Saturnine felt like an outsider at 12 Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t only the unfriendly un-welcome she’d received from the loathsome portrait in the hall; the house, as a whole, felt wrong to her. Once, a long time ago, it had probably been a grand affair, a proud testament to the place the House of Black held in their society. But now, that snobbish facade frayed at the edges. The house looked unlived-in. And it was barely maintained in a decent enough shape that the weekly meetings of the Order of the Phoenix could be held within its dusty mist.

Dumbledore hadn’t asked for her presence since that first meeting at the end of June, and she had yet to meet other members besides Shacklebolt, Tonks, and Moody. But she had a sense, as she walked down the stone stairs to get to the kitchen, that she wouldn’t meet more of them today. She was still a secret to be kept, and it wouldn’t do for Dumbledore to introduce her to people who might remember the seventeen-year-old witch who had disappeared without warning from Wizarding Britain some fifteen years ago. So far, Leen Nine had been introduced only to a select few wizards and witches—and one werewolf. And if none of them, save for Remus, were in the same age bracket as she was, it was no coincidence at all.

Entering the kitchen, at last, Saturnine realised that she’d been right. The only other members present, aside from Dumbledore who sat at the table’s head, were Tonks, Remus and Molly Weasley. She had met Tonks earlier that summer, and Mrs Weasley a few days before to arrange Harry’s birthday party. Both women only knew her alias.

“There you are, dear,” the redhead said as she stood up to grab the pot of tea and an empty cup. “Have a cuppa, why don’t you?”

Saturnine sat next to Mrs Weasley and took the proffered cup with a nod. “Thanks, Molly,” she replied, her tone slightly colder than she would have made it if the two of them had been alone in the room.

“I trust that Harry’s all right,” Dumbledore said, fixing her with his piercing, blue eyes.

She took a sip before giving him a curt nod. “Working on his Potions essay at the moment, I believe.”

“Good, an important subject if there ever was one,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “And what of his Occlumency lessons?”

“We’re making progress,” she said.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Really? I was led to believe young Mister Potter showed no abilities to master the subject.”

Saturnine blew a breath over her cup of lukewarm tea to buy herself time to collect her thoughts and decide how much to reveal. “I had to take a rather unorthodox approach to the matter.” She paused, then admitted, “I can see why a more traditional teaching method might have failed to yield results.”

If at all possible, that annoying twinkle in the headmaster’s eyes grew brighter. “What of Legilimency?”

She frowned as she studied the question. “We haven’t tried it. I don’t see the point in wasting valuable time teaching that technique when we all know that what Harry needs is to master the ability to erect strong Occlumency barriers.”

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore said, looking away. Something in his expression caused the hair at the back of Saturnine’s neck to rise in alarm. The old fool was scheming again. But she didn’t have the time to ponder the thought further as the discussion took a new turn. “What of the Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabus? Will you be ready by September 1st?”

“Of course, Headmaster,” she said. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Loath that I am to take over the position, I shall behave professionally, nonetheless.”

“Wonderful, my dear—wonderful.” Dumbledore beamed at her as if she’d just told him she’d spent the afternoon petting unicorns.

“I’m sure you’ll do a great job, Leen,” Mrs Weasley said, patting her hand. “Defence’s ever so important. It’s what keeps our kids safe.”

Tonks nodded in agreement, purple strands bobbing up and down the sides of her face. “Can’t see a time when we’ve needed it more.”

“These are troubled times, indeed,” the headmaster agreed before doing something that caught everyone present unaware. Until now, his right hand had been resting out of sight on his thigh. Slowly, he lifted it, gingerly placing it on the table.

Tonks and Mrs Weasley’s gasps of shocked horror broke the silence at once. Remus and Saturnine’s reactions were more demure but no less heartfelt.

Mrs Weasley broke the silence, stating the obvious, “Albus, your hand! It’s—it’s cursed!”

“What happened, Headmaster?” demanded Remus.

“The foolish mistake of an old man,” he said, flexing his blackened fingers in a poor attempt at making a fist. He only managed to curl his fingers part-way before giving up. “Severus has been kind enough to stop its progress, but I’m afraid that the damage you see is irreparable.”

“Albus!” Mrs Weasley gasped again. “Surely there’s a spell—a counter-curse. You should talk to my Bill, he’s quite the Curse-Breaker, you know.”

“How?” Saturnine asked in a tone that returned the attention to matters of importance. If Albus Dumbledore himself hadn’t been able to remove the curse, it made little sense wasting time talking about it. She was more interested in learning how it had happened.

The old wizard seemed to be of the same mind; he quickly pulled a piece of cloth from the folds of his burgundy robe. He unfolded it with the greatest of care to reveal a small, golden item. It was a ring, Saturnine discovered, inset with a black stone. Leaning over the table to examine it more closely, she shuddered at the symbol carved in its centre—a triangle split in two with a circle in the middle.

The words came back to her unbidden, fresh in her memory; she’d reread the tale many times since the last time she spoke with Dumbledore. “Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further and asked for the power to recall others from Death.”

“Is that from—” Tonks started, then stopped with a frown.

“Beedle the Bard,” finished Mrs Weasley. “The Tale of the Three Brothers—Fred and George couldn’t hear it enough. Fred desperately wanted the wand for Christmas, and George, the cloak. Or was it the other way around?”

“Is this it, though?” Remus asked. “The Resurrection Stone?”

“The last of three,” Dumbledore admitted with a nod.

“That does not explain the curse,” Saturnine said. “Or was Death feeling whimsical that day?”

An amused smile bloomed on Dumbledore’s face as if they weren’t discussing such grave matters. “An enchantment left by its previous owner, Tom Riddle, I’m afraid.”

“Why would the Dark Lord care for a children’s tale?” asked Tonks, whose hair had paled the moment Dumbledore’s hand came into sight. “Surely, he doesn’t believe it to be true.”

“Alas, that is neither here nor there,” he said, and Saturnine had to give him credit for sidestepping the answer altogether. “There’s more to this ring than its supposed power, which Voldemort secreted within its core.”

At the words, Dumbledore drew out his wand, and a few flicks of his wrist later, something dark and twisted leaked out of the dark stone itself. It was like a mist made out of black soot, oozing out, swirling tentatively about as if it wanted to take shape. The more it bled out of the stone, the worse everyone in the room felt. The tar-like substance wasn’t only seeping out of the ring. It was slowly eating away at everything good, feasting on joy and happiness to grow. The blackness shone with eerie brightness, even as the colours in the room darkened.

Saturnine felt her breath quicken as goosebumps erupted over the length of her arms. Her right palm, sticky with cold sweat, reached down for her wand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Remus had already drawn his.

The blackness grew denser. Black particles seemed to cling to each other as if attracted by some magnetic force. And a sibilant hiss pierced the silence as the black shape slithered about the wooden table. When it seemed about to lunge at Tonks who was staring at it, entranced, Dumbledore slashed his wand in a sharp X shape, and the tar-like creature vanished at once.

“The soul of the Dark Lord himself,” he said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “A part of it, at least.”

Saturnine shuddered, noticing that all the warmth had been sucked out of the room.

Carefully, Dumbledore folded the piece of cloth over the ring and secreted it about his person again. And there was a collective exhale of breath in response.

“After the events in the Chamber of Secrets, I feared this was a possibility. But until now, I hadn’t been sure,” he continued. “The journal, reportedly so imbued with Tom’s very essence. Had I seen it with my own eyes—but alas.”

“I, for one, am not regretting that the blasted thing was destroyed,” retorted Mrs Weasley in a sharp tone, the memory of nearly losing her daughter too fresh in her mind.

“Of course, Molly. Of course,” said Dumbledore. “Either way, I am now certain that the diary, and now this ring, are Horcruxes.”

Saturnine frowned at the name, trying to recall if she’d heard it before but drawing a blank. Gazing up at the other Order members seated at the table, she could see they were equally puzzled.

“Creating a Horcrux calls upon the Darkest Arts and the most terrible of all Black Magic. It’s an object in which a wizard hides a fragment of his soul to become immortal,” Dumbledore explained. “To create a Horcrux, a wizard must first deliberately commit murder as a means to damage his own soul metaphysically.”

“Two people died for these—these abominations to be made?” asked a pale-faced Mrs Weasley.

“Three,” Saturnine corrected, the pieces of the puzzle coming together. “The snake is another one, isn’t it?”

“My assumption as well.” The headmaster nodded. “And more, probably.”

“This is—” Remus started, then stopped suddenly before continuing. “I mean, I knew he was twisted, but that’s—dark. The purest of Dark Magic.”

“How many, do you think?” asked Tonks, whose face had lost all colour.

“Alas, that I do not know. But I do know this... Lord Voldemort cannot be killed until all his Horcruxes are destroyed.”

***

The subtle science and exact art of potion-making were slowly giving Harry Potter a headache. As always, Snape’s essay was a nightmare of the educational variety. While it was true that teachers were demanding with their summer essays—after all, students had weeks to complete them—Professor Snape always took that art form to the next level. Potions’ summer essays had been dubbed “the Parchments from Hell” by the entire student body.

And this year, the surly, greasy bat of the dungeon had outdone himself. Students were required to pick three potions they’d studied the years before and, while changing at least one of the core ingredients, come up with a new recipe that would yield the same result. Creating a new potion out of thin air sounded easier than reinventing existing ones. Nothing was more exerting than Potions, Harry knew. Everything was supposed to be done in a specific order using the very exact ingredients specified on the recipe—early on, Snape had drummed that knowledge home. If there was one thing you didn’t do in Potions, that was improvise. And now, the man wanted them to do just that. Had he finally lost it?

Harry had chosen the Cure for Boils, the Forgetfulness Potion, and—knowing he couldn’t possibly get away with using only the first years’ potions—the Strengthening Solution they’d learned just months before.

So far, the only thing he’d done was to list the proper ingredients for each potion. The Cure for Boils required snake fangs, dried nettles, horned slugs, Advil, and porcupine quills. The Forgetfulness Potion was made with Lethe River Water drops, Valerian sprigs, and measures of Standard Ingredient and mistletoe berries. The Strengthening Solution, though, had a list of ingredients as long as his forearm.

Harry debated whether the Lethe River Water drops could be replaced by those of the River Thames when he felt a burning sensation spread across his left thigh. Dropping his quill, he pushed his chair back in alarm as his hand reached into his trousers’ pocket. His fingers had no trouble curling around the object that had caught him so unaware, and he pulled out a small golden Galleon.

This was no mere wizard’s coin; it was one of Hermione’s which she’d created for Dumbledore’s Army the year before. When the students of Hogwarts had needed a secret way to communicate with each other without Dolores Umbridge knowing about it, Hermione had thought to fabricate fake Galleons, on which she then placed a Protean Charm. This charm allowed the numerals on the coins’ edges to transform into the time and date of the next D.A. meeting. The coin would also warm up to alert the holder to the change.

Though they never used it anymore, Harry had kept his out of sentimentality. And he’d taken the habit of carrying it about his person as a reminder that he wasn’t alone but part of a group of friends just waiting to be reunited come summer’s end.

Mesmerised, Harry rolled the small coin in his fingers to read its edges. The date was today’s, and the time was now. He had no doubt the message came from Hermione. She was the only one who’d have known the spells to call out to this Galleon—the master coin. While it shouldn’t have been possible for Harry’s coin to be called out like that—his coin usually did the calling—Harry trusted that if one witch could come up with a way to do the impossible, Hermione would.

Bottling his ink and storing his quill away, Harry’s mind raced as he reached out to grab his windbreaker. He was halfway out of the bedroom when a thought struck him, and he doubled back to his school trunk. Eager to leave, he was in the living room moments later. Whatever was going on, his friends needed him. They would never have resorted to such means of communication if it weren’t of the gravest importance. But what of Saturnine? he thought as his hand reached out for the Floo Powder pot that rested on the mantelpiece. She’d be livid if she came back to an empty cottage. But he had no way to contact her to let her know what was going on. He wasn’t even sure where she was. And time was running out.

Deciding that leaving a message was the best he could do, given the circumstances, he scribbled a quick note to let her know that he’d be back as soon as he could. He hoped, against all odds, that his small act of mercy would come in handy when the time came to face Saturnine’s wrath.

Knowing that he was about to break the rules, big time, Harry strengthened his resolve and threw the Floo in the fire. Wand at the ready, he said, “The Burrow,” before stepping into the flames.

***

“What’s the plan?” Remus asked, ever the practical one. “How do we find the others?”

When Dumbledore’s gaze slid her way, the hackles rose on Saturnine’s neck as she guessed at the old man’s answer before the word had left his lips: “Harry.”

“No!” she said emphatically.

“Alas, I see no other way, Professor Nine,” he replied, with something that could have passed for real chagrin on his tired, wrinkled face.

“What did you have in mind, Headmaster?” asked a cautious Mrs Weasley.

Saturnine could do the math and had done it already. “Legilimency is what he has in mind,” she seethed. “And the answer’s no.”

“We know there’s a connection,” Dumbledore tried to explain. “If we could learn to use it to our advantage.”

“I said no,” she repeated, pushing her chair back slightly and crossing her arms over her chest. “I will not have Harry attempting to tailspin within that madman’s head.”

“I do not consent to this lightly, Professor Nine. Trust me when I say that this pains me very much, but we need that piece of information,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “And I see no other way to get it.”

“I won’t have him put in that situation,” she retorted. “What it would do to his mind? He’s only a child.”

“The decision isn’t yours, Professor,” the headmaster replied in a tone that was more than solemn. She had yet to start her job at Hogwarts. But he’d already taken to ordering her around as if she were nothing more than his employee. And that set her nerves on fire.

“Like hell, it isn’t!” she exclaimed, her tone rising. “With all due respect, Headmaster,” she pressed hard on the word—two could play this game, after all, “you made it my decision when you put me in charge of that boy’s safety. You wanted me here, Headmaster. Well, now, you have me.” She stood up, chair scraping the floor loudly as it nearly tumbled backwards. “Deal with it!”

See, old man, she wanted to add. That’s what happens when you force people’s hands. It comes back to slap you in the face. But before she had time to open her mouth again, something pricked at her awareness like a distant ringing in her ears. It was her alarm bell.

She froze as fear gripped her. Harry had left the protective wards of Cove Cottage.