Rip

Grace falls apart. Regulus picks up the pieces.

When morning came, it was sweet and somber.

Grace hadn't realized she'd gone to sleep until she awoke to a soft kiss pressed against her temple. She blinked blearily against the low light spreading from the hearth, and found Regulus a hair's breadth away from her.

"Hello," he said, voice sleepy and quiet.

Her lips quirked into a tender smile. "Hello."

They stayed like that for a moment, huddled against each other, entangled in one another. The events of yesterday hit Grace one by one: the mass panic at Hogsmeade, the Auror's death, the way James refused to listen to her. Again, a terrible guilt began to wrap itself around her. Her eyes flickered up, and she caught sight of Regulus's half-lidded eyes, that glimpse of shining grey, and that guilt was replaced by overwhelming warmth, a bone-deep affection, so thorough and consuming she couldn't tear her eyes away from him—from the bedraggled mess of his dark curls or the press of his thick lashes against his skin or the soft pink of his lips.

"What is it?" he asked, quietly amused.

"I love you."

He blinked, and seemed a little more awake now. He leaned closer and pressed another kiss against her forehead. "I know. I love you, too."

She preened under his words. More than the I love you, too, she liked the I know. Of course he knew. He knew, too, the breadth of that love, the depth of it, how unfaltering and overwhelming it was, how much she would give for him. More lovely than being loved was having your own love acknowledged and appreciated and cherished.

"What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?" Grace asked. Any other day, she would have asked this out of pure laziness. Today, however, she was asking this because she wanted to hide.

"We have to go," Regulus said, like she knew he would. "I don't know what sort of state the school is in…"

"It's probably a mess," Grace mumbled. "There were so many students out last night. I wonder if they even managed to round them all up."

"Yeah… Bannerjee's probably going mad looking for me."

"Merlin—I almost forgot you were Head Boy."

A soft snort escaped him. "Honestly? Me, too." He hefted himself up, stretching his arms out. "I can't believe I used to want to be Head Boy. Now, there are just so many other things I have to worry about, and my duty as Head Boy isn't one of them. I wish I could give it away."

She watched him rise and stumble towards the dresser for fresh robes. "It's not fair. You should've had a normal last year."

His eyes glanced up to meet hers. "You should've, too."

He disappeared into the newly-appeared bathroom to get ready for the day. Grace sighed quietly to herself before forcing herself out of the bed to get ready as well. It was more difficult than she thought to ignore the previous day. It seemed to haunt her—James, especially. She thought she might feel better after she splashed her face with some cold water and readied herself for the day, but she didn't. If anything, she felt worse, as though she were betraying her own feelings, somehow, by pretending to look fine when she wasn't.

Within the hour, Grace and Regulus were heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast. They stuck close to one another, suspicious of the numerous students filing down from the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers. There seemed to be more than usual heading to breakfast. Crowds of timid, confused first and second-years were being herded along by Prefects.

"Fuck," Regulus said suddenly, bowing his head and bolting forward.

Grace followed with surprising speed. "What? What happened?"

"Bannerjee," Regulus explained hurriedly. "She saw me—and she does not look happy."

They blended into the crowd of students, sidestepping students, delving deeper and deeper into the throng. Students surrounded them on all sides. Most were quiet, yawning and trying to rub the sleep from their eyes. A few, however, were avidly discussing the events of last night.

"You know my sister, right?" a nearby Gryffindor said.

"Yeah," his friend said.

"Well, her ex-girlfriend's tutor was there last night."

"Really? At Hogsmeade?"

"Yeah, really. She said it was insane, absolute chaos. Someone got flung into the air—might've died if an Auror didn't step in."

"Merlin…"

Regulus and Grace exchanged worried looks. They pressed forward.

"You can't be serious," another student, a passing Ravenclaw, protested.

"I am," the girl beside her insisted. Grace recognized her to be Mira Finchley. "Everyone thinks it—and the fact he's supposed to be making some speech now? Surely he's planning on announcing that the school is closing."

The two friends diverged as they reached the threshold of the Great Hall. Grace and Regulus carried on towards the end, joined by their fellow Slytherins. She wondered if that might be true. If Hogwarts was closing, what would that mean for her? You-Know-Who would certainly be pleased, but would she? She could always go back to Falmouth, that little rundown home on the coast; perhaps she could fix it up so the draft wouldn't be so irritating, clear out all of James's old junk, add some new, bigger rooms. She could make the place invisible to passersby, perhaps put it under the Fidelius Charm. She could live untouched and left alone—except for Regulus, of course. He would have to be there. She could add a library for him, buy books to fill the shelves, curl up on a couch with him as he read some old tome aloud.

Yes, she would be fine. She suddenly found herself wishing Hogwarts would close down, just so she could run away from it all, from her rotten failure.

She seated herself beside Regulus. The usual members of this end of the table—the Rosier twins, Snyde, Burke, and on—seemed less lively than usual. Rosier, in particular, seemed pale and withdrawn. He was sitting next to his sister, who was quietly talking to him about something or the other.

Up ahead, at the front of the hall, Dumbledore was at the podium that overlooked all four tables. His eyes swept over the students filtering in. Once it became clear that all, or at least most, of the Hogwarts population was there, he cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Good morning," he said, although nothing in his tone conveyed that there was anything good about this particular morning. He seemed grave, in fact. There was a hard, displeased edge to his voice. "As you are all well aware by now, there was another skirmish at Hogsmeade last night. The difference between last night's event and the one in September is, of course, that there were Hogwarts students amidst the residents of Hogsmeade. I do not think I need to remind you that Hogsmeade visits have been banned for this year. I am sure many of those who snuck out to Hogsmeade last night were well aware of this, and yet chose to go anyway."

Dumbledore's gaze was heavy, unrelenting. Many students squirmed under it. A few even murmured some apologies.

"There is a frustration in the air," Dumbledore continued. "It has not gone unnoticed. Those of you who have been here for many years now wish to return to the old, carefree days. Those of you who have only just arrived wish to have at least one carefree day. But, sadly, this is not possible while Voldemort evades capture." Gasps fluttered across the Great Hall. "Yes, Voldemort—I beseech you to call him by his name. Fear of a name will only increase fear of the thing itself." Dumbledore's electric blue eyes swept across the hall. "When we banned Hogsmeade visits, it was under the hope that this might protect you from Voldemort's influence and attacks. Some of you dislike this. I know it. Some of you believe you should be out there. Some of you believe hiding is an act of cowardice. It is not. You must understand that each day you are alive and well is a sort of resistance. Voldemort does not wish for you to be alive and well; he is afraid that his opposition will survive his brutality. By being safe, by being protected, by being wise—you incite fear in Voldemort. Do not forget this."

He allowed this to sink into the students. Some, particularly Slytherins, rolled their eyes at this speech, an act which irritated Grace. She knew better than anyone that Dumbledore was exactly right. Why else would You-Know-Who be so obsessed with closing and capturing Hogwarts if not for his fear of Dumbledore? Of Dumbledore's wisdom, of his ability to protect?

"Now," Dumbledore said calmly, tone more noticeably level, "the Aurors I have spoken to have a reasonable belief that there may be students aiding Death Eater presence in Hogsmeade—a presence that could spread to Hogwarts if unchecked. Rest assured, the authorities are investigating this by questioning all those who were found at Hogsmeade last night. I ask that you be patient with their proceedings. If there is anyone here who has any information whatsoever, anything that might prevent the endangerment of our fellow students and faculty, I urge you to speak out. Bravery is not spurred by the absence of fear—rather, in spite of it."

He paused once more. Grace found herself shrinking in her seat. Under the edge of the table, her hand reached out to find refuge in Regulus's.

"As for rumors regarding the closure of Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "be rest assured that so long as there is a student in need of teaching, Hogwarts will remain open."

With that, he stepped down from the podium. Thunderous applause issued from the teachers' table. The students below followed suit, with particular enthusiasm from the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Grace clapped along as well, feeling considerably less enthused than many of her fellow students. As she surveyed the rest of the Slytherins, she found the majority of the seventh-years were offering lukewarm applause as well. Rosier seemed rather jittery, unable to look directly at the teachers' table; Snyde was doing a slow clap, apparently deciding now was the best time to begin to mock Dumbledore; Myrcella, Yang, and Fuentes were offering begrudging claps, more out of social compliance than anything.

McGonagall rose and approached the podium. Her bright eyes flashed over the students, waiting until the applause calmed before announcing, "We will be cancelling classes for the day—" joyous cheers erupted from the Gryffindors, which McGonagall silenced with a single look, "—so that those who endured the events of the previous night may rest and those who did not may take the time to reflect. As our Headmaster said, those of you who noticed anything suspicious or alarming last night are encouraged to come forward. You may approach any member of the faculty you feel most comfortable with."

McGonagall gave a curt nod and stepped away to finish her breakfast. While some students opted to stay in the Great Hall, gathering their friends closer together to chat about the previous day, many rose from their seats and began to filter out, presumably to spend time outside or retreat to their dormitories for some extra sleep.

Grace pushed aside her breakfast, finding herself devoid of appetite, and left the Slytherin table along with Regulus. She felt aimless, not entirely present in the moment. Her plan had crumbled into pieces so small she doubted they could ever fit back together again. She had no idea what to do now, and the weight of that helplessness had her feeling like she was sinking.

"Hey," Rosier hissed, sliding between them. "Black, Potter—have you seen Yaxley?"

Regulus's head turned to Rosier sharply. "What do you mean?"

"He never showed last night. I figured he might have gone wherever you two did, but he wasn't at breakfast either. Do you know what happened to him?"

A shadow fell over Regulus's face. A shiver crawled up Grace's spine.

"Last I saw of him, he was heading into the crowd," Grace recalled.

"The crowd?" Rosier repeated. "You mean the crowd of students?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck—!"

"Don't be so loud," Regulus scolded. He stalled by a small alcove behind a pillar and regarded Rosier worriedly. "Did everyone else make it back? Gibbon and—"

"Yes, Snyde and Gibbon are there. I asked them about Yaxley when I caught hold of them before the old coot's—" Rosier jabbed a thumb back at the Great Hall, "—speech, but they haven't seen him either."

"You don't think…" Grace began slowly, meeting Regulus's eyes.

He seemed deeply troubled. "It's possible. There were a lot of Aurors escorting students."

"What?" Rosier said, whipping his head between the two. "What are you talking about?"

"Dumbledore mentioned the Aurors had a reasonable belief that students were aiding Death Eaters," Grace added. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

"Yeah," Regulus said numbly, "he did say that."

"All right?" Rosier said, confused. "And? What does that mean?"

"Yaxley might have been caught," Grace said.

"Caught?!" Rosier said shrilly. "Caught by whom? The Ministry?"

"Would you stop screaming?" Regulus snapped.

"No, no, no," Rosier said, seeming to be in the throes of a mental breakdown. His hands tangled themselves in his hair. "If he's there, if he's being interrogated—he could give us all up!"

"Yeah," Grace agreed. Her heart was swollen with some horrible feeling. "He could."

She was going to Azkaban. She was sure of it after Rosier left in a flurry, presumably to hurl his guts in a toilet. She was sure of it as she headed to the library with Regulus, mindlessly flipping page after page of a book she was supposed to complete a report on. She was sure of it when she lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, staring into the emerald green of her canopy. She was especially sure of it the next evening.

Her classes for the day had just ended, and she collapsed in a heap in the common room, waiting for Regulus to return from Ancient Runes so she could mope with him. She had only just gotten into a comfortable position on the couch (hugging a throw pillow against her chest and propping an additional two around her, like a sort of fort) when a third-year approached her with a letter from Slughorn, asking that she meet with him as soon as possible to address some concerns that had arisen.

This was it. Yaxley must have said something to the Aurors, perhaps that it was she who had stunned that poor Auror, leading to his death, and now she was being called to Slughorn's office. There was no doubt in her mind that a small army of Hit Wizards would be awaiting her in the small room, wands drawn.

This was the end of her.

She wanted to wait for Regulus so she could warn him, but she was acutely aware that every minute she delayed meeting with Slughorn, the more suspicious he would be. Besides, her arrest would likely make its course through the student body at lightning speed; Regulus would know one way or the other, and he could escape before he got caught as well.

Steeling herself, she rose from her protective mound of pillows and began to walk the twisting path to Slughorn's office. The dungeons had always been damp and chilly, but today they seemed especially cold. Grace skirted along the shadows; with every step, she felt herself unravelling further and further, until she seemed more tremor than person. She arrived at the office door in disarray, her dark hair unruly, her robes wrinkled, her fingernails bitten down to the nub.

"Ah, Miss Potter," Slughorn said when he saw her enter. He seemed rather down himself; the usual chortle wasn't present in his voice. "Thank you for obliging me. If you'd just come in a moment…"

She shuffled inside, dragging her feet along, and sat opposite Slughorn, in a plush chair in front of his enormous desk. There were a few potions bottled atop his table: dazzling yellow and sparkling, Grace recognized the flasks as Elixirs to Induce Euphoria. It had been a side project for the seventh-years a week or so back. Amongst the mess of bottles, Grace recognized her own potion: it was red as rust. She had been so distracted while brewing that she swapped wormwood for aconite.

"Er—how are you, sir?" Grace began in an unusual display of respect, shifting her gaze from the potions.

Slughorn froze momentarily, a few slips of parchment sliding from his hand, as he took in the question. He stared at her for a moment, apparently trying to glean whether this was a trick or not. After a moment, he decided there was no harm in answering and set aside his papers.

"As well as anyone can be, I suppose," he said in a rather overwrought voice. "Now, I've been having this meeting with quite a few students. You see, ever since the start of this term—"

Here it comes, Grace thought. He's noticed us—Yaxley, Rosier, and all of us.

"—I've noticed there has been a dip in your grades."

This news was so startling, so absurd, that her jaw actually fell open. She had honestly forgotten such a thing as grades even existed. She might have laughed if she wasn't so overcome with stress.

"Yes, yes," Slughorn said placatingly, having taken her surprise as nervous shock, "I've been talking to a few other professors of yours about this. Minerva and Filius have both mentioned a dramatic decrease in the quality of your work, and, well, our new Defense professor… I haven't heard much from her." He tugged on the end of his mustache in thought. "Another student of mine mentioned you were all still on the Patronus Charm?"

"Yes," Grace croaked out, wondering if she was having a fever dream, "except now we're meant to do it nonverbally."

"I see…" Slughorn said, sounding vastly displeased. "In any matter, it appears your performance in Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms has not been going well. I'm well aware that these are troubling times, but it is your future that is at stake here. Is there anything that's particularly bothering you about these classes? Anything you find difficult?"

"It's just… I'm not very interested in it," she said lamely.

A stark silence followed. Slughorn already seemed at a loss, despite the fact the meeting had only just started. He rifled through some more papers absently.

"Well... I seem to recall you telling me you wanted to pursue the standard subjects when we did career counseling—"

"I wanted to pursue a career as a Seer, but you said Hogwarts doesn't have classes that specialize in Seeing beyond N.E.W.T. Divination. So, I said, 'Sod it, just sign me up for the standard courses, then.'"

Slughorn cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, Divination—" he said the word as though it were some sort of pest, "—do you still have plans to join the field?"

For the second time today, she was taken by surprise. She remembered being enamored by Divination, enthralled by the way Vablatsky could previse and presage with just a shuffle of a few cards. More than the mysticism of it, more than the prestige and the fame—she loved the control, how you could hold destiny in your palms, how you could know what would and would not come to pass. She wanted that surety. She wanted that knowledge. She had been so determined then.

But now?

"I can't do that," she admitted. She could not, because she could not control when the visions came. She could not, because the force of her gift could drive her mad. She could not, because she was afraid.

Slughorn's brows lifted, and he leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, I see! There's no harm in pursuing it as a hobby, of course, but Seeing is hardly a practical job. Do you have something else in mind for when you graduate?"

A cell in Azkaban.

"No."

His face fell. "Ah… Well, no matter. You have a great many skills, my dear. If I recall correctly, you made a particularly promising batch of Skele-Gro some time ago. Now, I can't tell you who my source is, but I have heard that there are talented Potioneers who work in the Department of Mysteries to remedy the nasty after-effects of love potions…"

And on and on he went, droning about how, even if she were no longer very interested in Potions, she could apply herself for a few years before moving up to a more managerial position. And if she wasn't interested in research, she could simply brew. The Auror Office, apparently, was in great need of Potioneers to mass-produce healing draughts for Aurors on the go. Of course, Slughorn warned, the Ministry salary wasn't anything to boast about, but the prestige she would receive would be otherworldly. Grace nodded along without quite listening. (What was the point in discussing her future? When she didn't have one?) By the time he had finished and she was free to go, dinner was halfway over. She climbed the stairs up to the Great Hall sluggishly, as if Slughorn had sapped all her energy by simply talking at her. She arrived at the end of the Slytherin table and found Regulus in his usual spot. She slid down next to him quietly.

He relaxed as soon as she did. "Salazar," he breathed. "I thought something had happened to you."

"Slughorn called me for—" she froze as she caught sight of Rosier opposite her.

He looked the same as he usually did—bronze hair, an easygoing slouch—except today he seemed relaxed. This might have been because sitting right next to him was Yaxley. The pale-haired wizard didn't look especially well off. He was especially sullen—a stark contrast to Rosier's smiling face—with downcast eyes and a deep frown, pushing his food to and fro across his plate.

"Yeah," Regulus whispered, catching her line of sight, "he came back about an hour ago."

"How?" she asked.

"I'll explain after dinner," he promised. "What did Slughorn call you for?"

"A meeting to discuss my grades," she explained away. Her eyes were still stuck on Yaxley. She noticed, for the first time, a purplish bruise across his neck, just peeking above the collar of his robes.

The Aurors couldn't have done that.

"Merlin, and he kept you for that long?" Regulus said, digging into some roasted potatoes.

She tore her eyes away from Yaxley, although questions about where he'd been and who he might have been with continued to roll through her head, and reached a hand to scoop some potatoes, too.

"Yeah," she said. "It was awful."

She ate speedily, mostly so she could find out what had happened to Yaxley, but also because the atmosphere of the Slytherin table was far too joyful for her taste. It was as though they lived in a different world from her; Rosier and Snyde were still going on with their stories; the Selwyn sisters were rapidly finishing an assignment of theirs while one of their friends lectured them about procrastinating. Grace knew full well that they were all aware of the war. Many of their relatives, after all, were fighting in it. Was it just that they chose to ignore it? Or were they pretending, like she was, that everything was fine?

She polished off her plate in record time and rose along with Regulus. They left behind their classmates and dashed off to the Come-and-Go Room. Regulus crossed under the blank wall, and a smooth door appeared. The interior was like a small library, as it usually was whenever Regulus wished for a private room, with stacks of old tomes and a few plush armchairs.

"So?" Grace asked once they were safely sequestered inside. "What happened?"

Regulus sighed and fell onto the sofa. "Well, basically, after we all left, Yaxley rushed into the crowd of students and, in true idiot fashion, started torturing a few of them."

Grace settled down beside him. "Blinking hell…"

"I know. After a few minutes, he realized that he was the only one of us still at Hogsmeade—something he's very mad about, by the way—and then ditched his Death Eater get-up so he could blend into the crowd."

"That's sort of smart."

"Yes, except he did get picked up by Aurors and carted off to the Ministry, so it wasn't wholly smart, was it?" Regulus shook his head.

"But he got out. He's here now."

"Yes, only because one of our own—Mulciber—works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and got a hold of him for questioning before anyone else could. He carted Yaxley off to You-Know-Who so Yaxley could explain, in person, why everything went wrong at Hogsmeade."

Grace winced, recalling the bruise. "But it wasn't a total failure, was it? He did get that Auror."

"Yes, but it wasn't a student, which is what You-Know-Who wanted." Regulus shrugged half-heartedly. "The only silver lining is that Yaxley took all the blame, since it was his idea."

Grace relaxed against the couch. "That, and he hasn't given us up to the Aurors."

"Yeah…" Regulus said. He was frowning slightly.

"What is it?"

"It's just—that was a close call. If Mulciber hadn't been there, the Aurors would have figured him out. Yaxley's father has already been revealed to be a Death Eater."

Grace swallowed thickly. "Right."

"If he had been interrogated, he might have given us all up. And we'd be in Azkaban." His eyes flew up to meet hers. "We can't let something like that happen again."

"No," Grace agreed. "But how're we meant to prevent that? We certainly won't get Ministry backing, and James… Well, you know what happened with James."

"I've been thinking about him, actually. Your brother. I've been thinking…"

"Yeah?"

"What if we just went over his head?"

Her brows furrowed. "Over his head? Like, in the Order? You mean—" crease between her brows flattened and her mouth fell open, "—go straight to Dumbledore?!"

"Just, hear me out: We know things are going badly for the Ministry. That means it's going badly for the Order, too. That means they would benefit from a spy. That means Dumbledore doesn't have much of a choice but to listen to you—"

"Why are you saying 'you' and not 'we'?"

"Because… Well, it ought to be you."

"Regulus—"

"It's just that—you know Dumbledore favors Gryffindor more—"

"I'm not in Gryffindor!"

"But your whole family has been—"

"Not every Potter ever born has been in Gryffindor—"

"Yes, but basically every Potter has been. Out of the two of us, Dumbledore is more likely to listen to you than me. I'm fairly certain whenever he sees me, he just sees the Black insignia and motto."

"And I'm fairly certain that when I come clean to him with this—" she ripped up her sleeve, showcasing her Dark Mark, "—he won't listen to a word I have to say! We don't know Dumbledore. More than that, Dumbledore doesn't know us. It was supposed to be James. It was supposed to be James, because James knows me, because James would have listened—"

"Except he didn't," Regulus said quietly.

She deflated, tugged down her sleeve, and looked away.

"Grace," he said softly, "I know that Dumbledore doesn't have any reason to help us or even listen to us—but we ought to try. And I think you're the only one who can do it. He's always been sympathetic to you given your condition—"

"You think just because he's been nice to me on occasion, he'll help us defect to his side?"

"No, I think because he's been nice to you, he'll listen to you. And no matter how resistant he is to the idea, so long as he listens to you, you can convince him."

She glanced at him. "And what about if Dumbledore only wants one spy? Only needs one spy?"

"Then it should be you—"

"It can't just be me—"

"Then convince him otherwise. Make him think he needs two. If he's that desperate for a leg up, he'll take two rather than none."

She shook her head. "No—no, Regulus, why—"

"I think this is the best way forward. I think if—"

"But why does it have to be me?"

"Well—we can't go together. If someone caught wind that both of us were meeting with Dumbledore, Yaxley and Rosier would immediately be suspicious. It can't be just me, because I think he'd judge me by my family instead of me. It should be you. It should be you because you'd convince him of your plan, just like you did me." His eyes softened. He reached over to grab her hand and brushed a thumb across her knuckles. "I'd help you, of course. You can't go to Dumbledore of your own accord; if someone were to find out, that would be suspicious. If you were called up, that would be better. I could… Oh, I could see if Slughorn could pass along the message about your grades to Dumbledore. Maybe he'd want to meet with you then?"

She didn't answer him immediately, instead choosing to tug her hand out of his. She couldn't tell if this plan was good or not, just that it was a plan, just that she would mess it up if she got involved—just like she had with her own plans.

"What if this doesn't work?"

"It might not," he admitted, "but we still have to try."

"I don't think I can…"

"Do you remember what you said? In the Hospital Wing after the Ravenclaw game?" He reached towards her again and let his hand unfurl across her cheek. "You said, 'We keep trying. We think and we try something new.'"

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I messed up, Regulus! Before I—" she couldn't get the words out, so she let them collapse into her chest, sink down into some deep hole inside her.

"Grace…"

"I'm not good at this. I'm just not. I couldn't even convince You-Know-Who properly. I just got lucky. And then the tarot reading happened, and he took it out on you. And then I went to James, and he just wouldn't listen. Because I did it wrong! I messed up! I can't talk to Dumbledore. It'll go wrong—"

"No, it won't," Regulus disagreed. "It won't, because it's you. It's Grace Potter. You won't let it go wrong."

"Regulus, I can't—"

"You can. You mastered Occlumency in one month—"

"I technically knew it already—"

"—and you survived a Cruciatus curse from You-Know-Who—"

She shook her head. "So did you—"

"Grace—" he cradled her face in his hands and pressed a blistering kiss against her lips, "—listen to me. You're the strongest person I know—no, listen. You are. If Dumbledore isn't convinced, you'll persuade him. If he's angry, you'll show him he ought not to be. If he won't listen, you'll make him. I know you. I know you, Grace. Don't you trust me?"

It was a ridiculous question. "Yeah," she croaked out. "I do."

"I know you can do this. I know it."

"But just suppose I can't. Suppose I don't. Then what?" She was struggling to keep her voice from breaking. "We'll be in Azkaban, and you'll hate me."

"No," he promised gently. "I could never hate you. I don't have it in me. And they can't take us to Azkaban immediately. If this doesn't work and we're rounded up and detained somewhere in Hogwarts until the Aurors arrive, I'll call Kreacher. I'll call him and I'll get you, and we'll leave. Together. Always together. Okay?"

"Okay." She was trapped in the molten silver of his eyes. "Where will we go?"

"Anywhere you want." His eyes searched hers. "Anywhere you want, Grace."

Regulus did just as he said he would. He sidled up to Slughorn during the next Slug Club meeting and spun a grand old tale about how disinterested and distant Grace had been lately, how rattled she had been after her parent's funeral, how worried he was for her. Sure enough, she got a letter before the week was up. It was short, no more than two sentences, informing her that the Headmaster had heard of her academic troubles and was inviting her for a private chat in his office.

She was on her way there now, shuffling along the stone floor, Regulus by her side. She had practiced with him—what to say and how to say it. This could not go wrong. They couldn't afford it. Grace wouldn't let it.

Regulus stalled by the gargoyle step. Grace came to an abrupt halt, her hand caught onto his.

"What?" she asked, twisting around to him.

His face was drawn and worried. "How do you feel?"

"I'm afraid," she said honestly.

She was afraid it would all go awry. She was afraid that it only took one misstep—one wrong word—and suddenly they were both in Azkaban. She was afraid, too, that she had been more wrong than she thought, that she wasn't meant for any of this, that she wasn't and would never be the sort of hero James was.

Regulus leaned forward and cupped her face. He pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. There was so much warmth and affection in that movement that, for a moment, her fear abated. She could do this. For Regulus, she could keep her head straight and her tongue sharp. For Regulus, she could do anything.

He pulled away and whispered, "It'll be all right."

She trusted him enough to believe that. She gave him a wan smile. "I know."

"No, no, no," the gargoyle step protested. "Public displays of affection are not—"

"Sugar mice," Grace interrupted.

The gargoyle swung open, revealing the staircase that led to Dumbledore's office. Grace gave Regulus's hand one last squeeze before letting go and beginning the long climb up. With every step, the comfort Regulus instilled in her disappeared, overthrown by a burgeoning anxiety. By the time she reached the top and saw Dumbledore sat serenely behind his desk, she felt like she might puke.

"Miss Potter," Dumbledore greeted. He watched her slide into the chair opposite him. "I trust you're well?"

"Er—yeah," she said hoarsely. Unable to meet his eyes, she kept her gaze on the edge of his desk. "How are you, sir?"

"Perfectly content," he said, giving a brief smile. He clasped his hands together and leaned back. "I must admit, I was quite surprised when Horace informed me of your academic crisis. You've shown magnificent promise throughout your time at Hogwarts. Is there any particular reason you're now disinterested in your classes?"

"I've just had a lot on my mind."

"I see. Do you mind telling me what exactly is troubling you?"

She swallowed thickly and glanced up, just briefly enough to make out the striking blue of his eyes. "There are Death Eaters in Hogwarts."

He didn't react like she expected him to. He didn't gasp or grow angry. He simply became…more tired. The lines in his face never appeared more prominent. Even the blue of his eyes seemed a bit more faded than before.

"Ah," he said, "I've suspected as much. I suppose you have come to tell me about these individuals?"

She hesitated for a moment. "If I tell you…what'll happen to them?"

"Funny you should mention that," Dumbledore said lightheartedly. "'What will happen to them' is precisely what I and the Head of the Auror Office are currently arguing over. He believes they should be tried; those indicted should be sent to Azkaban, of course. I believe they would not make it to the trial before having their escape orchestrated by Voldemort. It would be much better, I think, to leave them as is."

She stared at him. "You mean—just let them stay here? In Hogwarts? And let them get away with—with doing all the horrible things they've been doing?"

"No, not at all. Once I know of these individuals, my hope is to keep them from doing the horrible things they do. But I think you will agree that the only way I can stop 'the horrible things they do' is by keeping them here, where I can have my eye on them. It is vastly preferable, I think, to having them doing horrible things out in the world, where I cannot stop them."

"Right…"

"If you do not wish to tell me, Miss Potter, I will not force it out of you. But you cannot keep this to yourself forever."

She took a shaky breath. "All right—well, there's Magnus Rosier and Corban Yaxley. Both my year, Slytherin. There's Herwick Snyde, too, but he's a sixth-year. Slytherin as well. And then there's Irven Gibbon—my year, but in Ravenclaw. And there's also—" she closed her eyes briefly, "—Regulus and—"

Dumbledore's brows lifted for the first time. "Regulus Black?" he said, a shred of disbelief leaking into his voice. "Regulus Black is a Death Eater?"

Grace stared at him. "You…didn't know?"

"I have never been given reason to suspect Mr. Black."

"But—but—you made Regulus Head Boy," Grace spluttered, at a loss. "Wasn't that to keep an eye on him? You must have at least thought he was up to something, right?"

"No, not at all. With such low attendance this year, the pool of candidates to pick Head Boys from is rather small. Of those remaining, half are Slytherin. Of them, I truly believed the one least likely to be involved with Death Eater activities—in any capacity—was Regulus Black."

Grace's brows shot up. "No offense, sir, but how in Merlin's name did you come to that conclusion?"

"To be quite honest, I believed he lacked the nerve. That, and Sirius made quite a big commotion about his brother becoming a Death Eater a few months ago. He only succeeded in making the scenario seem even more unlikely." He let out a lengthy sigh. "No matter. At least I am aware now. Are there any other Death Eaters in Hogwarts?"

Grace found her gaze dropping from Dumbledore's kind, weary face. She wrung her hands tirelessly in her lap. It was now or never.

"Yes. One more."

"Who?"

Her fingers dawdled at the hem of her sleeve. "Me."

She lifted her sleeve to show the Dark Mark, that swirling snake and sinister skull pressed into the faint copper of her skin. Dumbledore's eyes glanced down and then back up to her face. Something in his face closed off, became guarded. Gone was the amiable old man who shared lemon drops with students. In his place was the man who defeated Grindelwald, the man You-Know-Who feared.

"B—But I didn't join because I wanted to join him," Grace said immediately. "I only did it because Regulus got involved, and I wanted to get him out. I had an entire plan. I thought I'd get myself acquainted with You-Know-Who and his lot and once I had some information I could go to James and tell him—and he could use that information for the war effort. But then—but then, James didn't want to listen and things fell apart… It wasn't… I didn't join because I actually believe in it."

She stopped herself from saying anything more. She was veering dangerously towards blabbering, which wouldn't do her any favors. She would have to wait to see what Dumbledore might say before she proceeded any further. The problem, though, was that Dumbledore wasn't saying anything at all. He was simply looking at her, studying her, thinking on what she had said, perhaps thinking further back than that, to the very first time he had met her, to all their interactions these past seven years, trying to decide whether or not she could be trusted. Grace waited for him to come to his decision. She was afraid to break the moment—to ask if he believed her, if she could still be saved, if everything would be all right—so she kept quiet and watched him warily, waiting with a resigned sort of anxiousness as the seconds amassed into minutes.

"I have always underestimated you," Dumbledore said at last. His tone was mournful, which Grace thought a tad unnecessary. It hadn't been his fault, after all. "You are familiar, I imagine, with what became of my family?"

Grace's throat was dry. This, somehow, was worse than rage, than Dumbledore expelling her from Hogwarts or sentencing her to Azkaban. There was an icy calmness to Dumbledore that made Grace tremble.

"I don't—" she croaked out before faltering. "I know your sister died young."

It was old Batty Bathilda back in Godric's Hollow who had shared that little tidbit during one of her infamously dull luncheons. Oh, I know Albus Dumbledore, she had said with a faintly knowing smile. This was before Grace had gotten into Hogwarts. This was when Hogwarts was still some shining refuge in the North. This was when Hogwarts was so foreign and unknown it held all of Grace's hopes, so, of course she leaned forward in anticipation, of course she listened hard when Bathilda went on, and of course she was disappointed when all Bathilda said was that Ariana Dumbledore had passed on at a young age, scarring her brothers.

"Yes," Dumbledore murmured. "When she was very young—five or six, I don't recall exactly—she was attacked by a few neighboring Muggle boys for displaying magic. The event left her traumatized, and she was never able to regain control of her magic ever again. Her magic would flare, now and again, in dangerous bursts while she seized and seized and seized…"

Grace swallowed thickly.

"I imagine that is a familiar story for you?"

"Your sister had Hywell's?"

"No, but I wished she did." Dumbledore's voice was a strange combination of wist and bitterness. It made Grace's heart curl into itself. "When my mother died, I was to take care of Ariana, and I was resentful of it." He smiled an empty smile. "I loved her, of course, but I wished she was more than she was. I wanted to see if there was any way to help her, cure her. I read about Hywell's disease, and found literature about its connection to an unlearned Seer's Inner Eye. I thought…if this was what Ariana had, if I could only help her realize her potential…then perhaps it would have been worth the toil… But it was not anything like that. There was no great twist, no escape for me. Ariana's life was plain and simple: a tragedy." Dumbledore leaned forward, and his eyes at last met hers. His gaze stung Grace. "Yours is not."

Grace felt this was a drastic understatement. Her parents had passed away barely two months ago. She had been tortured by You-Know-Who shortly after that. Her brother had turned his back on her. She was now facing the threat of being sent to Azkaban, and with Regulus, too—the person she had vowed to save. Wasn't this something of a tragedy?

"I'm sorry about your sister," she mumbled out.

"I am, too. And I am sorry for having passed over you. All this while…I have always thought you the odd one out, the Gryffindor in Slytherin, the ill girl in the healthy bunch. Even with the pranks and all Horace has told me…I have never thought of you beyond the measure of your condition, and for that I am sorry."

"It—it's okay," she said feebly.

"Is it?" he pondered. "You have grown up shadowed. You have made space for yourself in an incredibly tight position. Your entire family history on one side, the history of your House on the other, and you in the middle. Can you tell me—out of everyone, why Regulus Black?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you choose to befriend him?"

Because I love him was the immediate answer that flashed through her head, but it didn't quite make sense. She didn't love him when she didn't know him. On her very first day of Hogwarts, moments after she had been Sorted into Slytherin, she hadn't loved him then. She had found him rather annoying, actually. But he had cared.

"Because no one else would have me."

"Ah, the choice. It is so pleasing when someone chooses you above all others," Dumbledore said. "How many choices would you say you have been given, Miss Potter?"

"I don't know."

"Did you choose to be in Slytherin?"

"No."

"Did you choose to have Hywell's disease?"

"No."

"Did you choose to be your brother's sister? Your parent's daughter?"

Grace pressed her lips together tightly. "No."

"Did you choose to be a Death Eater?"

She didn't falter from his gaze, but she felt infinitely more weary under it. "You know I did."

"It is the choice that matters above all else," Dumbledore said quietly. "You know this. You chose to join Voldemort rather than come to me—"

"You don't understand," Grace said immediately. "Regulus had already joined, but not because he wanted to, and—"

"And you were presented with a choice: to tell me about the Death Eaters in Hogwarts and Mr. Black's peculiar situation or to take matters into your own hands."

Grace's hands curled over the armrests. Her knuckles went white from the strength of her grip. "I could hardly be expected to waltz in here and tell you Regulus was a Death Eater! What if you didn't listen to me? What if you didn't believe he'd been forced into it? What if you didn't care? What if you just shipped him to Azkaban?" Her heart hammered against her chest wildly. "Don't you understand? I didn't choose You-Know-Who or his idiot Death Eaters. I chose Regulus."

Dumbledore fell silent. His lips receded into one thin, grave line, and his eyes fell from her gaze. A strange flash of pride flared briefly in Grace's chest. She knew Dumbledore wasn't to blame for her situation, but his holier-than-thou attitude was beginning to wear on her.

"It wasn't fun, if that's what you're thinking," she continued, words ferocious and burning. "I didn't join for a bit of fun like most of the others in our year did. He—he used the Cruciatus on me! Three times! No one would ever choose that because they're simply bored. I chose that because I figured if it would save Regulus—then, yeah, it'd be worth it. And, you know what? I don't regret it. Not one bit. If me joining You-Know-Who is what gets him out of this mess, then I don't regret it. I'd do it again if I had to. I'd do it a hundred times. He'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed. I know he would."

Grace was sure this was the only thing stronger than love: knowledge. Trust. Loyalty. She knew Regulus would do the same for her. She knew he would go to the ends of the earth for her. She knew it like she knew her own heart.

"I won't sit here and pretend either of us did everything right. I know we didn't. I know we made mistakes along the way. I know we could have done what we did better. But what's done is done. There's no changing it, and I won't sit here and dwell on it. What matters now is what we do next, and we just want out. We just want to help."

Dumbledore seemed to have aged twenty years within the span of Grace's short tirade. He exhaled deeply. "I gather James has told you about the Order?"

"Yes."

"And you wish to spy for us?"

"Yes—me and Regulus."

"You must understand why I am having a great deal of difficulty believing you. At the conception of this plan of yours, you must have known that we have no spies of our own. Have you ever wondered why?"

Her mind flashed back to the round of torture, to the brutal push into her mind. "Because You-Know-Who knows Legilimency."

"Correct. Anyone we sent in was always found out, and quickly, too—but not you. Do you see why I am suspicious? How is it you were able to join, with a plan as dangerous and duplicitous as yours?"

"I—" her mouth was dry, "—I don't know. He almost got to it. The plan. But something stopped him. I don't know exactly what."

"It is exactly that sort of answer that has me suspicious," Dumbledore said.

"No, wait, it's just…" Grace's throat was so tight she was surprised any words could get past it at all. "You've got to believe me. I—surely there's a way you can check? Can't you perform Legilimency?"

It was so pathetic of her, really, to be offering her mind up like this, to display her vulnerabilities like this. It went against nearly everything she stood for, but she was backed into a corner right now. Dumbledore was absolutely right; he had no reason to believe her. This was precisely what she had been afraid of, but she would not let fear stop her. She would get Dumbledore to believe her if it was the last thing she ever did. Regulus's freedom depended on it.

Surprise flickered across the old man's eyes. "If what you claim is true, Miss Potter, and if you truly want my help, then I may have to do just that." He raised his wand. "Legilimens."

It was a soft word—but the spell didn't feel the slightest bit soft. It tore through Grace, bit at her, split her mind clean in two. She buckled under the force of it, gritted her teeth against the pain of it, and let her memories go free.

/

She was back at Malfoy Manor.

/

No, not back, just somewhere between there and not there—she was—

/

She was screaming, back arched. Pain wracked every fiber of her being. It felt like every nerve ending in her body was on fire, like the whole of her was ablaze, like she was on the verge of combustion. And just as she was on the brink of complete overload, just as her vision began to tinge and grow dark, it stopped.

"Do you think me a fool?" You-Know-Who asked. His voice was chilling. It slithered out of his mouth like a snake and crawled up Grace's spine.

/

Memory did nothing to dilute that pain. She could feel it even now. She could feel it tear and rip through her. She didn't want to revisit that. Anything, any memory but that—

/

Grace's brain was reverberating against her skull. She was slumped on the floor but made the effort to look up. She ground her teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn't turn to dust. With great effort she rose, legs shaking like a newborn fawn, and looked into You-Know-Who's crimson eyes.

"I want to join," she pleaded. The words fell from her mouth like cinderblocks. "I'm not well-versed in the Dark Arts and I haven't dueled much. But I can still See. And—and I'm loyal. I swear it. I'm loyal. I wouldn't betray you for anything."

"For anything?" He sounded almost curious.

"Yes. Yes—anything."

"What about this?" he said, and cast another Cruciatus.

/

Something in her rebelled. The hard planes of her mind were already shifting, reforming, trying to cover her up—help her, protect her. It was against her nature to make herself so vulnerable, but it had to be done. This was her last chance. This was the only way to keep her promise to Regulus.

The walls in her mind fell away. She would not hold back anymore. Let Dumbledore see whatever it was he wanted to see. Let him be swallowed whole.

/

They were in the Room. Regulus was in a set of crisp black robes. His dark, wavy hair, which had been slick and brushed back so neatly at the start of the night, was mussed and flurried. He was trapped between Grace's arms, their noses just barely touching. Grace could almost see the breath escape his lips.

"Do you understand?"

"I've always understood you."

"Then you know what I'm going to do."

His face fell. "Please, you can't—"

"I can."

"You shouldn't."

"You know I'm going to do this," she told him lowly. "The only question now is whether or not you'll help me."

Silence settled between them. Grace waited for him to speak. No matter what he said, she knew she would move ahead with this plan. It did not make a difference if he agreed or not. She would still save him. It did not matter if he hated her for this, if he wanted her to stop running after him, if he wanted her to leave him alone. She would still help him. She could not betray him again.

After what felt like an eon, Regulus spoke: "Of course I'll help you. I'll always help you. You won't be alone. Not like I—" he swallowed down the words and shook his head. "You won't be alone."

For the first time in months, she breathed easy.

/

Memories flickered over each other, warped around one another. There was Regulus, and he was standing and sitting, still and sprinting, smiling and scowling all at once. There was every iteration of him imprinted in her mind—and, tucked within the spaces between now and then, was something else.

/

"Fenwick is dead."

A weary sigh escaped him. He leaned forward, the tip of his silvery beard tracing the wood of his desk. "How did you find this out?"

"Your spies, of course."

He shut his eyes briefly. "Ah. Anything else?"

The woman across from him dug into the pockets of her robes. She pulled out a glass vial. At first glance, it seemed empty. But when he peered harder, he saw the unmistakable shift and sway of silver matter: a memory.

She slid the vial towards him and her lips—dashed with crimson—spread into a humorless smile. "There has been a prophecy, Albus."

/

It was the third time she had seen a glimpse of the future. She couldn't quite pin it down. The vision warbled and rippled, like it was nothing more than water. She wanted to follow it further, but it was already slipping. It was already too—

/

"I have to show you something."

Regulus reached out his left arm, palm up. The fingers of his right hand, pale and slight, danced at the hem of the sleeve. Slowly, they pulled up, showing the underside of his wrist. The dark material climbed higher and higher, revealing only smooth skin, and then the scaly underside of a tail, and then the curving body of a snake, and then—finally, impossibly—a harsh-lined skull.

The room was absolutely still. Grace did not know what to do: what to say, how to move, where to look. She was afraid if she did anything at all, speak or breathe, she might propel the moment forward. And she did not want the moment to move forward at all. If anything, she wished fiercely for it to go backward, far back enough that she could find Regulus before any of this had happened and stop him from making such a terrible decision.

But the purpose of all moments was to lead to the next. And despite the hammering in her heart, she found her voice escaping from her lips: "That's not… Please tell me that's not—"

"It is."

/

He stared at the young man across from him with something like sorrow. "I am sorry, but there is no other way."

"I know he's got a job to do. I know that. It's just—" He broke off and let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his already messy hair.

/

Grace knew this person. His eyes were bright, golden as the sun. She knew those eyes. She loved them, and the weight of that love made her heart ache.

/

"It's just that we haven't heard from Remus in a while," the young man continued.

"Remus is acting on my orders up north, as you are well aware. There is nothing to be worried about."

"Right…" He nodded jerkily. "I just think Remus ought to come home is all. He's spent so much time there. I mean—what if they find out? The other werewolves?"

"There are contingency plans in place."

"It's just… We're worried."

"I assure you that Remus is well and safe."

"How can you be sure of that? Podmore was ambushed just last month. And then we had Death Eaters show up on the McKinnon's doorstep—despite the fact they moved locations! I mean—it's not—something's wrong, sir. You know that."

"I do," the older man replied solemnly. "If you are here under the suspicion Remus is the leak, I will have you know I have already listened to Sirius's theories."

"No," he said immediately. "No—no, it's not that. It's that…if anything about Remus's position were to be revealed… If anything happened to him… He's so far away. He's just so far away."

/

It was the middle of the summer before Grace's fifth year. Sirius Black stood in the middle of James's bedroom, his trunk pushed to the side, both hands curled into two tight fists. His grey eyes were steeled and stormy, set into a dangerous glare aimed directly at Grace.

"Now's not the time, Grace," James protested.

"Yes, it is." Grace's gaze didn't lift from Sirius. "So you weren't kicked out, you ran away—"

"Well, they didn't exactly try to stop me, did they?" Sirius bit out. "As far as I'm concerned, it was a mutual parting of ways. I'm sure if I stuck around longer, my dear mother would've booted me out the front door."

"You left—"

"Of bloody course I left—"

"No, you pillock! You left Regulus—"

Sirius scoffed darkly. "I'm fairly certain he wouldn't have come even if I asked."

Grace's eyes narrowed. "What in Merlin's name is that supposed to mean? You know he hates it there as much as you do."

"Oh, does he now? Does Regulus hate it? When he simpers up to my mother about how—yes—blood traitors are scum and Muggle-borns are the scourge of the earth—"

"Stop—"

"—and when he cut up all those news articles about Muggle attacks in London and hung them over his bed—"

"You don't—"

"—and when he sidles up next to Yaxley and Rosier during those damn pure-blood balls, I'm sure it's only because he hates it so much, right, Grace?"

Grace's eyes burned. "You don't understand—"

Sirius let out a harsh laugh. "I don't understand? I think I understand better than anyone here, thank you very much. I've been shacked up in that dreadful house for the past sixteen years of my life, and there are two ways it goes, Grace: you turn out like Andy or Bellatrix. Guess which person Regulus has chosen to follow?"

"It never occurred to you," Grace seethed, "that Regulus agreed with your mother and hung up those articles and socialized with Rosier and Yaxley and who all else because he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn't?"

"Why in Merlin's name should he be afraid? I did it all first, didn't I? I tore down the Slytherin hangings from my room. I told my mother and father to sod off whenever they screamed all that blood purist bollocks at me. I—"

"Regulus isn't you! Don't you get that? Not everyone in the world can be as brave and gallant—"

"Grace!" James said. "Let's leave it for now—"

"No!" she cried out. "This is utter bollocks. You left Regulus behind—"

"He wouldn't have wanted to come—"

"He would have left if you took him by the hand—"

"I can't always take him by the hand!" Sirius screamed. "I can't always stand up for him. I can't always tell him Mother and Father are wrong. He's got to figure all that shit out himself. I did!"

/

The dark-haired woman across from him sipped her drink slowly. "The Prewetts want to switch shifts again."

A ghost of a smile lurked under his lips. "I very much doubt Alastor will sign off on that."

She cocked her head. "They've been getting rather creative with their arguments lately. The last one involved a smuggled ashwinder. I'm not sure how long Moody will hold—"

The door to the office banged open. The woman rose like a whip, cloak thrown back, wand out. From the entrance came a man with flurried hair and crooked glasses. His robes were stained with blood.

"Sir," he gasped out, scurrying forward. "Sir—I—you've got to come to our cottage! Something—something's happened. It's my sister—"

/

It was nearly the end of fourth year, and the night before the last Hogsmeade trip of the semester. Grace was at the head of Regulus's bed, settled deep into his comforter, watching with barely concealed boredom and he hemmed and hawed over the chess set that sat between them.

It was a new set that his parents had gotten him for his birthday: gold-plated with pieces that gleamed under the light. Regulus had been obsessed with it for months now, and Grace had been unwillingly dragged into this obsession. They were on their fifth or sixth or seventh game now, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Regulus was quite good at chess.

But as good as he was at playing chess, Grace was better at playing people.

She had started seriously enough, in the first two games, trying to hinder Regulus from gaining the upper hand, going defensive when she needed to, offensive when she could. But she soon realized the best way to beat Regulus was to lull him into a false sense of security, so she started playing sloppily, moving pieces into open positions, where they were vulnerable to attack for no apparent reason. As the next few games went by, Regulus began hesitating less and less, taking whatever piece Grace laid out, confident that she had no back-up in mind.

They were now at a point where they had traded most of their major pieces, and now each had only a rook and a queen remaining. Regulus had castled queenside long ago, leaving his king pinned under three pawns. Grace moved her queen opposite Regulus's defending rook.

"Grace," he said exasperatedly, "I'm almost convinced you're just moving randomly so the game can end and we can do something else."

She fell back against his headboard and said, with a dramatic air to rival Sirius, "You've got me, Reg. That was exactly my plan."

He rolled his eyes. "Rook to e5."

His staunch white rook sprinted to the queen, head-butting her off the board. Grace grimaced as the queen was knocked to the floor of the bedroom.

"Now you haven't got your queen," Regulus said almost too smugly.

"You're right," Grace agreed. "Rook to h1." Her rook traveled to the other end of the board with something of a swagger. Grace smiled at Regulus triumphantly. "Check."

His brows had flown up. "Oh…" he said, softly.

She raised a brow. "Move?"

"Er—rook back to e1?"

It was the only move to make, but he was just delaying the inevitable.

"Rook to e1," she said instantly. Her piece rammed into Regulus's. "Checkmate."

He was staring at her with a look she had never quite seen before. It could have been shock, but it wasn't like Regulus to be so surprised by Grace. She almost always did something completely unexpected. He should be used to her antics by now.

/

The funeral was a short, somber affair. It was best to get it over with as speedily as possible. They could not afford any time to grieve. Not now, at least.

"And what of Avery?"

"Fine," the wizard across from him said gruffly. His glass eye whizzed about in its socket. "It's only too bad he had to be found out right then and there. We were almost closing in Pettigrew, but now we've lost the trail completely. Vance reckons they've put him in hiding somewhere."

"Might I offer you a suggestion?"

"You can offer all you want, but I doubt I'll take you up on it."

"You should allow James and Sirius to contribute to this particular mission."

He scoffed. "And let them make a fool of us again?"

"Remus will be coming back shortly. With the three of them together, I think you'll find there is no place on earth Peter could hide."

/

They were still playing chess.

"See?" Grace said, grinning. "It was all part of my big plan that began three games ago. I was playing badly on purpose." She cocked her head. "Okay, well, the first two games, I was genuinely bad. But the ones before this one, I was even worse on purpose, and—er—are you okay?"

He was still staring at her, like the last few minutes hadn't quite registered with him.

Grace was growing a bit concerned. She leaned closer to him, over the chessboard, and said, "What is it?"

She barely got the question out when Regulus dipped towards her. It was a sudden, unexpected thing. He pecked his lips against hers—tenderly, awkwardly—and pulled back in something of a daze.

Grace was still leaned over the board. She stared at Regulus, wide-eyed, a deer caught in headlights. He was still staring at her, with almost the exact same expression.

She had kissed Davey Gudgeon during a Hogsmeade trip back in October. She hadn't liked him very much, but he asked her very nicely one day, after Divination, and she had done a tarot reading earlier that told her to be more open to new experiences. So, she went with him. They'd gone to The Three Broomsticks, and then tried to break into the Shrieking Shack, and then, finally, settled by a great pine tree. He'd kissed her, but it had been bland—just the mashing of lips against lips—and Grace wasn't particularly invested in it.

But this kiss was different.

She couldn't be sure why. Maybe it was because it had been so sudden, without warning or preamble. Maybe it was because she was still coming off the high of having won a chess game. Maybe it was because it was Regulus—sweet, soft Regulus. Her best friend. The only person in the world who knew her as well as she knew herself.

Her heart felt thick and heavy, like it was waterlogged, like it was swelling in anticipation for something. And her throat was terribly dry, although she couldn't say why. And her eyes were caught in his, which she'd only just realized were the prettiest shade of silver she'd ever seen. And the room was quite hot, come to think of it. Had it always been this warm?

After what might have been one minute or one year, Regulus's brain came back to him. He blinked wildly, and then burst, "Sorry! Sorry—I don't know what—I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Forget it. I'm sorry."

She didn't know what to say to that. She didn't know what to do. Her heart hammered against her chest like a frantic drum. Her palms were sweaty. She'd never felt like this before in her life.

"It's okay," she assured, although she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Er—another game, then?"

/

The walls of the prison were grey and bleak. Under the sparse moonlight, it only seemed more ghostlike. As he walked, his footsteps echoed across the stone floor. At the end of the long stretch of hallway was a single cell—the only cell at this level. He stilled just at the edge of it, wondering, suddenly, if it was too late to turn back.

"I know you're there," a frail, wheezy voice called out.

It was definitely too late. He swallowed his sigh and pressed forward. Soon, he found his eyes tracing over the iron bars of the cell. There was a thin sleeping cot pushed aside and a bowl of mush left by the grate. He refused to lift his gaze higher than this.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" the man within the cell asked with far too much cheer in his voice.

"I have come to ask if you would like to be moved."

"Moved?" Surprise colored the word. "You came all this way—after thirty-five years—to ask if I'd like a change of scenery?"

"Yes."

He laughed, and it was a high, chilling thing.

"Voldemort is searching for the Elder Wand. He will be paying you a visit shortly. It is likely you will not survive the encounter." Reluctantly, he found his eyes lifting. He traced over the prisoner's hunched, sullen form. The grey of his prison robes were tattered and worn. His skin was pale, waxy, and taut over his bones. He did not seem to particularly care about what his visitor had to say. "You already knew all this, didn't you?"

"I'm surprised you even came," he sighed after a long moment. "I doubt changing my prison will stop him from finding me."

"Perhaps, but I still had to try."

He twisted around in his small cell. His eyes were pale as snowdrops. His lips were curled into a terrible scowl. "Why?" he spat. "Why try? Why come here at all? Was it truly to prevent my death—or to convince me not to give you away?"

"If Voldemort finds you, you are free to tell him anything you want."

"Why?" he repeated, voice morphing from vexed to desperate. "Why come here? Why torment me like this?"

"You know me best, Gellert. You know why."

/

It was third year. Grace was at the Spring Soirée, or whatever was left of it. The Great Hall was practically deserted except for some loitering students, curious as to exactly what happened. The nice, colorful banner the committee had made was now burnt to a crisp. Professor Flitwick was trying to revert the scorched ceiling back to its original state.

"You didn't get hurt, did you?" James had found his way to her. His hands were blistered.

Grace ignored him, sipping at her punch.

"We didn't mean for it to get so out of hand," James tried. He scratched the back of his head. "Merlin—who would've thought fire crabs were that difficult to control?"

Grace set down her drink a little too hard. The punch sloshed over the rim. "Who would think to bring fire crabs to a dance at all, James? What in Merlin's name possessed you and Sirius to do that?"

"We thought it would be funny."

"You—I—" Grace let out a vicious stream of expletives.

James winced. "Merlin, Grace! It's not like anything happened to you!"

"Regulus is in the Hospital Wing, you dolt."

James froze. "Oh—I suppose that's where Sirius went off to."

"I hope McGonagall gave you a term's worth of detentions."

"I'll be serving them into the beginning of next year," James sighed.

"Good."

"I'm beginning to think this wasn't such a good idea." James surveyed the Great Hall. The last of the fire crabs had been caught by the groundskeeper, Hagrid, but the damages were still extant. "They're cancelling the Spring Ball now. Permanently." James rubbed a hand over his face. "Everyone's angry about it—and the fire crabs, I suppose. I've already received three Howlers."

"Good," Grace said again. "You'll be receiving three more from me tomorrow."

A beat passed, and then James said, "Sorry."

"You're going to go to the Hospital Wing when Regulus is conscious and apologize to him. You're also going to get him a deluxe Honeydukes package and the latest edition of Meddling with Manticores."

"Sounds fair."

"I'm also telling Mum and Dad—"

"Now hold on—"

/

He was still rooting around, still digging. The memories were flicking by faster than ever. Grace was not sure that there was anything else left to see.

/

Grace was sprinting into the library, and just narrowly managed to avoid Pince's keen gaze by ducking behind the nearest stack of books. She lurked around the shelves for a few minutes, poking her head out now and again, trying to spot a familiar mop of neatly curled dark hair.

She found her target at the very end of the library, in a comfortable nook where few students roamed. She bounded forward until she was right behind him, and covered his eyes with her hands.

"Happy birthday!"

Regulus's whole body tensed—and then relaxed. He set his quill down and let out a lengthy sigh. "Grace, do we have to do this every time?"

"Yes," she chirped merrily, releasing her hold on him. She settled down in the chair opposite his and grinned. "Guess what present I got you this year."

His eyes narrowed at her. "If it's nundu saliva or chimaera fur or—or any illegally procured potions ingredient, I will take away points—"

She rolled her eyes. "No, you won't."

"I will," he protested firmly. "I absolutely will."

"You won't, because I'm your best—"

/

"Where is the diary?"

"Lupin handed it over to Moody as soon as they got back." The dark-haired witch stared at him unsurely. "Do you…do you know how to get rid of a thing like that? Moody's been keeping it in an enchanted safe, but it's not enough to just keep it away, right? We ought to destroy it."

"It will be destroyed," he promised quietly.

/

"I'm going to murder him," Grace muttered ferociously, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She glared darkly into the distance. "You hadn't even seen the Snitch yet! Who does he think he is? Knocking Bludgers into you like—"

"It happens." Regulus was hoisted up on the hospital cot, tenderly prodding his right arm.

"—like he's—like he's the bloody King of Beaters or something! And I can't believe Hooch let him get away with that. What in Merlin's name was she thinking?!"

He shrugged. "It's not technically a foul."

"It is in my book. I'm going to get him back for it. He can't do that—not to my best—"

/

"Apparently, he entrusted something to the Lestranges earlier this year."

The slight young wizard opposite him let out a low groan. "Oh, you're not talking about those old relics, are you?"

The deliberating came to a halt. All members of the small room, a dozen hard-bitten wizards and witches, turned towards the source of the voice.

He leaned forward with interest. "Relics?"

"He gave one of them to Bellatrix—as a gift, I think."

"What was it?"

"Nothing special. A golden cup."

/

"You didn't have to do that," Grace said quietly.

Regulus looked up from his scrubbing and—despite the grime on his hands and the thin sheen of sweat collecting across his forehead—smiled gently. "It's okay."

"It's not. Give me that." She reached for the brush, but he deftly kept out of her way. "Let me help you."

"It's okay," he said again, and the soft look in his eye refused to disappear. "It's only one detention. It won't kill me."

"But it's my fault. You shouldn't—"

"I don't mind, not if it's for you. You're my best—"

/

He walked along a twisting path that led into the heart of the wood. Amidst the tangle of knotted trunks and scraggly branches, he could just make out a rundown shack.

"I always held high hopes for you," he said quietly.

His younger companion grit his teeth. "Don't pretend you understand me."

"I am not pretending." His blue eyes lifted skyward. "I loved a man, too, once…"

/

The Tonks home was very warm. There were apple tarts cooling on the kitchen countertop, and the smell of cinnamon wormed its way into Grace's nose. She found herself settling deeper in the lumpy, secondhand couch. The mug of tea in her hands was so hot the ceramic was beginning to blister her fingers.

"I didn't call you over just to warn you," Andromeda said. Her voice had grown tight and drawn. "It's more like…I've got a favor to ask. As I've said…something's coming. And I'm afraid that those of my family—my sisters and my cousins—will get pulled into it. Bella—" Andromeda hesitated, "—might be beyond saving, and I've been writing to Cissy…but she hasn't been responding."

Grace's legs swayed over the edge of the enormous couch. Her brows knitted in confusion. "What do you want me to do exactly?"

It took a moment for Andromeda to respond. She sighed and pushed aside her mess of dark curls. "Just…look out for Regulus," she managed after a moment. "Sirius will be fine, I think. But it's Regulus I'm worried about the most. He's the youngest, and he's always been the most impressionable...and, in Slytherin, good influences are hard to come by."

Grace smiled. "Sure," she said easily. "Regulus is my best—"

/

They were back in the prison—or perhaps they had never left. The moon climbed high above the arches of the castle.

"We don't know each other anymore, Albus. Not really."

"Maybe—but we still know each other better than anyone else."

"All I know is that I hate you."

"Yes," he agreed softly. Only deep love could inspire hate like this. "I don't blame you."

"You've been an absolutely miserable, wretched best—"

/

"—friend."

/

Grace gasped back to the present, head ringing. Her knuckles were white from the grip she had on her chair. Her gaze flitted around Dumbledore's office, unsure, for a moment, as to where she was. The reality of the situation came back to her quickly, flooding her. Grace's eyes stung, and it was only when she rubbed at them that she realized a couple of tears had managed to leak through.

Dumbledore's hands were steepled on top of his desk.

"So?" Grace pressed, hyperaware of the seconds ticking by, of Regulus sequestered in the Room, pacing himself into the ground.

True to his infuriatingly slippery nature, Dumbledore answered with another question: "Would you believe," he began very slowly, "that I had it in mind to call you up to my office near the end of the term to ask you to do this very thing?"

All of Grace's panicked, desperate thoughts came to a screeching halt. Despite the knife-sharp tension that shrouded the room moments ago, she found herself feeling oddly pleased by this. She had never thought herself to be so noticed among the professors of Hogwarts; James had always commanded that spotlight for himself.

"Really?" she said in disbelief.

"Yes. I believe James let it slip that I often ask promising students to aid with the war effort. I had several conversations with Dirk Cresswell, in fact, on the matter. Unfortunately—or, perhaps, with stunning shrewdness—he saw my request as a sign that the war effort was not going in our favor, and decided it was time to take to hiding." Dumbledore looked steadily at Grace. "It is no secret the Ministry is losing this war; that is part of the reason I began the Order of the Phoenix. But we have been bogged down by assault after assault. We have been in need of a spy to place amongst Voldemort's fold for some time now. None of our current Order members are up to the task. Too many of them have illustrious careers fighting against exactly what Voldemort stands for, and the rest simply do not have the right background. I thought you might have been able to do it, a pure-blood Slytherin with a golden heart, but now I know you could have only done it on your own. You could have only succeeded on your own—and you did." A disbelieving amusement cloaked his features. "Your plan worked, Miss Potter, because you did not wish to spy for our side out of duty or glory. You entered Voldemort's fold for love. Your plan was drenched with your love, and this is why Voldemort did not find you out. He could not bear the brunt of such love, and so he did not see any detail of your plan. He was only able to surmise you joined for Mr. Black and deemed you foolish for it." Dumbledore peered at her through his half-moon spectacles. "Of course, you are anything but. Congratulations, Miss Potter, you are the first to successfully infiltrate Voldemort's ranks."

"Er—thanks," she said.

"Oh, and apologies for the Legilimency," he added. "I had to be certain you had not fallen prey to Voldemort's doctrine."

"It's okay…?" she said. "So—is that it? We're in?"

Dumbledore's brows lifted. "We?"

Her heart thudded against her chest. "Regulus and me."

Sorrow clouded Dumbledore's face. "I'm sorry, Miss Potter, but I don't know what sort of sympathies Mr. Black holds—"

"He didn't want to join either. You saw that. You saw that in my head! He'd been forced into it by his mum, not because he actually wanted to join You-Know-Who."

"And, when it comes down to it, could Mr. Black be forced into betraying us at the behest of his mother? What you are endeavoring to do is not for the faint-hearted—"

"Regulus is not faint-hearted—"

"That may be so, but—"

"You're doing it again," Grace said. Her voice was hard. Panicked, even. There was a wild edge to it, like her words might bite if they had teeth. "You're underestimating him. You didn't think he was a Death Eater all this while because he lacked nerve—but he doesn't. He's got plenty of nerve."

"I have no need for two spies when one will do."

"It's two or none."

A long, steely silence followed. Grace looked at Dumbledore with a sort of burning wrath. At last, the old wizard folded. He was not in a position to refuse.

"I will speak to Mr. Black," he said. "If his mindset falls in line with that of the Order and if he agrees, I will let him in."

It was as though a weight had been lifted from Grace. She collapsed into the back of her chair and let out a breath. "All right. Now what? Do we have to go to meetings?"

"Professor Vance is a member of the Order," Dumbledore explained. "You will meet with her once a week under the guise of remedial Defense Against—"

"Remedial—" Grace began, but Dumbledore gave her a look so severe that she swallowed her words instantly and clamped her lips shut. She supposed, when it all came down to it, it was better to have students think she was taking a few remedial classes instead of being shipped directly to Azkaban. "Er—sorry, go on."

"During these extra sessions with Vance, you will pass along what you've learned. I will also have Vance teach you to remain discreet and inconspicuous, so you do not arouse suspicion amongst Voldemort's ilk. I will do the same with Mr. Black under the guise of Head Boy meetings."

"Okay," Grace agreed. "And what about the rest of the Order? When do we meet them?"

He stared at her for a moment. "This sort of work isn't one the Order is affiliated with, in part because no one has been able to ingratiate themselves with Voldemort. There is no fight in this line of work. There is no company. Subterfuge is a slow, quiet thing. By the time it will be celebrated, if ever, it will have been over for a very long time. What I am trying to say, Miss Potter, is that no one will know."

"Right, well, of course no one outside the Order will know—"

"No, I mean no one beyond you, me, Professor Vance, and Mr. Black will know about this. Vance and I believe that information from the Order is being leaked. We do not who, or how many, are responsible for this. It is in your best interest to have your position as a spy remain secret until the war is over. I must have your agreement on this. No one can know." He eyed her very carefully. "Not even James."

The way he said it surprised her. Not even James. Like it was a secret, something swept under the rug, hushed and hidden. Like it was blasphemy to even think about excluding James. Perhaps it was, in its own way. In the years she had spent by James's side, she had never known him to be sidelined. It almost felt like betrayal—to keep him away, in the dark. It almost felt like retaliation.

She nodded in agreement. "Not even James."

A/N : Again, the memories versus visions scene looks so confusing on ffnet; it's *so much clearer* on AO3, if you'd like to check it out there (my username is the same). Basically, anytime I don't specifically name a person and use pronouns instead, it's a vision of Dumbledore in the future; Grace can't exactly "recognize" the people she Sees since she has no grasp or control over her visions (it's like trying to catalog the strength and color of the sea while you're drowning).

As always, thank you so much for the faves, follows, and reviews. They're a joy to read! Keep letting me know what you think.

Forgot to answer a Guest review about face casts last chapter : They're not really fixed. My face casts tend to change a lot, but right now I like Neelam Gill (but with more unruly hair) for Grace and Luke Powell for Regulus.

Youaremyheart : "end the war so y'all can smooth more" lmaoooo thank you so much!

RandomReaderRawr : Oh no, I hope that sweet bird is okay! Papa Potter would have forgiven her for sure (and probably scheduled a mediation for his two kids LOL). Thank you so much for being invested in this story. Re: Is it bad I love the fandom and fanfic better most times over the original source material? Definitely not! I love that the HP fandom has sort of co-opted the work and made it their own, you know? I love seeing the diverse fan art and inclusive headcanons; they definitely inform the way I write this story. Your reviews are definitely not too much! I love when readers take their time to parse through a story and list out things they like; it's so kind and flattering. Thank you so much; I truly appreciate it.

Elle : Thank you! Don't worry, no one will wonder about Grace or Regulus's whereabouts. There were a lot of students missing at Hogwarts since they had snuck out to Hogsmeade. Also, even if someone were to question them (and Yaxley, Rosier, etc.), their fellow Slytherins would definitely vouch for them and say they had been in the common room the whole time or something.

Mars : Thank you so much! Love reading what you have to say, haha. "If it goes bad for them, who needs school? […] Cottage life?" directly inspired that little bit where Grace is wondering what she'd do after Hogwarts and starts sort of daydreaming about making adjustments to the Falmouth home, so thank you for that comment!