A week later, with Leah's every letter more and more agitated and upset, Aurora decided to host her and Gwen for the night. She and Gwen had both decided their friend needed a break from the stress of her own household, and after a lot of pleading with Leah's mother — who it seemed, was terrified by the prospect of her children being out of her immediate grasp — convinced her that Leah would be perfectly safe at Arbrus Hill, which already had maximum security around it for Harry's sake.

"There's always an Auror around," Aurora's dad told Lady MacMillan in the living room at half past five when she brought Leah through the Floo. "I'm here, and well-healed; the wards are extensive, and we have multiple Aurors on call in case anything happens. I promise — your daughter will be safe." He reached a comforting hand out to Lady MacMillan, who tensed at his touch. "I'll protect her and Gwen like my own."

Aurora knew he meant it. "You had better," Lady MacMillan said in a clipped tone, "and Leah, you know to call for a house elf if you need to make an escape — I assume you allow for elf Apparition?"

"I can make the alterations, if you'd like." Lady MacMillan nodded. "If it would make you more comfortable, you're welcome to stay for dinner with us, too."

"Oh, Merlin," Leah muttered so only Aurora and Gwen, at the side of the room, could hear, "please don't, that's so embarrassing."

An amused smile pulled at Aurora's lips, as she put her arm around her shoulders. "No," Lady MacMillan said after a moment, "no, you're right, Mister Black — thank you. I'm sure Leah would prefer some independence from her mother." Her smile was tense and forced; the way her gaze flickered to Leah, Aurora could tell she just wanted to cling to her. "You behave yourself," she added to Leah, who straightened up quickly, "I don't want to hear you've been causing any trouble — goodness knows Mister Black has enough to deal with around here."

"It's Sirius," Aurora's dad reminded her gently, which was the wrong thing to say. Lady MacMillan gave him a sharp, admonishing look.

"Keep your manners in mind," she told her daughter, "and get a good night's sleep, and don't forget to do your hair properly before bed, I know what you're like—"

"Mum—"

"—and you'll not have any of that silly sparkly nail polish on." Aurora curled her own fingernails into her palm, hiding their glittery purple. "Or any red."

"It's really not…" Leah trailed off, at her mother's stare. "Yeah. I know. I'll be on my best behaviour."

"Alright. Good." In a breath, Lady MacMillan crossed the room and pulled her daughter into a tight hug. "I love you, darling."

"I love you too, Mum," Leah said softly, so that Aurora almost couldn't hear.

They broke apart quickly, stiffly, and Lady MacMillan gave a brief nod. "What time shall I collect Leah tomorrow?"

Aurora's dad shrugged. "Whenever Leah wants, really, we've no plans."

"Well, she won't overstay her welcome. How is eleven?"

"Oh," Aurora interjected, "I thought it might be nice for us to do something during the day tomorrow. The weather's meant to be nice — I was thinking we could go for a fly, or a walk."

Lady MacMillan raised her brows. "Perhaps. Only if you're sure it's no problem, Mister Black?"

"Not at all," he assured her, "I'm more than happy to host Aurora's friends as long as they want."

Lady MacMillan nodded, reluctant, and turned. "Well — thank you very much for your hospitality. How does one o'clock sound tomorrow? I shan't have you burdened with lunch, too."

Aurora could tell her dad wanted to protest, but held his tongue. "That sounds perfect," he said, walking her to the Floo. Leah bumped Aurora's arm and started shuffling towards the door. "I'll see you then — have a good evening, Lady MacMillan."

"Sweet Merlin," Leah muttered once her mother was engulfed in the Floo, and the three of them were hurrying into the hall, "she won't stop fussing."

"She's worried about you."

"Well, obviously! But she'd wrap us all up in cotton wool and keep us trapped in the Fort for the rest of our lives if she had her way, no matter how miserable it made us!"

Aurora and Gwen exchanged glances. "And are you miserable?" Gwen asked, and Leah turned by the staircase with a withering look on her face.

"Yes," she said bluntly, "I am. Aurora, where actually is your room?"

She blinked, and seized the conversation change, "First floor, on the right — the left door is Harry's, do not go in there, it looks like an absolute pigsty."

"Boys," Leah muttered, marching up the staircase. Aurora and Gwen looked at one another again, their gazes sharing what they both thought; Leah was desperate for an outlet for her emotion, but didn't know how to find it. And things were worse than they thought.

She should have been more attentive, Aurora thought. She knew how Leah felt, she had been there herself, and had wanted to just scream, about everything, all the time. Leah needed that, too.

Once they were safely in Aurora's room, the door closed behind them, she took Leah and Gwen's bags from them, put them in the corner by the dressing room door, and said, "I made an itinerary for this evening."

Both girls looked at her like she was mad, which she expected. "Dinner is to be just before six, so before that I say we have a standard catch-up session. Afterwards, we can do the face masks and the nails, and I nabbed my dad's record player so Gwen can put on some Muggle music."

"Oh," Gwen started, "we — we don't still use record players." Aurora and Leah stared at her, wondering what else could possibly produce music.

"What do you use?"

"Well, the good stuff's all on CDs now, really. I showed you this, did I not?"

"You showed me a CD," Aurora said slowly, "but I thought that just meant a shiny record."

Gwen let out the same sort of sigh McGonagall did when her students blew up a chair for the fifth time instead of mastering a new spell. "They're completely different things."

"They're both round," Leah said. "Professor Burbage said they're the same thing."

"Jesus Christ. It's fine - I brought my Walkman."

"Your what?"

"It's — you'll see. Anyway, we can listen to my music, yes. I got this new single that's been on the radio, I think Leah'll like it."

"And me?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You're a bit too boring for it."

Aurora gaped at her, feigning offense. "For the last time, Mozart is not boring! And, I do like modern music. I like Queen! And ABBA!"

"They're not modern music. They're so old now."

"Okay, well, I like the Weird Sisters."

"They're really different to the Spice Girls. But anyway, it's not that deep." She turned to Leah and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Spill, girls. What's the gossip?"

Neither of them said a word. Gossip had taken on a new meaning, bloated by scandal and charge and bloody murder. Eventually, Aurora said, "My cousin was sort-of friends-with-benefits with old Professor Lupin and he dumped her and now she's been moping all summer."

There was a moment of silence before Leah spluttered, broken from her stupor, "What the fuck?"

"That's what I thought!"

"He's so old!"

"That's what I said!"

"You didn't say that," Leah said in an admonishing tone, "surely?"

"I did! It's true. He's my dad's age."

"God, he is, isn't he — and how old's Dora?"

"Twenty-four. Which is, I suppose, older, but in a grown up way, not an old-old way. Although my dad isn't that old, but he's still my dad, so that's old-old enough. Anyway, Remus is being a twat. And Molly Weasley keeps trying to set her up with people and she's really miserable about it, and I think that must be why. She's not around much, really. I think she's avoiding my questioning. And Remus and my dad aren't talking, probably for the same reason." She declined to mention her dad going rogue with Kingsley, and Remus' disagreement.

"Hm." Gwen sat back, bored with the lack of detail. "I didn't think Dora'd be the type to get all mopey over a guy."

"She's not," Aurora said, "that's why it's so weird. My dad's worried about her, I think, too. I don't like it. I don't know if he knows it was her and Remus, though — I would've thought he'd go mental. But then again, they're not really talking anyway."

"It might not just be a relationship thing," Leah pointed out, voice slightly harsh, "everything that's going on is pretty shit, especially if you're an Auror. People care about boys too much." She folded her arms. "We're all better off without." Neither knew what to say to that. "Sally-Anne's been talking about boys non-stop every time I see her. She's been with Tracey and Clarissa a lot — I can't stand them — and it's all boys and drama and kissing and snogging and I can't stand it, so let's not talk about that, alright?"

Aurora and Gwen exchanged confused glances. But, Leah was struggling. Whatever she said, that was what they'd go with. "How is Sally-Anne?" Gwen asked tentatively. "Other than the boy thing?"

Leah rolled her eyes, and sighed. Her gaze fell to the duvet covers, which she ran between her fingers. "Good. I think. I don't know — I think she's getting a bit fed up of me, to be honest. Mum won't hardly let me out the house so I've been a bit boring. I haven't got any good stories to tell, and Sally-Anne's got so many — she's been all over the place, her brother's getting into Magizoology, so he's taken her on some trips to get her out the country for a while. She was in Finland last week, looking at some sort of ice dragons."

"Lucky her," Aurora said coolly. She wished she could escape this place.

"She's doing well though." Leah took in a deep breath. "She did really well in the O.W.L.s — passed everything."

"What did you get, in the end?" Gwen asked, curious. "I've been trying to figure out what everybody in our year got. Obviously Theo and Aurora are at the top of Slytherin, Robin did surprisingly well—"

"You two still speak to Theodore?" Leah asked, voice sharp as she lifted her head to stare between the two of them. Gwen faltered.

"I — well, he's Robin's best mate. He's not having the best summer either, by the sounds of it."

Leah scoffed. "Poor thing," she said, pulling a face, and looked at Aurora. "I suppose you've seen him?"

Aurora blinked at her, taken aback by her tone. "No. Other than at Merlin's Day, and very briefly in the Assembly chamber — no. We haven't spoken."

Leah narrowed her eyes, disbelieving. "Right." She remembered, then, how Leah was a lot more observant than she let on; the knowing glances that had been shot towards her and Theo in the common room when they were too close, distracted by one another's presence. Leah wouldn't say anything to the wrong people, she knew that. But the thought of Leah knowing, and the way she was looking at her now — as though it were a stain on Aurora herself — made her feel cold inside.

"Robin says he feels awful," Gwen started, "about everything that happened. And you know how he hates his family—"

"Yes," Leah said sharply, "because of his mother and how they treated her. Don't imagine he cares much for their morals if it doesn't affect him."

"That isn't fair," Aurora cut her off, anger pulsing in her chest. "It isn't Theo's fault—"

"You would defend him."

"I'm only saying — forget it. Let's talk about something else." She wanted Leah to be able to tell them about what she was going through, but the thought of hearing her say all those horrible things about Theo, with that resentful tone, made something like shame burrow under her skin. "Have you heard anything about dance club this year? They'll be looking for a new choreographer now Nella's left — I bet they're looking at you."

"Nella did say she was going to recommend me to Marianne," Leah said, voice still stuck. "But I don't know if that will really happen. I've been thinking of things — choreo ideas — but I'm a bit stuck, to be honest. I don't know if I want to be in dance club."

"You do," Aurora told her firmly, refusing to believe that Leah meant that, or that stopping dancing would be at all beneficial for her. "It's hard, but it'll come — and your choreography last year was brilliant." Leah didn't look convinced, but tried for a smile.

"I don't know. It seems a bit silly, worrying about it, and every time I try dancing it just kind of — I don't know. I'm not feeling it right."

"You will," Aurora said, "eventually."

Leah sighed. "Maybe. I don't know. I just — I don't want to just do this for the sake of it. There are more important things."

"Rory!" her dad's voice cut through the air from downstairs. "Girls, dinner's ready."

Aurora sighed. Leah seemed to brace herself, as though expecting a fight from the dinner table — but it was a pleasant meal. Her dad was much better at dealing with the fragility of Leah's emotions than she was, sidestepping awkward lines. For the first time that day, Leah seemed to really relax, gliding around the issues of earlier.

When they returned upstairs, though, she retreated into herself again. As Aurora and Gwen picked out nail polish colours, she watched on with a distant curiosity, face pinched. "I can take it off tomorrow morning, you know," Aurora told her, holding up a turquoise bottle. "Your mum doesn't need to know."

"There's no point painting my nails just to take it off again," Leah said with a shrug. "It's fine. She doesn't want anything to stain my nails — it's not appealing, and we've got that dinner with the Vaiseys on Saturday night. I can do a light pink, though. Maybe."

"I'll give you a full French, manicure," Gwen said, hopping onto Aurora's bed with a dry cloth, holding three bottles of nail polish. "You've still got that clear glittery stuff, haven't you, Aurora — your mum'll barely notice."

"I have," Aurora said, glancing over from her cosmetics basket, "but don't do it on the bedsheets, Gwen, you'll stain them."

"Right, yeah." Gwen swung herself and Leah around, placing Leah's hands on the bedside table. Leah's face froze when she did so, startled at unusually tense, though Gwen did not seem to notice. "Why's your mum being so funny about nail polish — if you don't mind me asking?"

Leah bit her lip, catching Aurora's eye. "She just is. It's one of those things. It's just a bit frivolous, especially at the moment, and she doesn't want me to look... Well, unpolished. But a French manicure will be fine. She might even like it. We've got this dinner on Friday night — Aurora's coming, too, aren't you, to the Vaiseys'? There's a few of the other lords, all of them seem to want to whisper in Ernie's ear, and he's easily flattered." She shot Aurora a look. "I'll need you to get me through it." Aurora was dreading it, really, a whole evening of trying to smile and say the right thing and not raise her voice to Lord Abbott when he said something stupid — which was often. The only bearable part would be Leah's company, if she could have her in a good mood. "She'll want me properly turned out for it, that's all."

"Hmm." Gwen frowned. "I mean, I guess I get her point, but it seems a bit overkill. It's only nail polish." She shook up the bottle of undercoat, before taking Leah's hand in her own and starting to paint. Aurora, finally finding the polish remover and the new shade of midnight blue she had been looking for, joined Leah on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs.

"It's not just nail polish," Aurora defended to Gwen. "It's a whole aesthetic, isn't it?"

"I think it's stupid," Leah muttered. "She just wants me to look perfect so everyone thinks she's coping and she can get me married off before I cause her more of a headache."

The words came out in a flurried rush, yet pointed enough that she had said them before, or heard them. She stopped abruptly and glared at her nails. Aurora and Gwen exchanged glances. "That sucks," Gwen said lamely, and Aurora wanted to reprimand her, but didn't know what else could really be said.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice strained.

"She actually said it, too," Leah said, pushing the words out, "that I'm a headache. She's giving me a headache, but fancy me trying to say that to her, I'd be turned out the house. Ernie says I'm to just do what she wants 'til she's better."

"And what does she want?"

Leah shrugged, and Aurora grimaced as Gwen fumbled, coating her left thumb in nail polish. "Merlin knows. For me to just keep on like I've always been and find some nice pureblood boy to marry me and ignore all the ways I'm awful and annoying and unladylike and take me off her hands and maybe, if she's lucky, win Ernie some political credit, since he's making such a complete twat of himself on his own."

"I don't think he's making a complete twat of himself," Aurora said, but it was the wrong thing to say; Leah fixed her with a harsh look.

"He is. And I have to listen to his whining about it, too, and it's exhausting, because I know I could do better, or at least come up with some decent ideas, but of course, he's the boy, so he's automatically got to be better than me, and I'm just to smile and pretend to fancy some stupid boy who probably doesn't even use soap when he showers all for his sake."

Aurora and Gwen both winced. "You shouldn't have to do that," Gwen agreed boldly, "it sounds like a load of bullshit to me."

"That's because it is bullshit. I'm never going to love any of the boys she wants me to meet, and I doubt I'll ever like any boy I'm forced to be around all the time."

"You should do something about it," Gwen told her, looking between Leah and Aurora, "like, actually do something about it. You can't do that in the Muggle world anymore, just force someone to get married, and if someone tried to tell me I couldn't do something just cause I'm a woman, my mum would tell me to kick them in the balls. Yours should too."

"My mum would never support something so unladylike," Leah said, staring at Gwen. "It doesn't matter anyway — I just need to try and make her happy."

"Why?" Aurora asked.

Leah gave her a pointed look. "You know very well why."

"Yes, but — won't she understand? If you talk to her? She seems fairly liberal."

"Normally, yeah. She isn't being rational. It's so frustrating, because they had this whole plan for me. My father said I could stay in school, because he wants — wanted — his daughters to be well-educated—" Her voice trembled over the words "—but she doesn't want me to go back because she says Hogwarts isn't safe, but then I'll just be alone! I'll have to be this grown up lady, and start courting and I really can't stand the thought of being just someone's wife!" Her voice reached a high pitch, warbling, her cheeks pink. "But it's what he planned." And her voice fell, to a faint, broken whisper, her eyes shining, and she let out a soft sob, crumpling. Aurora and Gwen surged around her, nail polish forgotten, clinging to her shoulders as she shook. "Guys, I'm sorry, I don't want to cry and ruin the night—"

"You're not," Gwen assured her.

"You're so not," Aurora agreed, patting her shoulder, "it's okay, Leah."

"I know I should be doing better now," she said, "I'm trying, but I'm not."

"You don't have to be," Aurora told her, "really, you don't, Leah."

"Mother is, Ernie is—"

"Are they?" Gwen asked, holding close, "it doesn't sound much like it. And even if they were, doesn't mean you're not allowed to still be grieving."

"The rest of the world's moved on," Leah muttered, "there are more and more deaths and even more disappearances and Mum could be next, or Ernie, or Louise, or either of you! It could be anyone, and it just isn't fair, is it?" She had gone pale, Aurora realised, breathing deeply like she was trying very hard not to be sick. She gripped her hands tightly. "It isn't fair."

"I know," Aurora said, thinking perhaps they could leave the nail-painting portion of the evening for another time. "It isn't. But it's going to get easier. You're going to be able to remember how to breathe again, somehow, even though it doesn't feel like it, yeah? And whatever happens, after, you know — you know he's proud of you, no matter what?"

"That's the thing," Leah said, shaking her head, "I don't know if that's true."

"It is," Aurora told her, because she needed Leah to believe it, so then she might believe it, too. "You're going to get through this, Leah. We're going to help you, aren't we?"

"We are," Gwen said quickly, clinging to Leah's hands, "promise."

Leah just sniffled, wiping her eyes with a tissue off the bedside table. "I know. I know, everyone — everyone keeps saying it's going to get better. I know I should let it but. It's just not." She took in a shaky breath, then forced a smile. "I'm going to be alright. Mum says I have to be happy, because if I don't make myself happy then I'll just keep being sad, so, that's really the only reason she let me come here, so I'd better try, right?" She let go of Aurora's hands, but her own were still shaking.

"Come on," Gwen said, wiping tears from Leah's cheeks, as she forced a smile. "It's going to be okay. Aurora, how about we try face masks instead, before nails?"

"Yes," Aurora said, pushing Leah's hair back behind her ear, giving what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "And put on something happy on whatever your running man thing is, alright?" She looked to Leah, who gave a hesitant, nervous smile. "Yeah. We'll do that. And it'll be okay, won't it?"

Leah didn't look or sound like she believed it, but still she said, "Yeah. It'll be okay."

Leah did not talk about her dad again that night, though Aurora partly thought she needed to; she just didn't know what she and Gwen could do or say to help her through it, other than say they understood. It was infuriating; Aurora knew exactly how hollow her words would ring, how tiring it was to hear the same sentiment echoed over and over again, but she couldn't herself seem to find the right words for Leah. It made her feel rather helpless, which was becoming something of a trend these days.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Gwen softly snoring from the foot of Aurora's bed, she woke to the sound of stifled, gentle sobbing over on Leah's side. She turned, seeing her friend curled up and burrowed into the blankets, eyes open and shining with tears.

"Leah?" Aurora whispered, reaching out across the gap between them, missing the tops of Gwen's toes poking out from beneath the blanket. "Are you alright?"

Leah sniffled and shook her head, blankets rustling around her. "No. I'm just — I just need a cry, it's fine."

"Do you want to go into the dressing room and talk?" She didn't want to wake Gwen; Gwen would fuss and it would worry Leah more, she knew, if it became a bigger deal.

"No, no, it's fine." Aurora nodded, and reached over to her bedside table for a tissue, passing it over in silence. Leah wiped at her eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise."

"I keep crying, at night. As soon as it's quiet it's like it's all my head can think of is how much I miss him and how awful the world is going to be."

"I know," Aurora said, squeezing Leah's hand. In the darkness, the frown on her face was barely seen, but Aurora hoped she saw it lighten a little. "It's okay, you know. To just cry about it."

Leah nodded, sniffling. Gwen let out a loud snore, and despite her tears, Leah let out a small giggle. "Does she always snore like this?" she asked in a whisper, and Aurora nodded.

"Every night. I'm far too used to it by now. She'll never accept that she does, though."

Low silence fell between them. "Do you want to talk?"

"I want to sleep," Leah said, a note of irritation in her voice, "but I can't because then I start crying again and my head just won't stop."

"I can bore you to sleep if you like," Aurora offered, and Leah laughed through her sniffles. "I'm good at it. I'll tell you all about Arithmancy and Ancient Runes and the origins and functions of Alericade's hex-lattice, and you'll drift off in no time."

Leah laughed, but then sighed and said, "Actually, would you? It might distract me just enough. But try not to wake Gwen."

"That's near impossible, don't worry about her. But yes, I'll do my best — I've already had to write a whole essay on it for summer homework. So, I don't know if you know much about Alericade, but he was this seventeenth century philosopher, which for the muggles seems to have meant exactly that, he just thinks about anything he wants and a lot of people believe him just because he's a person who's known for thinking about things — and he was a wizard, we think, but presumably muggleborn because there's no hint of the rest of his family being wizardkind, or of him integrating into the magical community..."

She rambled on and on, filling in things that were really mere speculation in a whisper, until the sound of Leah's breathing steadied, and Aurora could trail off, watching her friend's eyelashes flutter as she drifted into sleep. With a sigh, she took the tear-stained tissue from Leah's clenched fist and tossed it into her bin basket, then lay her head back down on the pillow, frowning. It was so unfair, she thought, that Leah was suffering so, and that it seemed she was not getting nearly enough of a chance to get that out at home, or even to have anyone properly commiserate with her.

She just hoped she could hold on until they were all back at school and the king and busy days could provide the distraction from her sorrows that she so desperately needed. Until then, Aurora felt all she could do was try and be there, and hold her hand, and hope the world would not be as cruel as they feared.