Emma groaned loudly as she was filing the last batch of reports of magical paperwork for St. Mungos that day, looking forward to quitting the hospital early that evening. She moved her neck a bit, hearing a small crack on the area of her shoulders where tension remained seated every time she was about to leave work as of late. It was not that she was busy with new cases at the hospital–on the contrary, her work remained typically, as she focused on tending to Eulalia's major patients, usually older wizards and witches with magical maladies or accidents, nothing she had not been used to, anyway.

She was actually worried because her mind was occupied with the clandestine operations of the Order. In fact, in the last weeks of the summer, she found herself immersed in the intricate web of the Order's preliminary acceptance. It had been almost four weeks since that meeting with Shkacklebolt, and Eulalia had not mentioned any details to her about any potential timeframe where she would be finally able to join the Order of the Phoenix.

It agitated her, for sure, and sometimes she doubted herself. But those thoughts were less strong than the plan she needed to follow. Pia's audacious plan to expose Black–this obsession, as Emily had called it–needed to become her own as well. She reminded herself that she needed to embrace it, but Emma also felt suffocated by her sister's demanding plans.

Pia wanted Black. But this was not Emma's goal. She had an ulterior motive for joining, yes. It was also true that she did not trust the Order either, but she did not share Pia's deep seated desire to harm Black, to send him back to wherever he was locked in for all those years. Most times, Emma actually did not know how to feel about Black. In her family's conversations about what happened to Peter all those years ago, Black was portrayed as a villain, as the unexpected traitor, and her family wondered how they had missed the signs. They blamed Black and the Order for dragging Peter into this business of protecting the Potters, this final mission that led her brother to his demise at the hands of his own friend.

But Emma also knew that Pia's bile about Black was blinded by anger and pain, and logically she also wanted to blame him, to cast as this evil agent in a tragic game of a ruined friendship. But she also felt that there was missing information. That there was something that neither Pia nor her lost parents nor herself could know–only Black knew that. And she was determined to find what it was.

She tried not to think about what his exoneration meant–she knew it was a debacle and it was taken advantage of by the Ministry's new political wave, which had overthrown Cornelius Fudge; she was not that naive. She did not believe that Black was innocent, far from it. She had a feeling that Black had harmed Peter–somehow–but was it in the way she was made to believe? Was it really by blasting up the streets and all the Muggles, and switching secret keepers? Was Peter even capable of betraying not one, but three of his friends, and their baby son?

Even though she did not tell Pia her thoughts, her real thoughts outside her sister's emotional blackmail, she was uncertain as to whether they knew the whole story. The possibility of Peter being alive meant that he was a Death Eater and he should have been in Sirius Black's place in Azkaban–this thought was unbearable to her.

But at the same time, she had a feeling that there was more to this story, this narrative of broken friendships, faked allegiances, and mistrust. And she wanted to know, she wanted to find out the truth about the brother she had, the brother who got lost when she was only a girl. Sometimes, she wondered if she really ever knew Peter, or if he was simply a phantasm made of grief and pain, an apparition she was made to believe in to cripple her senses for inquisitive thoughts.

She had agreed to Pia's plan reluctantly, but she also knew that she needed to transform this revenge plan into something generative in order to survive in this constant surveillance and the dangers of her being caught–if the Order though that Peter Pettigrew was a spy, what would they think of her, another Pettigrew, infiltrating their ranks sixteen years later? She needed to be cautious so she had stopped all communications with Pia for the last weeks.

She sighed heavily and she reminded herself of her goal, as she tapped her wand on the last pile of paperwork and the paperwork got archived in the large locker behind the Healers' cubicle she was using. With the last archive in its rightful place, she closed the drawer with a satisfying click, grabbed her bag and exhaled loudly, giving her surroundings a quick look, before walking down the hospital corridor.

As she approached the apparition point, she checked her surroundings, ensuring no one was watching. The whole Order business had rendered extra careful, as she knew she was being watched, and the occasionally shining galleon she carried with her in her pocket reminded her of this fact. In one fluid motion she exited into the streets of Muggle London, she hurried through the crowd, her senses still on high alert. She absentmindedly touched the galleon in her pocket, its presence a constant reminder of the hidden world she was now a part of. Was she being followed at this very moment? The likelihood seemed high, causing a surge of caution to course through her veins. She kept checking over her shoulder, looking for any signs of surveillance. Her body tensed up, trying to blend in and stay inconspicuous, as she kept walking toward her neighbourhood.

The fact that she was followed and watched almost every day added to this sense of inevitable unease.

At the beginning they were limited to her home, by the second week, however, Emma could spot unknown cloaked figures at her work, also. Each day at St. Mungo's, Emma walked the bustling halls, her senses acutely aware of the penetrating gazes that followed her occasionally. Sometimes it would be an older witch, whom she swore she had seen before, and she would just linger in the hallway during Emma's rounds, not asking any questions. She had flashed Emma a polite smile once and Emma had reciprocated, knowing she had to put on a performance. But even at her best days when she felt immune to this perennial watch, she had moments of panic, and a claustrophobic fear would cave in her bones.

Beyond the confines of St. Mungo's, Emma's daily routine was punctuated by more instances of the Order's careful observation. At times, she would catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the corner store, a person who seemed to appear a little too often, a little too conveniently. A knowing smile would play upon their lips, a silent acknowledgment. And the Galleon was shining and buzzing in her pocket. She always had it with her these days.

She moved quickly and entered her building without glancing at the corner store this time, as she felt that she did not have the patience to take a look at who was watching, whose round the responsibility to check on her fell into. She used her wand instead of Muggle keys because she had recently activated wards on her apartment, to be sure that she was not followed by any intruders, any enemies of the Order who might have caught wind that they were recruiting Healers. Kingsley had actually recommended it, and she had agreed to establish a simple warding enchantment, although she knew that security spellwork was not her strongest suit, as she never really needed it until now. She was a keen learner though, she always has been, although she was taken out of Hogwarts and homeschooled by Pia all those years before Eulalia discovered her at this small village community in the middle-of-nowhere.

When she entered her apartment, there was still some light outside and it was a relief to enter her own space, to relax after what seemed to be a long day of feeling a bit off. "Finally," she murdered and kicked off her boots. She placed the Galleon on her coffee table in the middle of the living room, glancing at it as it was not shining, "that's good, give me a break, won't you," she said a little unnerved. Maybe the times of surveillance were over. She hoped.

She loosened her thick French braid and curled on the sofa, summoning a cup of tea, and whisking her wand toward the kettle which started whistling promptly. She rested her chin on her knees, drawing her body closer, feeling comforted by her own skin like she would do when she was a child.

Suddenly, she wondered if her mail was being watched as well–she did not own an owl but rather borrowed one from a neighbour, as there was an old witch named Frieda in her apartment building, otherwise occupied by Muggles. She knew that it would not be wise to letter Pia about any new developments, at least not until she had officially made it in the Order and had been admitted to Headquarters, the mysterious abode.

She was really curious to know, as Shacklebolt had mentioned a house elf. She scratched her chin absentmindedly at the thought. Who from the Order could have a house elf? Certainly not Eula, and she did not peg Kingsley for a man to rely on unpaid labour of an inferior creature, consumed by magic folk and their political aspirations of superiority.

She scoffed at the thought. Her ex-boyfriend would definitely own a house elf. But he would also never join an organisation like the Order, for any reason. He had no sense of justice, and only cared about his own comfort, and social reputation. The irony.

There was something that made her deeply uncomfortable about house elves–and about wealth in general. Wealth in excess, and especially inherited and not earned by hard work. Emma's family never owned house eleves. But, really, who could have a house elf in the Order? Black, perhaps? He would fit the type, as his family was well-known in pureblood politics. Her mind swirled with the convoluted machinations of the Order and she really wondered about what else she was to learn, soon enough, hopefully.

"Stop thinking about it," she berated herself out loud as she got up to pour herself some tea from the steaming kettle. She should try to relax, she reminded herself, to enjoy her evening off in the confines of her home, away from the daily shining reminders of the Galleon which was in front of her.

But as she laid back and started to unwind, a sharp knock on her door sent her heart into a wild drumroll of panic. She leaped off the couch, snatching her wand.

"Who's there," she said in a brave voice and she cautiously approached the door, her ear pressed against the solid wood. Could it be Kingsley, or another Order member? Did they really want her to die from panic before she could even join them?

But the person behind the door would not grace her with a reply–and the knocking persisted. She decided to be wise. To cast a revelation spell–whoever it was could not–should not pass through the wards. Her hand trembled as she touched the door with the tip of her wand, her face still touching the door.

Revelio, she whispered hoarsely. In an instant, an ethereal image materialised before her, a hologram that revealed the unexpected face behind the door—a face she least expected to see.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" she exclaimed. "Shit!" she cursed again, letting her wand hand drop.

Willard Longbow, her ex, was standing outside her door, knocking loudly. He was the last person she wanted to deal with at this moment. She started to panic and considered what to do, as from his incessant knocking, he did not seem willing to leave. Her heart raced as she glanced at the table momentarily.

The Galleon was faintly shining. Shit, shit, shit, what could she do now? She wanted Willard to disappear, to evaporate into thin air, but the nagging thought of prying Order eyes witnessing this untimely meeting made her shiver.

She had to act.

With a flick of her wand, the wards evaporated. At once, she motioned the door to swing open, revealing Willard's broad grin on his face, which was a little more flustered than usual–and very much unwanted. Emma yanked Willard inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

Willard swaggered into the room."Oi," he exclaimed, chuckling a bit. That idiot. He was about to ruin everything.

"What the hell do you think you are doing here?" Emma hissed at the tall sandy haired man, whose cocksure smile was spreading all over his face now. He exuded an air of cockiness, his every movement oozing with a self-assured charm that had once captivated Emma. But now, his presence felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"What's the matter, love? Been avoiding me at St. Mungo's, have you?" he drawled languidly, examining him like a predatory animal, rounding his meal.

"Will, now is really not a good time," her voice tinged with a mix of frustration and desperation. But his smug grin persisted, undeterred by her words, as if he relished the opportunity to stir up chaos in her already complicated life.

"Why the wards, darling? Trying to keep someone out, are we?" he returned, ignoring her plea to leave. On the contrary, he was taking off his jacket, and he swiftly left it on the loveseat across the room. With a few more swift steps, two arms enveloped her and Will's lanky body pressed against hers, attempting to pull her into an embrace.

Emma felt her patience snapping. She pushed him away, her voice seething with anger. "It's none of your damn business what I'm doing or why I have wards in place! I've been busy, okay? Busy with things that evidently don't concern you anymore, so now, if you please, I have things to attend to–" she said, showing him the door, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Come one, sweetie, you know you don't mean this…," this was a too familiar plea: him being like this, them having sex, a vicious cycle.

"Will, back off , seriously, otherwise, I don't know what I'll–" she threatened him, her wand still warm in her wand, but it seemed that he was only amused by her growing irritation.

"Come on, Emma, don't be like that. What's the harm in catching up?" His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, his voice becoming softer, more diplomatic. She had to be firm, even hostile because clearly civilised conversation or logical appeals did not work with this man.

Emma crossed her arms, her patience wearing thin. "I've moved on. We're not together anymore, and I have no interest in rehashing the past. So, please, just go," she insisted. Unfazed, Willard leaned in, attempting to brush a golden strand of hair from her face, but she turned her head away silently to deter him from touching her.

He remained silent for a bit, and she hoped that he would get the message and leave, but to no avail. He strolled around her living room, running his fingers along the edge of a table. "Are you seeing anyone? Is that why you've dropped off the face of the earth?"

She stilled for a moment, and understood why he might have thought so, as she had literally stopped replying to his calls and she would avoid him around St. Mungos's. returned to him eventually, so this made him extra arrogant about it. She hoped that him being a supervisor in the Mental Ailments and Afflictions department and her being in the Magical Maladies and Accidents unit would provide ample distance between them, would resolve this tiring on and off relationship that punctuated her otherwise uneventful years at Mungos.

For a moment, she entertained the thought to tell him that she was seeing someone, but she suspected that this would not deter him from continuing his advances. So instead she just stood gaping at him, her lips parted as if she was trying to find something to say.

"Why won't you tell me why you have been avoiding me for the past month?" he pressed, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and possessiveness.

Something snapped in her again. This was not the first time they were having this conversation. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're married?" she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"That didn't seem to bother you before," he shot back.

"Well, I mind now," she scoffed, looking at him with hostility.

He stood closer to her now, but his body language was starting to falter as his eyes flashed with emotion. The great green monster was begging to come out. "Where have you been, Emma? Who have you been with?" he demanded, his tone betraying a hint of desperation. Emma crossed her arms, her expression annoyed, as she avoided looking at him directly.

"Frankly, I don't owe you any explanations about my personal life," she retorted, her voice firm.

"You can't just shut me out like this. I deserve to know," he insisted, his voice pleading.

"Deserve? Oh, that's rich, coming from the man who couldn't even remain faithful not only to his own wife," she shot back, enunciating the last words. She was wide-eyed and flustered now.

"Alright–alright, you are right," he admitted, crossing his arms now. "But this is not about Mary, is it? I mean, why would you mind now, after all this time?" he chuckled.

"I did mind before," Emma said sharply, feeling her cheeks getting hot. "It did bother me before! What we did–you just did not care about my feelings."

Willard was speechless, as if he could not understand, as if any form of ethical reasoning was trivial to him, imperceptible. Emma supposed that he was right to wonder why she dropped him unexpectedly, refusing his little notes at work, and his calls and everything. They did have a pattern, after all, for a few years now.

The fact that Healer Willard Longbow was perennially married, a respectable wizarding Healer and a bright scientific mind in society–all a facade–was part of her reasoning, her desire to stop this. It was also true that she used her anxiety about the Order business to shove this story with Willard aside, to erase what they have been. A few years ago, it would bother her, it would leave her heartbroken.

But now, no. She had stopped feeling whatever it was she felt for him for a long time now–it was just difficult to actually stop, to stop the sex, the secrecy. At the beginning this is what excited her about him, and perhaps she was in love with him once. But progressively, she had become like an asset in his life, like a safe pastime, an open door, or a second wife–whatever twisted role he had fabricated about her in his brilliant mind. It was mundane, frustrating, and demeaning. So she had to control her impulse to fall back into the familiar pattern–she was impulsive, unfortunately.

Now, she wanted out of this, but she did not want to explain all this to him. Especially not about the Order–when he did not even know she once had a brother.

"Listen, Will–" she began when she composed herself a bit. He was still looking at her with some kind of unknown emotion on his features. "I am not seeing anyone, but that doesn't change the fact that we need to stop. You have a wife and a child. I think it's time to honour your commitments, don't you think?" she pleaded.

She suddenly became aware that he was near the Galleon which was faintly shining. Shit, she thought. She subtly moved closer, positioning her body to shield it from his view.

"You expect me to simply accept this," he spat angrily. "There is something you are hiding, I know you too well" he said, his eyes narrowing smaller and smaller as he peered at her flushed face. "I see right through your dodgy behaviour. You've been staying late at work, and I've noticed how you're constantly tailing that half-crazed supervisor of yours, whispering things," he looked at her intently, as she was trying to firmly extricate herself from his grip.

Oh dear–was he also watching her? He was the last thing she needed amidst the anxiety of the Order. She thought she was doing a good job being discreet.

"I told you, I don't want to do this anymore. That's the reason, nothing else. I don't know what you think you see me doing at work, I am just–" she started to plead with him, but he cut her off.

"You're lying through your teeth!" His voice was filled with venom as he glared at her. "You never gave a damn about Mary. She was your classmate at the Healing Academy, and yet you had no qualms fucking her husband!" he said audaciously.

He really wanted to go there?

"May I remind you that you are the cheating husband in this equation," she said, her eyes wearily darting on the Galleon on the table. He was infuriating, but she had to swallow his insults.

Mary Walker-Longbow was indeed her classmate at the academy. They were married when she had met Willard all those years ago and for a time she tried to distance Mary from her equation–it was easy. Mary was not practising Healing. She was not there, all day, every day with them. Instead, she had decided to devote herself to raising their son. Progressively, Emily stopped thinking about Mary all together, she was this abstracted wife Will had, this idea, and not a living person.

Things started to change when Mary had the baby though–she had actually run into her at Mungo's once and Emily was horrified, she felt ashamed and angry, but also angrier at this man in front of her who clearly did not care he had a family. Ever since, they had an on and off relationship. She would drop him, and then he would worm his way back into her life–until now. Black's exoneration had shifted her thinking. She had another purpose now than to waste her life with his man.

He was shouting loudly now.

"Always playing the innocent, pretending like you're the victim here. You really just can't resist, can you, Emma?"

Emma's face hardened, her lips one thin line.

"Oh, bravo, Willard! Such keen observation skills you have there. Yes, I must admit, I totally disregarded the fact that Mary was my classmate. How could I resist the irresistible charm of her cheating husband? Is that what you want me to say?" she said in a feigned apologetic tone.

"I want you to tell me the truth–be honest with me, no excuses about morality, and what have you–" he started saying. One could see him and think he was distraught. But Emma knew him very well and knew that he was simply distraught with arrogance.

She was silent for a long time; she did not know what else to tell him. But then something broke her trance. The Galleon was shining vividly, which meant that someone was probably at the corner store, or worse, in the building, maybe outside her own door as they were speaking.

Emma's mind raced, her eyes scanning the surroundings. It was an unmistakable signal, a warning that someone from the Order was watching. Panic surged through her veins, leaving her momentarily speechless.

But to her astonishment, Willard's next words shattered her mental duress.

"Bloody hell! You know what, Emma? Screw it. I've had enough. I don't need your answers or your justifications. I'm buggering off." He turned to walk away, his tone filled with frustration and irritation.

Seriously ? she thought. After an hour of not getting the message, this man decided to finally show some self-respect? He would be seen, Emma thought in a crazed sequence of flashed images of catastrophizing.

Desperate to prevent him from being discovered by the Order, and without thinking of something better, she rushed toward Willard and planted a sudden, unexpected kiss on his lips, grabbing his face in the process.

Willard froze in shock, his eyes widening as he tried to comprehend what was happening. But as Emma's lips pressed against his, bruising and forceful, his initial surprise quickly transformed into desire. He grabbed her waist, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.

Only when they stopped to breathe, she noticed that he still regarded her with suspicion, seizing up her face, looking for an answer. He was an arse, but not an idiot.

She had to convince him.

She panted heavily, grazing his stubbled face with her delicate fingers. She knew she had to give him what he wanted now, there was no other choice, even if she would berate herself tomorrow. "Please don't go," she whispered, her voice almost a moan.

He kept looking at her quizzically. He wanted it, wanted her, but he also needed to know why she had changed her mind. She swallowed hard, her lips parted, voice soft and husky, as her face came closer to him, grazing his ear.

"You caught me," she said coyly, trying to curb his questioning while her heart still raced about the shining Galleon. "I was playing hard to get. But now that you're here, why don't you stick around for a little while longer?"she purred, her hands resting on his sides, travelling downward to stroke him through his trousers. He groaned, with a sound of pained appreciation, and still there was some anger there.

Willard's gaze devoured her face hungrily.

"I was totally playing hard to get," she repeated softly, her eyes wide and clear, going for his inner most conceited desires. "Please stay. I know you want to stick around," she said, biting her lip a bit, her small hands still on him.

Something changed in his facial expression then and there. It seemed that her rash, sudden turn to unapologetically entice him, after berating him and urging him to leave, did something for his male pride because Willard's suspicion transformed into smugness as he revelled in her confessions. His hand was now into her waves, loosening the strands of brown golden hair, and he tugged on her hair a little so as to get a better look at her face, the gesture still carrying frustration and edge from what he perceived as scandalous teasing. She was relieved when she saw the familiar cocky grin playing on his lips. "You couldn't resist me, could you? I knew it. So, what's the plan now, darling? How do you plan to keep me around?"

She was guiding him into the bedroom, her steps firm and following what seemed to be an aggressive chemistry in the room. At the end of the day, it was not that bad or that difficult to be with him, even in these not ideal circumstances, so she sighed heavily, which he misinterpreted for anticipation, and she relinquished herself to him, not denying that the adrenaline in her bloodstream urged her for some relief too.

He stopped their trajectory into the bedroom and roughly grabbed her waist, stripping her off her clothes, while he was progressively shoving her toward the sofa. She supported herself on the backrest, her back feeling him getting closer, as she turned her head around. She mechanically accepted a sloppy kiss, before he grabbed her hips and pushed her closer, murmuring humiliating phrases into her ear, which flustered her nevertheless.

Narcissa Malfoy was laying on a green chaise lounge in her adorned reading room, the light dimmed, as she felt a piercing headache that made her eyebrows knit into one unit. Beads of sweat were on her dewy forehead and she was breathing laboriously, feeling the familiar pit of anxiety in her stomach and a heaviness in her chest, which was heaving up and down rhythmically.

The opulence of the room contrasted with the icy feeling of her own skin, with the nervousness that was etched on her thinning hairline, in the tufts of shiny hair falling on her silk pillowcase each morning. Indeed, Narcissa's psychosomatic toll was ever in contrast with the gilded room, full of family heirlooms, artefacts, and the grandeur the Malfoy name held to.

But the last months had proved otherwise as the Malfoys had fallen out of grace ever since Lucius had been sent to Azkaban. It was a dual loss: the Malfoys were disgraced in wizarding society, in their circles and high standing at the Ministry; but also, in the Dark Lord's eyes, in their circle of comrades who espoused the most ancient traditions of what it meant to be magical folk.

Narcissa had taken a toll and in her own freedom, she was unfree. Ever since Lucius was sent away, she could not bring herself to see him. She could not sleep either, and would end up staying up worriedly night after night, thinking about their future, her family, Draco. Her blood pressure would rise with the day, as their family Healer would note, and even her good looks were affected by a permanent palor that made her typically milky skin have an unhealthy hue. Her cheeks had gone hollow as she was weak, not being able to take care of herself properly or adequately.

Bella had officially moved in with them, to take care of business, and to run the Malfoy manor as a headquarters for the Death Eaters and their activities. Although she made sure to stay away of her sister's ungodly affairs with the troops, Narcissa could not bring herself to actually leave the house, feeling unable to remove herself from bed and she relied on their house elves to take her of her physically, as even spell-work would not make her look composed, much more, assured and in-charge, as she used to be.

But no serving elf and no change in her routine gave her any relief. Her worry about her son, Draco, was eating her up, gnawing at her. She even tried to send the boy abroad, to some other magical school to complete his education, but he would not have it. The Dark Lord had assigned him the task–he had chosen Draco, a boy of merely sixteen to perform the work of a skilled and experienced wizard or witch. Out of spite, to take revenge on Lucious about what happened at the Department of Mysteries, and it seems that her son, her boy, wanted to clear his father's name, to stand up for their family since Lucius had proved unable, a failure.

It angered Narcissa, made her desperate, as she had seen what the task that had befallen them did to her son: Draco was agitated, restless, even hostile to his mother, to the one woman who would ever love him unconditionally, like no other–that is what she liked to remind her son, since he was a baby that could fit her embrace. She had raised him like that, so as he would never replace her maternal embrace with an unsuitable wife, an unworthy partner that would smear their name and bloodline–like her godforsaken sister, Andromeda and her filthy union with the Muggle-born Tonks.

Her dear son had built a wall and had exiled her outside of it, however. His tormented mind was not available for her to mend.

The worst part was that her sister was there to remind her of the plights every single day. Narcissa could not help but place the blame on Bellatrix, at least partly, for their fall from grace.

For one thing, Bella was refusing to use her influence with the Dark Lord to make him change his mind, to spare Draco this horrible and dangerous task. Bella, in her adoration of the Dark Lord, had put her own family aside, had chosen him, instead of looking to save her own nephew, her blood. Bella did not have children, she never wanted to have any, and she did not have any affections strong enough for her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, to ever consider the possibility–albeit mechanical, just for reasons of posterity, of continuing the Lestrange name. She did not understand this pain, this torment of one's child being in danger.

She thought it an honour for Draco to do the deed.

But Narcissa casted another set of blame on Bella. If she had managed to kill that blasted cousin of theirs at the beginning of the summer, the prophecy would not have been destroyed perhaps. Sometimes Cissa still wondered how it was possible that he survived–for a while they thought him dead, but to her discontent, Sirius Black was alive, and as long as he lived, Harry Potter would be protected.

Draco would not.

Narcissa painfully rose from the sofa, groaning imperceptibly as she felt a pang of pain on her delicate rib cage when she drew a breath. With trembling hands she went for the armoire and retrieved parchment and a quill, her hand trembling with each stroke as she grappled to pen the letter.

Severus. He was the only one she could turn to. He had been–very much to her own shame–the only one who was there for her the last months, although in ways she rather did not remember, as such memories punctured the image she wanted for herself as a wife and mother.

Severus would not shun her too–he was, after all, fond of Draco, she thought frantically. She penned the letter with as much detail as she could in her imploring, requesting a meeting, not at Malfoy manor, but at his house, in that debased Muggle neighbourhood he lived, and where she was led a few times out of loneliness and despair.

She closed the letter with her personal seal that carried her initials and held on to it dearly, looking at her long pale fingers, the absence of her wedding ring conspicuous. I

With a snap of her fingers, her house elf, Lor, apparated immediately in front of her and bowed deeply.

"At your service, Mistress," said the elf.

"Need Zephyr," she demanded, her tone haughty and strained. "Bring him to me at once," she said. It was a personal owl–only for these kinds of clandestine affairs.

Lor bowed low, her large eyes wide with concern and a sense of duty. "Yes, Mistress Narcissa," she squeaked. "Lore will find the owl and bring him to you swiftly."

As the elf was ready to scurry away, Narcissa's voice came as a hushed yet urgent order: "You will not breathe a word of this to my sister," she commanded. "This letter is of utmost importance, and I will not tolerate any interference. Understood, creature?"

The elf nodded fervently and apparated to the owlery, at the other side of the manor.

Narcissa clutched the letter passionately and pressed it to her bosom, thinking frantically of all possibilities regarding her family's salvation.

She could not save Lucius, and perhaps she could not even save herself. But she would do everything to save Draco.

Willard had left and Emma finally could think clearly. The apartment was a mess, and she was distracted by the state of disarray created by his thoughtless intrusion of her home–but she decided that she would defer dealing with him at a future point in time.

She anxiously clutched the Galleon which had now stopped glowing and she looked out the window, wondering who might have been so near for it to shine like that.

Her mind raced with possibilities, but suddenly, in the horizon was the distinct form of an owl–an owl coming her way and whom she had never seen before. Before she could comprehend what was happening, a scrawny black owl perched on her windowsill and she quickly opened the window to let him in.

She knew this disheveled bird with missing patches of fur, a bizarre appearance that bordered ugliness.

Hyperior, Kingsley's owl.

"Well," she demanded, looking at the strange bird. "You have word from Kingsley?" she eyed Hyperion in an impatient manner, and the bird made an angry sound and proceeded to bite her index finger, as she tried to extricate the parchment from his scrawny leg.

"Ouch!" she yelped. "I know, I will buy you treats next time, you silly thing" she said in an apologetic tone. The bird relinquished the letter and she unfolded it curiously, anxious about the predicament.

This was definitely Shacklebolt, on behalf of the Order.

Emma sighed in relief and elicited a breathy laugh. Finally.

Dear Emma,

Congratulations, my clever friend! You've passed the surveillance with flying colours.

Now, the time has come for us to rendezvous. Picture this: an apparition point near a Muggle chicken shop in Islington, London. Corner of Dundee and York. You can't miss it.

Be there in precisely one week, at 6 pm sharp. Punctuality is key.

Keep your wits sharp and your mind even sharper.

Yours,

K.S

As she absorbed the contents of the letter, she was surprised by an abrupt popping sound.

"Oh!" she gasped and the letter flew from her hands and incinerated, on its own, in thin air.

She was gazing wide-eyed for a minute, looking at the embers and the particles of the letter flying everywhere in the living room.

It was happening, she had made it, though Emma and gasped in relief, as Kingsley's odd looking bird stared at her with his creepy eyes.

"That's it, you little bugger," she exhaled a cheeky laugh and sighed again, this time in relief.