The new year came in with half-hearted cheers at Fort MacMillan, Leah clinging to Aurora tightly, her eyes shining with tears she did not have to explain the meaning of. They stayed up for hours, huddled in her bedroom, as the family and friends continued on downstairs. "They're making out as if everything's just normal," Leah said while she cried, curled into Aurora's side on her velvet-covered sofa, "like my dad's still here."

She could only hold her and stroke her hair. Every word that could have been said already had been. If she told Leah her father was watching over her, it would only make it worse; she had that same affliction as Aurora, the fear of disappointing the dead.

"Mother doesn't want me going back to Hogwarts," she admitted after hours, when the tears had paused a while. Aurora held her a little tighter, leaning back into the soft back cushions. "I'm scared to, too, after what happened to that Bell girl. But I'll lose it if I'm stuck here, Aurora, I know it."

"I won't let you go mad," Aurora said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You're coming back with us, and it'll be spring soon before we know it, and it'll get easier." They both knew that was a sorry hope. "I know it will."

"I know. I know, everyone says so!"

"And it sounds like bullshit every time," Aurora agreed, as Leah broke into noisy sobs again, and a bit of her heart splintered at the sound. It made her want to cry too, seeing her friend in such agony, again and again. "I know," she whispered, "I know."

They sat for hours until Leah calmed down and the noise downstairs had quietened, and Lady — Mrs — MacMillan came upstairs to tell Aurora her father was waiting for her by the Floo. When she saw the state her daughter was in, her face visibly crumbled, lip wobbling. "I'll see you soon," Aurora promised, giving Leah one last tight, bruising hug goodbye. "We need to sort that choreography for the dance showcase when we get back to school, remember?"

It was unlikely either of them were going to have the time or motivation for that, but Leah gave a shaky nod anyway. "Thanks, Aurora," she whispered, clutching her tight. "I'm sorry if I ruined your night."

"I'd rather sit up here with you than dance with any of those twats down there," she told her, too quiet for her mother to hear, and Leah laughed. Even as small and watery as it was, it was good to hear. "Write to me if you need me, yeah?"

"I will."

Aurora let go, squeezing her hands before she did so, and followed Mrs MacMillan down the stairs, feeling like she had confined Leah to the darkness alone in that room. "Is she," Mrs MacMillan started, at the top of the staircase. "How is Leah coping?"

The question made her uncomfortable — how could she presume to tell Mrs MacMillan how her own daughter was coping, and shouldn't she figure it out herself? It was not hard to surmise that Leah was not coping, not at all.

"It's difficult," Aurora managed to say, in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster. "She's worried, about everything. I think you should speak to her."

Mrs MacMillan sighed. "Don't you think that I try? We all try. But I'm sure she tells you more than she does me — I would have too, at that age."

Of course not, Aurora wanted to snap, and how am I to tell you, now. "I don't think it's my place to say," she said evenly, "respectfully, Mrs MacMillan. I really think you need to listen."

Perhaps it was harsh, and that explained the anger that flashed in Mrs MacMillan's eyes. She was grieving too, after all, muddying through in a war with three children who had lost their father in one of the worst ways possible. "Your father says he is sending you back to Hogwarts for the term."

"Yes."

"I don't think it's safe."

"Nowhere is. But I think we'd all rather be with our friends." She hoped she understood that. Leah needed them, and Aurora needed her and Gwen and Sally-Anne, even when she was distant. They were there, and that was a comfort.

It was a relief to reach the bottom of the stairs and the grand hall, where her father was stood with a few of the stragglers, pacing in front of the Floo. She could see the relief on his face too, even having known that she was only upstairs with Leah, and had to work to keep her pace even and not hurry over to assure him that she was alright.

"You okay?" her dad asked as she reached him and Mrs MacMillan flitted away to speak to Lord Vaisey with Ernie and Felix.

"I'm fine," she said, though her voice shook a little. "Leah's really struggling. Right now especially."

"Of course she is." Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. "Poor girl. Do you want her to come over at some point before going back to Hogwarts? I can speak to her mother now, I'm sure it'd do her some good to get out of here."

She shook her head. "Her mum won't let her. Thinks leaving the fort is too dangerous, even though our house is probably one of the safest places in the country."

He gave a small, sad smile. "Unfortunately, I can still understand her fear. She's coming back to school though, isn't she? Her mother seemed uncertain."

"Leah wants to. She has to, being here will only make her worse." She sighed, curling into her dad's side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Can we go home now? I'm tired."

He gave her that horrible worried look that had become so commonplace of late and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Of course, sweetheart. Come on, we'll make a quick goodbye and head off. The Weasleys and Harry are expecting us early tomorrow, apparently. Well, today, I suppose."

"Why?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "It's New Year's Day."

"Well, I want to see my godson, seeing as he couldn't come tonight." They had all judged it too much of a security risk, so he had joined the Weasleys instead. Had it not been for Leah, Aurora would have done the same, but her father insisted on being in the same place as her, to make sure she was alright.

"Fair point," she muttered, as they hailed over Mrs MacMillan. "But I reserve the right to hex any of the boys who annoy me before midday."

"Sure, just don't do it in front of their mother, or she'll blame me."

She grinned despite herself.

-*

The last days of the holiday were quiet, but not yet peaceful. Despite having argued at the end of term, Aurora and Harry had withheld their holiday truce, and her anger towards him softened. It wasn't his fault that she had been upset; he was right about Draco, and she hated that. The boy she had grown up with became worse by the day, and having to reckon with that fact still hurt. She would not say so to Harry, but part of her felt he might understand it anyway. Then again, perhaps he just did not want to have to confront it, especially around her dad, who seemed rocky and distant again as they neared the end of the holiday.

A few days before they were due to return to Hogwarts, Dora came to visit — and to give Aurora some extra Duelling practice. Testing herself against her peers was all well and good, but if she had to fight Voldemort's forces, they would be older and stronger, and she had to push herself more. It was an exhausting workout, and the one out of seven rounds she won was only due to Dora's clumsiness, which Aurora only knew to exploit because she knew her.

Sweat-soaked, they both sat and leaned against the cold stone walls of the old hall Aurora had once used as a room to dance in. The mirrors lining one wall made their reflections shine, but distorted in the warped, uneven glass. "That was good," Dora told her once she caught her breath enough. "For a seventeen year old, anyway."

"It's a bit scary," Aurora admitted, "how easy it was for you to beat me."

"You told me not to go easy."

"Yeah, and I meant it." She held her gaze. "I need to be better. It's only a matter of time before I need to go up in a duel again, I can feel it."

"I know," Dora told her with a wince, placing a hand on her shoulder, "you'll never stop being scared, Aurora. I'm scared, when I have to go into the field. I know there are wizards out there way stronger than me. The trick is to be faster at figuring out their weaknesses, than they are at figuring out yours. That comes with practice. Try duelling your dad later."

Aurora scoffed. "He's got a bad hip."

"And he's a decent enough Healer that he can take it, Aurora. He's been out fighting loads of times."

"Has he?" This was news to her. The impression she and Harry had was that he had been mostly confined to behind the scenes work, given his injury and recovery, and Dumbledore's blatant distrust.

"Yeah," Dora said. "I mean, it's not all common Order knowledge, so don't go yelling about it. He and Kingsley and Gisela, and a couple of others as far as I can tell."

Interesting. It was odd that he had not told them, and that Gisela was involved disconcerted her. All she had been told about her recent whereabouts was that she was in Albania, and would be back by Easter. "What's he doing?"

Dora frowned. "I think it's probably best you ask him, Aurora. I might've said too much."

"Dora, he should have told me!"

"He's your dad. He probably just doesn't want you to get all worried, like you are now."

"That's stupid."

Dora cracked a wry, bittersweet grin. "That's families."

The word lingered in the air a moment too long. "We missed you at Christmas, you know," Aurora told her, voice quieter, as though that would soften the blow of the words. "Your mum and dad did, too."

"Yeah." Dora swallowed. "Yeah, Dad said."

"Are you and Andromeda—"

"Aurora, I don't really want to talk about it."

"Right." But everyone always tried to make her talk about things, when she was upset, and did not want to. And she hated it, too, so she could not fault Dora, but still. "What happened?"

Dora let out a loud sigh, tilting her head back. "Mum just doesn't really approve of my life choices, let me put it that way."

"She doesn't seem to much approve of my dad's life choices either, and we still had Christmas dinner with them. Dad told me you spent it alone!"

"Did he now?" she asked, voice tight and sharp. "Perhaps you should tell him to mind his own bleeding business."

Admonished, Aurora looked away, sighing. "I know you don't want us poking about. And he is a nosy sod at times. But he is just worried, and so are Harry and I."

"I know," Dora huffed, hauling herself to her feet. "But I don't want to talk about it, right?"

Aurora nodded, standing. "Alright. I get it. Mostly."

"You know," Dora sighed, moving towards the door and leaving Aurora to hurry after her, "I'm kind of glad for you that you don't."

-*

Aurora had not known what to make of that then, or later when she mulled it over. Probably code for, she was too young to understand. Or maybe, that Dora was glad Aurora and her dad weren't in the position she and Andromeda were right now. She made sure to hug him extra tight in the evenings, just because she could.

On the last day of the holidays, both she and Harry received letters from Lord Vaisey — that could not mean anything good, they agreed with one silent look across the breakfast table.

The letter was unnecessarily long; Aurora got the gist of it quickly. "They're suspending non-essential bills," she told her dad, who was watching keenly, "to focus on the war effort."

"Which means?"

"More allocation of funding to the DMLE and Auror office. Civic and infrastructure legislation is pushed back. Not a surprise, but, it's not like they're actually doing much else, is it? They don't know what to do."

"I suppose this means the MacMillan Act is done for completely now."

Aurora sighed. "I think that was doomed from the start."

"I should've done something," Harry muttered. "Convinced Scrimgeour.. They should be protecting people! Instead all they've done is lock up a few people, and even that was because of the Order, not the Ministry. They can lock up Stan Shunpike, but not figure out any of the thousand leaks in their own government."

Why he was so stuck on Stan Shunpike, Aurora did not know. "You could still speak to Scrimgeour, you know," she suggested softly, not meeting his eyes. He opened his mouth to protest and she cut him off, "I'm just saying. You've still got a card to play."

"I'm not sticking up for the Ministry, or him."

"They want you to, though. You could get something in return. Support for protections for muggleborns and squibs that go beyond the usual. Get a better inside ear."

"They won't tell him anything, Aurora," her dad interjected. "Scrimgeour and his council. They just want a poster boy, their mouthpiece. You could negotiate," he added to Harry, "but honestly, I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because, fuck them," he said with a shrug, leaning back. "We get shit done without them."

"Yes," Aurora said, annoyed, "but we wouldn't have to get shit done like this if we had decent laws to protect people, and if the Ministry was actually forced to care about something beyond their own image."

"But they only want me for their image."

"Yes, and you can use that to force them to do some fucking good in the world!" she snapped, tensing her hands against the table in an effort not to slam them down on them. "Merlin, Harry, some things are more important than your dislike of someone!"

"I don't see you doing much," he shot back.

"Well, the Minister of Magic doesn't want me for anything," she told him, before she could let herself dwell on how those words had hit her, "he wants you."

What could she do, she wanted to yell. When she was so scared and the world was so vast and every move she might make, someone else had already blocked? "I've already tried," she said, levelling her voice. "You have the negotiating power at your fingertips, Harry. You don't have to like Scrimgeour, or his administration. You as much as suggested it in the summer, remember? When you said you wouldn't support a Ministry that didn't support the bill?"

"And it didn't support the bill."

"The Assembly didn't."

"Yeah, and the Assembly and the Ministry are pretty close, aren't they? They're all cowards."

"Aloysius Vabsley was killed!"

"So you're saying it's fine then."

"I'm saying it's understandable that people are frightened. We have to help everyone overcome that. Not everyone is going to do the right thing out of the goodness of their hearts, Harry, and we can't expect that to be the reason why we succeed."

"So what do you want me to do, then? What do you think we're going to succeed in?"

"I don't know—"

"What do you know?" he shouted.

"Harry," her dad cut in, "that's enough. Aurora, it's Harry's decision whether he wants to work with Scrimgeour or not. Harry... We're all trying to do what we can to help, with very little." Harry pulled a disbelieving face, and Aurora glared at the table. The words cut because she could not deny them. She had no idea what she was doing, or what she would do.

"What do you think I should do?" Harry asked him, face defiant.

Aurora could tell from the twitch in her father's eyes that he did not expect the answer to go down well. "Look, I hate the Ministry. They're a bunch of wankers, and I've no illusions about Scrimgeour's intentions. He wants to use you, that's obvious to everyone."

"But do you think I should let myself be used?"

"No," he said sharply, "I don't want either of you to — to be used. But, you want to do something of use? This could be a way to get your voice heard." Harry gaped at him. "I'm not telling you what to do, Harry, you're old enough to decide for yourself. That's all I've got to say."

"You're agreeing with her?"

"Watch your tone," Aurora muttered, glaring up at him.

"Aurora has a good point. But it's not for her to decide what you do, either."

Harry scoffed, but he did not contest it. It was rare that he did contest what her dad said; he valued his opinion, and her dad valued hers, and that helped settle her. But it did not detract from her own sense of floundering and aimlessness. Now she had completed the family ritual, she was more secure in her status as Lady Black, but how did she use that? How could she? It would not stop the lords from looking down at her as a child, from speaking over her with their own agendas, writing her off as idealistic and too ambitious when protecting people who were under threat seemed like simple common sense.

Perhaps it was time for more direct action, she thought. Or more covert. There had to be something she could do to make herself useful, beyond trading arguments in endless circles with old men who didn't give a damn about her or anybody else who did not benefit them.

She wanted to go back to bed, curl up under the covers and sleep until this was all over. If nothing she could do could have any effect, what was the point?

But she had to try. Ambition — that was the core of the Slytherin values, allegedly. She felt she had made a poor showing of cunning of late. Everything she did, when she was younger, she had felt so powerful in, as if she was getting one up on the universe. But now it all seemed to crumble, and feel pointless. Anything could go wrong at any point. There were no right choices.

"I'm going to my room," Harry informed them, breaking her from her thoughts. "I meant to write to Hermione."

"And I'm going for a fly," Aurora said, finishing the last of her eggs, which had gone cold by now, and stuck in her mouth.

"Make sure you put a hat on," her dad warned, "it's cold out there."

"Yes," Aurora said, standing up to clear her plate, then remembering with a thrill that she could use magic here. It kept slipping her mind, in the mundane moments, but when she said, "Scourgify," and then doused it with water, and dried it, for good measure, all in ten seconds, the look of annoyance on Harry's face before he left brought her a little needle of relief.

Once outside, Aurora put warming charms over her body, and secured her hat to her head, over her braid. Her hair was getting long now, irritating her; she had half a mind to get it cut off. Perhaps it would make her reflection less frightening to her; less like Bellatrix.

Her broom needed warmed up too, before taking it out in this frigid cold. It was sort of day where it felt like icicles still hung in the sky, and even though she was warm, when Aurora exhaled, she could see little puffs of her breath in the air. She soothed the wood with a polish, warming charm, and humidity repellent, until it was ready, and she could take off.

It was a relief, being up there in the sky, as it always was. There was a freedom that came with being so far from anyone else, feeling untouchable and unbreakable, confident in her movements and her broom. She trusted it like it was a part of her, moving seamlessly through every turn and trick and dive. The village of Drybeck sprawled before her, a picture of wintry innocence gleaming with frost and the light of a too-distant sun. Were the people down there aware of all that was happening in the world? she wondered, as she flew parallel to the little stream that separated her estate from the muggle village. Did they feel a sense of dread seeping in through every crack, could they feel the presence of rogue Dementors and the absences caused by the Death Eaters' rogue killings. There must be more than were being reported, she knew that; her dad had said as much, but the lack of transparency between the Ministry and the crown government meant they had no idea how many of the muggle disappearances might have anything to do with Voldemort and his followers.

She wondered what they would do if they knew. Would they revolt, take up arms beside them? Or would they turn on all wizards, seek to destroy them all. She liked to think not, but she had seen the way her own people treated muggles and muggleborns and squibs. People they deemed inferior, and people they decided to be afraid of and blame for their problems. Should they try, she wondered. Was it their duty to at least try, in the hope of a somewhat better world. Didn't muggles have the right to know what was going on around them, to protect themselves?

It would never happen. She knew that in her soul. The Statute had been in place for centuries, and the original reasoning was sound. But there could be another way. She wanted to hope for it.

"Aurora!" Harry's voice broke her from her thoughts again; she turned sharply, catching her breath. She had not realised her eyes stinging until she turned to him, and they were damp, as were her cheeks. Just the wind. "Hey." He soared over, a nervous look in his eye. His scarf was thrown messily round his neck and over one shoulder; he was lucky not to catch it on anything. "Look, I didn't mean to—"

"Let's not apologise," Aurora said tiredly, waving him off. "We both meant what we said, didn't we?" He did not deny it. "It wasn't personal. I just think it's an option worth exploring. It's frustrating, all this. And you're right, I don't know what I'm doing, at all."

"I just — Scrimgeour and the Ministry are all a load of liars. I'm not pretending to like them, and I'd do a shit job of it anyway." She was not in a position to contend with that statement. Harry wore his thoughts so plainly on his face. It was frightening to think she might be becoming more like him, in that one regard. It meant a loss of control that made her ill. "But I... I don't know what I'm doing either."

They both hung there for a moment, in the quiet with the wind singing all around them, and the bare trees swaying in the breeze. "I don't think anyone does," she whispered. "Not even my dad."

"No." Harry frowned, staring down towards the faraway ground. "I don't think he does."

There was a strain in his voice, and it made Aurora uneasy. Perhaps he was worrying about him, too. Perhaps they were all caught in an endless cycle of worrying, never content to relax, never allowed to breathe for too long because there was always something waiting for them just over the horizon. "You know you're not meant to be flying, right?" Aurora said when the silence became too heavy. "Too dangerous."

"I can outfly Voldemort."

Aurora scoffed. "Cocky."

"Don't tell anyone, will you? Can we have a fly? I only ever get out with the team these days."

"Me too," Aurora said, and despite the fact that rival Quidditch captains probably weren't supposed to show off to each other, and fly side by side, it was familiar to them both to get out their nervous energy by becoming one with the wind and the sky, to let the roar of the breeze as the dove to the ground drown out the thoughts in their heads. "Race you to the big oak on that side?" She nodded to the wall of trees on the other end of the estate, and Harry grinned, flying to her side.

"You're on," he agreed, a free smile on his face.

She had not thought was the sort of thing that could comfort her, and yet somehow, seeing Harry smile and knit over the grazing wound of their argument, it did. It made that tension dissipate, and they were just two teenagers, racing across the sky as fast as their brooms would carry them, needing to win no darker battle than this one.