It felt both like waking and coming up from under deep water all at the same time.

She had little interest in moving, finding herself fascinated by the equally familiar and strange pattern of cracks in the ceiling above her head. At one point, Bronach remembered, she had known each and every one of them, had mapped them better than she had ever mapped Astronomy charts. If she turned her head, she knew she would see the battered window trim, never repaired after the bars were ripped out by a trio of redheads in a flying Ford Anglia.

The pipes creaked down the hall and she startled, before memory took over. There was a hosepipe ban. Petunia woke at dawn for the first time in living memory, just so that she could coax a frigid shower from the pipes before Dudley and Vernon rose, demanding their breakfast.

Old memory overlapping with new habits, Bronach swung her legs over the side of the battered cot, finding them surprisingly shaky, as if she was rising from a sickbed of several days. Once they'd stopped shaking she rose up, eye catching on the battered mirror hanging on the wardrobe door, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks, reaching out to support herself on the wall.

At fifteen she had already had her fair share of scars. Petunia had hated the look of them, forcing her to wear long sleeves and pants, even during the heat wave, just so the neighbors wouldn't gossip about them. Her trademark lightning bolt was fodder enough for the neighborhood biddies. Yet, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she found a familiar tracery of silvery scars that only revealed themselves when she was wholly herself, all metamorphmagic and glamored alterations released.

A year of near-starvation had been the final straw for any growth spurts that had tried to take root, and between fifteen and eighteen she hadn't changed much at all. But as someone who had studied the differences intimately, Bronach knew that she wasn't looking at the same body as had lain down on the cot the night before. It wasn't just her eyes, but her entire being, down to the muscle tone she'd worked hard to achieve and maintain through hard work and lots of practice.

Almost expecting the mirror's surface to change, she reached out to touch it, needing to feel the glass under her fingertips. It was solid and slightly cool, and she watched herself breathe in and out. In, and out.

It had been real.

When Námo had come to her in a dream, telling her of this chance, she had only half-believed everything would be as he had said it would. Half of her had been absolutely certain that everything she'd been through in the last two centuries would disappear like mist in the morning sun, reduced to a memory, a dream. But her proof was written in her skin, and that was enough to make her hope that the rest of his promise had been fulfilled as he had offered it to her.

The water shut off down the hall, and she moved automatically to grab the clothing that had been laid out on the chair that sat before the battered desk. Memory, brought forward out of long years, told her that Petunia would come rapping at her door if she was not in the kitchen by the time the woman had finished dressing. Morning and evening meals were still her obligation, Bronach recalled as she pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothing, as was the garden's upkeep, even as every green thing withered in the face of the August heat.

Thankfully she had managed to recall how the stove worked before Petunia arrived in the kitchen, her newest gossip rag in hand. Bronach dutifully had a cup of cold tea waiting at Petunia's place at the table, and her aunt sipped at it and watched her over the top of her tabloid, clearly suspicious but unable to pinpoint what Bronach had done wrong.

By the time Dudley and Vernon were stirred from their beds, Bronach had already consumed her two slices of toast and rasher of bacon under Petunia's gimlet eye, leaving the rest of the prepared breakfast in the warmer.

"I'll come in and do the washing after they're done," she told Petunia, the first words she'd spoken since waking in Dudley's second bedroom. The English words felt strange on her tongue, the entire sentence taking a moment to construct in her head, despite trying to practice, first with Kreacher and then with a few trusted others, over the many years in an attempt to keep the memory of her birth tongue alive.

"You know the garden chores," came Petunia's clipped reply, but Bronach was already opening the kitchen door, breathing deeply as she stepped out into the back garden. After the sterile, oppressive air of the house, the garden felt like a paradise, a haven. She wasn't certain if she was projecting, but it felt as if the house had absorbed its occupants' conviction that she was not welcome there. But the back garden had been the closest thing that she'd had to her own space ever since she'd been entrusted with its upkeep, and she almost felt that it was embracing her as she stood there.

Unsurprisingly, the heat had been cruel to the plants, but there was still life thrumming through the soil as she knelt by a flowerbed to dig her fingers in it. Her mother's sacrifice had indeed created wards around Privet Drive, as Dumbledore had once told her. They seemed to hum in the air like silent cicadas, or the vibration of a harp string, but even without them there was a magic in the soil that Arda had lacked. Even in this non-magical neighborhood it rushed up through the soil to nurture the plants as she called to it.

Not too much, she reminded herself as the entire garden threatened to teem with life under her hands. You don't want to raise suspicions.

The magic bucked under her fingers, as restive and frisky as if she rode a green horse across the Downs in the spring, but just as she had quieted her mounts, she tamed the magic, spreading it lightly through the garden to nurture her plants like the water denied to them by the drought.

And like a green horse, it slyly gave her a bit of a slip, spreading out to the surrounding gardens, as if to keep her on her toes. It startled a chuckle out of her, one that she stifled lest Petunia hear, and she settled in for the mundane chore of weeding, knowing that there was such a thing as too much magic. Neville had taught her that life and magic interacted in unpredictable ways, and all magical plant species had once come from non-magical plants. Too much magic and a magical species would grow, and while it was a fitting punishment for the careless cruelty of Petunia and Vernon, Bronach was old, and tired of holding the grudge.

As she did her chores, she listened for any indication of her Order watcher, wondering who had been on shift before Fletcher. They were good enough at their job to stay clear of the property wards, and the sheer amount of ambient magic was enough to force her to keep her senses dull, lest it go to her head. Her dampeners were beyond her reach, at least for the moment, and she couldn't afford anything less than clear focus.

Morning warmth was replaced by noon's crippling heat, and Bronach worked on, absently weaving a cooling charm around herself as she prepared the garden for her departure, ensuring that it would survive without her there to tend it. She would be gone by nightfall, and it was unfair to let the plants fall victim to Petunia's callous indifference to anything that would not amplify her social standing.

Afternoon slipped slowly into evening, the humidity settling about her shoulders like a wet blanket. When Bronach was finished, she slipped into the house, bypassing the lounge where Petunia sprawled in her chair with a small fan pointed at her, in favor of returning to Dudley's second bedroom.

Her childhood belongings were still scattered about the room, just as out of place now as they had once been, making it a simple task to gather them. School supplies, half-finished assignments, and textbooks were stacked neatly on the desk until there was nothing left of hers beyond Dudley's overlarge secondhand clothes hanging in the wardrobe. After making sure that there was nothing hidden in the space below the loose floorboard, Bronach opened her school trunk, finding a small scroll resting on top of the mess within.

Your things are with Kreacher, the flowing Tengwar script read. You will not be denied your possessions, even if I could not substitute them here.

More proof that it had been real. Taking a shaky breath, she set the short missive aside and set herself to emptying and repacking her trunk, wandlessly vanishing the rubbish and neatly storing what could be useful so that everything fit with room to spare. She could possibly shrink it, but it would be far better to charm it weightless and carry it that way. Her vanishing spells were already pushing the boundaries, particularly in a house that had already seen several incidents of accidental magic over the years.

Finished, she rose and looked around the room, finding nothing of her own amidst Dudley's broken possessions. Latching her trunk, she stood it on its end, but something tucked under her pillow caught her eye.

Setting it aside, she found herself looking at the phoenix and holly wand she had carried from the day that it had chosen her in Ollivander's shop to the day she'd woken in the Ram Duath with its broken and charred remnants clutched in her hands. For a long moment she simply looked at it, afraid to touch it, but she steeled herself, reaching out to grasp it in her hand.

It was like being plunged into a tub of warm water and clutching a live wire all at once. The loss of her wand had haunted her like a lost limb in those early years after the Ram Dúath, a space that even the Elder Wand-turned-Staff could not fill. Though it had bonded with her, she had not felt the same depth of familiarity, the same warmth of welcome, even though it had served faithfully when she had wielded it.

Dampness on her cheeks surprised her, and as she brushed her fingers across them Bronach found that she was weeping. For a long moment she clutched her wand, and then set it on her desk while she opened her trunk once more. It would be safest, for her plans and for herself, if it was not with her for the next few hours.

Hedwig had returned sometime during the day, and Bronach shooed the bewildered owl out of the window. The empty cage she left on the desk, another discarded birdcage to go with the one that had been in the room before she'd ever occupied it.

Petunia was waiting for her in the front hall when she descended, and Bronach wondered what had tipped her off. From the faint sound of the telly carrying through the lounge door, Vernon had returned from work while Bronach was packing, and the news was just beginning.

"Are you leaving then?" Petunia hissed, eying the trunk as if it was a rubbish bag. "The old man said you have to stay here unless someone comes for you."

"I do not intend to return," Bronach settled her trunk in the corner behind the front door. "My mother's protections on this house will fail, and though I expect the threat to my world to be dealt with in a year's time, I suggest that you depart."

"How dare you-" Petunia spluttered, but Bronach was done.

"Leave Petunia, and don't look back. The wizarding world will not come looking for you if they cannot find you here; I certainly haven't spoken of you."

Her aunt's face twisted as if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Aren't you going to take that with you?"

"There is one last thing I must do before I leave," Bronach murmured as she opened the front door. "But once that is done, I will return for it, and you will never see me again."

The heat hung over her, even more oppressively than it had while she worked in the garden. Her feet took her, by habit and by inclination, towards the old play park.

Námo had promised her. He had promised her, and so far he had delivered. What she found in the play park would be the final proof, the completion of all that she had asked for as she watched Aragorn tire.

As she stepped onto the grounds of the playpark, her eyes were drawn to the figure sitting on the only unbroken swing. Tentatively, afraid, she walked towards them, stopping an arm's length away as they rose and stepped towards her.

She couldn't speak, her heart choking her words as it pounded in her ears.

"Hail Thuri Ruinil, Lady of Aughaire, member of the Fellowship and of the Grey Company, who fought at Pelennor and in many battles that followed," King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, High King of the Dúnedain said with a gentle smile. "So this is your home."

"This is where I came from." The words fell from numb lips. "I would not call it home."

Slowly, as if trying not to frighten her, he reached out to cup her cheek, the familiar calluses making her knees tremble. At some point, she realized, she had begun to weep, and his thumb smeared the dampness of her tears over her cheekbone as it swept them away.

"Is his face so hideous that it inspires tears?" a soft voice, filled with laughter, asked from behind her, and as Bronach turned, Queen Arwen Undómiel was there in all the grace and beauty that she had been renowned for during her reign.

"No," Bronach managed as Arwen stopped in front of her. "It is with joy that I weep. I had feared that everything that came before was simply a dream."

"It would have been a good dream, for all its cruelty," Arwen said, drawing her close. Bronach's arms wrapped around the queen in a desperate hug, afraid that if she let go, even for a moment, she would be alone once more. "But it was not. We are here, and we have no intention of leaving."

"There is nothing to come between us now," Aragorn said as she released Arwen, and it was his turn to hold her. "No kingdom, no throne."

"Just a small matter of a Dark Lord," Bronach laughed roughly. "But first, wraiths."

"Are you certain that you wish to continue as you described?" Arwen asked with a frown. "You did not speak of your cousin with any fondness, and you yourself know what may come of it."

"He was a horrid child." Dudley's gang could be heard as they approached the playpark. "But I believe he became a better man."

"We will follow your lead," Aragorn said with a nod. "What do you need of us in this moment?"

"Can you feel the difference in the land, in the magic?" Bronach murmured as the first of the boys approached the edge of the playpark. "Does it call to you?"

"My fingers itch for needle and thread, to set magic into them in a way that surpasses even my greatest works," Arwen agreed, stepping up to take the place at Bronach's left shoulder. "There is something here that is greater than either my father, or the mother of my mother, ever managed to preserve."

"It is like, and unlike, to Imladris, to Lothlorien," Aragorn confirmed as he moved into the place at her right shoulder. "Something within me stirs, though I cannot name it."

"You need not name it, only trust in it," Bronach said, eyes fixed on Dudley as the gang spotted her. "Call upon Eärendil or Elbereth in your need, and trust that their strength will answer your call." The joke the gang was enjoying was lost to the years of her memory, but she knew that the group needed to scatter, to seek shelter.

"What are you doing Potty?" one of the gang jeered as they sauntered closer.

"Who're your friends, scar-head?"

"They gonna pay you? Or did you have to pay them?"

"Your parents need you home," she told Dudley, ignoring the juvenile cruelty of his companions. "They sent me to fetch you. As I left, the news was predicting killer hail, as big as golf balls, so we'd best get under cover quickly."

The gang shifted, glancing nervously amongst themselves, but Dudley scoffed. "Coward, Potty? I've heard you, you know. Crying out like a wittle baby at night. Don't kill Cedric," he sneered, drawing laughter from his cronies at the falsetto. "Who's Cedric? Your boyfriend? What would he think, seeing how long it took you to replace him?"

"Return to your home, or I'll make you."

She was rewarded with a slight spark of fear in his eyes, so fleeting that the gang missed it. "Sure you will," he managed to say without his voice trembling. "Mum's got tea on, so I might as well anyway. Killer hail is probably more fun to watch from inside, see if any of the twerps get hit because they weren't smart enough to get inside."

The gang made general assenting noises, dispersing towards their homes, and in a few minutes it was just Dudley, Bronach, Aragorn, and Arwen in the dusty playpark.

"Who're you supposed to be?" he demanded, eying Aragorn warily, hands drifting towards his bottom, as if he wanted to clutch it, the way he had the previous summer when the Weasleys had come to pick her up. "Are you freaks like her?"

"What does it matter?" Bronach gave him a slight shove, to get him moving. It surprised him, and he started walking, though with a dark scowl that threatened retribution. At one time, that might have scared her, but he was just a fifteen year old bully. "We don't have much time, and you need to be in the house before it's too late."

"Are you doing something freaky again?" he hissed, coming to a stop. They had reached the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent, and the air was growing increasingly chill. "You're not allowed to do your freak stuff outside your freaky school!"

"It's not me you have to worry about," she said, watching the mist rise. It was too late to seek out shelter behind the wards. They wouldn't make it, even if they ran. "There are far worse things in the world than an underage witch."

"Why don't you just leave," her cousin complained as he kicked at a stone. "Stop getting us normal people caught up in your freaky nonsense."

"If I left now, you would die," she said flatly, and looked at her companions. "It's too late. They're here."

They'd discussed the possibility of this moment several times. What they might do, what they might change, how they might react. Námo had given them time to consider when and where, and all three of them had stayed up late for a week, discussing this moment.

In the end, their feet had brought them here to the alley, and as Bronach listened to the screams of the dying, no longer just her mother and father but many, many more voices, she wondered if there were some things that were beyond changing, a fixed point in every timeline.

Moving, she shoved her cousin against the wall before she turned and reached out blindly for Aragorn and Arwen, catching their hands and gripping them tightly. Their warmth bolstered her, pushed back the memories in her ears even as she shivered and the lights dimmed around them.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!" she sang out into the darkness that threatened to envelop her, voice trembling, but she pushed more strength into it, focusing on the warmth of the hands grasping hers.

Arwen's voice echoed her own, far steadier and stronger, power vibrating in every word that warmed her to her bones as the darkness flinched back. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

"Eärendil! Gil-Estel!" Aragorn's voice rang out, a battlefield commander's cry. The dementors had faltered, falling back at the invocations, but they weren't gone, not yet.

"Once more," she said, her voice gaining strength as she took a deep breath. "All together.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

"Eärendil! Gil-Estel!"

The alley filled with silver starlight, illuminating the dark wraiths as they faltered and fell back, fleeing from the blessed light. As it faded, she wobbled slightly, and Aragorn was there to steady her. It was a long time since she'd openly called upon that much power, but she was recovering far quicker than she had previously and found her feet in seconds, instead of minutes or hours.

"We need to go," she said, and glanced at Dudley.

He looked back, eyes filled with terror. "What were those things?"

"Dementors," she said, glancing down the alley, knowing Mrs. Figg would be by soon. "Had we failed to drive them off, they would have consumed all of our souls, leaving nothing behind but a husk that has not realized that the occupant is already dead."

"They- I felt-"

"Being in their presence forces you to relive your worst memories," she said, wondering once more what Dudley had seen. He had never spoken of it, to her knowledge, though it had an impact on him, somehow. Perhaps this near miss, though less near than before, would have the same impact. She gestured towards Privet Drive, and he peeled himself off the wall, leading the way. Arwen took over steadying her, and they walked arm and arm as Aragorn watched their backs.

Bronach had never figured out how long it had taken for Mrs. Figg to alert the Order and get a new watcher in place. All of the Order's focus seemed to have been on the Ministry and her newest underage magic charge, but perhaps this time they would get a fresh guard in place. She needed to be away before they could arrive, but she had to get Dudley under the wards.

Petunia was waiting in the hall when they arrived, face more pinched than usual. "Don't let Vernon see you," she snapped softly as Bronach entered, separating from Arwen. "I told him what you said, about moving."

She was certain he took that well. "We were set upon by dementors tonight."

Her aunt lost any color that she had in her face, reaching out to pull Dudley close to her, and to Bronach's surprise, her cousin allowed it.

"We drove them off," she continued, with a brief gesture to where Arwen and Aragorn were waiting on the doorstep. "He will be fine. But I would still consider moving, in case anyone decides to look for you here."

The answering nod was short and terse, but Bronach could read stubbornness in it. Hopefully it would serve her well in the coming arguments with Vernon.

"Have a good life," she said as she picked up her trunk and headed out the door.

To her surprise, Dudley followed, looking anxiously around.

"If I wanted to get in touch, how would I?" he blurted out after a long moment where she watched him from the front walk.

"Put a letter in the post, addressed to me at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replied, bemused. It was how Hermione's parents managed to get letters to her during their school years. "It'll get to me. Or if you see a post owl, they might carry it for you."

"Like your owl?"

"Yeah," Aragorn took her trunk from her hand, and Bronach turned her back on Privet Drive. "Like Hedwig."

She led the way through Little Whinging's maze of streets, Aragorn carrying her trunk and Arwen between them, watching for signs of the Order. But they made it to the train station without being stopped, and Bronach couldn't help but be grateful for it.

There was a confrontation coming, but she'd rather have it behind Grimmauld Place's wards than in the streets of Surrey.

It was the work of a few moments to rummage in her trunk for the money she needed to purchase three tickets to London, and a short wait before the train actually arrived. While they waited on the platform, an owl swooped down, a letter in its talons.

"And so it begins," she murmured, skimming the notice of her expulsion before she slid it into her pocket. Sure enough, Arthur Weasley's letter was dropped into her lap, and she didn't even bother to open it, already knowing what it would say. The train arrived with the last letter, this one summoning her to the hearing, and she tucked all three of them into the trunk before letting Aragorn carry it on to the train.

"They charged you with underage magic?" Arwen asked lowly as the train pulled out of the station, all three of them arranged in a clump at the back of a nearly empty car. Aragorn had arranged it so that Bronach was in the middle, and she normally would have protested, since she didn't need the extra defense, but she was weary, and this way she could allow herself a brief nap during the journey.

"The hearing is still on," she replied, leaning her head on Arwen's shoulder. "So much for not carrying my wand."

"When should we exit this…train?" Aragorn asked, glancing up and down the length of the car.

"Waterloo Station." It was obvious that Arwen had understood her weariness, given that the woman was humming a charm-laced lullaby, but Bronach suspected that she had no idea how potent the charm was now. "Wake me in half an hour or so?"

Aragorn must have agreed, but she didn't hear it. She didn't notice a single thing until he shook her softly.

Coming to alertness quickly, she found that they were just pulling into the station. "We've got another train to catch, and then a walk," she said as they shuffled off with the remaining passengers, slipping through the crowds easily enough. If they had more time, and Aragorn and Arwen were more familiar with the modern era, she would have insisted that they spend the time spotting and losing any tails they might have picked up. Logically she knew that it was unlikely the Order would have discerned her departure by train, especially since she wasn't supposed to know about Grimmauld Place, but it was hard to turn off centuries of paranoia.

Constant vigilence! She heard in her head, and couldn't help but chuckle, drawing both of her companions' attention.

"It's nothing," she said, wincing at the noise of the station. It was beyond loud, compared to the world she had left, the only world Aragorn and Arwen had ever known. They'd all tried to prepare, once their course of action had been decided, but how does one prepare for the screech of a train's brakes, garbled announcements played over the loudspeaker, and the persistent hum of human beings simply existing. For all that it had once been her normal, her reality, she had lived in a world without modern plumbing for far longer than she had lived in this one.

It was only a little better on the next train, but as they drew closer to Grimmauld it got a bit quieter. Grimmauld was near the main streets, but not on them, and she welcomed the quiet and lack of people on the streets. Aragorn carried her trunk without complaining, though she'd made it weightless as they left Privet Drive, and Arwen had tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. Hedwig, who had made an appearance once they had turned off the main streets, was flying overhead, a shadow in the falling night.

"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London," Bronach informed her companions as they approached the hidden door. "The Order of the Phoenix is currently occupying the Black Family's London seat."

She could feel the house up ahead in a way she had never managed to before. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that she was probably still considered the magical head of House Black, as well as House Potter, but there was a part of her magic that called out to, and was called for in return, by the hidden dwelling that they had just stopped in front of.

Nobody was entirely certain how magically recognized Heads actually qualified, but it was a strange mix of legal inheritance and familial compatibility. The goblins had gleefully explained a little of it to her as they used her new status to levy penalties on both houses for violating their security during the war, finding it fitting to reclaim dozens of goblin-made artifacts along with a portion of their wealth.

Her bond with Kreacher hummed slightly as she stopped in front of the house, and the family magics seemed to increase in their humming until she could almost hear it, their presence almost a tangible weight behind her breastbone. The house elf waited for her inside, she could tell, clearly having followed her instructions to guard the locket, and her family heirlooms.

To her surprise, she could feel the fidelius on the house, like a poorly fitting coat thrown awkwardly over the existing ward scheme. She wasn't certain if she was still considered a Secret Keeper, as she had been after Dumbledore's death, but hopefully her position as Head of House Black would be enough for Aragorn and Arwen to gain entry to the house.

"So this is your home?" Arwen said, looking at the dingy facade as Aragorn glanced about at the dingy patch of grass that was failing at being a park.

"It is," Bronach said, then made a face. "Or it was and is all at the same time? It is in a far worse state now than it was when I finally set out to turn it into a home."

"Well, if you've done it once, you can do it again," Aragorn said, hefting her trunk up and stepping up onto the front stoop before he frowned. "You should probably go first."

"Probably," she murmured, following him with a strange reluctance. This wasn't her house, not really. Not now. This wasn't the house that she'd shared Christmases with Teddy and Ron and Hermione and their children, this wasn't the house that she'd dueled her way out of when the Ministry decided she was too much of a danger to let roam free.

It wasn't even the house she inherited, stripped of its history and ransacked by Death Eaters who she had accidentally given passage through the wards by bringing them there. No, this was Walburga Black's decaying house, with a hippogriff developing cabin fever in the woman's bedroom and her godfather's misery practically bleeding out of the walls.

Her godfather.

Bronach swallowed hard. She hadn't considered that she would find him here, alive and angry, unknowing of what had transpired in the Department of Mysteries, unaware of how badly she'd screwed everything up. Centuries had passed, and the grief and guilt was still strong, though dulled slightly by time and distance.

Not just her godfather, but an entire host of ghosts, depending on who was visiting from the Order. Moody, Emmaline Vance…

Fred. Tonks. Remus.

She wavered, uncertain if she had the strength to see all of them alive and well, unknowing that they had died, in many cases for her. A soft hand in hers drew her out of her thoughts, and Arwen's smile was sad, but understanding as she said: "Kreacher will be cross if we ruin his dinner plans by lingering."

They had switched into Westron's comforting familiarity at some point after they had left Privet Drive. Bronach knew that it would be a tactical advantage, considering that the general translation charm required one to know what the language was that needed translation, but they would need to speak English around the Order.

Summoning her courage, she touched her fingertips to the door, unsurprised as it swung silently open. It would always do so for the rightful head, and those who were named as family. One of many defensive and welcoming measures that one of her ancestors had laid on the house.

She wondered, as she had many times before, why Sirius, as Head, hadn't named Tonks or Andromeda to the family when he had the chance. The umbrella stand would have spent far less time as a tripping hazard, though the Order would certainly lost its warning about her presence in the house.

Walburga's portrait was still and quiet behind its curtains, and she motioned for Aragorn to set her trunk down quietly, just inside the door.

Kreacher appeared in the hall, hands on his hips. "What time does Mistress call this?" he hissed in a harsh whisper. "Kreacher is putting up with the mutt…"

"Dementors, Kreacher," she murmured, crouching down so that she was on his level. "We couldn't avoid them. Do you need anything from us?"

"Kreacher has cleaned," he declared proudly. "Mistresses and Master's rooms are clean, but Kreacher did not fix them….Mistress's trunk is there, and unpacked as Kreacher remembers it being."

"Thank you," Bronach whispered. "Hedwig should be outside, can you make sure the owl roost is prepared for her? And who is currently where in the house?"

"Weasleys be here," he said, fond irritation coloring his voice, a vast difference from his original grumbles of blood traitors. "Headmistress, Miss Andy's daughter, the wolf, and the mutt. Children upstairs, adults downstairs."

"We had best start in the kitchen then," Bronach murmured as she straightened, feeling as if she'd rather face a goblin patrol than the interrogation that awaited her in the kitchen. Aragorn and Arwen fell in behind her as she moved towards the stairs at the back of the front hall, hoping that they could get this over with sooner rather than later. She wanted nothing more than to barricade the three of them in the Head's suite and just hold them for long enough to convince herself fully that this wasn't a dream, that it wouldn't be ripped away from her.

The steps were narrow, but silent underfoot, and she lingered in the shadows to watch the occupants of the kitchen. Molly Weasley was clearly getting dinner ready to serve, moving about the kitchen as dishes set the table, while McGonagall, Tonks, and Remus were clustered at one end, having a quiet but intense discussion. Sirius sat at the end of the table, nominally part of the conversation but clearly irritated and not interested by it. Arthur, Moody, and Dumbledore were likely still at the Ministry, and she hoped they'd stay there until she finished with this crowd. Moody and Dumbledore would likely seek her out for conversations regardless, but at least she wouldn't have to stop in the middle of the explanation.

She couldn't hesitate any longer, so she stepped out into the kitchen, deliberately raising her hands over her head, palms empty as she scuffed her foot on the flagstones to announce her presence. Aragorn lingered in the shadows, Arwen behind him, just as they'd discussed when they had planned her introduction to the Order.

"Who are you?" Molly asked, eyes fierce as she gripped her wand. This wasn't the woman who knitted sweaters for an orphan who didn't expect Christmas gifts, this was the woman who had put down Bellatrix Lestrange. "How did you get in here?"

"I mean nobody in this house any harm, unless they serve Tom Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort," Bronach said as calmly as she could manage, not looking at Remus, Tonks, and Sirius, who also had their wands trained on her. "Albus Dumbledore himself gave me the Secret to the fidelius."

"And how are we supposed to believe you?" Tonks said from off to the side with a scoff. "We're told when they're bringing someone new in."

"You can't keep a magically recognized Head of House from their family seat," Bronach said softly, eyes drawn to Sirius, who said nothing even as his jaw clenched. "But I also had the fidelius password, written in Albus Dumbledore's hand and shown to me by retired Auror Alastor Moody."

"When was this?" Remus asked pleasantly, but she suspected it was a facade.

"August sixth, nineteen ninety-five."

Uproar, far louder than she would have expected for a room filled with only five people.

"Impossible," Tonks said, hair cycling through multiple colors.

"Improbable," McGonagall corrected, narrowing her eyes at Bronach. "Not entirely impossible, though improbable indeed."

"You'll have to forgive Hermione, Professor," Bronach said, unable to stop the rueful smile she felt spreading over her face. "She didn't tell us until the Headmaster told us that it was the only way to save Sirius and Buckbeak at the end of our third year."

McGonagall frowned, but said nothing. Clearly she was starting to be convinced by her proof of identity, though unwilling to admit it. Choosing the next easiest target, she glanced at Molly. "Bed's empty, no note, car gone! You could have died! You could have been seen!"

"That's not exactly a secret," the witch sniffed, her wand still rock-steady.

"In August of ninety-two, Fred, George, and Ron flew Arthur's illegally charmed Ford Anglia to Little Whinging, Surrey in order to rescue me from my room. They came back saying that there were bars on my window, and I was being starved. You fed us breakfast, and then sent your sons to degnome the garden. I went with them, even though you told me I didn't have to."

Molly blinked in surprise.

"Polyjuice exists," Tonks pointed out. "And they could have tortured her."

"Can polyjuice withstand a metamorphic change?" Bronach said, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows to demonstrate that she had no Dark Mark, and slid her features into her favored neutral form: brown hair, brown eyes, scars hidden, face softened and rounded…she held the change for a moment, then mimicked Tonk's preferred bubblegum pink spikes before letting the changes lapse. It felt strange, spending so much time in her own form after two centuries of holding changes. Yet it felt easier, far easier than it had when she'd first tried to show Teddy how his mother preferred to wear her hair, and she suspected that it wasn't just familiarity and practice.

"Potter isn't a metamorphmagus," Tonks retorted. "And you can't teach it. It's in your blood or it isn't."

"My grandmother was a Black," Bronach pointed out. "Though it is not a naturally expressed talent of mine. But there is enough Black in me for the Family Magic to accept me."

"And inheritance may awake dormant bloodline talents," Sirius said, the first time he'd spoken. "And after you were born, James and I agreed that I could name you my heir. Though I think we're beyond that now."

"It's a mess," she admitted, feeling a smile crawl on to her face. "I swear on my magic, I was born Holly Jaimie Potter, though it has been many, many years since I used that name to identify myself. I swear that I am the magically recognized head to both House Potter and House Black."

Sirius slumped down into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

"If Sirius named you heir, how are you Head of House while he lives?" Remus asked suspiciously.

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed? Only innocent lives, Peter!" she quoted, seeing his eyes widen. "Magic works in strange ways Professor Lupin. I'm not sure how to explain it."

"Time travel," Professor McGonagall said dryly, startling a chuckle out of Bronach. "If you gained entry to this house in four days time, it's not impossible that your inheritance was bestowed at some future point. And while unprecedented, it is not illogical that you carried it when you returned, displacing the order of things."

"Sounds about right," Bronach said, knowing that the truth was far more complicated but not wanting to tell her godfather that he had died, not wanting to explain to any of them that over half the people in the kitchen now were dead the last time she stood in this kitchen.

"No, it doesn't." Sirius took a deep breath. "How far?"

"Don't ask me that," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Please."

"How many years?" he pressed, eyes flashing. "Ten? Twenty?"

"Over two hundred," fell from her lips, Bronach unable to deny him this.

The number seemed to strike all of them like a physical blow.

"Most was spent in another dimension," she added, knowing that it didn't make anything better. "There was a magical accident when I was in my forties involving spells and an activated portkey that resulted in my arrival in a different dimension. My bonded house elf was able to reach me, but we were not able to return of our own power."

"And you return now, twenty five years or so earlier than you left," McGonagall said, sitting down slowly. "Why now?"

"Because even though the war ends in three years, I don't like the way it ended," Bronach said honestly, shoving her own feelings as deep as she could. "This was a convenient point for me to change things."

"You're not going to tell us, are you?" Remus asked, looking vaguely despairing.

"I'll share what is helpful to know," she said, feeling too much like the headmaster for comfort. "But please, the very fact that I am here changes things. What I know is not particularly useful, especially since I intend to change certain things."

"And the dementors?" Molly said, finally lowering her wand. "Did those attack in the same fashion?"

"That happened," Bronach grimaced. "I had hoped to avoid it, and I had hoped to avoid the hearing, but they let me off last time, and I'm far more prepared."

"How did you hope to avoid the hearing, if you couldn't avoid the dementors?" Tonks asked curiously. "I mean, you can only get rid of them using a patronus, and if you cast one, you'd set off the Trace."

"Wandless magic doesn't set off the Trace."

All of the adults looked at her skeptically. "I'm not going to perform a wandless patronus," Bronach finally lowered her hands, satisfied that nobody was going to attack her. "But my companions and I could call upon blessed starlight, and I had hoped it would register as wandless magic."

"Companions?" McGonagall was saying, only for the words to die on her lips as Aragorn and Arwen came out of the shadows, Aragorn first as always when in uncertain territory, splitting to bracket her once they were both fully visible.

"Aragorn Telcontar, and his wife Arwen," Bronach introduced. "They are friends from my life in the other dimension, and have agreed to help me end the war."

Frowns appeared on every face, but weariness swept over her, and she was done with explanations, with carefully choosing her answers to questions. "I know this is confusing," she said, glancing at each of the adults in turn. "But it has been a long day. If you have urgent need of me, you may ask Kreacher, or seek out the rooms occupied by the Head of House, but I will be available to you tomorrow morning."

AN:

This takes place ~120 years after Steady is the Hand/the War of the Ring. These three have been together in some way/shape/form for approximately a century. It'll definitely be mentioned/explained a little in the future chapters, and if I get the details right it might be a mini work.

Updates will be at the end of each month to give me time to edit properly. Everything's written- 23 chapters based on the current organization.