The flicker of bone tearing through leathery skin sent vicious satisfaction surging through her dark heart.

"My Lady," said her golden Armen, resting the butt of his spear against the snow. Its leaf tip glittered bright in the moonlight.

Oh, that rhymed. She ought to write it down.

"I believe that was the last of them," he continued. "You are well, I trust?"

"Of course," Satria replied and licked a spot of blood off the back of her hand. She spat. "Reviled. They don't even taste right."

Trepidation-disgust-destiny.

"As you say, My Lady," Armen replied, not hiding his amusement. "I suppose one could say that it is not as if you have had a great deal of opportunities to discover that of late." He paused. "Oh, yes. You have."

"You try changing a habit reinforced over thousands of years." Satria wrinkled her delicate nose. "I almost miss Summer trampling us. I'd even take Maeve's insufferable attitude over this filth."

The two of them walked a few paces away as Satria's Knights began to drag the Reviled corpses into a heap of sundered flesh and twisted iron. The abominable creatures seemed to grow more resilient to the stuff by the day. The situations was already a problem and well on its way to becoming a crisis. The Reviled might be incompetent warriors, but quantity had a quality of its own, and she had only so many Knights at her disposal. Still, when black flames began to spread over the bodies, she was able to find some pleasure in the howls of those that were not quite yet dead.

"They are certainly becoming a nuisance. Why, I was on a hunt just a fortnight ago when I nearly stumbled into a concealed pit trap set with iron spikes." Armen ran his fingers through his short beard, an affection he had recently developed along with the stubble.

"What I don't understand is where their weapons, tools, and armor are coming from. Fine blades in the place of cudgels, and firearms where they once wielded sapling bows. They have never demonstrated any industrious spirit in the past, and without magic of their own, the production of such volumes of equipment would be impossible to hide." He shook his head. "No, I think it is impossible. The Reviled do not create. Their new armament must be the work of a party we have not considered."

"But these Reviled are not the Reviled of the past, are they?" Satria challenged. "For one, they number too many. A reckless fool thinks themselves untouchable and dies a thousand deaths and a Reviled is born; this is the way of things. One Reviled, two, or three at most. Never more than a nuisance. Now Winter is infested by thousands of them, and I suspect Summer is little better off. They are now clearly reproducing of their own accord. Their very nature is changing. Who knows what they will be capable of soon?"

"An unwelcome thought indeed," Armen muttered darkly. He glanced back at the pyre. "I believe we are finished here?"

With a sigh, Satria gave her assent. So loathsome were the Reviled as to be unsatisfying even to slay. They reminded her of spindly insects that released a foul smell when crushed. Wretched, foul things that writhe in the dark and breed without end.

"Very well. Have the horses brought up." She paused, smiling slightly. "Or perhaps not."

Armen arched a questioning eyebrow. Fine white snow beginning to swirl around her like dust, she said, "It seems I will be amending my schedule. Do keep the order in my absence."

Satria was no stranger to such unplanned expeditions, having carefully spread her name among some of the more interesting mortals over the centuries so as to ensure frequents reprieves from boredom. But as the mortal world turned to mechanisms and skepticism, such occasions became rarer and rarer, until they were more often accidental than deliberate. That was not to say that such incidents couldn't be enjoyable and rewarding themselves. Meeting Violet's mother came to mind.

Still, it was fair to say that she had been forced to become accustomed to a certain measure of crudeness in an invitation. No one seemed to recognize that while Summer may enjoy honey, Winter saw no substitute for wild game and that she personally had a fondness for trinkets of bone. This was not that; the invitation had a clearly intimate familiarity, like the caress of a velvet glove through her hair.

As such, it was no surprise when the screen of white snow faded to reveal Violet, standing with more weight on one foot than the other and with an amused expression on her face. Age had treated her well. The slightly gaunt sharpness of her countenance as a child had filled into a beauty befitting the majesty of Winter. But for her familiarity, she might be mistakable for fae. In Satria's estimation, it was likely that she would grow little older in appearance.

Of greater note was the wizened man who wore an inscrutable expression and whose power seemed to distort the very space around him. Satria breathed in deeply but frowned. Beneath the rich oak-blood-iron scent of wisdom and strength was sickly sweet rot and decay. The man was an enticing paradox, simultaneously strong and fragile, but he seemed content to observe for the time being, and Violet would not have permitted his presence if it were not tolerable. She dismissed him.

At her feet was was the body of a young buck, its great antlers holding its head off the ground. A pool of blood surrounded it and still slowly oozed from its slashed neck. A square of soft, white fabric rested over the wound, like a solitary snowflake in a red sea. Satria brushed a finger through the blood and licked it.

"How thoughtful," she murmured. The timing was perfect to rid herself of the aftertaste of the Reviled's filth. "This is all rather impressive."

Violet grinned, gesturing to the ritual circle which consisted of a network of intricate lines carefully carved into the snow. "I got some help from someone who owed me a favor. You should have a solid twenty-four hours with no geographical limitations."

"Always so clever," Satria purred. Glancing around, she saw that just through a thin screen of trees were rolling grounds of carefully manicured grass, leading uphill to a veritable fortress. The dark of night offered no obstacle to her.

"This is your school, I take it. You'll show me everything, of course?"

Violet grimaced, looking irritated. "Unfortunately—"

"I am afraid," interrupted the old man, "that will not be possible."

Violet sighed. "That."

Contempt-fury-excitement, and Satria turned, tilting her head slightly. Upon a second look, she could see that where the forest met the grounds, a field of magic shivered that, distinctly and explicitly, was intended to keep her from crossing. She smiled.

"Why, I'm hurt. Is this how you welcome all your guests?"

"It is how I welcome all whom I believe could pose a danger to the students under my protection."

Her voice dropped to a whisper and she stepped forward, some of the darkness seemingly clinging to her in an aura of power that made the air creak with cold. "I see. Well if I am such a danger, I must wonder—who is it that would shield these poor, innocent children from my terrible presence?" She made a show of glancing this way and that, as if searching for a shining knight in armor ready to raise a blazing sword against the creatures of the night.

Idly, she noticed Violet sighing and pinching her nose. Well, let her dramatize. She'd already had her chance to take the measure of the man; she could hardly begrudge Satria the same.

"You, a halfway-hollow man? Will you stop me, slay the monster as all good heroes do?"

Slowly, he raised a long, thin wand that had been previously concealed. It was as gnarled as the dead hand that wielded it and positively ached with wretched power more deathly than iron. That power was mirrored by more of its kind, stemming from an understated ring on the same hand, though it tasted of sorrow, not rage. His voice, thinned by age, was bitter.

"I did always fancy myself the hero as a boy."

Violet shot her a more urgent look. Even so, she began to edge closer to her away from the old man and drew a wand, eyeing it with slight distaste. Her loyalty was charming, but her subtlety a bit lacking. In a few years she would realize that in situations like this, drawn weapons signified the end of confrontation, not the beginning.

The man must have seen something in her eyes, because he lowered his wand, returning it into his vibrantly crimson robes. The darkness surrounding Satria began to dissipate.

She hummed softly. "I do believe I know your name, graybeard. Take pride, for few mortals share that distinction."

Albus Dumbledore bowed gracefully. "And I know your name, Satria, second of the Winter Court. A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Wait, what?" Violet said, turning between them. "You've met?"

"Not at all," Satria replied. "I simply make a habit of staying informed of the notable beings of this world or any other. Even the Wyld shook on the momentous day when he shaped history by defeating his great adversary. I admit, I am curious how you came to know of me, however." She raised an eyebrow.

Dumbledore merely chuckled and tapped the end of his knobbly nose. "I'm afraid that I am simply a terribly curious and slightly nosy old man. And a few of the smallest members of your Court have very large mouths indeed."

"Typical," she said, curling her lip. "Trust a faerie with anything before a secret. Still, I am flattered, I suppose. You're clearly not one to take lightly, though the poison in your veins will claim you ere long. I might assist you there. For a small price, of course. Generous though I may be, not even I can grant miracles without meet sacrifice."

"I am quite certain that whatever price you would exact would be excruciating beyond reason," Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "As such, I must decline."

"Not a fool either." She sighed. "How dull. Very well, you need not stand there all night. I swear I will make no attempt to enter your demesne until at least the sun rises and sets."

Turning away, she gestured to Violet. "Come, let us walk, for these woods are dark and full of mystery."

~#~

The low creatures of the Forbidden Forest fled from Satria's presence like rats from fire. Even the cruelest of creatures knew to fear the Fair Folk. Violet was slightly envious; things usually didn't start to fear her until she cursed them.

"Did you really have to bait him?" Violet asked, not hiding a bit of annoyance. "He's already pissed off enough at me."

"Oh?"

Violet snorted. "Some prissy bastard ended up with healing-resistant burns. Dumbledore blames me." Muttering, she added, "Not like it's my fault Pomfrey doesn't keep enough burn cream stocked."

That had not been a pretty conversation. To her surprise, he hadn't forbidden her from teaching, but he had clarified certain ambiguities in what did and did not constitute appropriate educational techniques.

"I see. I do wonder though, if your relationship is strained, why invite him to greet me? I cannot imagine he hid his reluctance to allow me near the school. Perhaps it would have been wiser to ask forgiveness than permission."

"That would've been nice, wouldn't it? Pity he's so fucking paranoid. I swear, the stress might get to him before the curse."

Contacting Echo the retired Unspeakable had necessitated going through Dumbledore, who had secreted him off to some safe house. Though she doubted he had read her mail, it clearly hadn't been hard for him to guess why she was writing him. Add to that how closely he was watching her these days, and there was no way she could have performed the summoning ritual without him finding out if she wanted to take advantage of the Forbidden Forest's wild nature.

Satria sniffed lightly. "Well you seem to be in a delightful mood. I would have thought you'd be more pleased to see me."

Violet groaned. "I am, really. This whole week's just been a bloody disaster." Ticking each incident off her fingers, she continued, "So, first I nearly get killed by Voldemort. That was simply delightful, and to top things off, I lost my wand. Then Malfoy—the prick I mentioned earlier—takes a pratfall. And I finally got a new wand, only the damned thing only wants to work about half the time. Oh, and I accidentally sent a cursed letter to the new Minister because I thought he was a reporter, but he still apparently still wants to discuss something over the holidays." She sighed heavily. "Is that it? I think that might be it."

Satria laughed, the sound like liquid crystal. "How dreadful. I suppose I will have to endeavor to improve your spirits by the end of the night." Abruptly, she stopped walking and wrapped her arms around Violet's neck, pulling her into a kiss. She radiated amusement. "Better?"

"Improving by the second," Violet said, grinning. She pressed herself closer to Satria, enjoying the contact, before pulling away and producing a ragged notebook from her robes. "Actually, there's something that might really brighten things up. I don't suppose you can read ancient Egyptian?"

Looking positively affronted at the implication that there was a language created she wasn't fluent in, Satria sniffed. "Of course I can, but whyever would you want to?"

"Because of this," Violet said, flipping through its pages. The yellowed parchment creaked and cracked but seemed to hold together through stubbornness alone. "At first I thought it might provide some insight into Voldemort's immortality. Turns out he found a way to literally split his soul and secure part of it in an object called a Horcrux, which then serves as a sort of metaphysical anchor to life. But from what I could translate of the modern German portion, it doesn't look like the owner was terribly interested in that direction of soul magic. What he was very, very interested in is this."

Pointing out one symbol among many, Violet turned the page so Satria could see. It was an equilateral triangle enclosed a circle, all bisected by a vertical line.

"Curious. And does this sigil have some significance in mortal magic?"

Violet shook her head. "No, or at least, not as far as I know. But it shows up over and over again in his writing, so clearly it was a focus of his research. But what's really important is this."

From an inner pocket of her robes, she pulled out her invisibility cloak, which she had taken to always carrying with her of late. Volumes of ghostly cloth came forth from seemingly nowhere. Folding back the hood, she pointed to a tiny etching of white thread that formed the same symbol as on the page.

She licked her lips. "I always knew this cloak was something special. But if these notes really did belong to one of Grindelwald's lieutenants and they were searching for it, who knows what it could really be."

"I can certainly see the difficulty you would have faced translating this," Satria said, taking the notebook and flicking through the pages. "I have not encountered it for quite some time. But the rest is mere German. Surely finding a speaker of that would have been no great challenge."

"A speaker? Certainly. One I could trust?" Violet shrugged. "That cloak is something special, something unique. I can feel it in its every thread. I don't know what that symbol means, but I do know I don't trust anyone less than you with it."

"I am touched," Satria said, caressing the words to make them sound somehow suggestive. "I will of course inform you once I have had a chance to peruse its contents. But for the time being…" She tilted her head, a strange expression coming over her. "I believe I could make certain suppositions if you lend me that cloak for a moment."

Violet handed her the cloak. Satria turned it over in her hands, feeling the impossibly smooth fabric, but quickly handed it back. She gave the bundle a look that seemed vaguely reproachful. "Fear," she whispered, barely audible. "Wrath, sorrow, and fear."

She continued in a more even tone. "Of the cloak's origin, I can tell you little besides that it carries great and morbid power certainly hailing from neither Summer nor Winter. But I assure you this: whatever its nature may be, it is the same as two items carried by the hollowing man."

"Dumbledore?" Violet said. "But that… actually makes sense. Do you know what they were?"

"The ring on his dead hand and the twisted wand grasped within. Of the three, the wand is the least subtle in its aspect, with your cloak being the most."

"His ring?" Violet asked. The ring had been a Horcrux—at least, so Dumbledore claimed—but perhaps he had sought it for more reasons than that alone. And his wand… She shivered. A wand as exceptional as her cloak would be great indeed.

Satria frowned, thinking. "Perhaps it was not the ring but its stone; it is difficult to say when the wand's bold presence so overshadowed it. In any case, it seems that these artifacts may be of significant import." She gestured with the notebook. "If these pages do hold any pertinent information, I will inform you immediately. But, ah… you're still missing your mirror, aren't you?"

"It's not missing. It just doesn't do anything."

Satria sniffed delicately. "Do try to take better care of this one won't you?"

Her index finger flicked through the air in a diamond-shaped blur. The air began to blur and seemed to grow denser, like water suspended in space. Then she exhaled into it, and the rippling distortions froze in place, and she plucked it from the air. It looked ice, or perhaps glass, but its reflections and refractions remained fixed regardless of changes in angle or lighting. Its casual defiance of the laws of nature lent it a surreal appearance.

"It's not so beautiful as the last one, but time is ever fleeting."

"Thanks," Violet said, smiling as she took the shard. She had come to miss her regular conversations with Satria. She looked around the dark and still forest. "Well, what now? We still have, what, twenty-three hours and thirty-odd minutes."

"So we do." She glanced up to the sky, and Violet followed her gaze. A star was falling from the sky.

Satria turned back to her, lips curling into an uneven smile. "It is so freeing to stand under a mortal night. To be able to take a step and cross a continent. Have you ever had the chance to travel very much of this world?"

"Not really." Crossing large bodies of water was something she'd never have much luck with, whether with Apparition or Winter magic. For some things, there really was no replacing innumerable years of experience.

Satria nodded. "Take my hand then, and we shall head west. Let us outrun the sun."

Violet grasped her slender fingers in her own and watched as a cloud of snow rose up around them, until her vision showed naught but whirling white.

~#~

The sun was shining. A few seasonally confused birds were singing. Violet was cursing.

She cursed at the weather, which was too warm, at the slight tinge of a hangover that had not yet been fully driven out by Winter's influence —and Circe, she shuddered to imagine how much alcohol had been required to achieve that—but mostly at her damned yew and dragon heartstring wand, which continued to perform miserably.

As much fun as it had been to gallivant across the globe with Satria for a whole day straight, barely noticing those twenty-four hours were nearly up in time to make it back to somewhere in the British isles was not how she would have chosen to end it. After sleeping in a snowbank, she'd woken up to the disorienting experience of not knowing how to get… anywhere.

She couldn't just teleport either. Trying to Apparate somewhere when you didn't know where you currently were was an excellent way to end up nowhere at all.

"Point me London," she snapped.

Finally, her wildly spinning wand settled on a direction. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Finally. Point me Hogwarts."

The wand continued to point in the same direction. Violet's eyes narrowed. While it was technically possible the two locations were perfectly aligned, it seemed improbable.

"Point me France?"

A hopeful moment passed.

"Fuck!"

She pitched the wand as hard as she could, the spinning stick disappearing over the treeline, surely never to be seen again. Good riddance. The damned thing had been so inconsistent in her hands as to be more of a hazard than an asset. Ollivander may have assured her it was one of his finest works, but the blasted thing just never quite agreed with her.

At least she wouldn't really need a wand over the holidays. Once they were over she'd give Ollivander another try, though she wasn't particularly optimistic. She didn't want a replacement. She didn't want to learn to accept an inferior substitute. She just wanted her old wand back.

She heaved a heavy breath. It was looking like there really was only one solution to this lovely situation. She picked a direction at random and started repeatedly teleporting. By the time she located a town, learned what direction London was, and arrived there, the sun was well past its apex. Visions of juicy cuts of meat took up residence in her mind after a day and a half of much more drinking than eating. She really hoped Sirius had something to eat or she might just—

No later than twenty seconds after she pounded the heavy knocker against the door to Grimmauld Place, it swung open from the inside and she was greeted by Sirius, who, after a moment's hesitation, offered her a hug.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be visiting for the holidays," he said, wincing slightly. "Not that I'm not pleased, obviously, but, ah, now might not be quite an ideal time—"

A high-pitched peal of feminine laughter echoed from an upper story of the house. Violet raised an eyebrow. "Not a good time, is it?"

"Hilarious." Sirius rolled his eyes. "You'll see," he added in a tone of morose resignation.

Amused but mostly hungry, Violet headed off in search of food. She could just make out muffled conversation coming from above.

Sirius was possibly even more disastrous in the kitchen than she was. As such, he appeared to have stockpiled a small pyramid of muggle takeaways under dubiously cast preservation spells on top of the enormous dining table, carved from a single block of rosy wood and possessing a stately dignity even under its present circumstances.

"Seriously?" Violet asked, eyeing a kebab whose meat was looking even more mysterious than when fresh.

"Oh, shove off. I've seen you eat a lot worse. At least nothing's raw and bloody."

Taking the piss out of Sirius was practically mandatory, but to be honest, "greasy and salty" actually sounded pretty good right then. She was halfway through the kebab, which turned out to taste better than it looked when the sun walked into the room.

Violet blinked slowly. Maybe she was more sleep deprived than she had thought. Because, unless her eyes were deceiving her, a Summer fae had just glided through the doorway, shining with a glamour so overstated as to wash out the room around her.

She was positively gorgeous, but her glamour was so garish that the metaphorical lily was well past gilded and verging on a solid block of gold. Subtly, Violet started looking for something iron.

"And who eez zis?"

The Summer fae had a French accent. Maybe she really was hallucinating.

She didn't just have an accent, either. There was a throaty undertone to her voice that sounded like smoke and velvet and lingered in the ears long after she finished speaking. It was fake, which was actually starting to get annoying. A good glamour should be like the final strokes of a painting. Hers was like the artist got lazy and just dumped an entire can of paint on the canvas.

"I'm Violet Potter," Violet said. She inspected the kebab's skewer, which was both adequately sharp and steel.

Sirius appeared to be finding his fingernails extremely interesting,

"Violet Potter?" the Summer fae said, pronouncing Violet's name as if it were French. She put down the skewer with extreme reluctance.

Something wasn't quite adding up. Between the accent, the horrific glamour, and her apparent obliviousness that Violet was contemplating murder-by-skewer, there was no chance she was any self-respecting fae, Summer or Winter. She clearly had some affiliation with Summer, though. Perhaps she was the descendant of a hybrid. Summer in particular had a habit of mingling with mortals.

"I am Fleur Delacour," she continued. "I 'ave 'eard about you, of course. Bill 'as mentioned you. 'E says you are a very good duelist."

"Bill?" Violet asked, glancing at Sirius. "Weasley? I heard he was dead."

Fleur gasped. "Non, but 'e was terribly 'urt. When I 'eard, I simply 'ad to come to England to 'elp him recover."

Violet tilted her head, as if literally seeing the woman from a different angle might provide some clue as to her nature. In that case, it was clear that the generations hadn't diluted her bloodline's power in the least—only its ability to control it.

"Well that's just lovely," Violet said, likely quite unconvincingly. "The only question is why you're here. Shouldn't Bill be with his family?"

"Zat was simply not an option, I am afraid. Bill's muzzer is a very difficult woman—eet is jealousy, I zink. And zat 'ouse, so many awful, twisting staircases. Eet would be 'azardous to his 'ealth. Fortunately, your godfather 'as been most generous." She gave Sirius a glittering smile that lasted for less than a second before she looked down at the table.

"And what eez zat awful food? All grease and gristle. And I thought I'd seen ze last of British cuisine!"

Violet and Sirius sighed in unison.

~#~

Fleur Delacour did not play well with others.

Neither did Violet for that matter, but she considered that quite aside the point.

She had tried, really tried, not to hold Fleur's… Summeriness against her. Veela, apparently, was the proper term, though it didn't really matter. But there was only so much of her 'fuck-me' aura that one could take, especially when combined with her utterly undeserved arrogance. Still, as she seemed to spend most of her time doting on Bill with sickening sweetness, her presence remained more amusing than bothersome. Unfortunately, that all changed come Christmas.

Violet was fairly sure that Sirius hadn't actually invited anyone other than Lupin over, but that didn't stop them from trickling in. Moody stomped through the door looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, Tonks tightly holding his arm as if she thought he might make a run for it. He glared at Violet suspiciously, and she was pretty sure his artificial eye was spending more time tracking her than wildly scanning for a possible ambush.

The real issue, though, were the Weasleys. The mother arrived hours before anyone else and immediately occupied the kitchen with an attitude that seemed more combative than festive. Fleur promptly began to spend as much time in the kitchen as possible, to get wine, cheese, or crackers, especially when it happened to involve getting in the way of the cooking. Mrs. Weasley, in turn, contented herself by making passively aggressive comments about how nice it would be when her son finally 'came home' and with wielding her cleaver with concerning zeal.

It might legitimately have been preferable to be sitting in an empty castle or performing pest control with Satria than enduring Christmas with the Order of the Phoenix.

"There you are," Tonks said, ambushing Violet on the way back from the bathroom. "I've been meaning to have a word with you."

"Take two," Violet said, trying to slip past her but rolling her eyes as Tonks moved to block her way.

"Y'know, that's something I probably would have said at your age too," Tonks said thoughtfully. "I'd probably have even thought it was funny."

Violet sighed, the levity vanishing from her expression. "Very well, then. Say your piece."

Tonks arched both eyebrows, mouthing something Violet couldn't make out. "Bit frosty, are we? I just wanted to let you know I figured out your secret."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific. I simply have so terribly many."

Looking a bit miffed at how her dramatic reveal had been spoiled, Tonks said, "Hello? Valentina?"

Violet laughed. "Oh, that. I figured you'd make the connection eventually. I hope you treat closed doors with a little more respect these days."

"You had better believe Mad-Eye made sure of it," Tonks replied. She shrugged. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about me spreading it around or anything. Ditto for the Unforgivables. I think we have enough problems without finding reasons to mistrust each other."

Violet waited, sensing more to come. Tonks sighed.

"So… I guess what I wanted to say was thanks for making sure I got to hear Mad-Eye yell at me. I guess." She briefly laughed, a little rueful. "I'm not really good at this."

Violet nodded slowly, glancing away thoughtfully. "I suppose your timing with the Unspeakable's wards was also quite… helpful. So I believe we can call any debt null."

Tonks frowned, but before she could say anything, a heavy crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by a rising screech of absolute fury. Ron, who was in the process of beating Sirius at chess for the fourth time, jerked in instinctual trepidation, knocking several pieces off the board, which immediately began to shout obscenities at him.

"Oh Merlin, that's Molly," Tonks said, eyes widening. "I don't think I've ever heard her go off like that before."

Morbidly curious, Violet followed her toward the shouting. Fleur's voice was now, inevitably, involved as well, her accent stronger than ever.

The roast ham Mrs. Weasley had labored over for hours, its glassy crust glistening red-black from a caramelized glaze, was tragically spilled onto the floor, its roasting pan lying atop it. A pool of savory juice spread out from it like blood.

"You—you—" Mrs Weasley's voice shook. "You bitch!"

"You tell her, Mum!" one of the twins called, sounding very much like they barely holding back laughter.

"Me?" Fleur demanded. "Ha! For a woman who does nuzzing but cook and clean, you are remarkably poor at both. Your 'ome is a pigsty, and your fingers, zey must be like butter to allow such a large pan to slip through zem."

"Yes, you! Always fluttering about like a humming bird, always with something to say, always getting in the way, hoping to make me startle. Bitch!"

The argument continued in this fashion for close to another minute. People were starting to trickle in from other rooms now, some watching the spectacle as if it were some sort of sporting event while others gazed mournfully at the remains of dinner. Even Bill hauled himself off the armchair he had laid claim to, leaning heavily on his cane. He glanced briefly between the two women before quickly making the wise decision not to be seen and hobbling out of the kitchen.

Like the drone of a mosquito, Fleur's glamour grew steadily more potent until half of the room was staring at her, dumbfounded. Violet finally snapped.

"Morgana's blood, woman, show an ounce of dignity!"

Fleur wheeled on her, all but aglow with her power. "Eet eez 'ardly my fault! You know nuzzing of which you speak!"

"Really?" Violet said, vaguely aware that she was making a scene but deciding that it was fully in the spirit of events. "Watch closely; perhaps you will learn something of real grace."

She tossed her head, her hair flying out to the side. At its greatest extent, Winter's power erupted from her, swirling about her and within her in an invisible vortex. It admittedly took a bit more conscious effort than she would normally need, as it was both more blatant of a glamour than she would ever use under normal circumstances and of a variety she rarely dabbled in. She didn't really go for the femme fatale games so beloved by many of the fae, and she didn't think she really needed them in other circumstances. Even so, it barely rated as a challenge.

Fleur stumbled as if slapped, gasping. She likely had never encountered anything of Winter, but she obviously recognized it instinctively.

Violet didn't miss that Sirius flinched too.

A single moment seemed to stretch overlong, her hair hanging in the air as if it were honey. Violet felt the weight of a dozen eyes falling on her for that single, unconscious moment. It was as if the whole world had lost its color, and she alone shone, radiant, against the smear of gray. As soon as the others had a chance to think about it, the spell would be broken, but the whole point was it wouldn't last long enough for them to. That was the whole point.

And then it was gone. Life and light returned to the kitchen in a sudden rush. Held breaths were released.

"Control," Violet spat. "Without control, strength is weakness."

On that note, she turned and stomped away to get some fresh air, not really intending to return. The cold of night was immediately calming. Overhead, the sky was clear enough to easily make out the stars despite London's lights. The moon, too, was bright.

A shadow flitted overhead. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

All of a sudden, Violet's skin began to crawl, the night's stillness taking on a haunting air. More shadows flashed across the ground, rapid now. Slowly, Violet looked up at the moon. High above, black figures dashed across the bright spotlight of the moon like twisted mockeries of reindeer.

A single clarion horn blew.

Moments later, the last shadow passed, but the sense of eeriness didn't abate in the least. A shiver ran along Violet's spine and she turned back toward Grimmauld Place, suddenly eager to have a roof over her head, her thoughts churning without rest.

Reviled boldly wielding iron, the Wild Hunt crossing the Christmas sky. Old stories come to life. Something, or someone, was upsetting a precarious balance that had lasted millennia, all while Lord Voldemort was surely teasing what secrets he could from the frail barrier between worlds. It almost seemed as though the world was destined to break apart.

Violet supposed that in that case there was little to do but secure the largest crumb.