The summer was growing unbearably hot in Portugal - though Blythe thought that was rather the point. Still. She was glad to be headed back to England. The Quidditch World Cup (though she loathed the sport) was going to be incredible with nearly all her friends in attendance. Bletchley was the only one who couldn't make it - he and his brothers were stuck in Yamato due to some training program. Miles was all very mysterious about it, and everyone disappointed him by not asking what was going on.

Her father was ready far earlier than when she woke up, but he waited patiently for her to dress and finish packing, before apparating them to the Portkey point.

"Do maintain some composure," he said stiffly to her as they passed the checkpoint. "I know how large... events, can be very excitable. Comport yourself with just as much, if not more, care as your friends do." He said friends with some disdain, as he admittedly wasn't too fond of Cassius or Henrietta. Which Blythe had gotten sick of arguing was unfair and biased, just based off of how he knew their parents. The Warringtons and Islingtons had no issue with her, after all.

"I will, dad," she said. "Thanks for taking me."

"You hate Quidditch," he said.

"I don't hate my friends, though," she said with a wince. These tickets weren't too easy to get, and she had insisted on sitting with her friends, of course, which was definitely not cheaper. But her father never complained about money, unless he was very cross with her and wished to make her feel badly.

"Section 37A," he said aloud, and apparently the map worked its magic, because her father started moving with purpose toward what would be their campsite.

The trodden path gave way to gleaming stone in some areas, and each tent was less muggle than the last. Though she had little idea of what a muggle camping experience would be like, a guiding brochure had come with the Cup tickets so that all attending would be somewhat in line. Clearly, no one had really read it. They passed a tent with miniature turrets, a family crest gleaming on flags. A large koi pond in front of another, with a small gurgling waterfall - one such tent had a decent walkway up to it, and a small hoard of peacocks were strutting in the ten meters of grass and wildflowers along the cobbled path.

"There we are," her father said, tucking the map into his left breast pocket. From his luggage he procured another timed portkey, but this only for the tent itself (which can only be shrunken so much). They had to make clever little steps like this ever since the house elf, Tansy, had died. Blythe was wondering if dad would ever get around to getting another one.

"Oh look here, Eric Fawley," A warm voice greeted. It belonged to a man that Blythe didn't recognise but her father went to greet, waving her away into the tent. She began to organise her room, missing dearly the quick magic of Tansy. Perhaps she would ask after a new house elf before Samhain.

The day went quick into evening. They had a humble dinner of lamb and mango chutney, with a side of arugula. "I miss Tansy," she blurted out. The idea hadn't lost its grip on her yet, and like usual when too long in her father's presence, she would just confess every thought (even ones she had decided to save for later).

"Indeed," he said with some wryness. "House elves make a world of difference once you've been accustomed to them serving at every turn."

Blythe felt somewhat admonished. She knew her father adored her but at the same time, seemed to look down on her as rather silly-minded. Perhaps that was simply a fatherly thing, or a Blythe thing, or a man-and-girl thing.

She would be glad for when she met her friends, and her father went to sit with his colleagues and friends. Not that she didn't like their time together, but this summer had been an unusual amount.

Henrietta was the frostiest. When she asked her - "You do know that your father - and my father - had a humiliating brawl at the Wizengamot."

"And I suppose I'm meant to say sorry, as if that's anything to do with me."

Henrietta sniffed, and just about everyone else rolled their eyes. "Your dad duels just about anyone who's willing and with a wand," Cassius said to her. "Don't go blaming the Fawleys."

Henrietta scowled at him, and again at me for good measure. "It's all so stupid," she declared, as if she hadn't brought it up to begin with.

Cassius and Blythe shared a look, which had become increasing frequent in the last year. Blythe rather suspected that Henrietta's hot and cold behaviour with her had to do with this. Henrietta and Cassius had always been closest, but now with age Cassius had a wandering eye.

Blythe almost didn't mind, but she was terribly fearful of upsetting Terence, who had secretly asked her out just last year and they'd sworn not to speak of it. She still had this terrible idea she was hurting him each time she even so much as looked at a guy. Not that it was her responsibility to make Terence happy - but she still felt a bit awful about the whole ordeal.

After realising that Cassius may like her, Blythe began to suspect that Terence had known this all along and that was why he had moved so suddenly onto her. Boys. It was always a competition, wasn't it?

Either way, Henrietta was feeling terribly left out. Which was silly - as she was the only one in the group who had actually dated before. Properly and all that, not getting drunk after a Quidditch match and feeling up Marietta Edgecombe's bum behind the stands (Terence). She'd dated for a whole of four months, that Adrian Pucey from the quidditch team - who had been fancied for his great hair, before he'd gone and cut it. Henrietta cited this often enough as a good reason they'd broken up, and not because Adrian Pucey was trying to get with Lyla from Ravenclaw, who never wore her tie because she herself said 'it hid her greatest assets'.

Adrian Pucey was always very successful with the girls, but incredibly bad at sticking to one. And they always thought they could change him.

The game was off to a horrid start with Veela; enchanting, bird-like women who mascot the Bulgarian Team. The frenzy was mad - young men had thrown themselves from the bannisters, and the unlucky few who hadn't been held back were embarrassingly escorted off pitch by a flurry of mediwitches and wizards. "Oh, you should've seen your face," Terence crowed to Cassius. "I thought you were going to dive, too - shame we missed out on that -"

"And yourself," Cassius interrupted, face reddening. "Apparently the Falcons are signing you next season? The bestest, strongest wizard of all time - beaten Dumbledore in a one-on-one duel, hasn't he, Reta? What a memorable day thatwas..." Henrietta laughed.

"You're both idiots," she said.

Blythe frowned. "It was foul of the Bulgarians. They could've just done a dance, not used an allure."

"It was embarrassing but... glad to have seen that," Cassius breathed. "Never seen Veela in person. Brilliant."

"Make a dive," Terence nudged him.

"Shut up," he rolled his eyes. "You wanted to, too." She ignored them all and leaned over the railing to get a better eyeful of the player line-up in the middle of the sky in the middle of the field. Krum was distinct, his build uniquely large to the Seeker position. She pulled out her Omnioculars to get a better eyeful, and admired his scowl. He looked terribly serious, and yes, heartthrob-like. Just as Witch Weekly described the eighteen year old talent.

On the same track as her, Reta said appreciatively, "He's not half-bad."

The game commences.

"...and then throws the game..."

"...it was the best they were going to get! A graceful loss."

"He should have had more faith in his team. It's such seeker bias to think you can decided the end of the match - "

"That's what seekers do, Cass!"

"You would say that. Not that it matters since Malfoy bought you off the team."

"Krum was awesome," Blythe said decisively. "That's all that matters. I mean we weren't even supporting Bulgaria, so what's it matter?"

"Don't be such a girl," Cassius groused. Blythe felt prickly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know anything about Quidditch except you think Krum's fit -"

"So?" She interrupted. "I just came here to have fun with my friends. Now let's go celebrate for Ireland, I've just seen the Carrows make off with a barrel of firewhiskey towards Section B and I reckon that's where the class is at."

A remarkable number of Hogwarts students were at the game, but the grounds were huge. Seeing the Carrow twins was fate, surely, and they all started off towards the fabled barrel. They'd seen the Malfoys leaving the Top Box earlier too, but she rather doubted Draco was invited. He was a loud braggart and his parents had practically locked him away his whole life. So, no one wanted his annoying arse at a party and his parents would likely never let him. Works out perfect.

"Hello and welcome," said the lean figure of none-other than Adrian Pucey. He stood outside a relatively nondescript beige tent. "Coming down from the top seats of the house to visit us peons, have you?" He wrestled Cass' head into his elbow and they scuffled good-naturedly. Henrietta looked on, unimpressed.

"I saw the Carrows pass through Section A earlier," Blythe said as a manner of greeting. "Carrying something that looked distinctly like Flannigan's in a big barrel?"

He smiled roguishly but again, without the hair, it wasn't nearly as charming. He really should grow it out again. "You'd be right, Blythe. If you'd lowered yourself to sit with the rest of us in the stands you'd hear we're throwing an afterparty."

"So sure Ireland would win?"

He shrugged. "If not, then a loss party. Either way, me and my brother are here alone. So are some of last year's graduates, of course, and all in Section B. Are you sure you'll lower yourself to come in?" He needled.

"Just let us in, Pucey," Henrietta said.

"Sweet as honey," he rolled his eyes, but did open the tarp.

"Carrows didn't sit in Section B either," Terence said to her. "He's just sour his dad skipped out on the game, otherwise Pucey would've been right up there in A with us, too."

"I can hear you, Higgs," he said as the tarp fell again and they were inside of the Pucey tent officially.

"Oh good, your hearing hasn't got as bad as your defence at least."

"How many times have you actually caught us the snitch?"

"How many times has Malfoy?" He sniped back.

"Good of you to join us," Hestia said, winking at Blythe. "We thought of coming by your tent, but reckon your dad wouldn't let you come along if he knew it was a party."

"I don't think he'll mind," Blythe snorts. "As long as I 'comport myself with decorum'."

"Lovely," Hestia said sagely. "You should try living with our Uncle. He's a nightmare. He thinks we aren't wild enough."

"He still lives in his hay-day," her twin interrupted.

"Mentally," Hestia said.

"Sounds fun," Blythe said.

"Rules are nicer than you'd think- anyhow, Flannigan's?" Hestia grinned.

"Oh yes, but I think I'll mix it with Gilly water."

The 'party' was most of Slytherin Quidditch team and a good amount of the more respectable (rich) families from the fifth year and up. Though the younger brother of graduate Thanes Nott, Theo Nott, was also there. He was in fourth year, last Blythe had checked, and while typically quiet had turned into an acrobat while drinking. Thanes cheered him on.

The Carrows promised Cassius and Adrian that if they kissed, then the twins would as well. This was of course an outrageous lie - and after the boys had, everyone insisted that they'd wanted to anyway, which Adrian tried to argue until he was blue in the face while Cassius lost his mind laughing.

"Too much tongue!" He wagged his finger at their captain.

They began to fight in earnest - and still nothing inside the tent was loud enough to block out the screaming, shouting, and insanity outside. They'd left the tarp open now, so they'd managed to collect some French and one very lost Bulgarian who got dunked in a barrel. He accepted the punishment very gracefully but fled just as fast as he'd stumbled in.

By the time Blythe thought it was time for her to head back to 37A, she was quite wasted. Each blink was longer, and everyone looked far more attractive. She laughed at nothing, and even thinking about that made her laugh harder. She nearly let Adrian Pucey (he's such a SLAG) kiss her but managed an escape, some goodbyes, and began to stumble back to her own tent. The fresh air seemed to make her feel more drunk - or more aware of it. Now the screams weren't exciting, it was near one in the morning and she was quite over the noise. And it seemed bonfires were quite the rage tonight.

"Dad," she called, seeing him standing guard outside the tent. "Hellooo, how are you?"

He looks so pale, "Blythe, its Death Eaters."

"What?" She actually laughs a bit.

"They're coming from the west, burning everything, everyone. Aurors can't get in."

He looked really serious.

"Now?" She asked in a small voice.

"Yes," he said, strained. "I want you to go."

The screams and shouts sounded different, and that blazing fire and smoke meant something different.

"Really?" She asked, looking back. "Is that really..."

"Listen," he said. "Blythe, I am going to stay and help."

She blinked. "But dad - who else - what?"

"The Aurors can't help right now -"

"Doesn't make it your job!"

"Blythe - you need to leave."

"Why," she said stubbornly. "I'm not muggleborn." Something burned its way across her father's face.

"They don't care," he said tightly. The ground shook and a brilliant shock of smoke plumed in the distance. The screaming and shouts increased. They seemed closer, too.

"Oh Merlin," she mouthed. The air was already tasting acrid. "I need... I need to go back and tell them..."

"Your friends will be fine," he interrupted. "Their families will protect them. I need to protect you, because I can't go with you." His eyes were wild, and he thrust a small rock into her hand. "Make it past the Anti-Apparition wards, you'll have to go at least a few miles, maybe three, until outside the woods. Take the portkey back, word is Rumpelstilskin! Make sure to get as far as you can outside the wards first."

"What?" She said. "It's what?"

"Rumpel-stilt-skin!" He said with aggressive punctuation and grabbed her shoulders. "Do you remember that?"

"Y-yes," she said. "Dad, come with me -"

"I can't," he said solemnly. "I can't not help - and you cannot help so go!"

She tries, and at first the path is easy. But people are rushing out from every corner - overwhelming her and pushing and bleeding -

It looked like everyone was running. Everyone except for father, she thought, vaguely ill. The Aurors should be here soon - was that man missing an arm? He fell down in his loping run, gurgling on his blood, she stumbles as more people push past her and him. No one stops.

Everyone seems so much faster than her. She should be moving faster shouldn't she?

A mother is trying to get to her child that someone actually stepped on - the boy couldn't be older than maybe five - Blythe felt some cold anger and she shoved people aside to give her room.

"Thank you," the woman cried, scooping the boy up. They were both bloody, the boy had something wrong with his stomach. Blythe began to gag just from looking - the woman was dressed funny, with those muggle trousers on - the blue ones.

She was probably a muggleborn.

"I have a portkey," she told her. She felt possessed to do so. The mum's eyes were so wide and so paralysed with fear as they stumbled along.

"Take it!" She insisted, thrusting it into the mum's hands. "Rumpel-stilt-skin!" She told her. "Go as far as you can before you use it and then take the Floo to Mungo's. Another fifteen minutes by foot should get you outside the woods and outside the Apparition wards. I think. Just get out, help him."

She is crying, the child is crying, the mum is crying. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much, thank you - "

"Go, go," Blythe said. "Go on." I'm not a muggleborn, after all.

This didn't matter, of course, but Blythe didn't know anything about the Death Eaters, or war. She was far too young. The woman hiked her child further up and with new-found purpose, she pushed through the streams of people (which were thinned in some degree, as they all fled further, in every direction.

She never makes it through the small woods at the edge of the campsite. There is a barricade of long, ghostly cloaks - and silver-smooth expanses. They held some people in the air, one woman was well-exposed, her long skirt ripped as she dangled in the air to show her underthings. They moved them like puppets, they screamed.

Blythe turned back the way she came. She would have to make it back across the other way. Since the Death Eaters had moved, surely it was safe enough to escape through the Portkey point? The camp was near abandoned here, by the woods. Perhaps everyone knew not to go this way - all but her - or maybe they were all dead, her mind whispered. A ridiculous, ill thought. The whiskey in her system was making her more confused than ever before.

She didn't know. She was shaking in her fingers. She moved carefully back into the smouldering camp, afraid of the edges of it where anything (anyone) could be lurking. She thought she heard something... something moving... someone... she stopped where she was, and crouched down. The trembling was moving up her arms.

I'm fine, I've got this, she thought to herself. I'm not some muggleborn. They're behind me at the forest edge anyway. Right? Right. Was that the right way? She felt all turned around, after all...

Now she definitely heard something - something was kicked. She looked around, and seeing nothing didn't calm her mind.

She wondered where the muggleborn and her little kid went. If the Death Eaters at the forest edge didn't get them, did she make it around? Or did they get her too, like the people screaming in the air. A grotesque show. Blythe hoped they made it. She prayed, even. If any entities existed.

What good did that ever do anyone against the Death Eaters? She thought miserably. Where was her dad, matter of fact?

The air wasn't getting better. The smoke moved with a life of its own, crawling down throats and burning eyes into tearing. She huddled among the charred remains of what was likely once a tent; still a half-survived Irish flag was tangled in the wood and tarp. Mostly ash, though. Her fingers trembled with raw energy - nervousness likely - but she didn't dare to make another run for it, with most of the campsite a burning husk. It was too exposed, she thought. But she wasn't sure if she was making the right choice at all. Maybe she didn't know anything. At least the screaming had faded, behind her. There were shouts still, but too far for her to pinpoint where or what about. Perhaps it was shouts of joy, and the Aurors were finally here. She still couldn't make herself move again. Had she heard something? Hadn't she?

In an aborted half-movement, she straightened up (nearly stood), and then -

"Look out!" A voice shrieked behind her - a man's, too high and nervous. Her spot is no longer safe and she cannot get out of her crouch fully fast enough to bolt, and her nerves make her stumble forward just slightly at best. She fumbled her wand, which had stayed so tightly in hand all this time. It flips beyond her grasp. The spell makes its course, and she screams at first- so long and loud she cannot imagine the world consisting of anything else. When her voice is ragged (a second, an hour), as she drags herself to nowhere in the rubble, she looks around for - firstly, the attacker, and secondly the man who had warned her. Everything was too much.

Her helping man was in need of help himself after giving away his position to warn her.

"Agh," she makes, somewhere between a gasp and a rasp. The pain in her leg was unbearable, searing up to her skull. The pale head of her attempted rescuer was somewhere to the left - struggling to stand again, his blurry figure holding up a shaking hand to the attacker as if in plea. Another spell hits him, and he collapses like a marionette. Blythe feels her vision failing, giving up as man's body fell. There was white noise in her eyes - no, ears, she meant her ears - because her eyes on the other hand were spotty and blurred. Suddenly her gaze was filled with the man who, a second prior, had stood over there. Or had it been a minute? A year? He crouched down to her level, and her head lolled to the side pathetically to see him balanced on the balls of his feet.

Some murmur was coming through the white noise, the man's mouth was moving but it was indiscernible as his features faded in and out of focus. Some pressure was forced upon her leg and she forced her eyeballs to move again and saw his arm. "H-hurts," she says, as if he didn't know.

She thinks a smile carves across his face, loose hair in his dark holes-for-eyes. He stands abruptly, and although he had put her in this predicament, she whimpered as he made distance between them again, his back turned on her. The first thing she's able to hear right again, is a low cuss as he Apparates away. The wards... the wards must've fallen. The Aurors must come. If only she had the Portkey now. She crying in a way that requires no focus or energy. Cries of pain are as low as she can make them. The world is fading fast.

Why did the man go? Where are the Aurors?

Her head lolled around more, looking for something, anything, a rescue preferably. Her father. She basks in the green light of the sky -

A skull, with a serpent through it's gaping mouth, grinning down at the scene. The Dark Mark. A fairytale. This is all been too horrible to be true.

"Please," she whispered. Her voice so fine and faint. "Help."

All she found among the wreckage was the outline of a man a decent distance away, with a long, dark cloak. His hand was outstretched in an odd way - as if to poke the skyline, to ask God to come down and fight - he was holding a wand to the sky, and Blythe realised that this man must've cast the skull. He seemed as transfixed by it as she was horrified. Her gasp was stolen, uncontrollable, a mix of her shock and pain. She sees him twist to her direction with frightening accuracy, and she cries out again. There is no reason not to now that she is seen by him, too.

He is moving toward her like the other man, and the pain... the fear... it's too much. She wants it to end. She wants to cry - and piss herself, honestly, just a bit. The fear is carnal. Dots swim into her vision as the figure fills it - she's held on so long. The skull grows fainter, but no - everything is fading fast - the ground is falling away, the embers don't burn her anymore. Maybe that spell earlier was a deadly curse and she was going to die - if this man didn't kill her first - she thinks she's crying now, in earnest. Hiccups and all. Blythe thinks, I'm never drinking again. It wasn't worth the lack of function - she should've, she should've done something differently.

She sees his face over her, standing, and he sees hers. She knows him, for a brief moment. Then, she knows nothing at all.