The Alley was beautiful at night. The moon shone brightly overhead, bathing the streets of Knockturn Alley in delicate light. The streets were nearly desolate, and the few figures who braved the night wore their hoods tightly and cast furtive, paranoid glances at each other. Violet didn't bother with such things, yet any would-be predators stalking the unlit streets did not bother her. Perhaps they recognized a kinship in her—the glint of moonlight off a not-quite-right half smile, an impossibly elegant economy of motion, silky robes unsuitable for a night so cold—that suggested that she was hunter, not prey.

When she had returned to Satria's court after visiting the mortal world for the first time, there was little new. If any powerful Summer fae had taken the place of the slain Summer Lord, they were not yet acting against Winter in any significant capacity. Without the presence of the once-constant skirmishes with Summer, Violet had found herself growing restless. Her lessons in Winter magic with Satria were as interesting as always, but the Winter Lady had been spending a great deal of time in the Queen's Court and was not often available. And as much as Violet enjoyed the company of the other fae, they were very much not human, and she had found herself wishing to spend more time among other mortals until Satria needed her once more.

She had rented a flat above a pub named the Old Oak in Knockturn from the owner, a taciturn man by the name of Jon Whitby. The landlord was polite and didn't ask questions, which suited Violet just fine. The flat was a bit rundown at first, but it gave her a chance to practice her charms, and it was soon comfortable, even if it did fall short of the resplendent luxury of a Winter court.

Over the next few months, she had dedicated herself to studying magic. Every few weeks, she would return to the court for a few days to execute any captured Summer fae and catch up on events, but most of her time was spent studying dusty tomes and practicing her spells. She had had great success with the textbooks and had long since finished with the first year books, but the powerful spells of Curses of Hatred and Fyre mostly eluded her. She suspected that she would need to learn more magical theory before the powerful curses and had redoubled her efforts with the textbooks. The few curses she had gotten working were very impressive, and she was looking forward to trying them out.

The winding streets were coated in a light dusting of snow as Violet walked. With Christmas quickly approaching, even the often dour inhabitants of Knockturn Alley had given into the spirit of the holiday in their own fashion. Houses and shopfronts were decorated with a mixture of Christmas decorations—wreaths, garlands, and floating lights—which clashed with the eerie effigies and ritualistic black candles of older pagan traditions. Violet had even seen some Winter pixies flying about some silver streamers, who had bowed deeply to her before flitting away.

She was returning from the Secrets Softly Whispered bookshop. To her great amusement, the man who had sold her Curses of Hatred and Fyre was the grandson of the proprietor, who had apparently made a small fortune selling her gems. He had insisted that his grandson treat her like a distinguished customer, and Violet had made a habit of dropping by to peruse the books and needle the surly man. Apparently, he hadn't quite forgiven her for her little threat.

A voice reached her, carried by the wind through twisting streets and alleys, and Violet stilled. A moment later, it came again, louder.

"Help! Someone help! HELP!"

Violet deliberated briefly. On the one hand, it really wasn't her problem. If some foolish wizard had had a little too much to drink and stumbled into an unpleasant character, well… Vampires had to drink someone's blood, after all. On the other hand, if she didn't investigate, the curiosity would irritate her for days to come. On a night like this, with magic heavy in the air, something truly interesting might be happening.

She sighed. Truthfully, her mind was already made up, and she wasn't the type to lie to herself. Turning on her heels, she began to jog toward the cries for help

~#~

"Are you sure this is the place, dear brother?" said George through chattering teeth. "I only ask because we were supposed to meet your 'contact' an hour ago, and the weather is ever so slightly inclement."

"Look," said Fred, with some exasperation. George had started complaining almost as soon as they left the Burrow. "Do you want to get the stuff or not? Because I seem to remember you were the one going on about all the potential applications."

"I didn't say that," George snapped. "We agreed we'd do this, didn't we? But the longer we're gone for, the higher the chance Mum decides to check on us and realizes we're gone."

Fred winced. That was a truly unpleasant prospect. "He said he might be a bit late. Apparently he can't exactly show his face in public, if you get my drift."

George snorted. "How reassuring," he said sarcastically. "Did he happen to say why we had to meet in a dark alley instead of the White Wyvern? That was good enough for Wilbert."

"Yeah, well, look how that turned out for Wilbert. Six months in Azkaban for possession of class two restricted goods."

George grumbled something under his breath. "All I'll say is that this had better be genuine Erumpent fluid. If we get gnome piss again…"

"If it's gnome piss, our new friend is gonna drink it," Fred said darkly.

Suddenly, Fred flinched as George dug an elbow into his ribs. He was about to say something acerbic when he saw what had was coming around the corner. "Oh, shi…"

There were three hunchbacked figures, dressed in tattered robes. Each was female, and they were extremely wrinkled and covered in warts. Hags, a distant part of Fred's brain thought numbly.

The leading hag extended a bony figure toward them. "Look, sisters, it is as I said!" she croaked. "Young wizardlings, out past their bedtime. Oh, it has been too long…"

The other two hags cackled madly and began to approach, spreading into a circle to surround the twins. For some reason, Fred's only thought was that if they got eaten, Mum was going to regret not letting them keep their wands during the holidays.

"RUN!" shouted George, dragging Fred with him down the alley. The three hags began to chase them, and they sprinted through dark alleys and under weathered stone arches. Fred was panting, and George didn't sound much better. He couldn't hear their pursuers' shouts as clearly anymore. Had they gotten away?

He peered ahead, trying to pierce the darkness. "George, I don't think—"

From the darkness burst one of the hags, cackling loudly. She must have taken a side route to hem them in while her sisters pursued directly.

Fred watched in horror as the hag tried to grab his brother. George fought, but the hag was far stronger than an old crone should be, and George yelped as her talon-like nails scratched him.. Fred's heart was thundering, but what could he do? He didn't even have a wand. It was his fault they were here, his fault that they were going to die, his fault that Mum wouldn't see them again.

"Help!" he shouted, uncaring that drawing attention to yourself in Knockturn Alley was generally regarded as a very bad idea. This wasn't a mugging—the hags wanted to eat them. "Someone help! HELP!"

He was cut off as something slammed into his back, sending him sprawling and knocking the breath out of him. The other two hags were approaching now, the closer of the two's fingers glowing a faint red. That must have been what knocked him over.

"Well done, Larsa," said the hag who had knocked Fred over, nodding to the one holding George.

Larsa cackled. "Thought they could run, didn't they? Poor dearies." Her claws tightened around George, who winced in pain.

"Let him go!" shouted Fred, pulling himself to his feet. He stuffed a hand down his robes, creating a visible bulge. "I've got a flask of Nundu breath! I'll smash it!"

The hags stared at him, coal black eyes assessing him. One of two not holding George, who had a particularly long and warty nose, hissed, "A meal's not worth our lives, sisters. Perhaps we had best look elsewhere."

The hag next to her looked to be thinking similarly, and Fred felt some of the tension leak out of him. There really was nothing like a good bluff.

Larsa's piercing screech stabbed into his ears. "The child lies, sisters. He would say anything to save himself." Suddenly, her head jerked downward, sharp teeth biting into George's arm. He screamed and thrashed, eventually pulling himself away from the hag, where he collapsed to the ground, clutching his arm. Larsa's lips were bloody. "You see?" she said. "He lies, he lies!"

The long nosed hag's eyes narrowed. "Nasty little child lying to us, trying to cheat us out of our meal. Well, we'll see how the child likes this," she said, drawing a spiked cudgel from her robes. She stepped forward, cudgel raised.

Fred tried to get out of the way, but he was still winded from being knocked to the ground earlier. The cudgel began to descend, seemingly in slow motion, and he screwed his eyes tight shut.

Rather than stabbing pain as the cudgel struck him, there was a sound like tinkling glass, and the hag cursed repeatedly. Fred tentatively cracked one eye. He was surrounded by a pale blue, mostly transparent, shield. He stared in wonder at it. Had he somehow raised it in a moment of accidental magic?

"Nasty children," a new voice mocked. "More like nasty hags, I say. Filthy, repugnant creatures without grace or beauty."

It was a witch, but not an adult. In fact, she didn't look much older than Fred, though he supposed she might have been a particularly petite fourth or fifth year. She wore the kind of expensive robes that his family could never afford, and snow had settled on her loose black hair, not melting as one would expect. She twirled a wand between her fingers, and a wicked grin rested on her face.

"Another morsel offers itself up," said Larsa, George's blood still dripping from her mouth. She licked her lips. "Well come here, dearie."

The witch met Fred's eyes and winked. Then her wand blurred, too fast for him to keep up, and she whispered, "Contundito!"

A flash of red flew past Fred, striking the hag who had tried to club him in her leg. She howled, collapsing, and Fred watched in shock as her leg seemed to crumple, the sound of multiple bones cracking easily audible. He didn't recognize the spell, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't the sort discussed in polite company.

The other hags screeched in fury and lunged for the witch, drawing wavy daggers. The one who had knocked Fred over tried her trick again, but the witch raised another of her blue shields, and the flash of crude magic deflected harmlessly off of it. She tapped the back of the shield with her free hand, which erupted in a shockwave so cold that Fred could feel it from where he stood. It struck the hag, hurling her backward. Wandless magic? Fred wondered.

Then the witch was moving, faster than Fred would have imagined possible, and he saw that she had a dagger in her free hand. She weaved around Larsa's wild hacks, and then her blade danced, visible only as flashes of reflected moonlight.

Larsa staggered backward, blood welling from multiple slashes. She threw our her hand, as if trying to push the witch away, and a wave of dark, uncontrolled magic washed toward her, black with flecks of blue.

The witch clicked her fingers, and a flash of blue-white neutralized the dark magic. Larsa whimpered, staring at the tips of her fingers, which were blackened with frostbite.

The witch slashed her wand, and the cobbles in front of her erupted into shrapnel. Another twirl, and they hung in the air, transforming into steel needles. A flick, and the needles were flung forward, stabbing into the hag, who collapsed.

"Contundito!"

This time, this curse struck the head. Fred looked away as Larsa's skull imploded. He was starting to wonder just who had come their rescue. She looked to be school age, but he didn't know anyone at Hogwarts who knew curses like that. Maybe she was a Slytherin.

The witch turned her attention to the hag who she had hit with her exploding shield. The entire front of the hag's body dripped with ice, and she was limping away as quickly as she could.

The witch watched impassively, then pricked her finger with the tip of knife. Flipping it and catching it by the point, she hurled it at the retreating hag. It buried itself in her back, and the hag fell. She was moaning pathetically, and Fred could see that her flesh was blackening and sloughing off around the dagger.

Obviously dismissing her, the witch turned her attention to the last hag, who was dragging her crushed leg behind her as she tried to crawl away. The trail of dark blood made Fred's stomach lurch.

"Incendio," she said almost gently. The screams of the burning hag were anything but gentle.

Fred looked around. The street had turned to a battlefield, and the corpses of the three hags lay ominously still. George.

He hurried to his brothers side, who had managed to get to his feet. His face was pale and sweaty, and blood seeped through his fingers as he clutched his injured arm.

Fred laughed nervously. "Gave me a bit of a scare there, Georgie boy. You'll be all right though, right?"

"Yeah," said George weakly. "Fine."

"Hag saliva is toxic, you know," came the voice of the witch who had saved them. "Although it is rarely deadly to healthy wizards, especially with treatment."

Fred turned and got his first good look at the murderous girl. She was younger than he had initially thought, definitely not older than him, and had apparently retrieved her dagger from the dead hag. Frankly, he was feeling more than a little nervous. What if psycho-girl decided to kill him and George too?

Best to be polite, he thought.

"Er, thanks for, you know, saving us," he said weakly. "I'm Fred Weasley. This is George."

She looked amused. That was better than murderous. "You can call me Valentina," she said. Then she paused for a moment and said, "Can I ask you a question? I'm just curious."

"Uh… sure?"

She nodded. "What, exactly, are you doing in the middle of Knockturn Alley in the dead of night? During the day, it's not too bad—the occasional mugger or pickpocket is about as bad as it gets. But at night… well, you play with fire, you get burned."

"You appear to be in Knockturn Alley at night too," said Fred, immediately regretting it.

Her lips quirked with amusement. "In my little metaphor, I would be the fire."

Fred winced.

"Look," she said, pointing to George, "hag saliva isn't lethal, but if it isn't treated you might lose that arm. You should probably get to a hospital or something."

George gave Fred a look that spoke volumes, violently shaking his head. Fred nodded. "Ah," he said. "That's a bit of a problem, actually. You see, we technically aren't supposed to be here. If we go to Mungo's, Mum's sure to find out, and if you think the hags are bad…"

Valentina laughed, the sound surprising George by its sheer normality. "Truly, a nightmarish fate," she said. "I suppose there is an alternative, though I'm not sure George here will like it much."

"What's that?" George asked between gritted teeth.

Valentina grinned. It wasn't a nice grin. "We could always go back to my place and fix it up there. The only problem is, while I'm sure the hospital would apply plenty of numbing cream before using a debridement charm, I don't know have numbing cream, and I sure as hell don't know any debridement charms. So I'd use my knife." She wiggled it for emphasis, then frowned. "Probably best to clean the hag blood off first."

George made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper and shook his head. Fred nodded vigorously. George shook his head. Fred nodded again. George sighed.

"We'll do it," Fred said firmly.

Valentina shrugged. "Your funeral."

~#~

Violet didn't bother warning the two foolish wizards before teleporting them and snickered at their squawks of surprise when they found themselves in her flat. She settled George, who was looking a bit unsteady, into a chair.

"You," she said to the uninjured twin, gesturing to a door. "Go to my bedroom and find a maple trunk. It has bandages and Murtlap Essence."

Nodding grimly, he did as he was told. She turned and rifled through her cabinets for a moment, eventually pulling out a bottle of clear liquid and four shot glasses.

"Wha-what's that?" asked George through dry lips.

"Vodka," she said as she filled the glasses. She had bought the bottle from the owner of the Old Oak, his strict policy against questions of any sort proving its value once again.

"Really?" Despite his obvious pain, George grinned. "D'you think you could get a couple more of those?" Then a nervous look crossed his face. "You're not uh, going to drink that before using the knife, are you?"

Violet snorted. "No. These are for you. I figure the less you thrash about, the lower the chance I cut something important."

"Oh," George said dully as Violet slid the glasses toward him.

Fred returned as George downed the last shot, wincing at the burn. This wasn't exactly how he had expected to have his first drink.

"I've got the trunk," said Fred. He was looking a little pale as well. "You all right, George?"

"Peachy," he muttered. "This is just how I pictured the night going. Great job on finding that contact, by the way."

"Right then," said Violet, approaching him with her knife in her hand. George flinched involuntarily. "Oh, don't be a baby. I'm not going to do it yet."

She slit the bloody arm of his robes. Fred made a revolted sound at the sight of the rotting flesh, while George steadfastly looked the other way.

"That's not so bad," she said. At their disbelieving looks, she continued, "You should have seen me the time I got hit by a curse of eternal burning. I had to cut off half of my calf to get rid of it. Took me weeks to feel right again." She prodded the wound experimentally and hummed thoughtfully.

"So you can fix it?" asked Fred.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I don't know the first thing about healing anyone other than myself, and I'm a… special case. However, I can cut out the affected flesh and apply Murtlap." She smirked. "Alternatively, I could call your mum for you." They shook their heads vigorously.

"All right," she said. "Don't scream. I pride myself on being a quiet tenant, so if you do, I'll silence you, and my silencing charms aren't quite right yet. Sometimes they don't wear off properly."

George clenched his teeth resolutely. "I won't," he said.

Violet started cutting. George didn't scream.

~#~

Five minutes later, George's arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage. It covered a sizeable wound, though thankfully free of necrosis. His good hand still maintained a white knuckled grip on the chair, and he was breathing heavily.

"All done," Violet pronounced. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Fred snorted, but George let out a weak laugh. "Oh, absolutely. Can we do this again sometime?"

"If you make a habit of wandering through Knockturn at night without wands, we just might have to. Are you going to tell me what you were actually trying to do?"

They exchanged a silent look. Then, Fred said, "We were looking to buy Erumpent fluid. Our old source got sent to Azkaban, and I thought I'd tracked down a new one. Clearly, it didn't work out."

Violet blinked. She certainly hadn't expected that. "Isn't that used for the conflagration potion?"

"Uh, maybe," said Fred. "But we have… other uses for it. It's right essential, actually."

Violet nodded. It wasn't her business anyway. As the ensuing silence stretched, she was struck by the realization that she had no idea how to talk to people her age.

"Do you go to Hogwarts?" she asked. She hadn't met any Hogwarts students before, as most residents of Knockturn couldn't afford the tuition.

"Yeah. It's Christmas break," said Fred. "We thought we'd stock up on supplies before term starts again. The Erumpent fluid was the only thing we couldn't get in Diagon." He paused. "Wait, you don't go to Hogwarts? I thought I had you pegged as a Slytherin."

"No," she said. "I did get a letter, but I have other responsibilities that would conflict with a full time boarding school."

"Uh, right. Hey, maybe they'd give you an honorary OWL in Defense Against the Dark Arts for those hags?"

"We should probably go," cut in George, finally relaxing his death grip on the chair. "I'm not going to be happy if Mum catches us after I let Valentina cut bits off of me."

Clearly, their mother was a truly intimidating figure. Violet was picturing something along the lines of a pissed off Satria with red hair.

"How are you planning to get back?" she asked.

"Well, we took the Knight Bus here, but they don't cover Knockturn," said Fred. "So…"

"If you walked back through Knockturn you'd probably manage to run into something even worse than hags," finished Violet. "I can teleport you to muggle London, I suppose."

"That'd be great. Uh, sorry for dropping all this on you, and thanks for not letting us get eaten by hags."

"It was my pleasure," Violet said. To her surprise, she realized it was even true. Perhaps she'd have to spend more time with other people her age. "I wanted to test out the Crushing Curse anyway."

She politely ignored their disturbed expressions as snow began to swirl about them, and they vanished to reappear in muggle London.

~#~

"Ouch! Watch where you're sticking that thing!"

"If you would just stop squirming—"

There was a pounding up the stairs, and a bleary-eyed Fred Weasley cursed, rapidly hiding the Murtlap Essence he'd been applying to George's arm. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the previous night after nearly getting eaten by hags. "Put your shirt on, you nitwit," he hissed.

The door burst open, revealing their younger sister just as George managed to pull the sleeve of his shirt around his injury.

"Guess what," Ginny blurted out. "You got a letter. A fancy letter."

Fred shot George a look, who shrugged. "Give it," he said, trying to snatch it from her fingers. She jumped backward, waving it teasingly.

"C'mon, who'd send you two a letter in parchment? And a seal?" She put a finger to her chin in mock thought. "And it's from a girl."

"What?" Fred said blankly. "How in Merlin's name would you know that?"

"It's a girl's handwriting, duh," said Ginny. "Come on, you must know who it's from. Just tell me and I'll leave you alone, I promise."

Fred had a sneaking suspicion. He grabbed a glass vial from the back of a desk drawer, and flung it at her. Knowing her brothers well, she got out of the way before it exploded in a splash of bright purple dye. While she was distracted, he snatched the letter, sliding it into his robes.

"Oh, drat," Ginny said. "I knew I should have opened it when Mum gave it to me to take to you." She grinned wickedly. "I think she's even more curious than me, actually. Have fun with that!"

She departed with a jaunty wave. George gave Fred a grim look. "Is there any chance that isn't from you-know—?"

"No." He slit the wax seal, stamped with the silhouette of a woman with butterfly wings. Two small glass bottles rolled out, and he pulled out a heavy sheet of parchment. George leaned over to read over his shoulder.

Gentlemen,

I hope that you were able to return safely and without attracting unwanted attention.

You may be interested to know that when I returned to deal with the remnants of the hags, I discovered a vial in their possession that may be of some interest. The larger bottle is a gift to George; it contains a liqueur, of quality that cannot benaturally found on this Earth, to wash out the crude flavor of the vodka.

Rest assured, I will be in contact in the future to inform you of how you may repay the debt for your continued enjoyment of mortality.

As an aside, might I be so bold as to suggest that when you next decide to deal with hags, you bring with you a wand?

Finest regards,

Valentina Frost

George gasped, holding the smaller bottle up to the light. It was a pale yellow, with a wavering sheen. "Fred, I'm pretty sure that this is—"

"Erumpent fluid," Fred breathed. "Er, if that hag had our bloke's product, I don't suppose that bodes well for the possibility of future transactions."

George chuckled. "Probably not. I just can't believe we actually got it. You know what this means, right?"

"What, dear brother?" Fred said guilelessly.

"Experimentation, brother. Experimentation."

~#~

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rhythmic sound gently guided Violet from sleep. She yawned and rolled to her feet. It was Christmas morning. She soon identified the source of the sound as a rather dignified looking owl was resting on her windowsill, occasionally tapping its beak against the glass.

She unlatched the window and opened it, reveling in the blast of cold winter air. The owl flew in, and deposited a parcel wrapped in brown paper into her hands, before flying off. It was lighter than it looked, and soft. She briefly considered the possibility that it might be cursed, but dismissed it. No one in the mortal world knew her identity, and she hadn't made any enemies, as far she knew. Well, there were the hags, but they were dead and unlikely to be able to curse a package anyway. She noted that it would be a good idea to learn how to detect curses in the future.

Opening the package revealed a cloak or robe made of a sleek silvery material, lighter and softer than even Satria's finest dresses. It felt almost like she as holding nothing at all, so light it was. A handwritten note fluttered from the cloak, and she caught it in her hand.

Your father left this in my possession before he died.

I return it to you in the hopes that I may see you once more.

- An old man

That was odd, to say the least. That the writer had known her identity wasn't necessarily worrying—likely, he had simply bade the owl to find Violet Potter, and she knew that mail owls were all but untraceable. The question was, who was this man? Clearly, he had known her father, but that wasn't very helpful since she knew so little about her parents.

She ran her fingers over the impossibly sleek fabric. It brought to mind images of quicksilver, for it flowed almost like a liquid. She could feel the touch of Winter within her reacting to it, whispering thoughts in her ears, too soft to understand. This was something more than just a fine cloak, she knew.

She slipped it around her shoulders. A pleasant coolness fell over her, and she turned to a floor mirror next to her wardrobe. She gasped, for a disembodied head stared back at her. Eager fingers flipped up the hood, and she faded from sight.

Who would give this to me? Violet thought. An invisibility cloak was priceless under any circumstances, but Winter's reaction to it told her that there was something more to it.

Even stranger, the author of the note had carefully discharged any debt she otherwise might have otherwise owed for the gift by emphasizing that he had only kept it for safekeeping. Was he a fool for giving away such a priceless artifact? Or was it merely a move in a larger game?

Right now, Violet couldn't bring herself to care. A broad grin rested on her face. The novelty of looking into a mirror without seeing anything look back was more entertaining than she would have expected.

~#~

Months later and miles away, a man in a turban winced as his master roared in frustration. Dumbledore's magic was beyond him, he knew. For hours he had tried every magic he could think of, and then every magic his master could think of, but the mirror still mocked him. Quirinus Quirrel knew when he was beaten. It was time to leave and plot for another day.

A faint sound startled him, and he whirled about, dread settling his stomach. Albus Dumbledore stood, blocking the exit from the chamber.

"Oh, Quirinus," he murmured regretfully.

Quirrel drew his wand. He was under no illusions as to his chances against the man who defeated Grindelwald, but he would not go down without a fight.

As he prepared to cast the first spell, he was overcome by an all-consuming agony in his very soul as his master tore away from him. He collapsed, dead before he hit the floor.

Dumbledore waved his wand, golden chains wrapping around the dark blur that was Lord Voldemort. But a soul is not so easily contained, and shadow slipped between the gaps in the chain. His plans were thwarted, but the Dark Lord had escaped once again.