, you have to control them. Do whatever it takes. It's not like a mission in the open, where others cover for you and do your dirty work if you're a bit clever. There, you risk your life if you refuse."

Samantha fiddled nervously with the fabric of her nightgown as Draco spoke, not taking her eyes off him. When he fell silent, the young woman realised that she was wrinkling it too much, so she hastily rearranged it around her legs. Then she replied, in a whisper, "He's never said no to anything so far, has he?"

Draco snorted through his nose. Apathetically.

"No, of course not. He's smart. And a... fucking strong arsehole," he whispered. He dropped the back of his head against the window frame again. The reflection of the lamp's flame made his eyes twinkle. "He can handle a lot of things. He's carrying too many things he never wanted to do. But he knew what he was getting into. He knew what was coming to him. As soon as he left Hogwarts, my mother and aunt thoroughly schooled him in the Dark Arts..."

Samantha frowned slightly. Not in rejection, but in surprise.

"I didn't know that," she murmured, in astonishment. And pity. Draco continued, without looking at her.

"He took it all in without flinching. He learned the spells, the curses, how to duel, how to torture whoever needed to be tortured. He's been smart. He has never refused a mission, but he has never volunteered for one. He does not protest. He does not cause trouble. But he is human. I know him, and... one day he will explode. One way or another. Even if he stakes his life on it, he doesn't care. He's never minded dying."

Samantha swallowed. Her hands trembled at the serenity in her interlocutor's voice. They had never spoken so clearly about all that. But she couldn't pretend she didn't suspect it.

"But then, why — ?"

"Because he wants to see his father," Draco completed, his gaze still fixed on the window. His eyes flashed suddenly. "The Dark Lord promised to get our parents out of Azkaban years ago, when this war started... But he didn't."

The girl's eyes widened in astonishment. She didn't know that either.

"And why not?" she stammered, stunned.

Draco shrugged, but he couldn't stop his mouth from turning into a thin line. Tight with rage.

"I don't know," he mumbled. "He won't need them yet, I suppose. Or maybe he doesn't have the power to attack Azkaban. Though I doubt it."

He had tried to sound stoic, but he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. With rancour as fuel.

The Dark Lord had not kept his promise. He promised he would free his father from Azkaban if he could get the Death Eaters into the castle, but he hadn't. And it had been two years already. Two years. Draco, in several fits of anger, in moments when his father's absence was becoming more unbearable, had wanted to confront him. Ask him why. Openly accuse him of being a liar. But his mother had placated him with just a look. Making him see that it was stupid. It was suicide to point out that the Dark Lord had not kept his word.

Lord Voldemort had safe havens and hideaways all over the United Kingdom, and travelled constantly through them all, but his favourite residence was Malfoy Manor. Within its comfortable walls many of his most loyal Death Eaters were housed, coming and going as they pleased, invading any privacy of the Malfoy family. Attending scheduled meetings in their drawing room, which had already been renamed the War Room, and using their plentiful rooms for all manner of tasks. From interrogating prisoners to making weapons for combat.

Despite being settled in their home for years, the Dark Lord had been far from grateful. He did not treat them with special favour. He treated Narcissa with dismissive, and, usually, cold courtesy. Nor did he speak to Draco as if the boy were the master of the house. Which he was. Despite being in his closest circle, having received the Dark Mark two years ago, he was just another Death Eater. One of the youngest. But he was as effective as any other in whatever task was imposed on him.

Samantha, affected by her interlocutor's despondency, was unable to say anything more. She lost her gaze in the incessant curtain of rain falling on the other side of the window. Lost in thought.

Draco, on the other hand, focused his gaze on her, to look at her without her noticing. Lost in thought as well.

She shouldn't be there. At Malfoy Manor. Or in that war.

Samantha Minette was a seventh-year student at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic when, more than two years ago now, she suddenly woke up one day in the shed of a British Muggle family she didn't know. She had no idea how she had ended up there. And the first news she got was that she had been missing for weeks. Samantha couldn't believe it. She didn't understand anything, she didn't remember anything beyond being on holiday with her friends in the United Kingdom. She didn't know what had happened to her. It was as if she had suddenly blinked and her life had changed completely.

After dozens of interrogations by the French Ministry of Magic, and also by the British Ministry of Magic, and examinations of all kinds by St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and the D'Orléans Hospital for Magical Injuries, she was finally able to return to her school. Scared, still bewildered, and feeling that everyone there was watching her and talking behind her back. The news of what had happened to her was in all the newspapers, national and international.

But her life seemed to return, sheepishly, to its normal course. Weeks passed, until young Minette's emotional wounds dared to begin to heal. She forced herself to forget. To forget something she didn't understand at all.

But, as the end of the school year approached, everything went wrong again. She started having strange dreams at night. In some of them, she found herself in the school, at night, in one of the corridors, classrooms, or passages. With no one around her. And then, all at once, she realised that she was awake, and that in reality she was in the aforementioned place in the castle. The terrified girl had no idea how she had got there. She ran back to her dormitory and did not sleep a wink for the rest of the night. She even dreamt once that she was in the office of one of her teachers and, when she woke up, there she was. Without understanding how she had managed to get in. She came to seriously consider the fact that she was sleepwalking, and began to be afraid to go to bed at night. Fortunately, she managed to keep her disconcerting and involuntary nocturnal outings under wraps. She didn't even go to the Infirmary, because she didn't know how to explain what was happening to her. She didn't feel able to tell anyone. To any of her friends. To any of her teachers. Ever since she woke up in that Muggle shed, she didn't dare trust anyone.

Finally, her last term at Beauxbatons was over. And she told herself that things would get better. She would return to her family, and get her old life back, no worries, no prying eyes from her classmates wherever she went.

But, to her dismay, when she returned home she found a terrible surprise awaiting her. There was no sign of her parents. Instead, two hooded people were waiting for her in her living room. She tried to fight, but she was not skilled enough. They kidnapped her.

And she was brought before Lord Voldemort.

Samantha, though she had never seen him in person, recognised the dark wizard without difficulty. She had read about him, being world-renowned for his crimes in the British wizarding world in the 1970s, and she also knew him from the anecdotes her Beauxbatons classmates told everyone upon their return to school after the Triwizard Tournament. That Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, said he had come back and fought him. That he had killed one of the tournament champions.

The terrifying wizard, with a plain, serpentine face and blood-red eyes with vertical pupils, greeted her in a dark, luxurious mansion Samantha had never been to before. And he greeted her as if she were an old friend. He assured her that no harm would come to her parents if she cooperated.

And then he used Legilimency on her.

Samantha had never felt such terrible pain. No one had ever tried to enter her mind before, let alone search it with such rudeness. She could see in her head what the Dark Lord was forcing out of her, and was able, in the throes of agony, to draw her conclusions. They were images of Beauxbatons. All sorts. Corridors, people, teachers' offices, exits, entrances... He wanted information about the school. And they didn't seem to have found any volunteers to provide it. That's why he had kidnapped her. Now she understood why she appeared in places she didn't remember going. As she later found out, she had been kidnapped in February, controlled by a powerful and undetectable Imperius Curse, and then set free. To gather all sorts of information from the school, against her will. It took weeks to make the curse undetectable to the Healers and Aurors they expected to examine her. It also took weeks to erase her memory effectively enough that no one would notice they had done it. Two boys, named Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, were apparently tasked with carrying out such a mission. It was their test run into Voldemort's ranks. To see if they were useful to him, on the recommendation of his parents.

And now Lord Voldemort wanted to retrieve the information the girl had been unknowingly gathering for months. He invaded and tortured her mind for days on end. Hour after hour. Interspersing the intrusions into her memories with long hours in a dark, cold cell.

The sessions were endless and painful. It was an excruciating, shattering and almost inhumane process at the doses they did to her. By the last session, the young woman had run out of tears. Her mind was weak, soft, and her whole body was limp. And, after that, she was never taken out of her lonely cell again. Lord Voldemort seemed to have everything he needed.

It took her weeks to recover. Lying in a corner, alone, sobbing in pain, unable to stop, she believed she would never again be able to think deeply. That she would never stop feeling her mind burn. As if, every time she had any conscious thought, her brain would protest the overexertion, making her cry out in agony. As the days passed, in the darkness of the cell, the young woman regained her strength and sanity. And she was able to think again without suffering.

As soon as she was able to do so, her parents came to her mind. Wondering where they were. If they were still alive.

She didn't understand why she was still alive. Why they hadn't simply murdered her after getting the information they needed from her about her school. It would save them the trouble of keeping her there, of feeding her twice a day with food she barely touched, and of watching her constantly. She didn't understand why she was being kept there. She had already fulfilled her mission, she was no longer needed. Although she ended up deducing, with terrifying certainty, as the days, and weeks, went by, that maybe they needed her for something else.

At first, she only had contact with two house elves, and one woman, who, if she was not mistaken, as she overheard one day, was called Narcissa. She was blonde, blue-eyed, tall, and slim, and rather pretty; though her face wore perpetually a marked gesture of arrogance that detracted from her attractiveness. Still, she was kind to her, but not friendly.

Unfortunately, some time later, she also began to receive sporadic visits from a man whose face she did not see, but whose intentions to sexually abusing her were obvious. Trapped in that cell, she could not defend herself in any way. Narcissa, fortunately, came to her rescue in time on most occasions.

One day, without warning, she was taken out of the cell. And they took her through the same manor she had seen the first day she was brought before Voldemort. It was huge, luxurious and dark. She wondered if Narcissa would be the owner. The family who lived there must belong to the British magical aristocracy. She knew, at least, that she was still in England, judging by the fact that everyone around her spoke English with a British accent.

They took her up to the first floor and put her in a large, sober bedroom. They cast some spells on it, but she couldn't identify what they were for. She sensed that they were security spells to prevent her from escaping. She was specified that she could roam the building, within certain limits, but she could not go into the gardens without supervision. She became both a guest and a prisoner of the manor. The house elves continued to bring her two meals a day. She continued to receive visits from Narcissa. She gave her some clean clothes, and, for the next few weeks, she was the only person she spoke to. Of trivial things, just a couple of words a day about whether she had eaten or needed more blankets.

At first, the young woman hardly dared to leave her room. Gradually, excited by her precarious freedom after weeks and weeks in four cold, windowless walls, she dared to make small tours of the place. Running away every time she came across someone. Feeling that several pairs of eyes followed her wherever she went. The gloomy manor was crowded with what she identified as 'Death Eaters'; followers of Lord Voldemort.

One day, she received an unexpected visit from a short, scrawny, black-haired young man with sad blue eyes. His features had a slightly rabbit-like appearance. Seeing him dressed in the dark uniform of the Death Eaters, the girl felt an instant panic. Fearing for her safety, she tried to put as much distance between them as possible. But he was quick to introduce himself as Theodore. And reassured her that he only meant to talk to her. To keep her company.

And he did. On many occasions. He didn't come to her room every day, sometimes not even for several days, but she had begun to appreciate his presence. He was interested in her state of health. He would ask her if she wanted something to read. Sometimes he even told her some personal details about himself. Like how he liked Chocolate Frogs. Or that he didn't agree with the mission they had that night. Or that he had no desire to torture the person waiting for him in the next room.

And so Samantha knew to read between the lines, though they never openly discussed it, that he wasn't a Death Eater like the others. That he was not a loyal follower of the Dark Lord. And she came to trust him almost without intending to.

And that's why she knew he was telling the truth when he told her that her parents were imprisoned in a place called Nurmengard.

And she decided to try to escape.

It was an impulsive act. A stupidity born of desperation that she didn't tell either Theodore or Narcissa. She had no wand to disappear with, and she didn't even know what kind of protections had been put in place to prevent her from leaving the place. But she decided to try. She had to save them. Call for help. Anything. She stole a fistful of Floo powder, after sneaking into one of the halls. And that night she went to the kitchens, when the elves were already asleep.

But the Floo powder didn't work when she went into the fireplace. But it did set off the alarms.

The rest of the night was somewhat confusing for Samantha. She knew she had been tortured, but she was barely able to remember anything the next day. All she knew was that her body ached as if she had been boned and her bones had been re-grown.

Mid-morning, back in her room, while still recovering from the after-effects of her botched escape attempt, she received another visitor. A boy who also looked close to her age. He was tall, slender, with striking white-blond hair, and grey, icy, contemptuous eyes. His pale-skinned face, and his surly, haughty gesture reminded her of the woman called Narcissa, which is why the girl suspected him of being her son.

He did not even introduce himself. He merely stood before her, towering in all his imposing stature, his expression hard as granite. He warned her, in a mighty hiss, not to think of trying to escape again, or he would take care of her next torture himself. He informed her that she was in that comfortable room because of his mother; that she had gotten her out of that dungeon, that she was risking her life for her, and that she had better thank her for it. That the woman had been tortured by what had happened, too, and that he would not allow it to happen again.

The girl couldn't say a word. She shivered, feeling the guilt overtake her that she had endangered the only person, besides Theodore, who was kind to her in this dark place. Before she could say anything, the boy left the room with a brisk walk. Without looking back.

Hours later, when Theodore came to see her, the girl instantly asked him if Narcissa was all right. At his confirmation, she asked him to apologise on her behalf to the blond-haired boy. To tell him that she hadn't meant for anything to happen to his mother. Theodore promised her that he would.

Samantha didn't try to escape in any way.

She saw Narcissa's son again a few days later. One afternoon, when the girl was encouraged to visit Nott in his room, she found him in the company of the other boy. Theodore kindly invited her to join the conversation. Even though the other boy, whom Nott addressed by the name "Draco", was not at all thrilled.

Samantha sat in a chair, silently, watching as the two boys resumed their discussion. They were talking about something that happened in Manchester that she didn't quite understand. About people she didn't know. But her eyes kept darting, again and again, uncontrollably, to that Draco boy. She couldn't help it. There was something in his posture, in the confidence and arrogance of his body language, that continually drew her gaze. Against her will, and her common sense, fighting Stockholm syndrome, she resigned to admitting to herself that she found him to be an attractive boy. And it was that which seemed to be attracting her gaze without remedy.

But also, as she had suspected, and as she confirmed as the conversation progressed, he was not a nice person. He was dismissive. Cynical. Arrogant. And cold, very cold. However, it was also true that he seemed nicer while talking to Nott than he had seemed when he spoke to her alone. And he was funny. Several of his comments towards Theodore, sarcastic and mocking, brought a smile to Samantha's face. Realising that it was his way of joking. He was witty. Besides, he was looking at Nott with great esteem, hidden under the icy colour of his eyes. She saw him grin mischievously in his friend's direction a couple of times. And that grimace took the cruelty out of his presence. Nott engaged Samantha in a conversation about the manor gardens, and Draco finally seemed to deign to look at her. His eyes looked less hard. But just as cold. He answered some of her questions with kindness, though. He even gave her a sardonic tease that made Theodore laugh.

They talked late into the night. More often. Their conversations became longer. More polite. Friendlier. And she was discovering that Draco wasn't as mean as he'd first seemed to her. He was reserved, and biting, and seemed to be in a continual state of defensiveness with everything around him. Protected within a shell of haughtiness and harsh comments. He was complicated, even more so than Theodore, but he was no monster.

He wasn't like the other Death Eaters. Samantha paid attention to his demeanour. To his discreet comments. To how he looked after some particularly tough mission. And though he was better at hiding it than Theodore, Samantha couldn't help but think that the two friends were in the same boat. Although, for everyone's safety, they never discussed it openly with her.

But, regardless, a friendship based on companionship and affinity forged between them.

Draco wondered once more, eyes fixed on the distracted girl sitting on his windowsill, what the Dark Lord would want her for. Why he was keeping her alive.

Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had been the next targets on Lord Voldemort's hit list, after the already defeated Hogwarts. But the attack apparently had to be postponed. At least that's what he explained to them in successive meetings. Having failed to get hold of the weapon he needed during his raid on the castle, Lord Voldemort's targets had to be restructured. He did not dare to attack the other two schools, as he had planned. The fall of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would have to wait a little longer.

Draco suspected that Samantha was an important pillar in the conquest of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Voldemort needed first-hand information about the schools in order to conquer them. They had already gotten everything about the structure and staff of the castle out of her, but she had to be needed for something else. Otherwise, he would not keep her alive.

He had also obtained a spy to inform him of everything concerning Durmstrang Institute. And it had not been necessary to kidnap him against his will. It was a young disciple of the late Igor Karkaroff, aged sixteen, who was also staying at Malfoy Manor. He was a boy who, it seemed, was a supporter of Lord Voldemort and had provided him with everything he needed to know of his own accord. He was taciturn, solitary, and Draco had not exchanged a single word with him. He suspected he didn't even speak English.

Samantha, still staring through the window pane, snapped him out of his thoughts when she spoke again:

"It's been raining for days," she looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "You had a mission the day after tomorrow, didn't you? Maybe they'll cancel it..."

"I doubt it."

"Is it in the open?"

"No, indoors."

Samantha nodded her head. Not wanting to ask him any more questions. They knew it wasn't safe for anyone if Lord Voldemort found out that his Death Eaters were sharing any information with her. She was still a prisoner, after all.

She couldn't stop her mouth from opening in a long yawn that she tried to conceal. But Draco's grey eyes caught it.

"Go to bed. Come on."

She smiled weakly. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes from the yawn.

"I'm fine," she protested, softly. But he kept looking at her with an arched eyebrow, impassive, and she was forced to reluctantly give in. "Are you sure? What about you?"

"I'll go in a little while," he shifted slightly, settling himself on the narrow sill. He added, almost to himself, "I'm not going to be at peace until I see her." Samantha understood he meant his mother. "And I'm sick of lying in bed staring at the ceiling."

The young woman sighed through her nose, giving up. She really was exhausted. Now that the discomfort from the sounds of torture she had heard a few minutes earlier had subsided, she found that her eyelids were getting very heavy.

"Good night, then," she murmured, rising slowly to her feet. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and nodded in response. She hesitated a moment longer, biting her lip. "Let me know when your mother shows up," she finished adding cautiously.

He nodded again, looking at her. The girl, after a fleeting smile of thanks, finally moved away in the direction of the wide bed. She opened it, leaving the quilt aside, and lay down in a corner, taking up the minimum of space, and covering her body with the black sheets. Draco, with his back to the bed, could only use his hearing to know that she had settled down to sleep.

It wasn't the first night that Samantha had been unable to sleep due to the various terrible noises that filled the manor in the wee hours of the morning. When that happened, the girl sought refuge in Theodore's room. Or, on occasion, Draco's. If neither of them were to blame for the noises.

Draco never complained about it. He was indifferent to it, really. In fact, having company at night, when the loneliness of their situation was most profoundly invading them all, was even pleasant. He liked to lie beside her in bed and listen to her breathing, while he was unable to fall asleep. It was the closest thing to not being alone. He had never hugged her before. Never. Nor had she ever hugged him. They just lay next to each other, looking for company. Protection.

A movement in the gardens drew Draco's weary gaze. He wiped some mist from the window to get a better look. Peering through the curtain of rain. A dark figure was crossing the gravel path, flanked by bushes, heading towards the main entrance. One of the figure's hands was raised, probably with a wand in it, and was creating a shield spell to protect elegantly from the abundant rain. Two curtains of straight, blonde hair escaped from the wide hood on either side of her hidden face, falling across her chest.

It was his mother. She was fine.

Draco closed his eyes, losing himself in the sound of the rain. They had survived another day.

It was very late. The next day he had a lot to do, and he intended to get up in about three hours. At least he had to rest his body, although he knew he would not be able to sleep. He hardly ever got a good night's sleep. Most nights, just a doze that was even more exhausting.

He rose heavily to his feet and quietly made his way to his bed. He didn't even bother to undress.

On the way, he extinguished the still-burning lamp with a lazy flick of his wand.