Falling

by trynathink

It had been seven years. Of course they had a little of the other in them. Of course it hurt when the other wasn't there anymore. The separation could have been a day, an hour, a minute, and Grace was sure it would have hurt the same—a cleaver sailing straight through her soul, severing it into two. (Everyone Lives AU; sequel to 'Flying')

16. Rasp

Rasp

Grace is given an order she cannot fulfill.

---

"How many battles have you fought, Potter?"

"Er—none…?"

"You mean to tell me every time something didn't go your way, every time someone said something you disliked, every time the world seemed hellbent on stopping you from reaching your goal—you just gave in?"

"Well, no—"

"Precisely. You've fought before, Potter. You've fought with words. Perhaps even with spells. You're the sort of person who's got fire for blood. Fighting comes as naturally as breathing. If you were a trainee of mine for the Auror Department or the Order, I'd say that would be a boon. But, as it happens, you're not training for a battle. You're not training to spar. You're training to spy. The only thing those two have in common is endurance. But where sparring relies on the endurance of the body, spying relies on the endurance of the mind. You will see things you cannot unsee, Potter. You will see people tortured. You will see people killed. You will see yourself, too, watching all this unfold—and doing nothing to help. Because the job of a spy is not to help. It is to stay quiet and look on while your enemy laughs in your face. Do you understand me?"

Vance was sat primly on the edge of her desk, one leg folded over the other. She raised one neat brow in Grace's direction. Grace stared back at her wearily, unsure of what to say. She had only just arrived five minutes ago.

"Yeah…" Grace said slowly.

Vance's crimson-dashed lips spread into a sharp smile. She hefted herself off the desk and strode forward. "Good. We'll begin today's session with what information you've learned. I'm not certain what sort of standing you have amongst Voldemort's Death Eaters, but any information you've found out, no matter how insignificant, will be useful."

"Right, well, I've only been to one meeting," Grace started, pulling out a small scroll from her knapsack. "I learned a ton there, but there's more Regulus knows. He made a list for Dumbledore, and I have my own for you—"

Vance's brows lifted incredulously. "You wrote down what you heard?"

Grace smoothed out the parchment in front of her. "Er—yeah, Reg and I were going over what we remembered. We wanted to make sure we didn't leave anything out. I charmed it to make sure anyone else would only see my Transfiguration essay."

"That may be so, Potter, but charms can be undone. Writing is dangerous in your line of work. Writing can be discovered and deciphered by those working against you. You must learn to memorize what you need to tell."

"I mean, I suppose, but it's a lot to remember…"

"Then you must work hard to remember it," Vance said sternly. "Or you can just as easily pass on the memory of the event."

"I don't know that spell," Grace said rather pointedly.

"We'll go over it later," Vance dismissed. "For now, let us begin with the information you've recovered."

Grace's gaze traveled down to the sheet of paper. She began to recite all that was covered at the single meeting she attended. She started, first, with what You-Know-Who had already accomplished. He had a great wealth of spies in the Ministry: followers that had infiltrated the Department of Mysteries and the Wizengamot long, long ago. He held a great grudge against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, currently headed under the strict and august Bartemius Crouch Snr., who was quickly rounding up Death Eaters, and was angling to rid himself of both Crouch and the current Head Auror, Howard Atkinson. With Crouch, they had not yet formed any sort of concrete plan beyond attempting to get his son to murder his father for them. With the Head Auror, however, a date had already been set.

"Yes, we know already," Vance said, nodding along. "Many of the Death Eaters we know have a sort of image to uphold, families like the Rosiers and Malfoys, for instance. We learned long ago that they don't bother with more menial tasks like shadowing targets; they pay or threaten petty criminals to go about it for them, people who wouldn't garner attention. We caught one of them a while back and found Voldemort was planning on ambushing Atkinson at his residence at the end of the month. Naturally, we're preparing our own guard to protect Atkinson on the night in question."

"Right, but he knows that. You-Know-Who found that out. He knows what the Order's been up to. He knows you have patrols to protect the communities he tends to target, and he knows that you've been following some of his Death Eaters, too. I dunno how he knows it, but he does. It's always Lestrange—Rabastan Lestrange—who brings up information about the Order. Regulus reckons he's got some sort of informant in the Order."

Vance didn't say anything for a long moment. She clasped her hands tightly and began to pace across the room. Grace watched her warily.

"You said Rabastan, correct? The younger one?"

"Yeah."

"Damn," she said, settling back on the edge of her desk. "If it had been Rodolphus, it might not have been so clear. But Rabastan… Podmore was in his year, I think. He mentioned it. Maybe Fenwick, too; they're around the same age. Perhaps even the Prewetts—"

"Prewetts?" Grace repeated, bewildered. "You mean Gideon and Fabian?"

Vance eyed her strangely. "You've met them?"

"Yeah, back in first year. We had Divination together. I don't think they knew Rabastan Lestrange. Even if they did, I doubt they'd have got on."

"I doubt that, too," Vance acknowledged, "but appearances can be deceiving. I don't know any Order member who would willingly give Lestrange information about our activities, and yet someone is."

"There's a trick Slytherins do sometimes," Grace said, "to find out which of their friends are true. They'll give each of their friends an embarrassing secret—fake, of course—and whichever one makes it out of the circle as a rumor, well, that's the one who's disloyal."

"Yes, we've tried something like that—given false information to a few of the more suspect members. Nothing came of it. The problem is that our operations rely on cohesiveness and unity; misinformation is very quickly found out and corrected. Our guess is that any false information we gave out was shared and corrected by another Order member. It actually created some confusion for a short while. We haven't dared try it again in case the leak gets suspicious."

"Right," Grace nodded. "Well, I dunno how many of you there are, but maybe you could narrow it down to a few and call them in one-by-one and sort of scare them? Maybe hint that you know they're spying for You-Know-Who, and whoever reacts poorly is probably the person you're looking for."

"That sort of tactic assumes the spy in question isn't trained in the slightest. It's a professional we're dealing with. I doubt they'd let anything slip if I brought them in for questioning, and—" Vance stopped suddenly and looked at Grace with a hint of exasperation, "—I shouldn't really be discussing any of this with you. It's not at all relevant to what you have to accomplish."

"It could be," Grace argued. "The leak is probably a Death Eater, right? What if they show up to a meeting one day?"

"I doubt it. Voldemort and Rabastan Lestrange seem to have gone to great lengths to keep this quiet from the rest of you. That, already, is a troubling sign; they may think someone amongst their fold is capable of revealing their informant's identity."

"Or maybe they're just embarrassed."

Vance raised a brow. "Embarrassed?"

"They're all such hoity-toity pure-bloods. Maybe their informant is Muggle-born or something—"

"A Muggle-born conspiring with a group of pure-blood supremacists?"

"—or, you know, a half-blood—"

"Somewhat more reasonable."

"—and they're embarrassed about telling the others that they have to rely on someone like that for information about the Order."

"It's not entirely out of the realm of possibility," Vance acknowledged, although she didn't seem very convinced. "But enough about this, Potter. It's Voldemort's business that's your primary concern at the moment, not the Order's."

"Yeah, sure," Grace said, glancing down at her scroll of parchment. "There was the Head Auror thing, and then—" her eyes caught onto Greyback's name and she swallowed thickly, "—he mentioned Greyback. Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. He wanted to ally with him."

Vance didn't seem particularly surprised. "Yes, we've long suspected he would try to gain the support of dark or outcast creatures. We've already gotten news that he's reached out to Greyback. It appears Greyback is ready to accept."

Her mouth went dry. "R—really?"

"Is it so surprising?" Vance questioned. "They're united by a common goal."

"It's just… He asked me about Greyback. He asked me how to get Greyback's support—and I didn't tell him, because I thought maybe it would stop that from happening, but…" Shame and regret drenched her. So, she had done that for nothing? Regulus had been tortured for nothing?"

"Ah, yes," Vance nodded. "Albus mentioned you had been brought on as a Seer."

"Yeah," she croaked. "Er—I've sort of been doing a bad job at it, though. He asked me how to convince Greyback to join him, and I read my tarot cards, and I got the answer. But I didn't know what to say to him, so I didn't say anything at all, and… Well, he wasn't very pleased."

"You were doing the best you could with what you knew," Vance assured softly. "But now you will know much, much more. We can use your position as a Seer to our advantage. We can use it to lure his Death Eaters into traps. We can use it to lull him into a false sense of security. We'll cobble together some 'predictions' you could give him—and if it's necessary to give him the truth now and again, we can give some harmless ones."

"All right," Grace agreed. A sense of relief washed over her. She would not be doing this alone any longer.

"Is there anything else on your list?"

She looked back at her writing. "That was the last thing I had. Regulus has a lot more, since he's been there since the summer, but I suppose he's telling Dumbledore right now."

"What about anything you've heard from the Death Eaters in Hogwarts? We know that Magnus Rosier's cousin and uncle—Evan and Luca—are high-ranking Death Eaters. Has he ever mentioned anything about what they're up to?"

"Er—no, we don't really talk much…" Grace watched a shadow of disappointment cross over Vance's face, and she quickly backtracked. "But I could always find out. His sister—Myrcella—has been sort of friendly recently. I might be able to talk to her?"

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She and Myrcella had not exactly had very many peaceable conversations with each other in their seven years at Hogwarts. It would be very difficult to convince Myrcella to warm up to her now—especially after she had so aggressively turned away the olive branch Myrcella offered the morning after the Hogsmeade scare. But if it was what the Order needed, who was she to protest? Grace would have to suck it up and simply endure Myrcella's boorish behavior. It would be worth it in the end. Hopefully.

"That would be a start," Vance said appreciatively. "I'd recommend trying to spend as much time around the other Death Eaters here as well: Yaxley, Gibbon, and Snyde are the other ones Dumbledore mentioned to me. You needn't make active conversation with them. I suspect they'll drop information completely unprompted in their own course."

"Probably. They do talk an awful lot."

"Excellent." Vance's sharp gaze glanced down to the roll of parchment. "Now that you've relayed everything and we've set some action items for you to complete, how about you toss that into the fireplace?"

Grace's hands curled over the parchment protectively. "Into the fireplace?" she repeated incredulously.

"We can't risk your list falling into someone's hands."

"Yes, but—"

"Don't worry," Vance said. "I've got it all in here." She tapped a finger against her temple.

Grace shot her an unsure look but left her seat all the same, striding towards the fireplace at the back of Vance's office. There was a low flame flaring over a large pile of ash. Evidently, Vance burned quite a lot of things. Grace cast her parchment into the fire and watched, quite forlornly, as the paper curled and crumbled away.

"All right," Vance said, clapping her hands together. She rose and flicked back her robes, letting the dark material swish over the floor. She brandished her wand, a sleek rod of white aspen, in the air and stepped forward. "Shall we duel now?"

Grace stared at her, mouth partially agape. She reached into her pocket, fingers fumbling over her own wand. "I—I'm sorry, what?"

"Normally, I would discuss what sort of information you're free to pawn off to Voldemort and his lot in order to stay in their good graces—but we've already discussed quite a lot today. It would be best if we move on to perfecting your practical skills."

"But you said the job of a spy wasn't to duel! It's to—it's to—" she struggled to remember the long speech Vance recited at the beginning of the session, which now seemed to have been ages ago, "—listen and observe—"

"I said no such thing," Vance countered immediately. "I said the job of a spy is to stay quiet and look on while your enemy laughs in your face. It is vitally important you remember this."

"Right, okay, but you also said I wouldn't be dueling," Grace spluttered. "You said something about the endurance of the mind."

"We'll work on that, too," Vance assured, "but I do need to assess your skills and how likely you are to stand in a fight against Voldemort or his Death Eaters—"

"Why would that happen?! Aren't I just spying?"

"If all goes well, you will never be put in a situation where you will have to duel Death Eaters. But if your cover is blown, you will no longer be a spy, and you may have to fight your way out. This is a very real possibility for you, and so we must be prepared." Vance widened her stance. "Are you ready?"

Grace matched Vance's posture sloppily. Her silver lime wand glinted under the light of the hearth. "Er—I suppose…"

Vance jabbed her wand forward, and a dash of red light erupted from the end. Grace, who had been expecting Vance to cast spells verbally, realized a second too late that the duel had begun and ducked to the ground to avoid the spell instead of casting a shield.

"Very good," Vance complimented. "We usually have to break trainees out of the desire to counterspell every hex that comes their way. The environment you're in plays just as big a part in dueling as the spells do."

Grace flung her hand out, craning her neck to aim for Vance. "Stupefy!"

Vance blocked the spell easily. "A passable attempt. It would be best to cast nonverbally. It catches your opponent by surprise."

"I don't know how to duel nonverbally! We weren't taught!"

Another jet of red light burst from Vance's wand. Grace rolled behind the desk, which was blown apart as soon as the spell hit it.

"Really?" Vance said, seeming somewhat surprised. "I suppose your Defense professor is to blame for that."

"You're my Defense professor!"

They went back and forth like this for another hour: Vance offering corrections and tips while Grace made a few biting remarks about how much better she would be at dueling if only a certain professor taught something other than the Patronus Charm in class. Vance took these few criticisms in stride, much to Grace's relief since she was by no means winning their duel and her rude remarks were the only way she could relieve her pent-up frustration. Their session together ended with Vance's office partially destroyed. One wall was completely covered in scorch marks. The standard-issue desk, chairs, and bookshelves—although empty apart for a few stray tomes and ink pots—had been blasted into smithereens. A blasting spell into the fireplace had sent ash and soot flying over the entire room, covering not only the furniture but Grace and Vance themselves. Despite the destruction and exhaustion, Grace found herself feeling as though the time had been spent well. She was already familiar with casting nonverbal charms (something Flitwick had begun to teach at the end of sixth year) and found herself copying the technique to some of the hexes and jinxes towards the end of the duel out of pure desperation. To her surprise, and Vance's delight, it had worked for some of the less complex dueling spells; she only had to practice to apply the technique to her dueling style as a whole.

They cleaned up the office as best they could (mostly by repairing the broken fixtures and leaving the mess of dust and cinders for Filch to clean later), and Grace was finally allowed to take her leave—but not before one final speech from Vance recapping all they had learned today and precisely what they would cover next time. Head ringing, Grace began to make her way from Vance's office to the Come-and-Go Room, where she was supposed to meet with Regulus. Dumbledore had decided to divide time between the Head Boy and Head Girl, hosting two separate meetings so each could "voice any complaints they had about the other," while putting the joint meeting under the purview of McGonagall. The truth, of course, was that Dumbledore had been struggling to find a way to meet regularly with Regulus without inciting suspicion, and this was the best he could come up with.

Regulus was already in the Room when she arrived. He was drawn into himself on a long couch, seeming more jittery than usual. He glanced up when he heard Grace enter and did a double-take when he saw the grime she was covered in. He was by her side in a minute. His wand traced over her. After about a dozen Scouring Charms, her robes seemed cleaner than they had been when she first bought them.

"What on earth happened to you?" he asked as she settled onto the couch. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," she assured. "It was just that the fireplace exploded, so all the dust and whatnot got everywhere—"

He looked aghast. "Why did the fireplace explode?"

"We were dueling. For practice. Vance said it would be useful in case I ever got caught." She leaned into the back of the couch and cracked her neck, relaxing as her body loosened up. "Good Godric, it was mental. The whole two hours. Vance is extremely demanding—worse than how she is in class. To be fair, I did learn a lot. I just wish I'd been learning it since the start of the year instead of now." She looked up at Regulus, who, judging by the pristine state of his robes, hadn't gone through a similar bout of dueling with Dumbledore. "What about you? Did Dumbledore do anything interesting?"

He tensed slightly and pulled out a wrapped caramel candy from his pockets. He rolled it pensively between his fingers. Grace's gaze flickered down to the hard candy, then back up to his surprisingly agitated face, and then back to the candy.

"He…gave you…some candy?" she pieced together slowly, wondering if she was missing something here.

Normally, she would have asked why in Merlin's name Dumbledore was showering Regulus with candy while Vance was dueling her to death—but the atmosphere surrounding Regulus was so fretful and uneasy that she was beginning to think that Dumbledore had been very rude to Regulus and the candy he was holding was actually poisoned. Grace eased up on the sofa, her worry now peaking to match Regulus's. She had thought, after seeing Regulus through her eyes, Dumbledore would be understanding, but perhaps that hadn't been the case.

Regulus ducked his head. "I think it was more out of—er—well, the candy was sort of like an apology—"

"An apology?"

A faint pink dusted over Regulus's cheeks. "He performed Legilimency on me. And, well, I was prepared for that, you know. Since you told me. And I suppose since I was thinking about what we discussed, I just started thinking about you—and it wasn't—it was inadvertent, obviously, but he saw a glimpse of when we—"

She blanched. "No, Regulus, don't tell me—"

"—were in the Room after your tiff with your brother—"

"Regulus!"

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, face drawn into a pitiful expression. "I didn't mean to. My mind just went there, and I tried to stop thinking about it, but that just made me think about it more, and—oh, Merlin…" He buried his face in his hands.

Grace felt compelled to do the same. She wasn't sure if she could look Dumbledore in the eye ever again. "He only saw a glimpse, right?" she said unsurely, trying to find some silver lining. "Did he just…ignore it or…? Did he—just what did he do, exactly?"

"He immediately withdrew from my mind," Regulus said. His voice was slightly muffled through his hands. "And we sort of just stared at each other. And then I apologized. And he said it was fine. And then, er, we stared at each other some more. And then I suppose he decided it might be better to just administer me some Veritaserum and have a conversation with me—"

"Merlin's fucking—are you still on the Veritaserum, Regulus?"

He lifted his head and looked at her. "You know what, now that you mention it, that would explain why I'm not even making the effort to hide what happened."

She almost made a quip about how using Veritaserum outside of the Wizengamot must be illegal, but she quickly remembered that she and Regulus had been traipsing far beyond the boundary of what was legal for quite some time now. She sighed deeply and threw her head back against the sofa. Her eyes wandered up towards the ceiling. The hazy light of the hearth cast a slew of dancing shadows across the stone.

"Well, if he just sat you down and talked to you for two hours after that, he can't have been too bothered," she thought out loud. "He's been at this school for ages now. He's probably stumbled upon much worse. And in person."

"Yes, but it was still absolutely mortifying," Regulus said mournfully. "And I'd been so intent on making a good impression… Not that it could have been too good, seeing as we began the meeting with me showing him my Dark Mark, but still…"

She snorted softly and turned her head over to him. Her hand reached out for his. "It doesn't matter if you make a good impression or not. He needs you."

"He needs one of us," Regulus corrected.

"No—he needs you. He needs to be on your good side, not the other way around. Because if he's not, then he's not on my good side, and that will not bode well for his Order."

Regulus's lips ticked into a gentle, half-smile.

"And, honestly," she continued, leaning into him, "Dumbledore will probably just extract that whole encounter from his head and destroy the memory."

"If he doesn't, I might do it for him."

His tone was so serious and the situation was so ridiculous that Grace couldn't help but laugh. Full and bright, the laughter simply bubbled out of her. When she finished, she found Regulus gazing down with her with a look so tender it just about made her heart stutter.

"What is it?"

"I love it when you laugh. I've made more jokes around you than I have around anyone else hoping you might laugh. I wish I could carry the sound with me and listen to it whenever I miss you."

She thought she might melt from the affection dripping from his voice. She shook her head in disbelief. "Veritaserum doesn't compel you to reveal secrets."

"That's not Veritaserum. That's just me."

She ached with fondness. Her chest was full and warm and light. A bone-deep love sank into her.

"Sweet Circe—come here," she said and crashed her lips against his.

---

As the month dwindled to an end, Grace settled into something of a rhythm. Her days were now spent juggling classes and homework, sitting beside Myrcella Rosier during meals (they had entered a tentative, shaky acquaintance after Grace bent her pride and offered an apology), and memorizing copious amounts of information about the Order's operations. She had been very excited to join Vance and Dumbledore on their quiet but determined quest to undermine You-Know-Who, not necessarily because she would finally find some legitimacy in what she was doing but because she ached for some sense of stability and order. The new year had started on a particularly sour note, and it had only continued to curdle. She was looking forward to no longer being worried, to having someone else worry for her, to simply do and be done with it.

But she found that her newfound safety was painfully boring. Most days, her espionage seemed more of an extracurricular class than a real, tangible effort to end the war. She threw some effort into her classes, but she wasn't very interested in scrawling notes about cross-species transfiguration or nonverbal charmwork, much to Slughorn's growing dismay. She thought she would be able to endure Myrcella's company because it had been something Vance asked her to do, but, truthfully, her resolve was slowly slipping away. She spent nearly all her meals at Myrcella's side, hoping this show of loyalty might convince her to confide in Grace about her cousin and uncle's pursuits—but, so far, she had nothing to show of it. (Most of her time with Myrcella was wasted on empty gossip and scathing criticisms about the Ministry.) The late-night sessions with Vance should have been more interesting, but the majority of the time was eaten up going over new information about Death Eater activity and what sort of tidbits Grace could feed to You-Know-Who about the Order if asked. Due to Vance's 'no paper' rule, Grace frequently found herself reviewing material from previous sessions in a manner so studious and determined it surprised even herself. Regulus, who was used to this sort of rigor from his obsessive study routine for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, took to this particular flavor of espionage like a fish to water, but Grace ached for something more dynamic. Despite her protests, she enjoyed dueling with Vance at the end of their sessions, but the chances of ever applying those skills were slim to none.

She flounced into the Come-and-Go Room after a particularly tiring hour of dueling (she was beginning to wonder if the constant memorization was having some sort of effect on her nonverbal spellcasting, because she had been performing worse than usual this past week) and shrugged off her invisibility cloak. The Room had produced a bed as soon as she entered, and she splayed out over the sheets, sighing in comfort as she sunk into the soft mattress. She had knocked into Vance's bookcase while trying to dodge a spell, and her shoulder still didn't feel quite right.

"More dueling?" Regulus asked.

He was at a little library section the Room had conjured up for him, hunched over a table with his leather-bound notebook, a quill, and an inkpot. Dumbledore, to Grace's irritation, had charmed Regulus's notebook so that the contents would be unreadable to anyone but the owner. Apparently, unlike Vance, he held no worries about charms being broken or reversed.

"Yeah," she groaned, sliding up the bed to get into a more comfortable position. She cupped a pillow in her hands and hugged it tightly against her chest. "Did you finish your notes?"

"I'm almost done," he promised. The end of his owl feather quill bobbed furiously in the air as his hand fled over the paper. "You can keep talking, though."

"I don't really have anything to say. It was sort of just a run-of-the-mill night—except I almost got caught by Filch on my way here. He saw a part of my hand through the invisibility cloak. I think the charm on it is starting to wear off."

Regulus didn't look up from his writing, but she could tell he was listening. "Yeah," he nodded. "Mine's almost worn. We'll have to ask Snyde to get new ones."

"That's irritating. It's only been a month. Our family cloak still works, and it's been centuries."

His hand paused for a half-second. "That's impossible."

"It's true," Grace insisted. "It's been in our family for ages, and it's never stopped working—not even once. Merlin, what I'd give to have it instead of Mercer's cheap one."

"Your parents were probably redoing the charms every year."

She blinked in surprise. "Merlin—you really think so? I hope they taught James, because otherwise that cloak's going to stop working soon…"

Regulus finished penning down his last word with a flourish and looked up, beaming in Grace's direction. "Okay, I'm done. Do you want to tell me what you covered now or later?"

This was honestly the toughest question of the night. She was tempted to relay what she had gone over with Vance later, because that would mean they would get to snog now—but it would also mean that Regulus would be thinking about what all else he had to write down while they were snogging, and that wasn't very enjoyable.

"We can start now," she said rather despondently. Regulus straightened his quill in his hands. "The only information I had on my end was that Snyde wasn't making much progress with Crouch's son. Vance wasn't very interested in that, though."

"Neither was Dumbledore." He rolled his quill between his fingers in thought. "I suppose he thinks there's no point in worrying about it since Crouch's son is at Hogwarts and all. But I'm worried that if Snyde doesn't make any progress and Crouch's son stops being seen as a viable option to get rid of Crouch, then You-Know-Who is going to take some drastic measure."

"Yeah… Not to mention, Vance managed to out some of You-Know-Who's spies in the Ministry, and Crouch isn't even bothering with trials anymore. You-Know-Who's probably angling to get rid of him by any means possible at this point."

Regulus's brows furrowed with concern. "Right—but we don't know exactly what he might do."

"Snyde might," Grace pointed out. "He's been reporting to Lestrange."

Regulus let out a low groan of annoyance. "Merlin… I'm going to have to chat with him after Quidditch practice, aren't I?"

"At least you don't have to listen to Myrcella's 'revolutionary' thoughts about how the Minister is a bumbling fool."

"Fair," Regulus said. His quill hovered over paper. "Did Vance have anything to say to you, or did you just talk about Snyde?"

"No, Vance mentioned some stuff. We talked about Greyback a bit. Apparently, You-Know-Who's convinced Greyback to join him. The Order's sent someone to infiltrate his lot so they know what he's up to—but I'm not allowed to reveal that, obviously. If You-Know-Who asks about Greyback moving forward, I'm only allowed to say that Greyback is absolutely devoted to the cause."

Regulus's scribbling came to a halt. He glanced up at her. "Is he actually fully devoted?"

"I think so. Based on what Vance said about their spy, he seems to be."

"Salazar…" he said, resuming his writing. "As if it wasn't bad enough that he had more than two dozen dark witches and wizards at his beck and call—now he's got werewolves, too."

"Funnily enough, Vance said the same thing."

He snorted. "Anything else?"

"Nothing new. We just recapped the Head Auror ambush. Atkinson is alive and well. His family's being kept in a safe house under assumed identities. I'm not allowed to tell—fuck—!"

She shot up from the bed as a searing pain climbed up her left forearm. She ripped up the sleeve of her robe and saw the Dark Mark sitting against her skin. It was the usual snake and skull, but it seemed much more vibrant now, darker than usual, the black ink shifting and rippling over her skin. The snake traveled into the skull, burning across her skin as it did so.

"What?" Regulus said, alarmed. He'd dropped his quill and was making his way towards her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Is—is your Mark burning?"

His right hand rubbed at his left forearm absently. "No—is yours?"

"Yeah," she said hoarsely. "That means he's calling me, right?"

The color bled out of Regulus's face. His lips were pinched together tightly. "Yeah, it does, but…it can't just be you…"

"Maybe he wants me to See something for him?"

"Maybe," he said, but he remained worried all the same.

The lazy and light-hearted atmosphere vanished in an instant. Regulus hurried to cap his inkpot and shoved all his materials into his knapsack. Grace took her invisibility cloak and tarot cards, and the two hurried over to Vance's office. Luckily, she was still up, cleaning up the mess she and Grace had made earlier while dueling.

"You two should definitely not be seen together after hours," Vance commented dryly as the duo hurried inside.

"It was an emergency," Grace explained quickly. She thrust her forearm out and lifted the hem of her sleeve. The burning pain had receded into something less intense. It was more like a prickle climbing over her arm now. "He's calling for me. You-Know-Who. Not Regulus—just me."

Vance dashed behind her desk. The rubble she had been levitating dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. She rummaged through her drawers for something, finally pulling out a tube of lipstick.

"I doubt he suspects you of anything," Vance said busily. "I was thorough in making sure any of the information given to Crouch wasn't linked back to me—which means it hasn't been linked back to you. The more likely explanation for this is that Voldemort requires some divinatory advice. With your information and the Order's cooperation, we've managed to throw a wrench into his latest plans. He might be rethinking his strategy."

Grace was nodding along vigorously. "That makes sense."

"If he asks why his spies have been found out, what will you say?"

"They acted suspiciously, which their colleagues took note of," she recited. "Rookwood didn't hide his Dark Mark properly. Mulciber was hiding case files related to other Death Eaters."

"Good," Vance said. She was bent over her desk, muttering spells over her lipstick. "If he asks why the ambush on Atkinson failed, what will you say?"

"Death Eaters were poorly organized, allowing Order members to overwhelm them. Atkinson had a direct Floo connection to the Auror Office, which Aurors used to get to his house."

"Good. If he asks where Atkinson and his family are now, what will you say?"

"Atkinson is living in a temporary room in the Auror Office. His family has fled the country."

"Good." Vance pocketed her wand and dashed forward. "Time is of the essence, so I won't question you on anymore—unless there's something you're particularly doubtful of?"

Grace thought back to her previous sessions, trying to recall if there was anything Vance hadn't been very clear about. "Er…"

"Do you want to take a look at my notebook?" Regulus offered.

Vance threw him a sharp glance. "What notebook?"

"It's nothing," Grace said immediately. If Vance found out about the notebook, she would almost definitely chuck it into the fireplace—and Regulus would probably burst into tears at the sight. "I don't have any doubts."

Vance nodded in approval. "All right, then you're set. You'll need this, of course."

She opened her hand towards Grace. Resting in her palm was the silver tube of lipstick. Grace squinted at it.

"No offense, but I don't think lipstick will be any good against You-Know-Who," she joked weakly.

Vance gave her an unimpressed look. "It's a Portkey."

"That makes more sense."

"The Ministry provided it to me so that I could teleport out of Hogwarts. It's keyed into my touch, but I've redone it so that it'll work for you. Hold it and say 'Hogsmeade,' and it will take you to a little area beyond the Shrieking Shack. Say 'Office,' and it will take you back here. Now, you cannot use this in the presence of the other Death Eaters. Portkeys are only authorized under the Ministry, and they will be suspicious if they see you use it. You must Apparate from Hogsmeade to Malfoy Manor, and then back to Hogsmeade after it's over. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Vance handed over the tube. Grace held it tightly in her palm. Her eyes glanced over Vance, and then to Regulus, who was looking a little green now.

"I'll be back soon," she told him quietly.

He nodded stiffly. "I'll be waiting."

"Good luck, Potter," Vance said, watching her expectantly.

"Thanks," she croaked out.

Her heart was thundering against her chest. She had never been more prepared for this. She had never been more knowledgeable, more supported. She thought she ought to feel less anxious than this, but she didn't. Worry clouded over her. Distantly, her mind flashed to that first meeting, the shadows of the room, the pain of the Cruciatus as it splintered her body.

Her hand tightened around the lipstick. "Hogsmeade."

The magic of the Portkey tugged at her, pulling her into a whirl of atmosphere and pressure. In a matter of seconds, she was gone.

---

She arrived in the undergrowth surrounding the Shrieking Shack, heaped amongst the shrubs and bramble. She rose shakily, dusting a few stray leaves off herself and fixing her flurried hair. She slipped Vance's tube of lipstick into her pocket and took a deep breath before Apparating directly to Malfoy Manor.

She appeared on the dirt path leading to the front door. The manor glowed under the serene moonlight. To her surprise, she was not the only one making her way to the house. There were other Death Eaters ambling and grumbling along. She recognized most of them from the last meeting she had attended. She could see Rabastan Lestrange, who was walking alongside a few others, clearly now. He was tall and heavyset, with a broad face and dark, close-cropped hair. He had given something of an arrogant air at the previous meeting, an impression that, even amongst the various pure-bloods and high-ranking Ministry officials masquerading as Death Eaters, he was better. But tonight that haughty aspect was nowhere to be seen. Just like Grace, he seemed to be unnerved by the sudden meeting. Others were, too. A thick atmosphere of worry and confusion hung over the lawn of the manor.

Grace blended into the crowd easily. She wrapped her cloak tight around herself and kept her head low as she rushed through the twisting hallways. She was ushered into the same meeting room, a spacious area with a dark oblong table in the center. A few candles flickered in the far corners of the room, providing a weak light that did almost nothing to combat the dark of the night. At the head of the table was You-Know-Who, pale and still as a snowdrop. Death Eaters bowed their heads in reverence as they caught sight of him and hurried to find a seat at the table.

Grace skirted along the edge. She was having a hard time keeping her hands still; her fingers knotted into each other nervously. If this was not some private consultation about the future, what could it be? As she traveled along the length of the table, she found an empty seat. The witch beside it, a woman with pasty skin and stringy hair, caught Grace's eye and gave a chilling smile. Grace decided to move on, hoping to find a Death Eater who wasn't a raving lunatic to sit beside. Thankfully, she spotted Avery taking a seat further down. She bounded forward and took the chair next to his, shrinking down against it, trying to keep herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. She felt Avery's gaze land on her for a moment, but he didn't say a word.

Minutes piled together as more and more Death Eaters filtered in and slowly took their seats. Once it seemed that everyone was here, You-Know-Who glanced at the door leading into the room and, without raising a hand, forced it to close. He looked back to the table. His red eyes dragged across every member sitting with him. He didn't speak. Silence sunk into the room. It was heavy, stifling. Grace didn't dare breathe.

"My Lord," Bellatrix began after a moment, either out of foolish bravery or concern, "it is an honor to be called here tonight—"

He didn't even glance at her. He continued to survey the room steadily. "I am displeased."

"My Lord," Bellatrix tried again, "you have only to name what is troubling you, and we shall—"

"What is troubling me," he began slowly, "is how incompetent the majority of you are. Macnair and Rowle, you failed your mission to convince Greyback. You proved how sparingly I can depend on you. And what did I do? Did I punish you?"

"N—no, my Lord," Rowle said.

"No," he agreed. "I did not. I was fair. I accompanied you and delegated successfully with Greyback. Despite your misgivings, I allowed you to continue to communicate with Greyback on my behalf, and what happened then?"

"My Lord!" Macnair burst. "He is a savage with no respect for—"

In an instant, Macnair's words were stolen from his mouth. He gaped and griped noiselessly for a moment before sulking and settling back into his seat.

"What happened is that you failed me," You-Know-Who said severely. There was a cold rage roiling off him. "Too many of you have failed me. Dolohov, you attacked Crouch's Head Auror but were not able to kill him. Carrow, you were told to negotiate with the giants, but now you tell me they will not join us unless we allow them wands. Rabastan, you suggested we use Crouch's son against him, but it appears he may be of no use at all. And, as if this were not disappointing enough, I learn that both Mulciber and Rookwood have been found out. Do you know where they reside now?"

No one said a word.

"Macnair, you were so talkative a moment ago—will you not tell us where my two best spies are now?"

You-Know-Who undid the Silencing spell. Macnair shot Rowle a worried look before reluctantly stuttering out, "A—Azkaban, my Lord."

"Yes," he said. "Azkaban. And do you know how they got there, Macnair?"

"I—I do not—"

"What about you, Dolohov? Do you know why Mulciber and Rookwood have been caught?"

Dolohov chose to stay silent. You-Know-Who's eyes roved past him, settled on Death Eater after Death Eater, probing and brimming with terrible wrath, before finally landing on Grace.

"Potter?" he asked. "What do you have to say about all this? You must have Seen this, after all. You must have Seen their capture."

"My Lord," she began desperately, "the future is never truly set. It is sometimes impossible to predict specific events. I could divine why Mulciber and Rookwood were—"

"You could divine the reason why Mulciber and Rookwood were found out," You-Know-Who said with mounting incredulity, "but not that they were going to be found out?"

She winced, unsure of what to say.

"I do not need you to divine why my followers have failed so profoundly. I need you to divine when they will fail, so that I may stop them. Do you understand this?"

"Y—yes, of course, my—"

"Do it now."

She stared at him helplessly. "Do…?"

"Divine when I will be failed next. Divine who it will be that fails me. Divine the cause and the aftermath. Do it now."

Grace pulled her tarot cards from her pocket. She almost wanted to laugh at her luck. Of course—of bloody course—he wouldn't ask about Greyback or Atkinson or anything she had actually covered with Vance. The best she could do now was consult her cards and give him some diluted version of the truth, specific enough to tide him but still too vague for any direct action to take place.

Just as she passed the cards between her hands, You-Know-Who let out a stark, chilling laugh. Bellatrix joined in immediately, her own shrill, mocking laughter intermingling with his. Other Death Eaters let out a few hesitant chuckles of their own. Grace glanced over the room, at a loss.

"I should have known you would fail me next," You-Know-Who explained once the laughter calmed. There was a ghost of a smile lurking at his lips, but he didn't seem genuinely humored. He seemed intrigued about what might happen next. He seemed to be aware of something Grace wasn't, and that fact alone delighted him immensely. "I seem to recall a moment when you proclaimed you had true Sight. Am I remembering this incorrectly, Potter?"

She swallowed thickly. "No, my Lord."

"So, you are a Seer with true Sight."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And you are the protégé of the most famed Seer of our age. Is that right?"

A trickle of dread ran down her spine. "Yes…"

"And yet you require tarot cards to make any definitive assumption of the future, and, from what I recall, even then you fall short."

"The medium is very—"

"The details do not interest me, Potter. As far as I am concerned, you are here to serve me. If you cannot carry out the task I have given you, then I shall give another. This, I think, is rather fair. If you cannot be used for Seeing, then you should make yourself useful in other areas." He seemed faintly amused. "A pest has found its way into the house. Why don't you kill it for us?"

A faint furrow appeared between Grace's brows. "What sort of pest?"

You-Know-Who's gaze left her and settled on a nearby wizard. "Lucius, I believe it is time our guest joined us."

A blond-haired man sitting beside Bellatix raised his wand and pointed it up at the ceiling. With one quick slash in the air, a body thudded down from the ceiling. Grace jumped in her chair, the legs screeching back across the floor. She stared at the table with a mixture of horror and shock. Moaning with pain was a badly injured man. Singe marks and bloodstains were scattered across his robes. He had been bound with thick coils of rope, and his head had been covered with a burlap sack. He tried to ease himself up, but another Death Eater shot out a spell, and more rope bound him to the table.

"Lucius very cleverly found an Order member skulking around the property," You-Know-Who said coolly. "I was going to interrogate him afterward, but I doubt he will reveal anything of value. It would be best if you were to rid us of him now."

Grace couldn't tear her eyes away from the man. Her mind was buzzing. Vance had never said Order members were stationed in the vicinity of Malfoy Manor. Perhaps You-Know-Who was lying. Perhaps he was testing her. Perhaps this was some random Muggle he had plucked off the street. Her eyes skimmed over the fallen man, to the only peek of flesh she could really see: his hands. They were raw and blistered, bloody from scratching wildly at the ropes. There was something about the look of them, something about the frenzied clawing, that fighting spirit, that made her wonder…

Could this be James?

"It is a simple spell," You-Know-Who said, voice silky and serpentine. "You must know it. Avada Kedavra. Go ahead."

But it couldn't be James. He wouldn't have allowed himself to be captured. He was quick and clever. He would have managed to get away. He was better than these people. He had to be better than these people.

Her eyes flickered up to meet You-Know-Who's gaze. His eyes burned into hers. His lips were curved into a cruel smirk. This was more than a test of loyalty. This was more than an opportunity to rid themselves of an enemy. This was a punishment.

Her hands fisted into her pocket, curling tightly around her wand. Her head was ringing. She thought she might vomit. She tried to recall something of use from Vance's lessons, but it had all been information about Ministry dealings and Order tactics. They had discussed torture and murder at You-Know-Who's hands on occasion, but Vance had advised Grace to go along with it, to play the part she had to play for the greater good.

But this couldn't be good. How could something so awful contribute to goodness?

"Kill him." Each word came out slow and measured. He was losing patience.

She slipped her wand out. Her eyes flashed towards You-Know-Who. One spell, and she could get him. She had seen it before, that flash of green light, the emptying of the eyes, the carefree fall of the body. One spell, and she might be able to get out of this.

But there were more than two dozen Death Eaters in this room.

Her hand trembled. Thoughts sped through her mind at the speed of light. She could touch the Portkey and transport herself back to Hogwarts, but that would mean being found out. That would mean exposing herself and Regulus.

"Potter." It was a warning. It was a command.

She raised her wand at the man. He was thrashing against the table, pleading with a muffled voice. James would never beg. This couldn't be him. It couldn't be him, because she didn't want it to be.

"Avada—" But it might be. It might be him. He might have been tricked. He might be pleading for Lily's life instead of his own. "Ked—kedavra!"

A short spark of green erupted from the end of her wand and promptly fizzled out. The fact that she managed to produce any light at all was so horrifying that she dropped her wand with a jolt. Laughter echoed across the room, rough and callous.

"Perhaps you require practice," You-Know-Who mused.

"I—I—"

"Pick up your wand."

She dropped to the floor. What was she supposed to do now? How could she get out of this? You-Know-Who was upset with her because she could not See, not the way he wanted her to. But the twist, of course, was that she could. She had Seen flashes of the future before, but they had all been fleeting, too swift and slippery for her to latch onto, too strange and surreal for her to understand or remember.

She spotted her wand by the front leg of Avery's chair, but she didn't want to grab it. She didn't want to use it ever again. Her heart shook against her ribcage. She was afraid for that man up on the table. More than that, she was afraid for herself. She did not know if she could kill him. This was her second chance. You-Know-Who did not think she could See, so he was asking her to kill. But what if… What if she did See something? What if she managed to pull out a prophecy? Would he call this off? Would he be so distracted and pleased he would forget all about that Order member?

Of course, she didn't know how to See like the Seers of old. She couldn't sit still and breathe in hallucinogenics like Mopsus until something in her clicked. She had missed the event that naturally acclimated the Inner Eye for others afflicted with Seer's Snag—and that had been Vablatsky's fault, because she had closed Grace's mind off to herself. Vablatsky had taught her Occlumency without her knowledge, and now Grace was beginning to think she would never be able to See unless she forced a fist into her own head and shook her Inner Eye open.

Her eyes widened by a fraction. Wait a minute… Why hadn't she realized it sooner? If what Vablatsky had taught her—still the waters of your mind, keep your thoughts calm and clear—was meant to close her Inner Eye, then the opposite might open it. If Occlumency cut her off from her Inner Eye, then Legilimency might connect her to it.

She grasped at her wand and, while still huddled under the table, pressed the tip of it against her forehead. She had no idea if this would work, if this was even the correct course of action, but if she could bridge the gap between herself and her Inner Eye, if she could induce a prophecy, then she might be able to distract You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters long enough that the Order member could get himself free and escape. And, even if this proved to be an absolute failure, it might knock her unconscious, so she wouldn't have to be a part of this situation anymore.

Her eyes fluttered to a close. The tip of her wand dug into her skin. In the softest voice, she whispered, "Legilimens."

The spell worked its way through the surface of her mind. Legilimency was not meant to be performed on its caster; it didn't make any sense. Grace half-expected that it wouldn't even work, but it did. It felt vaguely like she was watching herself through a layer of glass. And as she reached further into her mind, more and more layers were added. Deeper and deeper she went, until she could hardly see herself anymore, until whatever lay at the center of her mind was so blurry and distorted it was as if she were seeing nothing at all. Still, she dove deeper, pedaling forward until she reached some strange gap in herself. It was as though she had reached a large chasm between two cliffs. The side she was on was one she was intimately familiar with. She had grown with this side, these feelings and thoughts and memories. The other side, a large expanse of rock jutting out of the darkness, was utterly unfamiliar. Although it was a part of her, too, she had never been there. She had never visited. She had come close many, many times. But she had never thrown herself far enough to actually get there—until now.

She hurtled off the edge, reaching for the other side. She was in two places at once: crouching under a table at Malfoy Manor and falling through a roaring darkness. She felt these two realities acutely, could hear the questioning murmurs of surrounding Death Eaters as she stayed still, could feel the wind whistling all around her as she fell further and faster. Cold air bit into her skin. Her hands stretched out and finally, impossibly, hit the hard plane of this other side of herself. It hurt to collide here. It hurt to be blown into the future. She was dragged into it by some powerful, unrelenting force. She could feel herself losing grip on her senses—sight, sound, and touch wavered in and out, like a signal dying out, like something in her was shifting focus.

She blinked, and the world she knew unraveled.

.

.

.

There was a terrible heat. It rose and ballooned, clinging to Grace. She was still ducked under the table—except there was no longer a table. It was open air, light striking her from a clear sky. She whirled around. This couldn't be real. She knew it couldn't because it had only been a second ago that she was at Malfoy Manor, scrambling under the long ebony table for her wand. The world she found herself in now certainly couldn't be real, but it was. The dirt underneath her hands was real: loose and soft, crumbling through her fingers.

She rose unsteadily. The courtyard she was in was destroyed beyond recognition. Rubble and debris clouded the area. Parapets and turrets had come tumbling down. Distant trees had caught on fire, the smoke and the heat rising ever higher, clouding and smothering all those who were near: witches and wizards, young and old alike, fighting against one another. Jets of red and green light sailed through the air. Hollers and screams filled her ears.

This was a battle. The final battle. The one that would end the war. She didn't know how she knew it; she simply did. She knew it like she knew every line that crossed her palm. She knew it like she knew every image pressed into her tarot cards. She knew it like she knew her own heart.

.

.

.

"As the solstice approaches, so, too, does the fate of the Dark Lord's soul…"

.

.

.

She blinked, and she was transported—still in the same position, hands hanging limply by her sides, mouth partially agape, but now in a different place. She was in a well-lit, comfortable room. It reminded her of the parlors of Malfoy Manor, but this was far more pleasant. It was crowded with plush chairs and round tables. There was a large, rolling blackboard pulled along one wall with papers and tactical diagrams stuck along its front and back.

This room was meant to hold a large group of people, but now there were only a few. She recognized Dumbledore in an instant, with his long silvery beard and bright blue eyes. He was seated at the head of one of the many small tables, hands steepled together. He seemed rather at a loss. Directly to his left was Vance, dark hair tied back messily, looking similarly let-down. The last person was one Grace didn't recognize: a grizzled man with a wooden leg hobbling up and down the room. In place of his left eye was a magical prosthetic: large and electric-blue, it whizzed about in its socket.

They were fed up, these three. They were searching for something with no luck. But they would not give up. They would find what they were looking for no matter the cost.

.

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.

"What youth hid will not be touched, but what is to be hidden will be plucked…"

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.

.

The scene changed in an instant, just as Grace was getting her bearings. She was brought to another location—this time a dark and damp cave. Murky, deep grey lake water lapped at the interior of the cave. In the distance was a small island with a golden pedestal, but Grace couldn't quite make out what it held. She was further back, in a boat with You-Know-Who.

He was dumping bodies into the lake: the dead he had collected from his followers. One by one, they fell into the water. Grace winced at each splash. She was not sure why he needed this many corpses, but she knew what this cave was for. It was a hiding place, one You-Know-Who had picked out with great care and caution, one that he would secure and fortify as well as possible—but it would not matter. It would still be breached.

.

.

.

"By the bold, the chain shall be stolen…"

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.

.

It was still dark, but she could breathe fresh air now. The moon was a slight crescent in the sky, shedding little light over the grassy hillside. Grace climbed up, compelled by some force beyond her, and saw a harried Peter Pettigrew running for his life. He had been hurt very badly. There were scorch marks littered across his tattered robes and an awful gash had been made across his arm. But, still, he ran.

And just beyond the hilltop, much further away, she could make out three cloaked figures. Among the shadows, they seemed little more than specters.

.

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"By the loyal, the book shall be torn…"

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.

Light flooded her eyes. It was so bright and dazzling that her eyes watered at the sudden change. She rubbed at her face quickly and swung around, finding that she was now inside Gringotts. It was the middle of the day. Goblins were milling about, minding their own business—when, suddenly, they weren't.

The doors were burst open, and in walked Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange. Many of the goblins behind the counters abandoned their post. Only one unlucky clerk, not fast enough to go on break, remained to take care of the customers.

Bellatrix walked in with a straight back and a steely gaze, thundering into the bank. She seemed less wicked than she usually did; her eyes didn't shine with their usual cruelty. Instead, they seemed full of determination. She strode in, surging forward with surprising strength and vivacity. Her husband lounged behind, taking his time. Just as the doors were beginning to close behind him, he turned his head back, caught sight of something across the road, and smiled softly.

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"By the unloved, the cup shall be taken…"

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.

She was back at Malfoy Manor—but it wasn't the same place she had left. She was in a completely different room, a hidden room, the one where she had been initiated into the Death Eater fold. There were only a few people here now, You-Know-Who and a few of his most loyal followers: the Lestranges, Malfoy, Mulciber, and on. They all cowered before him.

Mulciber was trembling at You-Know-Who's feet. "My Lord, forgive me!" he pleaded. "Mercy—please, my—"

You-Know-Who let out a cry of outrage. He pulled out his wand, a long sliver of yew wood, and pointed it right at Mulciber's head. "CRUCIO!"

The screams seemed to go on forever. They echoed around the room, earsplitting, bloodcurdling. You-Know-Who did not let up until Mulciber's voice gave out, cracked clean in half and receded into nothingness. He lifted the spell, then, and allowed Mulciber to slump to the floor, unconscious. He raised his head and gave the others a chilling look.

"Enough of this," he hissed. "We will take him head-on."

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.

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"But the Dark Lord will overcome this…"

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She was back in the destroyed courtyard. The din of fighting forces surrounded her, growing ever louder. The sun beat down on her heavily—until it didn't.

She lifted her head and found, to her growing horror, that the sky had been covered by a blanket of thick black. An onslaught of Dementors rippled across the sky, snuffing out the light. Fear wound itself around her heart, digging itself deep inside her. The cries of the fighting wizards and witches faltered and fell, replaced by panicked screams and loud chants of the Patronus charm.

This was the final battle, and You-Know-Who was well prepared.

.

.

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"He will take to the last bastion of opposition…"

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.

.

She was somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. The Death Eaters had set up a temporary camp here. Higher-ranking followers patrolled the area while You-Know-Who rested on a throne of his own conjuration. At his feet was a large snake. It raised its head and reared towards You-Know-Who. He ran a hand along its spine. A peek of a smile appeared at his lips.

.

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"And accept what is to be…"

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.

.

The same visions repeated. She was transported back to the blistering heat, debris raining down all around her, curses and spells whizzing past her. Then came that old hardbitten wizard pacing across the parlor floor, wooden leg thudding against the floor. Then back to the cave, splash after splash as corpses hit the water; back to the hillside, Peter Pettigrew huffing and panting as he ran for his life; back to Gringotts, Bellatrix Lestrange lunging forward with little to no restraint; back to the screams, to the Dementors clouding the sky with dark terror, to You-Know-Who and his pet snake.

These scenes twisted all around her, warped into one another, until they seemed to be the only thing that existed. She could feel her voice escaping from her, rasping through a mouth that wasn't her own. It belonged to something bigger than her, greater than her. It burned through her, that voice, those sights, searing across her lungs and throat.

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"On the solstice…"

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It kept going, over and over, the heat and the screams and the rippling black as it overcame the sky. On and on, until it didn't hold meaning anymore, until it was weightless, just empty sight after empty sight.

.

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"The fate of his soul will come to pass…"

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Her vision became little more than shadow, a deep and echoing darkness with no end.

It swallowed her whole.

---

She awoke in a room she did not recognize. She had been laid in a large bed with velvet sheets and silver hangings that had been pulled aside. A low light flared from a hearth across the foot of the bed. The room was decorated with precious trinkets: small marble statues, decorative crystal balls, an elegant timepiece made of twisted gold. To the side of the bed was a lounging chaise. Seated on it was a nonplussed Castor Avery. He had taken off his cloak and was hunched up on the very edge of the chaise, passing some paper-backed cards through his hands. It took Grace a moment to realize those were her tarot cards. Avery must have collected them for her.

She eased herself up and looked to him sharply. "H—"

She broke into an abrupt and immediate barrage of dry coughs. She realized only now how much her throat hurt. It felt as though it had been scraped raw, like she had screamed at the top of her lungs for hours and hours before her voice finally gave out on her.

Avery raised his head. The firelight lit his hair like burnished copper. "There's a goblet of water on the bedside table."

She glanced over, and, indeed, there was a jewel-studded goblet with water. She grabbed it and drank greedily, savoring the cool reprieve the water granted as it swam down her aching throat.

As she finished and set the glass aside, Avery rose and handed over not only her deck of tarot cards but her wand as well. "Here you are."

"Thanks," she said, slipping both items into her pocket.

She looked up and found Avery studying her intently. The two stared at one another for a moment. There were a great many questions stuck at the base of Grace's throat, but she didn't know how to ask any of them. She wanted to know if what she thought had happened had actually just happened. She could remember, still, those visions. They were emblazoned into her mind. Even now, she could feel that heat clustering over her, hear the din of those wizards as they warred, the rubble falling all around them. She had said something, too. She remembered a voice that certainly wasn't her own tearing itself from her mouth, but she couldn't recall what it had said.

"How long have you been able to do that?" Avery asked before she could question him.

"Er—do what?" she said, pretending to play stupid.

Exasperation clouded over his face. "Do what you did in there—pull out a prophecy from thin air."

All pretense dropped from her face. "That was a prophecy? Like—a real one?"

"Salazar," Avery muttered. "Yes, that was a prophecy. I gather this was a surprise even to yourself?"

She didn't care to answer that question. "How long has it been? Where am I? Why are you here?"

"You're—it's only been about twenty, maybe thirty minutes," Avery said, looking a bit bewildered by her harried state. "You collapsed, so I took you to one of the manor's guest rooms."

"Only thirty?" Grace repeated in wonder. Her fingers skirted over the edge of the velvet sheet. She could feel the fibers brush against her finger, but it didn't feel any more real than those visions had. "It felt like an eon."

She felt unusually tired. It was similar to the aftermath of a paroxysm, but none of the tremors or aches were present. She felt perfectly fine, just drained, exhausted. She had only just awoken, but she would have been happy to go back to sleep.

Avery gave her a strange look before shaking his head and gesturing at her. "Come on—we ought to go back to the meeting now that you're awake. He'll want to talk to you."

"Why?" she asked immediately. She hefted herself of the bed and tentatively took a step forward. The press of her heel into the wood felt real, too. "About the prophecy?"

"Possibly," he shrugged.

"Was he—" she hesitated for a moment, "—was he pleased by it?"

Avery went quiet for a moment. Grace glanced at him worriedly. She ought to know what she'd be entering into.

"I don't know if he's pleased or not," Avery admitted after a moment. "At the beginning, he looked interested. You mentioned him by name, so of course he'd be. And then you went a little further, and he seemed sort of taken aback… And then, well, you mentioned those objects—book and cup and all—and he seemed angry—angrier than I've ever seen. He looked like he might kill you. Shortly after that, you collapsed, and a sort of stunned silence followed—which was swiftly interrupted by Bellatrix—" he rolled his eyes, "—who took it upon herself to interpret your last few lines as something of a good omen. 'The Dark Lord will overcome this,' is what you said, I think. She took it to mean guaranteed victory."

Grace's stomach turned. "Does he think so, too?"

"He seemed intrigued by the possibility. I don't know. I was more concerned by the fact you collapsed onto me."

"Oh, er, sorry—"

He waved her apology away. "It hardly matters. Honestly, I wanted to get out of the room anyway."

"Right…"

He was striding forward. Grace followed after him. She had forgotten what she had been trying to accomplish with this stunt, but, at the very least, there would be no more questions about her. She ought to have been happy with just that, but she wasn't. Avery's words pricked her. Something of a good omen. Had she prophesied You-Know-Who's victory?

She stalled by the doorway.

Avery glanced at her sharply. "What is it?"

"It's just…" She shut her eyes furiously. Behind the cavern of dark, she could still make out those echoes of the future. She could see the rubble of the courtyard, feel the chill of the cave, hear the hiss of that snake. "I said he'd overcome all that? I said he'd win?"

"You said he would overcome whatever was in his path, not that he would win." He squinted at her. "Have you ever heard of Eridanus?"

"Er—no? Is he a friend of yours?"

"He's been dead for a couple of centuries now, so no. He was a magical theorist and a bit of a skeptic—but a strange one. He didn't doubt the practice of Divination, but he doubted the people who bought into it. He thought everyone got it wrong, that prophecies weren't some great scraps of the future that historians and Seers ought to waste all of their time debating about. See, the brunt of famous prophecies are recited during times of upheaval, when the outcome is questionable. Most people think that's because the prophecies serve as a warning: that they're trying to prevent the more undesirable outcome. Eridanus didn't think so. He believed the purpose of a prophecy was to ensure the future. That's why they're all so ambiguous and worded trickily—so people will obsess over them, so people will actively try to stop the events in the prophecy from coming to pass and, in doing so, accidentally ensure that they pass." Avery stopped and sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that… You shouldn't think too hard on what you said. No one should. You'll drive yourself mad. What's meant to pass will come to pass."

Grace had mostly been allowing Avery to speak without quite listening to him. She would have liked very much to simply forget her visions and her prophecy, but that wasn't very likely to happen. They were steadfastly stuck in her mind. They were a part of her mind. She could not think of anything without thinking of those visions.

They entered the shadowy hallways of the manor and soon arrived at the door of the meeting room. From just beyond the door, Grace could hear You-Know-Who in mid-speech.

"…have not revealed my plans. For this, I shall reward them. For this, I shall free them. Too many of our ilk have been detained. We will convince the Dementors to join us. We will raze the prison to the ground."

Death Eaters turned to the door at the sound of it creaking open. Grace walked in, huddled tightly against Avery's side. You-Know-Who's speech came to a halt, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers. She ducked her head, looking over to the side, where she saw the Order member slumped against a wall. He had been unmasked, and Grace could see clearly now that this was not James. The man before her had a head of shaggy dark hair, which fell messily over his face, intermingling slightly with the shadow of his beard. Dark splotches of purple and red littered his face. Thick gashes lined his arms, tearing through the flimsy material of his robes. He had been tortured relentlessly in Grace's absence. She could not be sure if he was still alive. He had been thrown to the floor, crumpled, his head lolling pathetically against his shoulder. The sight should have provoked a more visceral reaction in her, but it didn't. She saw this man, lying dead, or as near to death as one could possibly be, and she felt immeasurably weary.

"Ah, Potter," You-Know-Who called when he saw her step out of the shadows and into the drawing room. There was a tinge of pride in his voice, as though he had done the hard work of Seeing instead of her. "Macnair and Dolohov were eager to attend to our guest in your absence, but you may finish him off if you so desire."

Disbelief leaked into Grace. She took a step back, knocking into Avery's elbow with her own. How could murder be both a punishment and a reward? "I—I—"

"She's still weak, my Lord," Avery interceded smoothly.

You-Know-Who's lips pursed. His crimson eyes traced over Grace's slumped form. "Very well," he said at last. "Macnair?"

It was like the last time she had seen the Killing Curse in action: one quick flash of green, and he was gone. What little life was left had fled, and the body tumbled forward, empty and exhausted. Whoops and hollers filled the air. Grace didn't feel as though she were entirely there. She followed Avery into the seat beside his and sat down shakily, trying to stamp down those last few tremors. Her throat felt hoarse and torn, as though the prophecy had crawled its way out of there, scraping along her vocal cords. She pressed a hand under the edge of the table, but its weight and solidity did nothing to assure her that this was real. That vision had felt real, too. That heat had been real. She could touch the rubble. She could feel the splash of the lake water.

At the head of the table, You-Know-Who turned his head to the side and let out a low, strangled hiss. Then, as if he'd done anything at all, he returned his attention to his followers and began to finish up the meeting with a few closing remarks. From the foot of his chair, some enormous, hulking creature unwrapped itself and spread out. A snake rose from the shadows and darted forward. Its dark scales glinted under the sparse candlelight. Grace watched, transfixed, as it unhinged its jaw to feast on the corpse.

This was the very same snake from her vision.

---

She arrived in Vance's office just as the grandfather clock struck one.

"Ah," Vance said, glancing up from her desk. Her feet were kicked onto the edge. She was leaned back in a chair, flipping through an old edition of the Prophet. "I was getting a bit concerned—"

"I made a prophecy," Grace burst, rising from the floor.

She hurried to Vance's side and tossed over the tube of lipstick. Vance caught it and set it on the table. She dropped her newspaper and rose, brows furrowing as she took in Grace's distraught expression.

"What do you mean?" Vance asked slowly.

"I—there was someone You-Know-Who wanted me to kill—there was, oh, Merlin—" her wide eyes roved over Vance, "—there was an Order member! They caught an Order member. Found him by the manor or something—I don't know exactly—and You-Know-Who was displeased and—and—I was trying to figure out how to get out of it all, so I made a prophecy—"

"Slow down, slow down," Vance interrupted, putting her hands atop Grace's shoulders to steady her. Her dark eyes bored into Grace's. "Look, I don't understand what this is all about. Can you show me?"

"Show…you…?" she repeated weakly.

"Pull out the memory. I've got a pocket Pensieve."

"Er—yeah, okay," Grace babbled, fishing out her wand. "Yeah, I can do that."

It would be better, too, for Vance to simply see what had happened. Grace wasn't entirely sure how to explain herself. She raised the tip of her wand to her temple, took a deep, slow breath, and began to pull the memory from her mind. A thick strand of silver clung to her wand as she moved it away from her forehead.

Vance opened the pocket Pensieve in front of Grace, and she dropped the memory within. It swirled and curled like smoke.

"Go ahead," Vance said.

Grace leaned forward and stuck the tip of her nose into the small receptacle. In a matter of seconds, she landed in the room she had been in mere moments ago: large and spacious, a long table stretching along the center. She was nearer to the head of the table, where You-Know-Who sat, and could see his snake curled along the legs of his seat. It had been there the whole time.

Vance appeared beside her and straightened her robes. Her eyes, hardset and analytical, swept across the room. Grace could almost see the mental catalogue building in her mind as she took in every face in the room: Macnair, Dolohov, and onward.

"There," Grace said, pointing at the man groaning on the table. He had only just been dropped. Past Grace was staring at him with a haunted expression hanging over her face, wand clutched tightly in hand. "That's the Order member. They caught him—" she whirled around and spotted the pale-haired man beside Bellatrix, "—he found him. Lucius."

Vance strolled towards the man. Just like Grace, she examined his hands. "It's Benjy Fenwick," she said quietly. "Ever since you informed us Malfoy Manor was housing Voldemort, we assigned him to tail Lucius Malfoy. He must have gotten too close tonight."

"Potter," You-Know-Who ordered.

Past Grace's hand shook as she recited the spell. "Avada Ked—kedavra!"

The same weak burst of light appeared. The wand was dropped to the floor. Past Grace followed it, scrounging under the table.

"He wanted me to kill him," Grace explained. It had only been a moment ago. She could still feel the terror of it. "But—but, of course, I couldn't. I tried to think of what to do. You-Know-Who was upset I didn't predict Mulciber and Rookwood would be caught, so I thought, maybe, if I predicted something else…"

"I thought you couldn't See?"

"It's not that I can't," Grace said uselessly, "it's that I shouldn't. That, and… And, well, I didn't exactly know how to, but then I realized something and…"

Past Grace rose from underneath the table. She didn't seem herself. Her eyes were glossy, glazed over. Her wand had fallen from her hands, rolling across the floorboards, long forgotten. Avery had clearly realized something wasn't quite right and had a hand half-out, hesitating, as though he couldn't quite tell if he was supposed to stop her or not. The others appeared confused; a few were raising their wands. You-Know-Who stopped them.

"This…" Grace began with furrowed brows, "this isn't right. It changed. Everything changed. I didn't see any of this. I saw something different: a mountain of rubble, and it was hot, and—"

Vance was still pacing through the memory. "The Pensieve doesn't show what you remember: it shows what was. It shows what your mind and body experienced. Somewhere, in your mind, you noted all this, but, in the moment, you could only focus on something else."

"Right, okay, but how do I show you the other—"

"As the solstice approaches, so, too, does the fate of the Dark Lord's soul…" Past Grace interrupted. Her voice was not at all what it was supposed to be. It was harsh and hoarse, a rasp that was flung outward with reckless abandon. "What youth hid will not be touched, but what is to be hidden will be plucked… By the bold, the chain shall be stolen… By the loyal, the book shall be torn… By the unloved, the cup shall be taken… But the Dark Lord will overcome this… He will take to the last bastion of opposition and accept what is to be… On the solstice… The fate of his soul will come to pass…"

Grace was watching You-Know-Who carefully and could see the emotions Avery had noted as well: a brief intrigue followed by mounting rage. She could not be certain if he was angry with her or the future. Perhaps it was both.

Past Grace finished and collapsed onto Avery. The memory was consumed by darkness, and, soon, Grace and Vance were standing in the office again.

They both stayed still for a moment. Vance seemed to be going over the prophecy herself, trying to unravel the meaning.

"So," Grace croaked out, "that's what happened."

Vance simply nodded and conjured a small vial. She picked the memory from the pocket Pensieve and dropped it into the vial. Grace looked around the office, feeling overwhelmed and withdrawn all at once. She realized, for the first time, that Regulus was no longer here.

"Where's Regulus?" she asked once Vance pocketed her vial.

"I sent him away once it hit midnight. He said he'd be in some room."

"Oh, all right—"

"What happened to Benjy afterward?"

She swallowed thickly. "Oh. Well. I came to sometime later, and when I went back to the room, he was… They killed him. Someone—I think it was Macnair."

"I see," Vance murmured. If she was sad to hear this, she certainly didn't show it. Her face rearranged itself into a careful calm. "And the prophecy… When you say 'the solstice,' do you know if it's winter or—"

"It's summer," Grace said immediately. She remembered that heat clinging to her skin. "It's definitely summer. I could feel it."

"This summer? Or could it be years from now?"

"I don't know… I don't think it's a long while from now, though. I saw some Death Eaters. They didn't seem much older."

"Are there any other details? Anything that might help elucidate the prophecy?"

She thought back to the visions. "There was—oh, there was you, Dumbledore, and someone else—a wizard with a peg leg—in a room surrounded with plans. You were trying to find something, but I dunno what. There was a cave that You-Know-Who was throwing bodies into. Could be his murder cave. And there was Peter Pettigrew—he's my brother's mate—and he was running. He seemed to be in trouble. And there were the Lestranges, Bellatrix and Rodolphus. And… And there was just a lot of fighting. A battle. Between Death Eaters and, er, our lot, I suppose. And—oh, Dementors! There were Dementors. And You-Know-Who mentioned something later, in the meeting, about getting Dementors on his side and getting rid of a prison. I think he might be planning on breaking his Death Eaters out of Azkaban."

Vance seemed to have a hard time swallowing all of this information. She gave a jerky nod. "I see… Well, I'd best get this to Dumbledore. It seems there is a lot we must prepare for."

Vance turned to leave, but Grace stopped her.

"Wait, hold on!" she said. "What do I do next time?"

Vance stopped and glanced back at her. "What do you mean?"

"The next time he asks me to kill someone," she explained. "What do I do?"

Vance seemed momentarily surprised. Her dark eyes skimmed over Grace. "Next time, Potter," she said lowly, "you kill them. The cost of your morality was not worth Benjy being tortured for thirty minutes before dying anyway. If you are asked to kill, then kill. It'll be a more merciful death by your hand than Voldemort's."

Grace stiffened. "But—"

"You are not a savior, Potter. You are a spy. What does that mean?"

"But what if it were—"

"What does that mean?"

She grit her teeth. "It means I stay quiet and look on while my enemy laughs in my face."

"And, sometimes, you will have to laugh with them. This is war, Potter. There will be casualties. Benjy knew what he was signing up for." A shadow passed over Vance's face. "We'll miss him. Of course we will. We'll miss him and we'll mourn him, and—in the morning—we'll get back up and win for him."

---

It had been a week since that night, since Benjy Fenwick died, since the prophecy. It was mid-afternoon now. Grace was in the Forbidden Forest, shepherding third-year students together as Kettleburn bounced from shrub to shrub excitedly, pointing out various small insects and rodents.

She sat under the shade of a particularly stout, knotted tree, gaze flickering over the horde of third-years lazily. Sophia was chatting pleasantly with a few of her fellow Ravenclaws. Preston and Golightly were daring Green to put a salamander in his mouth.

"Oh!" Kettleburn shouted out, hobbling towards a stray branch. "I think I can spot a bowtruckle up there! Can one of you lot give me a boost?"

"Er—" a thirteen-year-old Gryffindor glanced at his friend, "—I suppose we can try?"

As the students grunted and heaved Kettleburn into the tree, Grace leaned back and let her eyes flutter shut. Although not much had happened this past week, it had certainly not been quiet or peaceful. Vance, for the first time, allowed Grace to use paper to write down every detail of her visions. From what she could gather, this was to be passed on to Dumbledore so he could decipher her prophecy. She had thought Dumbledore might meet with her to discuss what she had Seen in detail, but he did no such thing. According to Regulus, he hadn't brought it up at all. She supposed Dumbledore thought they needn't worry about the prophecy—something Regulus agreed with. He didn't care about the prophecy, just that Grace was the one who gave it. He was worried about what repercussions this might have on her mind. As Vablatsky had written in her journal, opening the Inner Eye for one afflicted with Seer's Snag could lead to crippling madness. Grace was not unfamiliar with this. She had done her own research on this, after all, and she did not feel particularly insane. She felt perfectly fine—or as fine as anyone could be in her position.

A shrill cry brought her out of her reverie. One of the Gryffindor girls was batting away a strange creature that had ventured out of the depths of the forest. Grace frowned at the sight of it: dark and inky, it strode forward with great leathery wings and a skeletal, reptilian face, nudging the young girl out of the way. She had never seen this animal before.

"My, my!" Kettleburn remarked with surprise, pushing aside the teenagers attempting to boost him up the tree. "It seems we've entered Thestral territory! This is absolutely wonderful. I've got some raw meat on me somewhere—"

A few students began to clamor to Kettleburn to get some meat. Many others were swinging around the clearing, complaining that they couldn't see anything at all. More and more Thestrals were emerging from the treeline. They seemed to be traveling in a herd together. One of the younger ones ambled towards Grace, stopping just short of the shade.

"So, that's what you look like," Grace murmured. "You're smaller than I thought."

The Thestral simply stared at her. Grace summoned a scrap of raw meat from the pile Kettleburn was producing and lifted her hand out towards the creature. It sniffed cautiously before lumbering close and pushing its snout into her palm. With one quick, wet swipe of its tongue, the scrap of meat was gone. The Thestral stepped back, gave Grace one final, solemn stare, and then galloped away to rejoin its brood. The pack straggled amongst the students, some avoiding the young wizards and witches stringently, others softly nudging the children out of the way. They seemed rather calm and quiet, all things considered. Grace had always thought Thestrals would be much more uppity. Death, she thought, could make you paranoid, so wouldn't the Thestrals be aggressively suspicious? But she knew better now. She had seen death. She had seen that poor Auror fall. She had seen Benjy Fenwick's body go still. Death was not some loud, earth-shattering moment. It was painfully dull. It happened in one quick moment, and the world spun on in spite of it. Grace had imagined it to be so much more. She had imagined herself at the forefront, fighting and fending off Death Eaters. She had imagined herself saving lives by sneaking information. She had imagined it would be louder than this, something like those brave, shining moments James got at Hogwarts: when he managed to score an extra goal against all odds and the stands cheered and cheered, hundreds of voices shouting so loudly that even the sky seemed to rumble and shake.

But what she had was not anything like that. Her moment had come, and it was dull and worn, a quiet, relentless thing. She wanted it to end.

---

A/N : I'm not sure *when* Voldemort got a hold of Nagini. It might have actually been after he died the first time, but I sort of need Nagini in this, so…she's here. Also, with the memories/visions sequence last chapter, Dumbledore can see Grace's memories but cannot see the visions of the future. That's something only Grace can see. While he's delving into her mind, there are these brief moments where something lines up and Grace can see a glimpse of the future as it relates to whoever's going through her head. This is meant to connect Legilimency to Divination, and Grace fully discovers that connection in this chapter!

Thank you all for faves, follows, and reviews! Truly love reading what you have to say! :)

Mars : ahhh, love reading what you have to say! Your review (especially "BOOM 200!") made *me* smile! Oh, yes, Regulus has been crushing on Grace for a while. If Sirius hadn't run away the summer of his 4th year and thrown his whole life into utter chaos, he probably would have gotten together with Grace in 5th year. But Sirius did run away, so while Regulus became more withdrawn, Grace got closer to Davey Gudgeon. (And ofc Reg tries not to show it because he is a proper, polite boy but oh man does he *hate* Davey Gudgeon.) Thanks for reading and reviewing!

RandomReaderRawr : Yay for the bird! I love that you liked the Albus/Gellert and Regulus/Grace thing; I labored over that whole sequence of memories and visions the most.

"Grace loves Regulus, Regulus loves Grace, and I love them" Thank you! :')

I honestly get so shocked and happy every time you theorize about what's going to happen next because it's usually *so* spot on and I just love that you're paying such close attention to the story, thank you! Also, no need to apologize for choppiness/errors, I love reading what you have to say!

Yes, the chess scene was the basis for the first time Regulus conjured his Patronus (a nice flashback to the good old days). Thanks for the music recs! Totally agree, "Dark Tree" by Carlos Cipa absolutely adds another layer of sadness to Chapter 10. Also love "Nuvole Bianche" (I feel like it fits well with the more tender Grace/Regulus moments); thank you for recommending it to me! I listened to it while editing this chapter LOL

Eupheremi : I'm so, so glad you enjoyed the Grindelwald & Dumbledore stuff! Honestly, I only watched the first Fantastic Beasts movie and not the second, but I heard the second one didn't really address Grindelwald and Dumbledore's relationship, which is pretty disappointing. This story won't be getting into Grindelwald, but I thought I'd just throw in a splash of him LOL.

Dumbledore isn't talking to Sirius or Remus in that "I loved a man once, too" scene BUT boy oh boy have I been trying to figure out wolfstar man… I do adore Sirius/Remus but I don't want to shoehorn it in, you know? And I've sort of dug myself in a hole since Sirius & Remus experienced a rift in their relationship after the Snape prank (hinted at in chapter one), which led to a distance between them, which begins to lead Sirius to believe Remus is the leak. And now I'm sort of left wondering how on earth Sirius is supposed to come back from all that LOL. I've been trying to figure it out, and their reconciliation will either happen "off-screen" or I might just address it in the sequel? We'll see. Anyway, thank you for reading and reviewing!