The house situated at 12 Grimmauld Place in the quiet residential Borough of Islington, London, was a strange affair. For one, it was invisible to the non-magical neighbouring Muggles who had long since accepted the mistake in numbering that had landed number 11 next to number 13.

Unplottable and hidden behind a strong Fidelius Charm, the townhouse was, thus, also invisible to all but a select few wizards and witches. For many years home to the Black family—one of the Wizarding World’s oldest Pureblood families—12 Grimmauld Place had recently been passed on to fifteen-year-old Harry Potter, who’d inherited it two weeks before, after his Godfather Sirius Black’s death.

Shuddering against the cold, which she wasn’t sure came from outside or inside, Nymphadora Tonks heaved a sigh as she closed the front door behind her. Gas lamps lighted the hallway, stretching out ahead of her, while the pale glow of the large overhead chandelier did little to hide the state of the peeling wallpaper and worn-thin carpet.

She had taken all but two steps inside when the voice of her great-aunt Walburga Black greeted her.

“Half-breed, Metamorphmagus freak!” the matriarch screeched at the top of her painted lungs. “Defiling the ancestral home of the House of Black.”

Though this wasn’t the first—nor would it be, she was sure, the last—time the old cow had made her dislike known, Tonks couldn’t help but look up in anger at the enormous painted portrait stuck to the wall with a permanent Sticking Charm.

“Sod it!” she muttered as she hastened her steps. She had every right to be here, and the old witch knew it—just like Sirius had; just like Harry did. Why no one had uncorked a bottle of turpentine yet was a mystery to her.

Thinking of her deceased cousin brought a fresh wave of pain through her, and her auburn hair became a shade or two darker as memories came back to her unbidden. She tried to chase them away and all but stumbled into a nearby umbrella stand made from the severed leg of a troll, so lost in thought she was.

Moving to the far end of the entry hall, Tonks pushed open a door to reveal a set of narrow stone stairs that led to the basement and the house’s kitchen. Familiar voices rose from the depth, the words indistinct but the tones familiar enough to be recognisable. Moody was there, as was Lupin. She sighed in relief; she liked Remus—a lot.

Her pain ebbed out as she made her way down the stairs, and her hair was dark blond by the time she entered the gloomy kitchen with a smile on her face and an encompassing “Wotcher!” falling from her lips.

Sitting at a long wooden table, large enough to fit two dozen people for a meal, were Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. A tea kettle sat prone in the middle of the table, and five matching china teacups had been left out for today’s guests. Realising that more were yet to come, Tonks sat down next to Shacklebolt, while Remus, who sat opposite her, rose to fill her cup.

“Morning, Tonks,” he said with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his green eyes. She nodded her thanks when he handed her the cup, acutely aware that she hadn’t seen a proper smile on that man’s lips since the day he’d lost his best friend in battle.

“’Sup?” she asked the room at large.

“A good question, indeed,” replied Moody, his magical prosthetic left eye squinting her way, while the right one affected a more traditional eye-roll. “Thought one of you might have known more, but we’ve all been left equally in the dark, it would seem.”

“I’m sure Dumbledore had his reasons,” Shacklebolt said, his tone more reasonable than Moody’s had been.

It wasn’t infrequent that an Order of the Phoenix meeting would be called upon without a clearly stated purpose by its leader, Albus Dumbledore. The older, seasoned Transfiguration professor, and now headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was known to get whimsical now and again—and that was a polite way of putting things. In truth, every last member of the Order of the Phoenix was sure of one thing: they didn’t know everything.

Dumbledore knew more than they did, saw more than they did—and that one stung Moody a little to admit—and understood far more than they did, collectively. They’d accepted these facts when they’d accepted their place under his leadership. And they trusted that the older man knew what he was doing, sure that they all stood on the same side and were united in their goal to put an end to You-Know-Who’s reign of terror before it could begin. They were, each of them, soldiers in a war, and they would follow Dumbledore’s orders to their death if that was to be their fate—beyond even, if they had a say in it.

“I don’t like this, though,” Moody grumbled, both eyes turning to look at the staircase on his left. “Bringing in someone new at this stage.”

“We need all the help we can get,” Remus said, his tone neutral.

“Something’s not right about that girl,” Moody continued as if the other man hadn’t said a thing.

“You don’t even know her,” the sandy-haired man continued. “Have you even talked to her once in your life?”

Moody’s right eye settled itself on Remus, while his left remained steadfastly locked on the stairs, as if it were waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive. “Something fishy about her. Mark my words, Lupin.”

Feeling left out, Tonks asked, “Excuse me, but who are we arguing about?”

“Dumbledore’s upstairs having a chat with a witch we don’t know,” Shacklebolt informed her.

“Five-foot nine, long dark-brown hair, early thirties,” Moody added, “Don’t know her name, but I know I’ve seen her in the Ministry before—Major Investigation Department level.”

Tonks hadn’t even noticed that there was someone else on the ground floor, but she wasn’t the seasoned Auror Alastor Moody was. And if he’d met that mysterious witch on the same level of the Ministry where they operated, it could only mean one thing. “She’s one of us?” she asked, feeling foolish for stating the obvious.

“I’d know her name if she were,” Moody said with a downward quirk of his lips. “But I don’t. Never forget a face, though.”

“And now you’re all caught up with our argument,” Shacklebolt waved a hand at the young Metamorphmagus as he smiled into his cup of tea.

“She could be from another department and have come down to you lot to ask for a report or something,” Remus suggested, ever the voice of reason.

“Or she’s one of them,” Moody intoned.

“Or she was bringing some documentation an Auror requested.”

Remus’ counter-argument earned another round of, “Or she’s one of them.”

Before Tonks had the time to request more details, Shacklebolt provided her with an explanation: “Mad-Eye thinks there’s a secret group of Aurors who don’t play by the rules and like to get their hands dirty every chance they get.”

Tonks nodded; she’d heard the rumours, too. And knowing the Ministry as she did, she was sure they were correct. Impossible cases suddenly solved—as if by magic. Witnesses who steadfastly refused to testify suddenly singing like canaries. Even to a green Auror like herself, that looked too much like a pattern to be merely a string of coincidences.

Moody’s prosthetic eye hadn’t moved from where it had been glaring at the stairs, and Tonks felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. That man was the most dedicated, talented Auror she knew—and he hadn’t been asked to join the special branch. What type did they recruit, then? Who was better qualified than someone like him?

The sound of two pairs of feet walking down the staircase put a halt to her musing. It seemed like she would get her answer soon enough.

Dumbledore walked in first, a benevolent smile at the corner of his thin lips, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as he took in the room. His robe was a garish shade of blue, and it made a strong contrast to his long, white beard.

“Everyone’s here? That’s good,” he said, coming to sit at the head of the table. No teacup awaited him, but presently, the cup that had been resting next to Tonks’ place lifted itself a few inches above the wooden table before gently flying forward to place itself within the headmaster’s reach and settling down with the barest of clinks. The kettle followed an instant later, pouring a generous amount of fuming tea into the goblet before returning to its spot at the centre of the table.

“Sit down, my dear. Would you like some tea?” he asked the woman who’d followed him down the stairs but who had yet to enter the kitchen proper.

She was as Moody had described her: tall, long dark hair, closer to Remus’ age than Tonks’. But what caught everyone’s attention was the expression on her face—or rather the lack thereof. Nothing could be glimpsed of how she felt on her lean features. Her light-blue eyes remained aimed at the headmaster as if he were the only person present in the room; her rosy lips rested in a neutral line that leaned neither towards a smile nor a pout. Her face was the equivalent of a frozen pond on an ice-covered continent where no one lived.

When it became clear that she would not step forward any more than she would accept Dumbledore’s offer of tea, the older man brought his own cup to his lips. “Delicious,” he said, after taking a sip. “Are you sure I cannot tempt you with a cuppa?”

The woman’s lips parted just long enough for a single word to filter through. “Quite,” she replied, in a tone that seemed to drip with boredom. The rest of her remained immobile as she stood half-shrouded in the shadows of the dimly-lit staircase. Underneath simply cut black wizard robes, she wore what looked to be sturdy high-heeled black leather boots and dark-blue denim jeans. Her top was harder to discern—a navy-blue hoodie, perhaps?

The corners of the headmaster’s lips curled up at the reply, a clear sign that something in her laconic answer had amused him. “Miss Leen Nine will be Hogwarts’ new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” he explained after taking another sip of his tea, “and a step up from Dolores Umbridge, I have no doubt.”

“Not a difficult feat,” Shacklebolt agreed, with a knowing smile.

Remus nodded in agreement before adding, “Best of luck, Ms Nine.”

“And what’s Ms Nine’s relevant pedigree?” Moody asked, his magical eye finally leaving the newcomer to pin Dumbledore.

“Relevant enough,” the headmaster assured him with a benevolent smile. “I have every faith in her abilities to teach our students to defend themselves against all aspects of the Dark Arts.”

Remus turned to face the newcomer with one of his ready smiles, which he seemed so at ease at doling out at any given time. “Ever taught children, Ms Nine? They can be quite a handful at times.”

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore said. “Remus here has held the position two years ago. As did Alastor the year after,” he paused for a breath, “in a manner of speaking. Do not hesitate to ask them for pointers, Professor.”

“I believe I made my opinion on the matter quite clear earlier, Headmaster. I have no more the desire to teach children how to play at Aurors and Death Eaters than I have to join your precious Order of the Phoenix.” The words had once again been said with an ironclad control that filtered all emotions, but a tell-tale rise of anger could be perceived in the newcomer’s blue gaze if one were to search hard enough for it. And four curious pairs of eyes were on the lookout for any sign of the woman’s inner thoughts.

“Yes, you will do wonderfully well, I’m sure,” the headmaster continued as if he hadn’t been so brazenly rebuked. “And we’re ever so glad to have you with us, Ms Nine. Please, why don’t you take a seat?” The twinkle in his eyes doubled in intensity. “This tea is truly delightful.”

Remus’ face was a mirror of Tonks’ surprised one when the dark-haired woman obeyed, sitting next to the sandy-haired werewolf.

The meeting started with the proper introduction of everyone present and continued with a sharing of the latest information that their spy within Lord Voldemort’s rank had provided them with. As the evening progressed, it became obvious that Dumbledore would conduct this meeting as he had countless others—never once slowing down to add additional details that might ease in a newcomer, never detouring from the topic at hand to provide contextual information to someone who hadn’t been there for years—and everyone at the table wondered how much the raven-haired witch seated next to them already knew of the situation they were in.

Leen Nine didn’t contribute a single more word to the discussion, though it was obvious she listened intently to every syllable uttered around the table. No further details were given on her background or the reasons why Dumbledore had chosen her to fill in the Defence position and gone as far as introducing her to the Order weeks before the new school term even started. And no one was bold enough to ask the headmaster more questions.

Harry Potter sat on the edge of his bed, his naked feet grazing the cold floor as his legs swung back and forth. If asked how long he’d been doing that, he would have been hard-pressed to reply. Long enough that his feet had numbed from the cold, at least.

The house at 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, was deadly quiet around him. At a little over four in the morning, the shuffling of his bare feet on the hardwood floor was the only sound disturbing the silence. But it was quiet enough that Harry was certain it wouldn’t disturb Uncle Vernon’s sleep.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young wizard knew he ought to be doing something else. Sleeping was probably what was expected of a fifteen-year-old teenager on holidays at four in the morning, but Harry couldn’t indulge in it. Sleep meant closing one’s eyes—and nothing good ever happened when he did that. There was nowhere to hide in the dark, and then the nightmares would find him, vicious beasts that they were. And then he would scream, kick, fight, and beg, and—

Uncle Vernon disliked it when he had nightmares. He’d made it quite clear to his freak of a nephew that he had better kick the habit real fast—or face the wrath of his pudgy fists. So, Harry did; he stopped sleeping, only indulging in minute-long catnaps when his tired brain demanded it. The now interminable nights dredged on as the boy alternated sitting by the window with sitting on the edge of the bed as he waited for the first light of dawn to rise above the row of houses down the street.

A familiar flutter of wings drew his attention away from the wall he’d been staring at since he’d sat down, and Harry’s feet stopped shuffling.

“Hedwig!” He said the name like a small prayer as he sat up and moved to the window to let in a beautiful snowy owl. She’d been his for years, ever since he started school at Hogwarts when he was eleven. Faithful and kind, she was his only friend throughout the long summer weeks where he was forced to wither away in Surrey for his own safety—or so he’d been told.

“What have you got for me, girl?” Harry asked the bird as he untied the missive tied to Hedwig’s leg. The colour and size of the parchment letter was a dead giveaway for its author: Ronald Weasley, Harry’s best friend from school. Unless Hermione Granger had stolen the ginger-haired boy’s ink and paper yet again.

Returning to the bed with the snow owl now perched on his shoulder, Harry bent down to open the bedside table drawer to get some of the breadcrumbs he’d secreted away for such a purpose. “There you go, girl,” he said, handing the bird a handful. “It’s not much, I know, but it’s the best I can do right now.”

Hedwig peeked at the proffered food without complaining. If she’d come back from the Burrow—the Wesley household—Harry had little doubt that she’d enjoyed far better treats earlier that day. He waited until she’d gotten the last crumbs down her beak to unfold the letter, which had come from the brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger.

She’s staying with Ron, then, thought Harry as he sat down on the bed. And he could just picture it—his two best friends laughing their days away at the Burrow. Hunting down gnomes in the garden alongside Ron’s elder brothers Fred and George in the morning before returning inside for some chicken roast or something under the watchful gaze of Mrs Weasley, the kindest, warmest mother Harry had ever known. And then, an afternoon spent playing wizard’s chess or cribbage in the cluttered but welcoming, crooked-looking home in Devon where Harry so desperately wished he could spend his time away from Hogwarts.

But Harry had stopped begging to be allowed to spend his holidays with his friends, eventually realising that there was no sense asking for something he wouldn’t get. Headmaster Dumbledore had decided that he needed protecting, and the blood-wards that stood around 4 Privet Drive seemed designated to do just that. Thus, it had been decided that the home of Vernon and Petunia Dursley would become his very own personal hell every summer.

Flipping the piece of parchment open, the young wizard saw that it was another ‘Dear Harry, I hope you’re well,’ kind of letter. He’d been getting a lot of those this summer. His replies had been a careful rotation between variations of ‘I’m fine,’ ‘not bad,’ and ‘doing okay, thanks.’

He couldn’t fault his friends for asking, but he wasn’t willing to disclose the truth to them. He refused to ruin their summer with his maudlin thoughts and dreadful guilt trips. Besides, it wasn’t as if any of them could do anything about it, anyway. Sirius was dead. And Harry was the reason his godfather had fallen through the veil the night he’d come to the Ministry to try and save one Harry Potter from what he’d been led to believe was the clutches of Lord Voldemort. And no amount of well-meaning friends that said, ‘Hope you’re doing good, mate,’ would soothe the kind of ache he now had to live with.

So, Harry pulled out a piece of parchment of his own and a quill, and he set to write out his reply.

“Hope you guys are having fun—can’t wait to see you back in September,” he finished before signing his name beneath the last paragraph. Hedwig had gone back to her cage to sleep; so, he left the letter on his bedside table for now.

***

The sun rose as hours ticked by, and at six-thirty, Harry padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. He turned on the coffee machine so it could warm up and opened the fridge to get several eggs and some butter. The flour and sugar, Harry got from one of the hanging cupboards, and less than ten minutes later, he had a pan heating up on the stove and enough dough to make the correct amount of pancakes that were expected from him. He had timed the coffee machine to start to grind beans at exactly six fourty-four, when he knew his uncle and aunt had already been awoken by the ringing of their alarm clock. It would take more to rouse his cousin Dudley, but thankfully, that was Aunt Petunia’s job.

Breakfast was served a little while later, and Harry withdrew from the conversation and the world entirely. He munched on the single pancake he was allowed, without tasting it, and washed it down with tap water before excusing himself and leaving the room.

In Harry’s book, it was progress that the Dursleys let him go without a word. Before, he’d been forced to stay until everyone was done eating and then do the dishes. Him being allowed to leave the table early was another thing that had changed this year. Before, when he still had a godfather who loved and cared about him, Vernon Dursley’s words had affected him. But now that he’d returned to their household with a broken, gaping wound in the place where his heart used to be, insults and barbs had much less of an impact. Or perhaps it was that the Dursleys knew that nothing they could come up with could hold a candle to how bad the boy felt inside.

So they left Harry to drift through his days, stuck in the morose fog that followed him from sunrise to sunset.

***

Having completed the rest of his morning chores, Harry left the Dursley’s home a little before eleven o’clock. With no particular destination in mind, he followed his feet as they led him down Privet Drive, and then onto a familiar gravel path. Minutes later, he ended up at the Little Whinging playpark. It was surrounded by fences and had a swing set, a carousel, three slides, and two benches. It wasn’t as pristine as it once had been, but Harry couldn’t care less. He sat on the only swing his cousin Dudley and his gang hadn’t destroyed, starting a slow going back and forth motion. The monotony of the action had a soothing effect on him, and his eyes drifted close on their own accord.

It wasn’t long until the dreams found him again. The Ministry hallways… Death Eaters surrounding him… Members of the Order of the Phoenix Apparating… Spells and hexes flying about… Sirius—

A gasp escaped the boy’s lips as his eyes flew open, and he was greeted with the strangest of sights. There was a red can of soda floating inches away from his face. It wiggled from left to right an instant, and Harry’s eyes followed along its edges until they settled on pale white fingers, and he then realised it wasn’t magic that made the can of coke float, someone was holding it out to him.

“Want some, then?” a woman’s voice asked in a tone that told him this wasn’t the first time she’d asked him that question.

Curious eyes blinked up as his gaze rose along the stranger’s arm to discover a slightly oval face with lean features and azure-blue eyes. The thirty-something woman’s lips were turned up in a loose smile.

“I’m sorry,” Harry muttered, shaking off the last remnants of his nightmare.

With an amused chuckle, the dark-haired woman shook the can in his face again. “You look like you need some, lad. Do you want it?”

Harry did, he realised. He had no idea how long he’d been at the park, but he was parched. And while this was no pumpkin juice, a sugar-filled coke sounded like the next best thing at the moment. He took it with a smile of his own and popped it open with a sincere, “Thanks.”

“You go right ahead, lad.” The woman leaned back against one of the swing set’s support beams, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry studied her as he gulped a mouthful of the fizzy drink. She was clad in a tight pair of denim jeans and a navy hoodie, and her hair was braided in a long plait that rested on her shoulder. Though Harry had never met her before, he felt no wariness in that stranger’s presence. Everything about her screamed Muggle, from her worn-out, off-white Converse trainers to her black leather wristwatch. The only jewellery she wore was discreet silver creole earrings, and she had little makeup on. A faint sheen of lipstick and maybe some eyeshadow in a very natural tone, it seemed, but Harry was never really sure about those things.

“I’m Leen,” she said before pointing at an area left of her. “I live two streets that way.”

“Harry.”

“I’ve never seen you here before. Has your family just moved in?” she asked. “Mind you, I only ever drop by on Fridays. I’m at work for the rest of the week.”

“What do you do?” asked Harry. He wasn’t really curious, but he needed to be sure his instinct had got it right—that she was a Muggle.

“Clerk for HM Treasury.” She shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way. “Up in Epsom.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Harry objected, though he had no idea what that kind of job could be like. Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to like the Treasury Department as a whole, though, and he liked having to pay taxes even less.

“I’m a glorified paper-pusher.” She laughed. “And sometimes, I think a trained monkey could do the typing as well as me, for how repetitive it is.”

Harry chuckled at the image her words conjured up. Her loose demeanour and easy-going smile, coupled with the can of coke he kept sipping from, had him feeling more relaxed than he’d felt in weeks.

“What about you?” she asked. “Student?”

Harry nodded. “At St Brutus’.” When he saw the woman frown at the name, he elaborated on the lie his uncle and aunt had come up with to explain his month-long absences to the neighbours. “St Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys—it’s an institution for people like me.”

“Is it?” she asked, with an expression that Harry couldn’t decipher.

“So I’ve been told.”

Her reaction wasn’t the one the Dursleys’ neighbours usually had when Aunt Petunia told them where he supposedly studied. Instead of the step backwards and guarded features Harry had expected, the woman brought one of her hands up in a poor attempt to hide her growing grin. Did she not believe him?

“Unless it’s badly named, I don’t quite believe you,” she answered, seeing Harry’s puzzled expression. “You don’t strike me much as a hooligan wannabe. Why would you pretend to attend such a place?”

If only you knew, he thought bitterly. “Looks can be deceiving,” was all he said.

Something of the internal struggle and pain he felt must have filtered through on his face, for the smile left the dark-haired woman’s face and her onyx eyebrows drew closer together. “Everything all right, Harry?” she enquired with what felt like genuine concern in her voice.

He nodded, averting his gaze, familiar lies all but ready to tumble out of his lips. But something deep within him reined them back in. “Not having such a good year,” he said instead, a close enough approximation of the truth.

“S’alright, lad. Life is made of ups and downs,” she replied, taking a step closer, and he looked up at her. There was warmth in her gaze, and Harry realised he’d missed having someone look at him with anything close to genuine kindness. He was lonely, an emotion he’d felt for weeks.

Even as his eyes began to pool with tears, he couldn’t look away.

“Whatever you’re feeling right now,” she explained, “it won’t last forever. I’m sure life’s got loads of nice surprises in store for you.”

Harry had serious doubts about her Zen life philosophy, but he held his tongue. He knew just what life had in store for him—war and a fight to the death. A prophecy uttered before he was even born told him as much.

Instead of pouring out more of his bleeding heart onto this kind stranger, Harry forced a smile onto his lips as he nodded, standing up. “Thanks,” he replied. “For the coke—and the kind words.”

A smile returned to the woman’s lips as she nodded her goodbyes.

“You were right. It was just what I needed,” he called out over his shoulder before tossing the empty can in a nearby bin and departing. He made it to the gravel path before the first tears broke the barrier of his eyelashes, and it took him the entire walk back to the Dursleys to realise he couldn’t remember what that kind woman’s name was.

Harry returned to the park the next day and the day after. For what, he couldn’t be sure. Did he hope to meet his mysterious stranger again? Or was it only that it was a comfortable place to while away the days.

September 1st was nine more weeks away, and Harry wasn’t sure to be able to make it. In truth, it looked less and less likely the more time passed. He felt as dead as Sirius was, as if he’d fallen through a veil of his own: a magical portal that had sucked the breath out of the marrow of his life and dimmed the colours of the world, dulling his senses to the point where only a hazy fog remained.

To say that he felt numb to the world around him was an understatement. Harry had stopped feeling like a human being at some point and gone straight into walking corpse territory. He kept going through the motions because he had to, but he’d stopped exerting his will to do so long ago. He felt like little more than a wraith and knew plenty of ghosts livelier than he was. Some hero he was. Oh, how low the Boy Who Lived had sunken. What would readers of the Daily Prophet say if they knew what had become of their precious ‘Chosen One’?

His morose thoughts followed him like a second shadow throughout the day and, as he returned to 4 Privet Drive at sunset, they followed him inside the house. Harry was just in time to prepare the supper that Uncle Vernon insisted upon eating the instant he was done watching the evening news. Crossing through the living room, the young wizard was surprised not to hear the babble of the television in the background. It took him longer than it should have to notice something was wrong, and it was only when he took in the aligned straight backs of Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley that he realised today wasn’t a normal Sunday.

He was forced to walk past the three of them to see what had them so captivated. Someone else was in the living room with them. A particular someone that was currently occupying Uncle Vernon’s spot on the sofa, looking perfectly at ease despite what was a very tense situation.

It was the woman from the park—Leen, Harry’s brain supplied at last. Tonight, she was dressed in a similar pair of jeans and had exchanged her navy hoodie for a burgundy one. A familiar plait of dark-brown hair hung over one of her shoulders, stopping a little way above the arms she’d crossed over her chest. There was no smile on her lips tonight, only grim determination.

As he stepped closer, the coffee table revealed more of her feet, and Harry noted that her left leather boot was resting over the top of a school trunk—his school trunk. And that wasn’t even the weirdest thing about the strange tableau that the Dursleys’ living room had become. A finely carved piece of wood rested above Leen’s bent knee. Twelve inches and acorn by the look of it—a witch’s wand.

An ingrained reflex had Harry reaching out for his own wand before he had the time to remember that it was the summer holidays and that he didn’t have it with him. His was somewhere in his school trunk, along with every other magic-related item the Dursleys banned him from using while he stayed under their roof.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stopping where he stood. In his head, he was calculating possible means of egress, trying to discern if he was closer to the front door, or if he’d better try and make it to the back door that was at the end of the kitchen.

“Evening, Harry,” Leen said, turning a smile to him that was a far cry from the sour look she’d been regarding the Dursleys with. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

It was a testament to how badly off his rocker he was that he hadn’t noticed how silent and unmoving the Dursleys were. The fact that Uncle Vernon managed to keep silent while a witch sat on his sofa should have been his first clue. How perfectly still and straight-backed his family had remained since he’d walked in should have been number two. Add to that the actual way they stood, aligned next to each other, their backs as rigid as if they’d been carved in marble…

“What have you done to them?” Harry asked, forgetting his own safety to take a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Dursleys’ faces now. The unnaturally taut features left little to the imagination, as did the drops of perspiration pearling on their brows and the silent tears streaming down Dudley and Petunia’s faces. They’d been stunned into immobility and arranged in a straight line by a wizard’s hand.

“Don’t worry, they’re unharmed.” Leen stood up, uncoiling her long limbs with an agility that betrayed an athletic body. “I merely grew weary of their constant complaining.”

A pair of heavy footsteps bounded down the staircase, and the familiar figure of Remus Lupin entered the living room; he held Hedwig’s cage in one hand and his wand in the other. The snow owl peeked through the bars with undisguised interest, for it had, after all, being a long time since she’d been allowed downstairs.

“Harry!” the werewolf said, a smile stretching out his tired lips. “Home at last.”

“Remus?” Harry was torn between running towards him and running for safety. Before, he’d been tricked by wizards pretending to be who they weren’t. Merlin knew that he could brew the damn Polyjuice Potion himself if he needed to. “Is it really you?” he asked, needing to be sure. It couldn’t be—it had to be a trick; Harry couldn’t be so lucky that his former professor and parents’ last remaining friend had come to rescue him from the Dursleys.

The sandy-haired wizard seemed to understand the boy’s uneasiness, and he stopped where he stood, cage still in hand. After a pause, he said, “I’m quite certain that within that trunk of yours is a map that only works for those who are…up to no good.”

The carefully-worded allusion to the Marauder’s Map that Harry had inherited from his father was more than enough to convince him that this truly was Remus Lupin, and Harry forgot everything about his fear, the Dursleys, and the strange woman that remained rooted by the leather sofa. He rushed forward, throwing himself at the man’s chest as if he were eleven rather than fifteen years old.

The elder man gladly welcomed him, moving Hedwig’s cage out of the way and wrapping a comforting arm around his back while Harry buried his head in his tweed-covered shoulder. There was no need for words between the two—Harry wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone dear that night at the Ministry. Sirius had been Remus’ best friend, and now, the werewolf was the last of the four Marauders still alive.

“I hate to interrupt,” came Leen’s voice from their left, “but I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome enough as it is.”

“Of course, ’Nine,” Remus acquiesced, without letting go of the boy. “Harry, we fit everything we could find in your room into your school trunk, and I’ve got Hedwig right here. Is there anything else you need to take with you?”

Harry shook his head; he owned so few things that it wasn’t hard to trust they’d got everything. And even if they didn’t, he held nothing dear enough to make him want to miss what looked like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to leave Surrey behind. He didn’t even stop to ask where they were going. Wherever it was, he couldn’t care less. So long as that place wasn’t the Dursleys, he would be fine.

And then his brain caught up with him. Anywhere else would be fine—but one place.

“Remus,” he whispered, more than asked. “We’re not going to—you know.” He couldn’t even say the name of Sirius’ home aloud, he realised. He’d never really liked 12 Grimmauld Place; that house always gave him the creeps. But his godfather had lived there, and Harry had loved his godfather, so, he’d easily overlooked his uneasiness. Now that Sirius was gone, he wasn’t sure if he could ever go back. The man’s presence would be everywhere; he’d see him in every room, like a ghost that his memories had conjured up.

Remus’ arm tightened around him. “Don’t worry, Harry. We’re not going anywhere near London.”

Relief seeped into him as Leen gave them a nod that had the werewolf gripping Harry’s forearm in his hand. “Hold on tight,” he instructed, and Harry felt a familiar tug behind his navel as he Apparated away.

Their trip ended in a desolate plot of land near the ocean. Looking to his left, Harry was surprised to find himself near the top of a very high cliff that looked much like pictures he’d seen of southern Cornwall when he was a kid. The sun was sinking low on the horizon, drawing crimson lines in the sky that mingled with the blue of the ocean, which spread further than the eye could see.

“Like the view?” Remus asked as he let go of Harry.

He nodded. “Where are we?”

“Cornwall,” he answered. “Not that far from a place called Land’s End. But you don’t want to be going that way—it’s a pretty touristic spot. Unless you’re really craving some Cornish pasties.”

Harry nodded, committing the strange name to memory. “What are we doing here?”

In reply, Remus fished out a piece of parchment from his jacket pocket before handing it to Harry. It contained only a single line of text, written in what was undoubtedly Albus Dumbledore’s hand.

“Cove Cottage can be found at the end of Sennen Path, Cornwall.”

The instant Harry’s eyes finished taking in the words, a cottage shook itself into existence in front of him. It wiggled itself out of the ground like a mole who’d just decided to peek out of its hole. The small building even shook itself out a little as it finished settling on the flat, desolate surface by the cliff.

The walls were built out of light-grey stone bricks and covered with a slated roof of the same colour. Several windows made out of white-painted wood and clear glass afforded the boy a peek inside what looked like the cosiest home he’d ever laid eyes upon. “We’re staying here?” he asked, unable to keep the mirth that bubbled inside of him from seeping into his words.

Remus nodded as he made for the door. “You are,” he confirmed, waving his wand left and right in a complicated set of motions to lower the protective wards to allow them inside.

The living room within Cove Cottage was as cosy as Harry had imagined it. A well-worn brown leather sofa faced a stone-edged fireplace. Between the two stood a low, wooden coffee table and, next to it, a matching leather armchair. On the left, next to a row of shelves filled to the brim with books, stood an opened door that led to the kitchen. Harry could only get a glimpse of it, but it was enough to see that it overlooked the oceanfront; the crimson hues of the setting sun that tinged the old floorboards were a dead giveaway. On the opposite side of the room stood an unlit corridor that Harry guessed led to the bedrooms.

Remus moved to open a window before letting Hedwig out of her cage. An instant later, the snow owl was off in a flutter of white wings. “’Nine will show you about tomorrow,” he explained before setting the empty cage on the floor by the shelves.

“You’re not staying?” Harry whirled on him, surprise evident on his face and in his tone.

Something akin to chagrin and shame filtered across the older man’s face for an instant before he sighed. “The moon is rather full, Harry. I’d rather not risk it.”

Of course, thought Harry, the full moon’s only two days away. He could have smacked himself at his lack of tact. He’d known that—of course he’d known that. Ever since befriending the man and discovering his secret some three years ago, Harry had made a point of always knowing when the celestial body was full. It didn’t matter that Remus had all but slipped out of his life by now, his constant reminding himself of the phases of the moon was like a secret connection he’d kept to him. How could he have forgotten it was next week?

He was saved from having to apologise by the arrival of his school trunk and the mysterious woman who carried it. She’d chosen to use a Levitating Charm to avoid having to lug it about, and she set it by the sofa with a flick of her wand. Another sharp move of her wrist set the fire alight in the fireplace, while a wiggle of her fingers turned on the lights.

Harry was amazed she’d done all of that without uttering a single word. He was pants at nonverbal magic, but all three spells had seemed effortless to the witch, who now stood awkwardly with her hands in her jean pockets at the other end of the living room. She seemed unsure what to do with herself now that all her tasks were accomplished.

Remus stepped forward to make the introductions. “Harry, this is an old friend of mine, Saturnine. She’ll be keeping an eye on you for the rest of the summer.”

“Hello, again,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I best be going, ’Nine,” Remus continued. “Unless you need me for something?”

“I should be able to keep a teenage boy alive through the night, Remus,” she replied. “Despite what some think.”

“You did admit that children weren’t your cup of tea,” the sandy-haired man teased her.

“Yes—children, plural.” She sighed. “I should be able to handle just the one.”

“It’ll be good practice, for you,” he assured her as he headed for the door, turning to give Harry one last friendly smile. “Be good, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I will.” The boy nodded. “Good night, Remus.”

The dark-haired witch echoed his goodbye, and he was gone, leaving the two strangers looking at each other from either end of the living room.

Harry waited as Saturnine deliberated for a moment before deciding what to do next.

“Right,” the witch said abruptly, springing into action. “The bedroom’s that way.” She pointed to the corridor Harry had seen before. Taking the lead, she walked briskly towards the first door on the right. She pushed it open, then stepped aside so that Harry could be the first to walk in.

“Your room for the rest of the summer,” she explained as he entered the room and waited eagerly.

With a flick of her fingers, the overhead lamp flooded the room with light, revealing a rectangular-shaped bedroom much larger than the one Harry had grudgingly been allowed to use at the Dursleys’. A comfortable-looking queen-sized bed stood on the right, complete with a white-painted wooden bedside table. Harry discovered a small wooden desk with a chair and a plain, white door on the opposite side. The room’s best feature was the large bay window that faced him; it was open a crack, and Harry could smell the ocean wafting in, carried in over the breeze.

“The door leads to a small shower room,” Saturnine indicated as she followed his gaze.

Not only a large room but an en-suite—with its own shower, just for him. Harry couldn’t believe his luck; this was even better than the Hogwarts dorms. He’d never had such a spacious place to himself before.

“The decor’s a little sparse. I’m sorry—we haven’t had the time to prepare the cottage for your arrival, but there are some books in the living room.”

“It’s fine,” Harry whispered, not risking putting more strength in his voice through fear that it would break under the intense wave of emotion he felt. “I get to stay here? All summer?” Forced seclusion had never looked more inviting.

Saturnine nodded from where she stood leaning against the doorjamb. “Yes, that’s what Dumbledore and I agreed on.”

She couldn’t have given him a better answer. If the headmaster knew and approved of this, then it was really happening—no more 4 Privet Drive for him. And the woman was a witch; so, maybe he could be allowed to work on his summer homework for once—and she’d said something about there being books, too.

“Feel free to do with this room as you please—but keep it tidy,” she instructed. “I don’t want to see a pile of dirty socks and filthy underwear every time I walk in.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

“You can start to unpack, or take a shower if you’d like, while I prepare dinner. It should be ready in about half an hour.”

With that, she was gone, and Harry looked about the room once more in amazement. He was half-tempted to pinch himself to check that he wasn’t dreaming, but he fought the impulse. If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up.

***

Saturnine’s thoughts were racing, and she welcomed the distraction that cooking a proper meal for two provided her. She rarely bothered when she was on her own, preferring to fix herself a quick sandwich that was more of a pile of whatever edible stuff was left in her pantry than anything else. But tonight, she chose to go through the motions of preparing a salad and a dish with proteins and vegetables. If she was to be trusted with the task of looking after a growing teenager, a full belly on the daily was the way to go.

Harry Potter, Dumbledore’s poster boy, was nothing like what she had imagined. So far, she’d only known him through word-of-mouth and a series of articles in the Daily Prophet—and everyone knew how unreliable that rag was. So, she had been unprepared for the fragile husk of a boy she met at the park when she decided it was time she formed her own impression of the Chosen One. The poor boy had looked as if the merest of blows could have shattered him; he was falling apart—fraying at the seams.

A closer inspection—under an Invisibility Charm—had confirmed her suspicions and told her everything she needed to know about the Dursleys’ unique brand of care for the boy—or lack thereof. She hadn’t minced her words when she had headed to 12 Grimmauld Place the next day to give the headmaster a piece of her mind. Her displeasure had given way to utter dismay when she realised that the older man knew—or at least suspected—that the Muggles treated him in a way that was not even remotely adequate. She’d had a more difficult time keeping her temper in check from that point forward, and there probably lay the explanation for the debacle that followed.

Saturnine had only sought to right a wrong and ensure the boy’s safety—nothing more. But Dumbledore, being who he was, somehow turned things around to suit his own schemes, and she found herself roped into accepting the role of caretaker to one Harry Potter, prophesied saviour of the Wizarding World.

The fact that she had no idea how to care for a teenager seemed no cause of concern to the old codger. And that she knew even less about how to help a grieving boy who’d just lost the only loving relative he’d ever had flew right by the man’s pointy hat. It had been just like when she complained that she was not fit to teach anything to a bunch of unruly scholars, much less something as complex and demanding as Defence Against the Dark Arts. Or the fact that she would rather cut her wand-hand than join the old fool’s merry band of do-gooders, which called themselves the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore hadn’t heard her then, and he hadn’t heard her now. And really, she should have known that once the man got an idea in his head, it was easier to have a conversation with the giant squid in the lake than to get him to change his mind.

“Meddling old coot,” she muttered under her breath, as she flipped the steaks she was cooking onto their other sides. If only I weren’t in such a pinch.

Loner that she was, she was full of shortcomings and had zero experience whatsoever in raising anyone. How was she supposed to know what to do? As if having to take over the Defence of the Dark Arts in September wasn’t frightening enough as it was…

It was a good thing she’d thought of bringing Remus along to get the boy. She would never have managed to persuade Harry to come with her otherwise. Fear had been easy to read on his young face as he’d entered the living room, and it was only when his former teacher joined them that he started to relax. Of course, stunning the boy’s relatives might not have been the best way to go about it—but there was a limit to what Saturnine could put up with, and she always did hate Petunia Evans.

“It’s a nice house,” Harry said as he crept into the kitchen.

Saturnine hadn’t heard him approach over the sound of sizzling meat and boiling vegetables, and she was thankful for his decision to make his presence known with an innocuous comment.

“It’s Dumbledore’s,” she explained as she reached for the salt and then the pepper. Unsure what the boy liked, she decided to be sparse with both. Harry could always add some later if he found his meat tasteless. “He maintains several safe-houses like this one throughout the country.”

“Oh,” the boy said, and the sound came from much closer than his previous comment.

Saturnine turned to find him hovering uncertainly two feet away from her. “Why don’t you try and find the plates and cutlery and set the table?” she asked. “If you don’t mind, of course. I’m almost done here.”

Harry nodded eagerly, and he started opening cupboards at random to locate the various items he was looking for.

Supper was ready less than five minutes later, and the word ‘ravenous’ crossed Saturnine’s mind as she watched Harry dive into his food. Either she was a much better cook than she gave herself credit for, or it had been a while since the boy had had decent food on his plate. Going by how skinny he seemed underneath his baggy clothes, she leaned towards the latter.

“I hope the food’s okay,” she said, testing the waters. “I’m a bit rusty.”

“It’s delicious,” the boy muttered over a forkful of carrots and haricots. “Thanks a lot.”

Her palate, and the eagerness of the boy’s thanks, confirmed her suspicions. Blasted Petunia Evans, she thought. Should have used a Jelly Legs Curse on her or something before I stunned her.

“You don’t really work for the Treasury, do you?” Harry asked once he’d polished two-thirds of his plate.

Saturnine chuckled between two sips of water. “No, I don’t. I’m—in-between jobs at the moment.”

“You really had me believing you were a Muggle, though,” Harry continued as he speared the last of his carrots with his fork.

“Raised as one,” was the only explanation Saturnine was willing to provide him with. And her tone was enough that Harry understood it was better to drop that line of questioning.

“Well, thanks for, uh—” he paused, seemingly lost for words, “—taking me in, I suppose. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

Whatever misgivings Saturnine had about the situation, she fought not to let any of her self-doubt show on her face or in her voice as she replied, “None at all.” Grown-ups’ problems were just that, and this boy had enough on his plate as it was. She’d do her best to make him feel welcome and try and ease the pressure off him. “As I said, I’m in-between jobs, so, it’s no bother at all.”

In an attempt to smoothen the road for the bumps she knew were bound to arise along the way, she decided to be honest about the situation they found themselves in. “I hope I’ll be adequate for it, though. I’ve never had a child in my care before, so, you’ll have to be lenient with me. I know you’re almost sixteen, and you don’t need me to baby you every second of each day. So, I’ll give you a wide berth. I do have some ground rules for you to follow—nothing extravagant, mind you—but I’ll be very displeased if you break them. And you wouldn’t like me much then.”

Harry nodded as he brought the last bit of steak to his mouth.

“A clean room, as I’ve said before. No leaving the house without my permission. No going to bed at an ungodly hour. No foul language, and I require respectful behaviour at all times.” She paused to see if she could think up any more rules. “That ought to do it for now,” she said eventually. “I’ll let you know if I think of something else.”

Harry finished chewing the meat before saying, “Fine by me, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that.” She shook her head. “My name’s Saturnine, though my closest friends call me ’Nine sometimes, as you probably noticed earlier.”

“Not ‘Leen’, then?” Harry asked, with something that was but a barely veiled smirk.

“Eileen’s my middle name,” she explained. “I use it—or a variant thereof—when there’s a need for discretion, or if I’m dealing with Muggles.” She chuckled. “For some reason, they seem to think Saturnine’s an odd name.”

She was glad when the boy didn’t point out that she’d given him both her first and middle names but had yet to reveal her family name. Either he was too afraid to ask, or he was used to only being given a little information at a time—and wasn’t that Dumbledore’s favourite modus operandi?

“Summer homework?” she asked, to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “Have you done it yet?”

The boy lowered his eyes as he shook his head, and Saturnine sensed Petunia’s hand in the situation yet again. Everything that had to do with Hogwarts had been hidden away at the bottom of Harry’s school trunk, and his room couldn’t have looked more Muggle if he’d tried. She knew Harry’s despicable aunt had hated magic as a child; a shortcoming she probably still had to outgrow.

“Get working on it tomorrow,” she continued. “I will be checking on your progress and the quality of what you write.” She paused, thinking up another rule. “I might give you some additional homework to do, once you’re done—if I think you need it.”

The smile Harry gave her in return for her request might have been more at home on the face of a child who’d been promised a bag of sweets than on one who’d been sentenced to an extra helping of homework.

“I will also see that you start school in good shape. That means regular meals and daily physical exercise.” Both requests seemed to be equally well-received, and she continued, “You’re on the Quidditch team, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I mean, Saturnine,” he quickly amended. “Seeker, for Gryffindor.”

“Then flying practice as well, I suppose,” she said, thinking about how she could further expand the reach of the wards so that the boy could go for a few laps around the cottage. “Would twice a week and once on the weekend be enough for you?”

The smile that split Harry’s face from ear-to-ear was a sight to behold. “You’ll let me fly?”

“Of course,” she replied, taken aback. “What kind of monster do you take me for? I told you I’d give you a wide berth, didn’t I? Just give me a few days to tweak the wards enough to allow you some room to fly about the house.”

“That’s brilliant, Saturnine,” Harry said, still grinning. He’d had no trouble using her first name this time. “Thanks.”

Saturnine made good on her promise, and two days after settling in Cove Cottage, Harry was allowed to un-shrink his Firebolt and take it out for a spin. Flying was the one thing he missed the most during his summers with the Dursleys, and he couldn’t believe his luck when Saturnine told him he could fly twice a week, and once more on the weekends. That was almost more flying than he got at Hogwarts.

The witch had extended the wards to reach the edge of the cliff on one side and stretch out for fifty yards in every other direction, and he could fly some thirty feet up throughout the protected zone. That wasn’t as wide as the Quidditch pitch on which he was used to training, but it was more than enough to split through the air and to practice his loops, twists, and turns.

For once, Harry wouldn’t return to Hogwarts out of practice, needing two weeks of intense training to return to his usual level of flying. To say that he was elated was the understatement of the century.

Saturnine had kept her other promises, too, and, aside from making sure he showed up on time for the meals she prepared, she gave him the space she had promised him. Harry had finished his Herbology assignment and gotten a head start on the complicated essay Professor Flitwick had assigned for Charms. He had yet to look at the cottage’s collection of books, having decided to finish his homework first. For once, Harry had the time to complete each essay at his leisure, and he had decided those would be the best they could be. Of course, he knew his very best would not be enough for his demanding Potions professor, but Harry nursed the secret hope of scoring something other than a Troll on his summer assignment for once.

Remus Lupin hadn’t returned to the cottage yet, but Saturnine had assured him that he’d be back as soon as he could. Her tone had been enough for him to understand it to mean that Remus would return as soon he was done feeling the excruciating aftereffects of surviving a full moon.

The change in setting and fresh sea air did wonders to boost Harry’s morale, and he found himself capable of sleeping a few hours each night. Of course, the nightmare still haunted him, but now that the wrath of Uncle Vernon’s rage no longer loomed over him, and he was allowed to use his wand, a simple Silencing Charm cast over his bedroom had solved that particular problem.

A dimmer, darker part of his soul couldn’t keep from wondering if that wasn’t the calm before the storm—a short respite given to him to lull him into a false sense of safety. The war wasn’t over, and Harry knew that more blood would be shed before it ended. And thus, he didn’t let himself relax too much. Try as he might, a part of him held onto the grief and despair he’d become comfortable with. That way, it couldn’t surprise him anymore. If he kept it buried deep inside him, the pain couldn’t sneak up on him—attack him unaware—ever again.

***

“Have you finished your Defence homework?” Saturnine asked over a plate of spaghetti topped with the most delicious tomato sauce Harry had ever tasted. It was clearly homemade—not something that came out of a Tesco tin can.

“Don’t have one,” he answered honestly, sprinkling parmesan over his plate.

One of Saturnine’s dark-brown eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”

“We weren’t given any by our latest, er—” he paused, reluctant to call Dolores Umbridge professor, “—well, the person who was in charge of that class.”

“Hmm, yes. There was quite a disparity in the level of teaching for that class over the years, wasn’t there?”

Harry nodded as he twisted a small mound of pasta around his fork. “That’s one way of putting it. I wonder who we’ll be getting next.”

Saturnine had to admit he had a point. Between the appointments of Dolores Umbridge and Gilderoy Lockhart, the bar had been set pretty low. “Remus was the best, I gather.”

The boy gave her a bright smile despite the mouthful of spaghetti he was chewing on. He waited until he’d swallowed the lot to add, “He was brilliant. Everyone liked him, and we all wished he could have stayed. If only Professor Snape hadn’t told on him—he’s a right git,” he muttered darkly before taking a sip of water.

“Harry,” Saturnine cautioned.

“Sorry,” he mumbled in his glass—a half-heartened apology if she’d ever heard one.

“As a member of the faculty, Professor Snape deserves your respect, Harry. Regardless of what you think of him.”

“You sound just like my friend Hermione, you know. But you’re right.” He sighed. “He’s still a git, though.”

“Potions is a trying subject where the smallest of distractions can lead to very dangerous accidents. It’s a class where students must be well-behaved—it’s a matter of safety. Your professor doesn’t have a choice but to be demanding and strict.”

A long crease appeared between Harry’s brows at her words. “You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

Saturnine let one of her eyebrows raise in question to see if he would elaborate. She was curious to hear what the boy had to tell her about Severus Snape, but she didn’t want to make it that obvious to him.

“Demanding and strict, I could understand,” Harry said, “but that man hates the sight of me. More time than not, he finds excuses to not even grade my potions. Merlin knows that he’d fail me on principle if he could get away with it.” Harry’s tone had risen, and he all but shouted his next words, making Saturnine wonder how long he’d kept his pent-up anger bottled up inside. “He’s as biased as they come, only Slytherin students stand a chance in his class. The rest of us aren’t even worthy of his time—except for detentions, of course. He’s always got time to have us scrub his bloody cauldrons. Git’s far too kind a word for a man like Snape.”

That wasn’t the kind of explanation Saturnine had been hoping for. Severus Snape’s reputation had long since seeped out of the confines of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but Harry’s description of the Potions Master made her insides churn. Biased, hateful—those words were hard to reconcile with the quiet, reserved young man she once knew.

Something of her internal struggle must have shown on her face for Harry hastily amended his words. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I know he’s a teacher, and I shouldn’t talk like that. It’s just—Professor Snape and I—we really don’t get along. He’s got a bad history with my father, and he takes it out on me.”

“It’s okay, Harry. Thanks for your honesty.” Saturnine forced the beginning of a smile on her lips. “I’ll look over your Potions essay once you’re done if you want. Make sure it’s the best it can be.”

The smile was back on the boy’s lips. “That’d be brilliant.”

“Now—about Defence, would you be partial to some homework that would assist me?”

An eager nod. “Once I’m done with everything else, sure. What did you have in mind?”

“A list of everything you’ve learned so far so that I know what the previous teachers failed to cover.” She already had received a copy of Remus’ syllabus, but she had yet to figure out what the other teachers had covered. Knowing Umbridge, it had probably been something Ministry-issued and incredibly dull, and she wouldn’t put it past Lockhart to have used his own books as reading material. But that left her in the dark regarding the subjects the other teachers had taught.

Ever since she’d been roped into taking over the class, she’d been making a list of everything she could remember from the lessons she had taken as a child, supplementing it with elements she’d learned about since, ones that she felt were relevant. If she could compare her list with Harry’s, that would give her a good starting point to complete her course plans.

“If you could break it down by school year, that’d be even better,” she added as an afterthought.

Harry’s fork stopped mid-way between his plate and mouth, and he gaped at her with eyes that were as round as his glasses. “Why do you need to—you’re the new—I mean, are you—Defence?”

“Was there a proper question in there?” Saturnine chuckled. “Yes, I’m to be your new teacher—apparently.”

“That’s brilliant. I’m sure you’ll be fantastic, Saturnine.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Harry, but you should kerb your enthusiasm. I’m hardly qualified for the job.”

“The headmaster forced your hand?” At her nod, he added, “Yeah, he tends to do that.”

Deciding on honesty once again, she explained, “I’ve worked for the Aurors for the past seven years, so, I know a thing or two about defending myself against the Dark Arts. But I’ve never taught anything to anyone in my life—much less children.”

Harry took the time to ponder her reply, and his answer carried the same honesty that her words had. “You said the same thing about having to look after me for the summer. I’ve yet to starve or mortally wound myself, so, I think you’re more resourceful than you give yourself credit for.” He paused, seemingly unsure if he should say more, or not. “You’ve been doing right by me so far, Saturnine. Honest. Keep that up in class, and you’ll be fine.”

What was the saying, ‘out of the mouth of babes’? Did it also hold true for teenagers? she wondered. Well, she knew the type of professor she didn’t want to be—the words ‘biased’ and ‘hateful’ drifted back to her—now all she had to figure out was who she did want to be. Caring for Harry had been easy. He was respectful, followed her ground rules to the letter, and he never asked her for anything. So, they’d fallen into a simple routine where the most requested from her were daily meals and the occasional homework pointer. Surely classes full of students would be a tad more demanding.

Setting her finished plate aside, she leaned forward a little. Their discussion had brought her the opening she’d been seeking for days, and she didn’t want it to pass her by.

“Thanks for your kind words, Harry. I’m glad you seem to be having a good time here. I am trying my best to do right by you, you know.” She paused to allow herself a chance to phrase her words in the best way possible. “I know your last year at Hogwarts has been hard. And I know you haven’t been getting the support you ought to have been given at your uncle and aunt’s house.” She paused again as she took in the dark expression that had come over the boy’s youthful features. She hated having to bring up Sirius Black’s death. But it was obvious Harry was stuck in the middle of the grieving process, and she wanted him to know he could talk to her if he needed to.

“Losing someone always hurts. Both of my parents are dead now, so, I know a thing or two about grief.” A half-truth if there ever was one—but it was a technicality she chose to overlook. “What I mean to say is that you can talk to me about it if you need to.” Merlin, that had sounded better in her head. Now that she heard the words aloud, they sounded hollow even to her ears. “I’m here for you.”

Damn, but she’d been right to argue with Dumbledore; she wasn’t what Harry needed right now. Deficient, unqualified—an utter lack of maternal instinct. Why couldn’t the older man have gone with her suggestion to entrust the boy’s care to Remus Lupin? She could have supplemented him during the full moons, and he’d have done a far better job than she had so far. Now Harry sat crestfallen with tearful eyes, and it was obvious from the way he’d let his fork clatter to the side of his plate that he’d lost his appetite as well. Some caretaker you are, she berated herself.

How could she salvage what was left of the day? Clinging onto honesty as if it were a lifeline, she hastily said, “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to ruin our meal. I am trying to do my best here, but I’m out of my depth.”

“It’s fine,” he said, in a voice that was way too small. She felt like reaching out to him, but she reined it in, unsure if her affection would be welcome.

What can I do? What should I say? she felt like asking, but she kept her mouth close.

“May I be excused?” Harry asked, eyes downcast.

“Of course.” She nodded as she watched him leave.

She remained seated long after Harry had retreated to his bedroom, eyes fixed on the empty chair facing her—unseeing, as she lost herself in her thoughts.

She’d been a child once; could she remember what that had been like? What had she needed then? What was it that got her through those rotten years? The answer was easy enough to find, but it was more of a ‘who’ than a ‘what’. Her older brother had seen her through her worst years. He was a constant presence by her side, a comforting embrace anytime she’d needed one. They’d had each other’s backs back then; they’d been each other’s worlds.

And then they grew up, and they fucked it all to hell.

Yes, she’d been fifteen once, too. And by then, she’d been scared, angry—and utterly alone.

“Nagini, my faithful servant,” the Dark Lord hissed as he held out a hand to his serpent.

A long dark-green snake slithered her way to her master, coiling in on herself to raise her head and allow thin bone-white fingers to run along her scales. Her forked tongue curved in delight at her master’s touch.

“The time is near, my dear.” The grey-faced wizard continued in the same sibilant tongue. “I can feel it. By the end of the year, Dumbledore will be no more, and victory will be in sight.”

“Yessss,” Nagini agreed, wanting, needing her master’s happiness.

“But first, we must be parted,” Lord Voldemort explained as his fingers stroked harder. “I need to keep you safe—you know why.”

Nagini didn’t like the sound of that; she belonged with him. She’d been with him for so long, now; it was all she knew. “Masssster?”

“I need to find the wand, Nagini. You cannot come with me while I look for it. Wormtail will see to your needs while I’m gone.” He chuckled, a dark guttural sound distorted by the Parseltongue that escaped from his lips. “Do try not to eat him, even if he smells like a rat.”

“Mousssse,” Nagini corrected him, turning her head to where the portly wizard recoiled in the corner of the room. She could smell the fear pouring out of him; it always frightened the short man when her master spoke to her in their language. Which, in turn, whetted her appetite for the biped, who smelled like the four-legged rodents she was so fond of.

“Nothing foolish, Nagini,” the Dark Lord cautioned. “Remember the gift I have bestowed on you. I need you to keep it safe.”

“Yessss, Masssster.” The snake nodded her head. It was a strange gesture for her, but one she’d seen many bipeds do over the years. It appeared to convey both obedience and agreement, and as she felt both, she decided it was safe to use now and again.

“Now—” Lord Voldemort announced to the room at large. He turned on his heel, and the snake slithered to one side and back to turn on herself before following him to the centre of the room. His hand had risen to point at a long wooden table where many dark-clothed wizards sat in utter silence. The slow rise and fall of their chests was the only movement they allowed. Unlike the bound woman tied to the table with magical rope; she hadn’t stopped struggling since Nagini had entered the room at her master’s call. “—Dinner, Nagini.”

The snake didn’t speak human anymore, but ‘dinner’ was one word she had committed to memory. She knew what it meant, and she used the closest wizard’s leg to slither her way up the table. Mouth open, fangs at the ready, she pounced on the offered prey.

***

Harry awoke with a scream. Sweat-drenched and out of breath, he could feel bile rising in his throat, and he fought hard to push it back down, even as he struggled to free himself from the tangled blanket’s grasp. Swaying on shaking legs, he padded his way barefoot to the bay window, which he yanked wide open to breathe in the fresh air.

It smelled of the ocean, crisp and cool, and Harry stepped outside to stand in the grass, needing more of it. In the distance, he could hear the waves crashing at the foot of the nearby cliffs, a lone seagull screaming, and the wind rustling through blades of grass all around the cottage. These sounds helped to quiet his brain as he fought to regain his bearings.

Voldemort, the snake—and that poor woman who’d had her neck torn apart in front of his eyes. He couldn’t get the sight of the blood out of his mind, nor the sound of her dying screams out of his ears. ‘Dinner,’ Voldemort had said. Bile rose again as Harry clasped at his heaving chest. Merlin, that madman had called her dinner. He’d only seen her face briefly, but she’d looked but a few years older than he was.

Unsure of what to do, but knowing that he was done trying to sleep for the night, Harry walked further away from the cottage until he reached the edge of the cliffs. Finding a rock large enough to sit upon, he let his gaze wander along the horizon. The waning moon was still pretty full, and Harry had no trouble making out the jagged landscape that surrounded him.

There was a strong breeze coming in from the oceanfront, and it seemed to make the waves crash even harder on the rocks below. It was a soothing sight, he realised, and he tried to match his erratic breathing to the rhythm of the ebb and flow.

The sun had started to rise on the horizon when a warm blanket landed over his shoulders. He shuddered at the feel of it against his skin, realising that he hadn’t noticed how cold he was. Saturnine sat down next to him without a word, and Harry wondered if perhaps he ought to apologise to her. He was sure that he wasn’t supposed to be outside this early in the morning. Had he broken one of her rules? She said he wouldn’t like her if he did; what had she meant by that? Harry knew what an angry Uncle Vernon looked like, but he had no idea what an angry Saturnine would do to him. How would she punish him?

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I didn’t mean to disobey you, but I—” He what? What was he supposed to say? I’m a freak, and I can see into You-Know-Who’s mind, and I saw his pet snake tear a young woman apart, so I needed some fresh air? “I had a nightmare.”

“It’s a nice sight,” was all she replied. “Violent and angry, but strangely, peaceful, too.”

Unsure if further comments from him were required, Harry nodded to show his agreement.

“Are you feeling better now?” she asked.

Harry nodded again. He was.

Saturnine stood up then, reaching out a hand to him. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet. He was glad for the help because his legs had cramped up with the cold.

“Let’s get back inside and see if we can get some hot soup into you.”

Saturnine’s hand was warm in his; her fingers carried strength and comfort, and he held onto her the rest of the way. She didn’t seem to mind, and he decided he didn’t either.

She had him seated at the kitchen table in minutes with the promised bowl of soup.

“Next time, I’d appreciate it if you could stop long enough to put on some shoes and warm clothes,” Saturnine said as Harry blew over the bowl of reheated tomato soup she’d just placed between his hands. It smelled amazing, and he couldn’t wait for it to have cooled enough to be edible.

“Even better, I would prefer it if you woke me up so that I could keep an eye on you.”

“It was the middle of the night,” Harry said, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. She’d been right about the need for shoes and warm clothes. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a problem. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t hear you. I’m usually a light sleeper.”

Harry dove into his soup with his spoon to avoid facing her as guilt racked through him at the thought of the Sound Shields he’d put up in secret.

“Ah,” she said, in a tone that made it clear she’d seen right through his act. “I never stood a chance to hear you, did I?”

Harry had the decency to shake his downcast head.

“Sound Shields?”

He nodded.

She sighed. “This is a problem, Harry.”

He looked up in alarm at her words. That was it; she would get angry now.

“I’m not mad at you, lad. Relax.” She rose a hand, palm forward in a placating gesture. “I thought I had a pretty good grasp on how you were doing, but now I realise I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going on because you’ve been keeping the truth from me. I’m not mad, but I’m worried. How many nightmares have you had since you got here? How bad were they? How many times did it get to the point where you had to go outside to ease the pressure?

“Do you see what I mean?” she continued. “I was complacent and allowed you to trick me into a false sense of normalcy. I failed in my duties to take care of you. I’m sorry.”

Hearing Saturnine blaming herself tugged at his heart. “Don’t be. I’m the one who put up the Sound Shields.” He felt as if he’d let her down, and the feeling didn’t sit well with him. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have known—I should have thought of that.” She allowed a small smile on her lips to sweeten the bite of her words. “Merlin knows, it’s most likely what I would have done in your situation.”

“It’s not like you could have done something about it.” He shrugged between two spoonfuls of soup. “It’s just nightmares—Sirius and stuff. They come and go. I’m used to it by now.”

“There’s no getting used to it, Harry. Nightmares aren’t something you’re supposed to accept without a fight. You get better, you heal, and then they stop coming. That’s what you do.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know how to do that.” And it was the truth. He couldn’t stop his nightmares any more than he could stop the visions. Occlumency hadn’t worked, Snape’s litany of ‘Clear your mind’ hadn’t worked, and Hermione’s breathing technique hadn’t worked either.

Saturnine sat up at his words, and she made to leave the room. Stopping in the doorway, she said, “Take your time to finish your soup, then join me in the living room.”

***

As she sat sideways on the sofa, Saturnine pondered Harry’s last words. ‘I don’t know how to do that.’

She hadn’t known what to reply. Of course she didn’t know. But why did Harry think she ought to have known? What kind of childhood did that boy have? Merlin, Petunia, what did you do to that kid?

When, from her bedroom window, she’d caught the boy’s silhouette by the cliffs’ edge, her heart had missed a beat. Outside, defenceless, and underdressed—she’d had half a mind to come at him like a harpy. Thank the stars that she took a minute to calm herself and analyse the situation first. The boy didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger—safe from hypothermia—and he’d walked outside of his own volition. To figure out why had been child’s play once she’d recovered from the shock.

Finding the words to coax him back inside without a fuss had been harder. And now, figuring out the best course of action to help him felt like something beyond her reach.

Not even sixteen, she reminded herself, still a child. It was easy to lose sight of that sometimes. The lad was more than self-sufficient; he didn’t need anyone to hold his hand anymore—except that he did. If this morning had been any indication, he desperately did. What more did he need? And how could she give it to him?

When Harry walked into the room—still barefoot, she noted—he looked much better than he had before. There was a rosy tinge to his cheeks now; his lips had coloured, too.

She gestured for him to sit on the sofa next to her, and Harry did with reluctance. He still held onto the blanket she’d brought him and placed it between them before raising his feet and burrowing them underneath the pooled layers of cotton.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked. “And by that, I mean warmer.”

He nodded as she adjusted her position to face him more fully, leaning her side against the back of the sofa.

“We need to talk, Harry.”

At her words, the boy’s lips parted, and she rose another hand to halt whatever complaint he had.

“I know you don’t want to be a bother. And I assure you, you’re not. You’re a sweet lad, and I genuinely want to help you.” She paused to let the words sink in. “You’re not well, Harry. You can’t go on like this—you need to talk to someone. I’d understand if you don’t want it to be me. I could ask Remus to come by, or maybe the headmaster.”

“I—I’d rather not,” he mumbled, words barely more than whispers. “Talk to them, that is.”

“Unless you can think of someone else, I’m afraid I’m the only option you’ve got left.”

A pale attempt at a shrug was the only reply she got.

“Harry, save from the day we met at the park, I’ve only ever been honest with you. I haven’t told you everything there is to know about me because some things must remain private at this stage, but every word I’ve ever spoken to you has been the truth.

“And I would like you to return the favour to me. Please don’t lie to me again. And putting up Sound Shields to hide what is going on during the night is like lying to my face. Do you understand that?” She waited for him to nod, to continue. “I want us to be able to have open, honest conversations about important matters. That’s the only way I can ever hope to begin to help you. I do not know how to care for a child, so, I won’t baby you. Rather, I will address you like the sixteen-year-old little man you’re about to be. But know that you can tell me anything, there’s no need for you to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said to the blanket, rather than to her face.

“Don’t tell me that you’re sorry, tell me you will do better from now on. You don’t have to tell me everything, you can keep things to yourself, but no more lying, please.”

He nodded, but it wasn’t enough for her.

“Promise?” she asked. “And look me in the eye while you do it.”

Heaving in a deep breath, Harry did. “I promise,” he said as his forest-green eyes met her azure-blue ones.

“I thought you didn’t have visions anymore, Harry,” Saturnine asked, surprise colouring her words. “I was told Professor Snape solved that particular issue with Occlumency?”

Harry was tempted to snort, but he reined it in. He knew the other witch didn’t like it when he was disrespectful of Hogwarts staff, even if it was Snape. “It didn’t take,” was all he said.

“Harry?” His name had been both a question and a warning. Saturnine had an uncanny ability to do that, he’d noticed. To place several meanings into single words, even single syllables sometimes.

“It was Professor Snape, alright,” he replied, exasperated. There was a limit to his politeness, and he couldn’t see a way to explain properly while toadying to that git. “What did Dumbledore expect? It went poorly, of course, and he kicked me out of his rooms—said he never wanted to see me in his office ever again. His words, not mine!”

Biting his tongue to stop there, Harry regretted bringing up the topic. But it had been so easy to talk to Saturnine. He’d told her everything without even meaning to. She was a calm, reassuring presence and an attentive listener. Hermione would have been in tears by that point, Ron would have found a reason to leave a long time ago, Mrs Weasley would have hugged the daylight out of him within minutes, and Remus would have fed him so many tablets of chocolate that he’d be feeling queasy.

Saturnine was different, though. She let him talk and work out his feelings on his own, only prodding him forward when he stalled. She rarely interrupted him, always waiting until he was done with a particular line of thinking to ask her questions.

“So you lied,” she said. “You claimed the visions had stopped. But did you keep having them?”

“Not so much.” It was the truth; he hadn’t had one since the night at the Ministry. “Last night was the first one since…”

Saturnine nodded, understanding what he hadn’t been able to put into words—another thing she was good at.

“And you think this was a real vision—something the Dark Lord didn’t intend. Unlike…”

Unlike the night he tricked me into going to the Ministry, Harry finished for her. Unlike the night my stupidity led Sirius to that damn room.

“I think so,” he managed through the lump that had flared in his throat. “I don’t think he’ll be using that trick twice. Besides, that vision was pretty useless.”

“Nothing is ever useless in a war, Harry,” Saturnine explained. “Information is key. And sometimes, the smallest of details can make all the difference.

“The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself,” she recited. “Do you know who said that?”

Harry shook his head.

“Sun Tzu. Ever heard the name?” Another shake of the boy’s head. “He was a Muggle Chinese general in 500 BC and one of the best military strategists that ever lived. Military strategy was like his own personal philosophy; The Art of War, he called it. His work has been praised and employed in East Asian warfare since its composition and continues to influence Muggle modern warfare today.”

“How do you know this?” Harry asked. He didn’t think Chinese Muggle military strategies were the kind of stuff they taught at the Auror Academy.

“Wizards cannot hold a candle to Muggles when it comes to war-making. The day they realise we exist and decide we’re a threat to their safety is the day we should all be afraid—Purebloods and Muggleborns alike. Our internal power struggles are nothing compared to what they have going on.

“Wizards think like wizards, Harry, and they rarely ever get creative anymore—Purebloods especially. Personally, I like to think outside the box now and again. And in a fight against a wizard, Muggle strategies can allow you to blindside your opponent. They’ve saved my life more than once.”

“Do you think they could help us against Voldemort?” Harry asked.

“For all his talks of blood supremacy, Tom Riddle remains a Half-Blood raised as a Muggle. He has surprised us before, and I fear he could do so yet again.”

“Are you Muggleborn?” Harry asked her after he felt the silence had stretched out long enough. He’d been wondering about that since the day she mentioned being raised as a Muggle.

“Half-Blood,” she corrected him. “My father was a Muggle, and my mother, a witch, but we lived like Muggles for my father didn’t like magic.”

“Oh,” Harry said, never having heard of a family who’d chosen to live as Muggles when they didn’t have to.

“Tell me your vision again, Harry, if you can. Every last word that the Dark Lord said, please.”

Bracing himself by hugging his bent knees, Harry did.

“A wand?” she interrupted when he got to the part where Voldemort mentioned looking for a wand.

“I need to find the wand, Nagini,” Harry repeated the words ad verbum.

“Are you sure he said the wand and not a wand?”

Harry nodded, that horrid vision seared itself into his brain down to the last lexical twist. He wouldn’t forget a single sentence anytime soon. “What do you think it means?”

“That he’s looking for a particular wand, Harry. Not just a replacement, but one he’s already decided upon. The wand.”

“And that’s helpful to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, it could be.”

“Information is key,” Harry said, recalling her earlier explanation.

She nodded. “Yes, please continue.”

And Harry did. Saturnine stopped him again when he neared the end of Voldemort and Nagini’s discussion, and, word-for-word, the boy quoted the dark wizard once more: “You know the gift I have bestowed on you. I need you to keep it safe.”

“The snake is important then,” Saturnine mused aloud, and Harry could sense that thoughts were racing behind her eyes. At long last, she reached inside her hoodie pocket and pulled out a small glass phial. It was filled to the brim with a bright purple liquid. “Dreamless Sleep Potion,” she indicated as she held it out to Harry. “I want you to take it now and go to bed. You need to rest.”

Harry didn’t feel like going to sleep just then. “I could sleep tonight,” he started to protest, but Saturnine held out a hand, motioning for him to quiet down.

“You spent half the night freezing your arse off outside. If you don’t come down with something, it’ll be a small wonder. Your body doesn’t need to battle exhaustion on top of everything else.” She used one thin finger to point at the phial he now held in his hand. “Potion, then bed. And none of that is up for debate.”

Knowing defeat when he saw it, Harry uncurled himself from the sofa before padding his way to the bedroom, taking with him the blanket that had to have come from Saturnine’s own bedroom. He was out like a light moments after downing the bitter purple liquid.

***

Saturnine waited until she was sure Harry was asleep to throw Floo Powder into the fire. Albus Dumbledore answered at once, and she asked him to come over for a meeting. The man stepped out of the fire instants later, his periwinkle robe pristine and creaseless as if not a single flicker of ash had dared come close to him.

“I trust you and Harry are settling well in Cove Cottage,” he said as he toured the living room, peering out of each window in turn. “My, my, but the sights haven’t changed since I came here last. I can’t remember how long ago that was, mind you.”

“Harry had a vision last night,” Saturnine said, dispensing with the niceties and going straight to the crux of the matter.

That had the older man turn on his heel. “Did he now?”

“Yes, the Dark Lord, Nagini, a table-full of Death Eaters, and an innocent woman sacrificed on the altar of Riddle’s madness.”

Dumbledore nodded but showed no surprise at her words, and Saturnine realised the headmaster had already received a detailed report of that meeting. So, his spy was also in attendance it would seem, she thought. Well, unless their turncoat was also a Parselmouth, Harry had been privy to some information that the spy hadn’t.

“There was more to it,” she said. “Harry caught a conversation, in Parseltongue, between the Dark Lord and his snake.”

And there it was, a twinkle of interest blinked to life in the old wizard’s eyes, and he moved to sit down on the sofa. Saturnine remained where she was, with her back to the fireplace and her arms crossed over her black hoodie. She was still pissed off at the old codger, and she would make sure he knew it. But her rancour didn’t change the fact that she was duty-bound to report what she’d learned, and so she did. Once her recap of Harry’s vision was over, she pointed out the two elements that had caught her attention.

Dumbledore listened to her attentively. Elbows resting on his knees, hands steepled together, he remained motionless as she continued. And he remained silent for a long time afterwards.

“There were once three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…” he recited at last. “Are you familiar with that story?”

Saturnine nodded; her brother had read her that fairy tale when they were little. The small, worn-out paperback had been their mother’s, and she surmised that their father must have overlooked it and thought it nothing more than a typical Muggle children’s book.

“I fear Tom Riddle is looking for the Elder Wand,” the old wizard explained gravely. Saturnine would have laughed at the words had his tone not been so sombre. He’d meant it, which meant—

“It’s a true story?” Saturnine couldn’t keep the shock from her face and voice, even as her brain raced to recall the rest of the tale. Three artefacts won from Death itself: a wand, a cloak, and a stone. “The Deathly Hallows are real?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I know where the wand and the cloak are, but I’ve yet to find the stone,” he replied, and at that, Saturnine had to sit down.

She aimed for the armchair closest to the kitchen as the words sunk in. A cloak to render you invisible, a stone that could bring people back from the dead, and the most powerful wand in history—it was said that any wizard who possessed all three would become the Master of Death.

“They work?” she asked, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer. “Like it says in the book?”

“As far as I can tell, yes,” Dumbledore replied.

“Hide the wand, then,” she instructed. “Better yet, destroy it.” Both of Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose in surprise at her suggestion. “Tom Riddle is looking for it. We cannot risk him finding it. Can you imagine what he’d do with that kind of power?”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” the headmaster said.

Saturnine snorted. “Which means you’ll do nothing.” She sat up again, feeling the anger bubble up in her once more. “You’re going to ignore my advice like you’ve ignored everything else I’ve said to you these past two weeks.” She hated that she was now pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, but she needed to calm her nerves.

“And how are things going with young Harry?” Dumbledore asked, and the change of topic was jarring.

“Fine,” Saturnine replied automatically, her mind still stuck on the Deathly Hallows and the destruction they could unleash were they to end up in the wrong hands.

“Not the debacle you predicted then,” the silver-haired wizard continued. “And, as evidenced by his willingness to share his nightmares and visions with you, you’ve successfully gained his trust. Encouraging results for a mere two weeks spent with the boy.”

Saturnine halted her pacing to round on him. “Do not dare tell me I told you so old man,” she warned him. “Or I will hex you six ways from Sunday—I swear I will.”

Dumbledore chuckled at her threat but had the good grace to remain silent.

“What of the snake?” she asked, returning to the matter at hand. “How does that align with Beedle the Bard’s fairy tale?”

“I cannot see how it does.” Dumbledore shook his head. “It may be unrelated. But I, too, sense it could be important.” He rose from his seat, joints cracking, and stepped closer to Saturnine. “You’ve always had good instincts, my dear. An unconventional way of seeing things, yes, but an incredible understanding of the mechanics behind others’ actions and connections. You and your brother both.”

“Leave him out of this,” she cautioned in a cutting tone.

It was advice that Dumbledore chose to ignore, as he did everything else. “And how long has it been since the two of you last spoke?”

Her words were sharp-edged enough to cut through ice as she said, “Not long enough.” The fact that the headmaster had used her familial guilt to secure her services was one thing, but she drew the line at unsolicited advice.

“Ah, yes,” the headmaster said, tone amiable, benevolent smile at the ready. “Family can be difficult at times, but quarrels always find a way to sort themselves out in the end.”

For a moment, Saturnine wondered if Dumbledore was old enough that she could manage to toss some Floo Powder into the fire and then push him through the flames before he had the time to pull out his wand. She was half-tempted to try it, all thoughts of self-preservation be damned.

“I must return to Hogwarts now,” he said, saving her from what could have been a poorly veiled suicide attempt. “Thank you for bringing this matter to me, Saturnine. Stay here and continue to take good care of Harry. And if he has any more visions, let me know at once.”

“Of course,” she replied, with a curt nod. She didn’t reply when the headmaster wished her a good day, and she turned her back on him as he stepped through the fire. Damn, but he could be infuriating at times.

Her feet took her to Harry’s bedroom before her mind had the time to form the thought. She let herself in without a sound. The boy was fast asleep. He’d curled up on his right side with one hand tucked beneath his pillow to provide additional height. She never could sleep like that; the incline hurt her neck to no end the next day. A stray thought that came from nowhere reminded her that her brother used to like sleeping that way, too, and the rush of emotions that accompanied the memories forced her to sit down.

She perched herself on the edge of the bed by Harry’s legs, mindful not to touch him. Who knew how many sleepless nights he’d been able to slip past her with his Silencing Charm? The boy needed his sleep, and she planned on letting him rest as long as his battered body needed him to.

Harry had kept her blanket, she noticed, as she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. She’d grabbed it from her bed without an afterthought when she had seen him sitting outside. And Harry now wore it draped around his shoulders like a shawl, on top of his own light-blue blanket which came up to his torso.

“There were once three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…” she started, in a voice that was all but a whisper. Continuing, she said, “…the eldest brother asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence. The second brother asked for the power to recall the deceased from the grave. The third and youngest brother asked for something to enable him to go forth without Death being able to follow…”

Parents did that with children, didn't they? Told them bedtime tales to lull them to sleep. But stories were meant to be just that—words of the imagination. They were not supposed to herald impossibly dark days to come. And children were supposed to remain innocent, not turned into unwitting soldiers in a war not of their choosing.

A wand, a cloak and a stone—and a snake that was one more ace up the Dark Lord’s sleeve.

As she recalled one more quote from the works of Sun Tzu, Saturnine couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Tom Riddle had taken a page from the same book she had.

Though she agreed that a connection to the Dark Lord and the visions that ensued could have a tactical advantage, Saturnine insisted that Harry try to learn Occlumency again.

“It’s about choice, Harry,” she’d said. “I want you to be able to decide whether you want him in your head or not.”

And Harry had to admit she had a salient point. Voldemort had used those visions against him once. And he knew that were he ever to be captured by the Dark Lord, he would want to keep his secrets to himself.

“Isn’t there any other way than Occlumency?” he’d asked, hoping against all odds.

There hadn’t been. And thus, it was on the morning of the sixth of July that they had begun their first class. And Harry could see, from the setting itself, that Saturnine’s lessons would be different from those forced on him by Professor Snape.

Instead of his dimly lit dungeon office, the witch had moved the living room coffee table to one side to make room in front of the fireplace. Instead of doing the lessons standing up, she’d asked him to sit cross-legged on the throw rug she’d transfigured from a tea towel. Her tone of voice was the one she always used with him: calm and measured. And Harry let himself be fooled into thinking that perhaps this would work—until she uttered the dreadful words: “Clear your mind!”

“Not that crap again,” he complained, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

That seemed to catch Saturnine by surprise and the eyes she’d closed, while they took a minute to relax, flew open. “I’m sorry?”

“Snape kept saying that. ‘Clear your mind, Potter. Clear your mind!’” Exasperation was slowly giving way to anger. “How does one clear one’s bloody mind? What does that even mean?”

“Language, Harry,” she admonished quickly before readopting a calmer tone. “Just empty your thoughts. Think of nothing—that sort of thing.”

“That’s just more of the same rubbish,” he complained, unable to keep himself from balling his fists.

“I think you’re taking it too literally,” she said softly. “It doesn’t mean having an empty jar for a brain. I only meant for you to quiet your thoughts for a bit.”

That didn’t help more than Snape’s convoluted explanations had.

“Let’s try something else. Close your eyes,” Saturnine instructed, and Harry did. “You like flying on a broom, yes?” A nod from the young wizard, and she continued. “Now picture yourself flying over a forest. You’re all alone... it’s just you and your broom. Can you see the trees zooming past below you, feel the air around you as you slash through it?” Harry nodded; he conjured up such a scene quickly enough. “Keep picturing that, and think of nothing else. If it gets too monotonous, change the terrain, or start doing loops or some other figures.”

Thinking that this was, by far, the most straightforward assignment he’d ever been given. Harry decided to add a meandering stream to his imagined promenade so that he could fly along its length. On a whim, he threw in the occasional Quidditch hoop to fly through.

“All right, Harry. Whatever happens next, try to stay in that forest, okay?” she advised. “Even if your mind takes you away for a little while, try and come back to it.”

Harry nodded. He had no problem doing that; thinking of flying and Quidditch hoops while sitting comfortably by a warm fire was a pleasant way to pass the time.

When he felt a soft tug at the back of his mind, he concentrated harder and planted a few more hoops along the river bank. When the tug started to feel more insistent and distracting, he varied their sizes and heights to make his flying path less linear and more complicated to navigate. When the tugging got more insidious, as if someone had taken a drill to his brain, he changed the topography, adding mountains and valleys, smaller trees and larger ones, and even more hoops left and right. So, eventually, he had to slow down his flying if he didn’t want to impale himself on a tree or hit one of the wooden circles. And his leisurely forest stroll quickly became one of the most technically challenging flying sessions he’d ever had in his life—but he loved it nonetheless. He loved the challenge it presented, loved the feel of his reliable Firebolt beneath him as it took each sharp turn and steep incline as Harry willed it. He felt like nothing could stop him, and—

The world shifted around him. The forest vanished in a flash, and Harry was jolted to a standing position, his stomach lurching at the change of pace. He was back in the Dursleys’ home and the tiny cupboard under the stairs—dark, damp, cramped, and way too small. The cot beneath his back was too thin and itchy; the dust-covered sides of his small prison were too close and felt as if they were pressing in on him. And then Dudley’s heavy feet sounded on the staircase above him, running up and down, then up and down again. The sound of his sturdy boots reverberating around his ears as sawdust filled his eyes. Thump, thump, thump, and then—

The scene shifted around him with another blinding flash, jostling him to an even darker location: Harry was outside this time, slightly out of breath, his back covered in sweat from all the running he’d been doing in the maze. Voldemort was there, as was Cedric Diggory. And Harry knew what would happen, but he couldn’t move—couldn’t stop the terrible events of that night from repeating themselves.

“Kill the spare,” a high, cold voice said. And Harry wanted to scream, to shout in anger. He wanted to pull out his wand and fight the Dark Lord himself, but it was as if his feet were rooted to the spot and his body made of stone.

Wormtail’s wand lifted, his lips opening to form the words: “Avada Kedavra!” And it was too late, and the only thing Harry could do was watch as a blast of green light blazed through the graveyard and the light went out from Cedric’s eyes, and he—

Harry couldn’t hold back the vomit that rushed up his throat, and an instant later, his breakfast splashed all over the throw rug. He was dimly aware of a hand running up and down his back, and another holding onto his shoulder firmly, keeping him upright. He was back within the safety of Cove Cottage, and Saturnine was there. She spoke to him in a soothing tone, but he couldn’t make out her words over the sound of him retching up everything he had.

Once he finished dry heaving, Saturnine banished his sickness with a flick of her wand, and she pressed a glass of water in his shaking fingers a moment later. Harry did his best to drink it, despite the tremors coursing through him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Saturnine apologised from where she was still kneeling next to him. Her hand had not left his back. “I pushed you too hard.”

“It’s okay,” he managed over the shaking glass, “I was expecting it.”

Those same memories had come up during his lessons with Professor Snape, and he knew from the get-go that he was in for a rough ride. He hadn’t been sick to his stomach with the Potions Master, though—a small mercy, he figured.

“It’s really not,” Saturnine said. “You blindsided me again, Harry.”

He had to look up at that, wondering how he’d managed to do that when he’d failed so completely at Occlumency yet again.

“Your barrier was very well-fortified, Harry, and it held me off for a long time—lulled me into thinking you knew what you were doing.”

“Barrier?” he asked, having no idea what she’d meant. He hadn’t put up any barrier, had he? He’d been powerless to stop her from dredging up painful memory after painful memory.

“The forest,” she explained. “It was quite a sight—an impressive bout of flying.”

“You saw that?”

“Of course. For a while, it was all I could see. I had to use more strength than I thought I would need to break through. The harder I pushed, the more complex you made that obstacle course. That was some excellent thinking, Harry.”

“That was you?” he asked as the pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place. “That nagging at the back of my head?” Saturnine nodded. “I wondered what it was. It was distracting me, so, I made it so that I had to concentrate harder on the flying.”

“An excellent reflex, indeed.” She rubbed his back with a little more force. “I’m sorry for the memories that came up, Harry. It wasn’t my intent to hurt you. I was going for inconsequential surface memories, but you forced me to use so much strength to break through that I got in deeper than I intended. My apologies.”

“You mean you can choose what you see?” he asked, curious about how one could do that. He had no idea what it felt like to go inside someone else’s mind.

“In a matter of speaking. It’s almost impossible to hunt down a particular memory, only the most skilled Legilimens can attempt something like that. But it’s possible to choose how far one wishes to dig, so to speak.” She paused, and Harry recognised the look of concentration on her face. She was looking for a way to dumb it down for him. “Think of someone’s mind as a large bowl, Harry. The memories floating near the surface are the easiest to access. They’re also the fresher ones—recent events and innocuous thoughts for the most part. But the deeper you go, the stronger the memories become. And at the bottom of the bowl, you can usually find either really old, long-forgotten memories, or the ones people have sought to hide.”

At her description, Harry couldn’t help but picture a Pensieve filled to the brim with silvery memories. It surprised him that the witch by his side had only tried to find his surface memories, and he felt it was kind of her to have apologised for going deeper than she’d intended. Anger rose in Harry’s chest as he remembered Professor Snape’s Legilimency attacks; he had never tried only to skim the surface.

“What is it, Harry?” Saturnine asked, having felt him tense up.

He forced himself to relax again. It wasn’t hard to do with Saturnine’s hand still rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “Just remembering my lessons with Professor Snape.”

“Ah. Well—Severus Snape is a far better Legilimen and Occlumen than I can ever hope to be. Both skills came naturally to him, while to others, such as yours truly, it took hours of learning and practising to get half-decent at it.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with a second-class teacher.”

Harry snorted at that. “Don’t worry, I’d take your classes over his any day.” A flicker of her fingers prodded him to explain further. “He only went for the memories that hurt the most, and he certainly never apologised for it. His classes were brutal.”

That seemed to give Saturnine pause, and he felt as if she carefully weighed her answer before speaking. “I don’t think he had any ill intent towards you, Harry. Professor Snape only wanted you to learn quickly. But the fast way is also the hard way—and the way he himself was taught.

“Besides, as I said, Legilimency and Occlumency are talents that came easily to Severus. It must have been frustrating to him when you made little to no progress during your lessons. Perhaps he expected it to be the same for you as it had been for him.”

While her explanation had been interesting, and it was something Harry wanted to ponder further later, his curious mind chose to latch onto the one nugget of information that the mysterious witch he’d been living with for weeks had inadvertently let slip through her words. “You know him?” he asked.

Saturnine’s hand froze on his back before retreating entirely. And what followed next was one of the best demonstrations of Occlumency Harry had ever seen. All the life drained from the witch’s oval face until not a single trace of emotion remained. Her eyes became distant as fog fell over the land, misting over every prominent landscape feature to the point where nothing could be discerned anymore.

Feeling as if he should have shoved his foot down his throat rather than said that, Harry hastened to add: “I’m sorry, Saturnine. I shouldn’t have asked.” Merlin, but he wished he hadn’t inadvertently damaged their relationship beyond repair.

Saturnine had been nothing but kind to him. She’d let him go on about his life while keeping an eye on him from a distance. Not overbearing but present all the same—a reassuring companion and steadying presence. She’d been true to her promise of going over his homework, and she’d taken the time to discuss every single essay he’d finished so far. She’d told him what was good and what could be better, she’d helped him find the right chapters in his books to review what hadn’t sunk in, and she’d patiently explained everything he couldn’t understand.

And, as she’d promised, she had never once lied to him. And while she wasn’t an open book, and she valued her privacy, she’d been candid, forthright, and honest with him. Until Harry’s blasted curiosity had gone and upset their relationship’s delicate balance.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. But it was too late.

Saturnine stood up, and she was out of the cottage’s front door minutes later, leaving a desolate young wizard behind.

Saturnine could have slapped herself. Or she could have hit someone else—someone like Albus Dumbledore, perhaps. Yes, that would have felt good.

“Meddling, scheming old sod,” she muttered through clenched teeth as her gaze settled on the jagged cliffs. The violent Atlantic that came crashing down against the rugged granite was the perfect match for her flaring temper.

She’d known all along that the headmaster had a game plan she wasn’t aware of. It was always like that with him—plans within plans within plans. His life played out like a three-dimensional game of chess—four-dimensional even; she wouldn’t put it past him to use a Time-Turner to up his game now and then. But the more time passed, the less she enjoyed feeling like a pawn—someone to be made fun of. Dumbledore was stringing her along his board, and she was powerless to stop him; worse even, she’d started to move about the squares willingly.

She had let herself care for the boy, and she had dropped her guard. Those weren’t really mistakes if one looked at them honestly. But they were at war, and emotions could easily become dangerous liabilities during such dark times. Sweet mother of Circe, she should have known better; she did know better. But Harry being Harry, he’d done to her what he did best. He came at her from an angle she hadn’t anticipated—with a kind smile and trusting emerald eyes—and he’d blindsided her and sneakered his way past her carefully erected defences.

And there she stood now, at the breaking point—forced back onto the chessboard she so hated, teetering on the edge of her square, and unsure of which way to move next. So, she’d taken the coward’s way out, choosing to flee rather than being forced into a lie. And she felt horrible for it. She’d left the poor boy alone by the fire, crumpled in on himself and still reeling from their abysmal Occlumency lesson. A lesson where she’d mucked things about, too. Merlin, but she was on a roll today, and it wasn’t even lunch yet.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she fought hard not to scream. She’d been feeling like doing that a lot recently. Screaming—and flying. Damn, but she could go for a flight just now. A strong wind was blowing in from the oceanfront, and she’d love nothing more than to battle it head-on. She could feel her magic thrum with envy in her veins, the heels of her boots pushing slightly off the ground in anticipation. She clamped down on the feeling, hard, like she did everything else.

Harry needed her, and so she chose her path. The myriad of possible chess moves narrowed down to a single entity: the only one that she could, in good conscience, contemplate making. So, the little white pawn turned on her heel and returned to the square labelled “Cove Cottage” to guard the white knight she’d been tasked to protect.

***

Harry had retreated to his bedroom after the Occlumency fiasco. Unsure what the future held for him, he’d returned to his desk to finish his Transfiguration essay. Who knew what would happen now? Or if he’d be allowed to stay at the cottage for much longer? If Saturnine decided this was over, and he was to go back to the Dursleys, he wanted, at least, to try and wrap up Professor McGonagall’s essay. After that, he only had Potions left; but it didn’t matter if he had to hastily scrawl that one on board the train to Hogwarts. With Snape, he was in for a T at best, anyway.

Though he’d left his bedroom door open, Saturnine knocked twice to announce herself. And she didn’t step through until he’d allowed her to do so.

“I’m sorry for leaving you like that,” she apologised, standing awkwardly by the foot of his bed as if she was half-tempted to sit down but unsure if she should do so.

Harry had remained seated at his desk, quill in hand. He’d turned on his seat to face her, though, essay forgotten behind him. “It’s okay,” he said.

Sighing softly, she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s really not. It was rather immature of me to react like that.”

Harry shook his head; she wasn’t the one who had to apologise. “No, it’s fine. I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, with as much honesty as he could. “Really.”

“For what?” she asked, surprise marring her face for an instant. And Harry was relieved to see the beginning of warmth return to her features. “I’m the one who let out something I had not intended to. You did nothing wrong, Harry.”

Then, heaving in a breath, she said, “Come sit with me.”

Harry obeyed, first placing his quill safely on the side of his desk before sitting up to cross the room. Saturnine sat down at the foot of his bed, and he wondered if he should sit on the pillow or if he dared sit in the middle. When she patted the space in front of her, Harry aimed for the middle of the soft mattress.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said. “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself much.”

And it was the truth—Harry could count on the fingers of his hands the number of personal titbits he’d gleaned over the weeks. Despite her frankness and truthfulness, Saturnine played her cards close to her chest. While she had no qualms about sharing her knowledge of magic with him and providing emotional support and a wealth of general advice, she had remained forcefully tight-lipped about her personal history. And that was fine with Harry. Sure, he was curious. Anyone else would be, but he could live with not knowing, he’d decided. What mattered most to him was that Saturnine was here, and she was helping him. He didn’t need to know what her favourite colour was, or what kind of music she liked to listen to when she was a teenager. He himself had many memories that he would rather keep buried until the end of time; so, he could understand her need to keep her past hidden.

“We’ve been talking about you a lot, Harry. And I’ve gotten to know you pretty well. Occlumency will only strengthen that—” she paused, sounding hesitant to continue. “I am aware that I’ve given you very little in return. But I want you to know that it is not because of a lack of respect towards you. I am a very private person. I’ve always been. Besides, there are things in my past that it is best you do not learn about at this stage. It’s not that I want to keep secrets from you, Harry. But we are at war, and it is something I have to take into consideration.”

“Information is key,” he quoted from one of their earlier talks, willing her to see that he’d understood what she meant. Voldemort had a direct connection to his mind, and he couldn’t spill her secrets if he didn’t know them.

“I won’t ask anything again,” he promised, looking up to catch her gaze. He prayed she would see the honesty in his eyes as he silently begged her to give him another chance. To not give up on him.

He found equal warmth in her blue gaze, and the corners of her mouth lifted as she said, “You can ask, Harry. You can always ask. I only wanted you to understand why you won’t always be getting an answer from me.” He nodded, throat too tight to speak up. “Now, tell me, how’s your homework coming along?”

***

From that day forward, the nightmares became less of an issue for Harry. They still occurred, but not every night. And when they did, he would retreat to the forest in his head and fly through hoops until he fell asleep again.

In the mornings, he’d wake up early and prepare breakfast for the two of them. Not because he had to but because he wanted to. And he’d gotten quite good at it over the years—if Saturnine’s compliments were to be believed. Then they would practice Occlumency until it was time for her to cook their lunch. Harry would usually use the time for a walk outside to clear his head. If it were a good day, he’d walk to the cliffs’ edge and sit down to gaze at the horizon. On one of his bad days, he’d run a few laps around the cottage to burn off the excess of steam.

Despite Saturnine’s care, dark and twisted memories sometimes resurfaced during Occlumency, and Harry needed a breath of fresh air afterwards to centre himself. She wanted him to learn to protect himself from the attacks, and Harry had gotten around to planting metaphorical trees everywhere to circumvent her effort to trip him up. In every new memory that she dredged up, ferns and spruces would pop into existence under his command until they obscured everything. “An unlikely strategy,” Saturnine had said, “but efficient nonetheless.” And thus, she’d encouraged his behaviour.

Trees came about easily in the more innocuous memories, but they were harder to grow when the feelings intensified. Fear or pain would have him rooted to the spot, unable to think for a while. At that point, Saturnine would have to urge him to fight her back. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. When the fear won over his resolve, and he was left a mess of tears and pain, she would retreat from his mind as softly as she could and end their Occlumency lesson there.

Saturnine was always available for him afterwards. She’d remain with him by the fire in case he wanted to talk. She wouldn’t push or prod, but she’d always stay. Most times, he’d be okay after a few steadying breaths. But once or twice, the tears overcame him then, and she’d move closer to rub his back, soothing him in silence—a quiet, reassuring presence by his side.

His afternoons were spent either reading or working on his essays. Or flying, twice a week. And once on the weekend, just like Saturnine had promised. The raven-haired witch rarely ever left their home; she’d go out in the afternoon every once in a while to restock their pantry or get some books for Harry to read, but she was never gone more than an hour at a time.

After supper, they would sit in the living room and sip tea while they talked or played games. They’d found a couple of old board games tucked at the bottom of the linen closet. The game of Scrabble was missing a few letters, and the Gobstones had lost their smells, but the two of them still managed to have a bit of fun.

Professor Lupin visited a couple of times, coming over in the afternoon and staying for supper. If the weather was kind, he and Harry would go out for a walk along the coast. If not, then they’d stay inside to play, with Saturnine joining them most of the time. While the werewolf was pants at the Gobstones, he trounced them at Scrabble every time. It was a fact that had led Harry to discover that Saturnine was a bit of a sore loser, even if she tried hard to hide it.

Although he missed his friends, and at times felt somewhat lonely in this small cottage by the ocean, this was by far the best summer Harry had ever had. He felt safe here and well-cared-for. And a part of him didn’t want the holidays to end. But July was coming to a close, August would fly by just as quickly, and then it would be time for the both of them to return to Hogwarts.

Harry tried to draw solace from the fact that Saturnine would be there with him. She would be his new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. And if the time and effort she put into creating her very own syllabus out of the notes Harry had given her were any indications, she would be a damn good one.

The quiet routine they’d eased into settled itself more firmly as days passed. Having finished all of his homework—except for Potions, but he lacked the will to tackle that particularly nasty beast—Harry made good on his promise to help Saturnine with the Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabus.

Reverting to his manuals, notes, and the copious and detailed lesson summaries Hermione had shared with him when they prepared for their fifth year O.W.L. exams, the two of them slowly compiled a comprehensive list of what should be taught during each school year. Then, using Harry’s lists, they colour-coded the topics (Hermione would have been proud) to highlight the parts missed by their heteroclite assortment of professors.

Saturnine was gobsmacked to discover they had somehow managed to dismiss Wandlore completely. Wasn’t that an essential subject in the Wizarding World? Curse-Breaking had been seriously glossed over, and the students’ knowledge of wandless spells was only theoretical and needed to be put into practice at the earliest convenience. Not to mention the fact that their knowledge of dark creatures had more gaps than Swiss cheese—except for werewolves. That chapter had been explained in detail to everyone who attended Hogwarts.

“It’s going to be a tough year for you,” Harry said, commiserating as he reached for a piece of Emmental that he placed between two slices of buttered bread. Sensing that they were almost done with their list-making, Saturnine had decided to forgo cooking supper for once so that they could finish it. Thus, it was that they were making their own sandwiches and eating them in the living room while they hunched over the mass of parchments strewn across the coffee table. “Is Professor Dumbledore really expecting you to fill in all these gaps in one year?”

Saturnine chuckled over her ham and tomato sandwich, “No one could be expected to do that much in one year, Harry. And even if I could, I doubt students would be able to retain that much information all at once.”

“Then why bother to write it all down?” he asked between two bites.

“I—uh—” she paused, taking another bite as she thought it through. It was with a slight blush that she eventually said, “—couldn’t think of doing it any other way. While I know you guys can’t learn everything you’re missing in a year, I’m still going to try. That’s—well, that’s the only way I know how to do things.”

“All or nothing?” Harry asked.

She shook her head, her blush deepening, “Not really—rather aiming to do the best I can.” She chuckled. “I blame that bad habit on the fact that I’m a Ravenclaw.”

“If you give us your best, the students will, too,” Harry said after wolfing down the last of his sandwich. “And who knows? Together, we might just succeed.”

Harry doubted Saturnine had any idea when his birthday was, and he decided he would not mention it. He was used to not celebrating it anyway; so, today would be a Wednesday just like any other.

He wouldn’t be getting any post this year, though, and he’d have to wait until he returned to Hogwarts to receive his friends’ letters and presents, but it was okay. He knew the Fidelius Charm put on the house made it impossible for owls to find him, and it was too risky to send Hedwig out for she could be followed back and lead the enemy to their doorstep. That didn’t seem to be much of a bother to her. His snowy owl had enjoyed meeting the locals, and she spent a lot of time flying over the cliffs with the seagulls.

They were in the middle of breakfast—blueberry pancakes made with fresh berries that Harry had found growing in a nearby bush—when the Floo roared to life in the living room. Harry was out of his seat in seconds, surprise all over his face. Saturnine hadn’t moved and was content to sip her tea quietly. Harry gathered from her behaviour that whoever was visiting had been expected. At a nod from her, he bolted out of the kitchen to greet their visitor.

In the living room, Remus Lupin was dusting soot out of his tweed jacket’s lapel. Harry all but threw himself at him.

“Happy Birthday, young man,” the sandy-haired wizard said, putting his arms around the boy’s shoulders.

Harry’s heart missed a beat when he realised the werewolf had come to see him, especially because it was his birthday. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and he felt his eyes growing wet.

“Are you ready yet?” Remus asked when the arms that encircled him finally started to let go.

Harry looked up, puzzled. “Ready for what?”

“Your birthday party, of course,” said Remus, as if it were obvious.

“I’m getting a party?” Harry asked, aghast.

“A secret birthday party,” came Saturnine’s voice, sounding a tad exasperated. Looking back over his shoulder, Harry saw that she’d come to lean against the doorjamb between the living room and the kitchen. With her arms crossed over her chest, it was obvious she was displeased.

“Sorry, ’Nine, my bad.” Remus looked contrite as he scratched at the side of his head.

“I’m getting a party?” Harry asked again, looking back and forth between the two. He hadn’t misheard them, had he? There would be a party—for him?

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Saturnine asked in a tone Harry was familiar with. It was her don’t be so thick tone. “Of course you’re getting a party. A secret party, at that. So, I hope you’re ready to act surprised when you get there.”

Harry nodded. No matter what kind of party it would be, he was sure that he’d have no problem looking gobsmacked. A party! No one had ever thrown a party for him; he was beyond ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to get going.

“Where are we going? Who’s going to be there?” he asked, practically bouncing off the walls.

“Perhaps it’s best we try and keep some of the surprise intact, Harry,” Remus said, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “It took Saturnine and me quite some time to arrange this. So, be a good sport, will you?”

Harry turned back to look at the raven-haired witch, practising his astounded expression. “You did this? I didn’t even know you knew it was my birthday. How? You’ve barely ever left the cottage.”

Saturnine kept her secrets to herself and merely raised a fine onyx eyebrow in reply.

“Why don’t you finish getting ready, Harry? We’ll be gone in no time,” Remus said, and Harry dashed to his bedroom to brush his teeth, attempt to fix his hair, and put on another shirt that wasn’t as worn-out as the one he’d selected that morning.

When he returned to the living room, Saturnine hadn’t moved from her place by the doorjamb, but Remus had stepped closer, and the two were amicably discussing the day’s events. They stopped talking when Harry approached, probably to try and salvage what was left of their quickly-sinking surprise ship.

“Ready!” Harry said as he stared at the fireplace, anxious to get going.

“We’re not travelling by Floo, Harry. We’re going to Apparate, so, you won’t know where we’re going until we get there,” Remus explained. “For the full surprise effect.”

“You went a bit overboard with this, didn’t you?” Harry couldn’t help but grin.

“It’s the first time either of us got to organise a birthday party,” he admitted, with a grin of his own. “We took it seriously.”

“And you’d best get going if you want to be on schedule, Remus,” Saturnine said, looking like she meant it. But she still hadn’t moved from her place by the door, and Harry got a sinking feeling in his chest.

“You—you’re not coming?” he asked her. And with that question, all the joy and happiness he’d felt was sucked out of him.

Remus must have felt some of his anguish, for a heavy hand landed on his shoulder an instant later.

“I can’t, Harry,” Saturnine said. “But I’ll be here when you come back, and you can tell me all about it.”

Harry wanted to step forward and—

Do what? He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to do something. The hand on his shoulder was comforting, but it was wrong all the same. It wasn’t the right hand; it should have been Saturnine’s, and she should be coming with them to the party she had helped organise.

“Now go and have fun, why don’t you,” she said, and he could see the tell-tale signs that revealed she was Occluding. “It’s your birthday, Harry. Go enjoy it!”

Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the real reason he hadn’t been told there would be a party. If Remus, in his enthusiasm, hadn’t blown it, Harry would have Apparated away with him without even knowing that he was leaving Saturnine behind to have fun with his friends on his own. And he felt like a right git for doing so.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching Saturnine’s gaze and holding it until the world snapped around him, and he was yanked away by an invisible hook behind his navel.

Turns out, Harry did not need to feign surprise when they Apparated in the Burrow’s front garden.

A roar of voices began shouting, “Surprise! Surprise!” before he had time to make sure he’d made the trip with all his limbs intact.

A large picnic table had been installed in the backyard; it was covered in an assortment of small and not-so-small gifts wrapped in multi-coloured paper. Bright, neon-orange letters hung in the air, spelling out Happy Birthday Harry, while several winged sixteens—that reminded him of Quidditch snitches—floated about the guests.

Harry grinned, hardly able to take it all in.

Mrs Weasley—who was busy levitating plates, cutlery and glasses outside—came to greet him with a warm smile and bone-crushing hug. The rest of the Weasley Clan soon followed, including the patriarch and the eldest two brothers, Charlie and Bill, whom Harry rarely saw. He greeted each of them in turn, thanking them for the many choruses of Happy Birthdays.

More of Harry’s friends were present. Alongside Hermione and Ron stood Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, who wore a tight-fitting dress almost as orange as the floating letters that hovered above the table. Some of the members of the Order of the Phoenix were there, too, including Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Wotcher, Harry!” said Tonks after everyone else had had a go at hugging the birthday boy. She folded him in an embrace much too strong for such a petite figure. Her hair, a light shade of purple, bounced up and down at her excitement. “Sixteen then—we’ll soon make a man out of you. Parents beware, for he’ll be coming for your daughters.”

“Hi, Tonks!” Harry said, fighting the blush that crept up his cheeks. “Thanks for coming.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “A party and cake—of course I’m in.” Then, glancing at Remus, who still stood by Harry’s side, she added, “Not to mention some eligible bachelors.”

Harry had no time to try and interpret her comment, or the strangled cough that had come out of Remus’ throat at her words, before Moody’s large hand grasped his shoulder to steer him away. A moment later, Harry had a glass of Butterbeer in his hand and the solemn promise that all the presents were safe to open. Mad-Eye Moody had made sure of that himself—using both eyes.

It was much later in the afternoon that Harry managed to take a breather on his way back from a bathroom break. Glancing through one of the windows in passing, he was surprised to see the sun had begun to set. Time had flown by quicker than he’d thought.

Crossing through the living room, he stopped in his tracks when he noticed Remus was seated on the sofa with a book in his hands. Why the man had abandoned the party to isolate himself, he had no idea, and that struck him as odd. Remus was usually good with big gatherings, much better than Harry was. He knew how to make small talk and mingled effortlessly. But then again, this was the first party since the night at the Ministry, Harry remembered. And it may have become too much for the kind-hearted werewolf.

Remus finally took notice of him and asked, “Everything all right, Harry?”

“Brilliant, Remus!” he replied, beaming a wide smile. “Best birthday party ever!”

“First party ever, perhaps?” he asked, with a knowing smile that was all kindness and gentleness.

Harry nodded, but he was too happy to let any thoughts of the Dursleys bring him down. “It was well worth the wait! Thanks for organising this, Remus—you and Saturnine both.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said, raising his closed book in a mock-toast gesture.

Edging closer to the sofa, Harry asked, “Whose idea was this?”

“While I would love to take credit for the smile that lights up your face, it was Saturnine’s. But I did help out quite a bit with the organisation.”

That didn’t surprise Harry much. She seemed the type who liked to come up with sneaky surprise plans. “I wish she could have been here,” he said, and that thought did dampen his enthusiasm a little. It didn’t feel fair that she’d been forced to miss the party she helped organise.

“As I am sure she does, too,” Remus said, his own smile losing some of its brightness. “She has explained it to you, then—the particularities of her situation?”

“Some.” Harry nodded. “It’s okay—I get it. It wouldn’t have been safe for her to be here today. But it’s rather a shame given that this was her idea, and she won’t even get to enjoy any of it.”

Remus mm-hmmed in agreement.

“Say, Remus—” Harry started, another question ready to tumble out from his mouth. “The two of you are very close, right?” he asked. After a quick nod from the sandy-haired werewolf, he continued, “I know it’s none of my business, but—has there ever been something more between you two?”

A surprised chuckle escaped the wizard. “Between Saturnine and me? Merlin, no!” he protested with a smile. “We’re very good friends, yes. We were even roommates for a while, but that’s all there is to it. There’s never been more.”

“Why not?” Harry asked, with all the innocence of youth he could muster.

“Well—the timing wasn’t right, I suppose. It—well, it was shortly after your parents died and Sirius was sent to Azkaban. I—my head wasn’t in the best of places back then. Saturnine had problems of her own, and we—sort of helped each other out.”

“Has she got someone, then?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, perhaps the timing’s more right this time,” Harry said. Not that he was trying to play match-maker—he’d gladly leave that to Hermione or Ginny—but the camaraderie between the two had seemed strong and effortless from the first time he’d seen them together. And he hadn’t been able to stop himself from wondering if perhaps this was a sign of a deeper relationship.

The confused look on Remus’ face was enough to make him change tactics. “Or—have you got someone?” he asked instead.

Crimson rose to Remus’ cheeks in such a boyish way that it was an odd look on the face of a man of his age. “Sort of, maybe—it’s complicated,” he mumbled eventually. “It’s—can we talk of something else, maybe?”

Remus was saved from further embarrassment by Ginny’s buoyant arrival. She was all quick gestures and insistent pleas as she requested that Harry join her.

“What is it, Ginny?” he asked, wondering what had her so hyped.

“George sent me to get you. He says to get you to the garden right away.” Then, without thinking twice about it, the youngest Weasley girl snatched his hand and dragged him outside. “You, too, Professor Lupin,” she shouted over her shoulder, and Remus followed the pair outside with a bemused smile.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked as he was reunited with the rest of the guests and a substantial assortment of ginger-haired Weasleys. The twins were conspicuously absent. He had barely finished his sentence before Fred and George made their grand entrance—on brooms, no less. They swept in in tandem, arriving in from behind the house and stopping to hover a few feet ahead of the guests.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen—” started Fred.

“—and Birthday Boy—” continued George.

“—and Ronnikins—” added Fred, an afterthought that made everyone giggle.

“—we present to you, for your entertainment—”

“—and free of charge—”

“—a selection of the best of the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes shop’s Fireworks range.”

“Be sure to tell your friends about it—”

“—and come visit our store—”

“—at 93 Diagon Alley!” they concluded together.

And then the sky burst out in flames and rained sparkles.

Small explosions echoed all around the Burrow as multi-coloured spurts of light fell onto the grass below. Spatting out from Merlin knew where, dozens of fireworks fizzed by and popped into existence above their heads. They shimmered through the darkness in hues of gold, red, blue, and green. Zipping past and reaching high and to the sides, they exploded in ocean after ocean of sparkles.

The fiery display of the twins’ ingenuity culminated in the appearance of a moving, fire-breathing dragon made out of dancing flames. It came at them from one side of the Burrow, giant wings flapping at its sides. All of the guests wore the same raptured and awed expressions as it flew by before turning in a wide circle and coming back for another sweep. Then the fire-dragon climbed higher and higher and higher—it exploded into the most spectacular shower of sparkles of the night.

Harry rejoiced at the sight, at that marvellous show put on for him. His heart was brimming with happiness unlike he had ever felt before. All his friends were reunited in the same place, sharing in the joy of the moment. The adults that stood a little behind the youngsters all wore relaxed smiles unlike any Harry had ever seen before. Their smiles made them all look younger, as if their worries had been lifted, the dark clouds kept at bay by the scintillating festivities.

The night wouldn’t last forever, Harry knew. But the memories would, and he would cherish them for a long time, using their happiness as a warm blanket to shelter himself from the cold darkness that was sure to come.

Saturnine hadn’t expected the cottage to feel so quiet. Not that Harry was noisy when he was around, but without him, the place felt oddly... empty. There was no Occlumency lesson to be taught this morning and no one to cook for at lunch. She didn’t bother to cook for one, choosing to go with two apples and a slice of cheese instead. And there was no sound of a quill scratching parchment in the afternoon.

It was irrational to feel this way, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She missed the brat. And he’d only been gone a couple of hours.

“Damn it, girl. You used to enjoy being alone,” she muttered before casting a quick Tempus to check the time. It was barely seven in the evening.

Try as she might, she couldn’t focus on the book in her lap. Flipp Vermar’s Thousand-And-One Facts about Ghouls, Gnomes, and Goblins couldn’t hold her interest. Not when her brain kept circling back to the discussion she and Remus had had two days prior as they finished their plans regarding Harry’s birthday party.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Saturnine,” he had warned her, the comment seeming to come out of the blue. But she’d known Remus Lupin long enough to understand that it had not.

They were seated at 12 Grimmauld Place’s kitchen table, where they’d been meeting in secret once a week since Harry had moved into Cove Cottage with her. At first, it was only to discuss the boy’s mental state and permit Remus to pass on information to her regarding Order business. But their most recent meetings had taken a compelling turn when the two adults had begun trying to organise a birthday party for a sixteen-year-old.

“I’m not the one playing a game,” she replied, pushing her chair back a little so she could cross her arms over her chest. “Dumbledore is.”

“Walking a tightrope then, dancing too close to the fire, stroking the dragon’s beard—call it what you will, ’Nine, but you’re slipping.”

The arms over her chest tightened. “Am I now?”

Her closed-off posture was no deterrent to Remus, who continued with his unwanted analysis of the situation. “Harry has started to care about you. Please tell me you’ve noticed that much, at least.”

“Of course I have. What do you take me for?” She was glad when he didn’t reply to that jab, and she forced herself to calm down a little. “How could he not? He lost his parents when he was one year old, and he spent the next ten playing house-elf to the Dursleys. Of course he’s going to latch on to anyone who shows him the least bit of kindness.”

“True,” Remus admitted. Placing one elbow on the table, he leaned his chin down on his upturned palm. “But Harry’s not the only one who grew attached.”

Saturnine felt her eyes narrowing as she glared at her friend. “Careful what you’re saying, Remus.”

“Or what?” he asked, his gaze full of amusement.

Or what, indeed, she thought, observing the man facing her. He was slumped in his chair, chin resting on his hand, with a knowing smirk plastered on his face. Remus Lupin had been her friend for more than ten years, and she knew he’d been through about just as much shite as she had. And he’d stood by her side through it all, just as she’d stayed by his. Purely for form, she huffed before looking away.

“I thought so,” he said, and she didn’t need to be looking at him to know that the smirk had turned into a smile. “Listen, all I mean is for you to be careful, ’Nine. Harry won’t take it well that you’ve been lying to him. It’s going to cut deep when he finds out.”

She kept looking away, not wanting to meet his gaze, as she said, “I’ve never lied to him.”

“Semantics, and you know it. You’re withholding information—that’s about the same.”

“Harry knows that, and he knows why.” She turned to face him then, resolve shining fiercely in her eyes. “We’re at war, Remus. Or have you forgotten?” She paused to let the words sink in. “It was dangerous enough of Dumbledore to involve me in the first place. Some things must remain in the shadows for now. It’s safer this way.”

“For whom?” Remus questioned her. “Harry, or yourself?”

Either—both—she wasn’t even sure she knew anymore. Did it even matter?

Of course it did—who was she kidding? Was her friend right, though? Had she chosen the wrong path? She sighed. She wasn’t ready to come clean, not yet. There was still too much she needed to come to grips with first. She might put up a brave face for the world to see, but what went on within her head and her heart were an entirely different affair. She had yet to confront the Boggart in her closet. As things stood, she’d just slammed the door shut in its face, locked the room, and moved to a different house. She hadn’t dealt with anything. And time was running out on that front.

“What are you going to do about Hogwarts?” Remus asked at long last, and she was thankful for the change of topic.

A cryptic smile and wink accompanied her answer. “I have a plan for that, old friend.”

“Confusion Charm?”

“Wouldn’t work for days on end.”

“Hmm—Polyjuice?” he asked as if they were playing a guessing game.

“Please—that’s been done before. And you know me, I’ve always liked a touch of originality.”

Remus nodded. “Ah, yes. Thinking outside the box.”

“Semantics,” she said, throwing the word back in his face, and he chuckled in reply. And just like that, they were okay again—with their argument laid to rest, friendship and camaraderie reigned once more.

“I missed you, ’Nine,” Remus admitted in a soft voice. “Merlin, but I’ve missed you.”

The sandy-haired wizard remained curled up in his chair, one hand resting on the table and the other holding up his head. Looking at him, Saturnine felt like she was back in the small flat they shared when they hid away in France, years ago. How many hours had they spent sitting on their tattered old canapé—Remus sitting at one end with his head cradled in his hand, and her taking up the rear, legs folded beneath her and arms loosely crossed over her chest—talking about everything and anything for hours on end.

She reached for the hand that rested on the table and curled her fingers around his. “As have I, old friend. As have I.”

***

It was close to nine in the evening when the flames roared to life in the fireplace and a sixteen-year-old Harry Potter crossed through with an armload of presents.

He unloaded the lot on the coffee table and began to show Saturnine who had given him what. Then he told her everything about the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes he’d sampled. He was gesturing madly left and right by the time he got to the fireworks part.

“I’m glad you had such a lovely day, Harry,” Saturnine said. “You deserved it.”

“Thanks for helping to arrange it, Saturnine,” he said honestly. “It was the best birthday party ever.”

She nodded before standing up from the sofa to retrieve something from a nearby shelf. “Have you got room for one more?” she asked, handing him a small, rectangular-shaped gift wrapped in crimson paper and gold lace.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, reaching out for something that felt a lot like a book.

“I wanted to,” she replied warmly. “Happy Birthday, Harry.”

Unwrapping it carefully, he was surprised to discover a Muggle paperback inside with a black and crimson cover. It was a copy of The Art of War, by Sun Tzu.

He flipped over the first page, and atop it, he found his name written in blue ink. Saturnine had written a quote below, and reading it, Harry promised himself to go over this book time and again until he knew it by heart. The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” Harry asked, gaze still tracing over the quote.

“Sometimes, it is. But I doubt it will be with You-Know-Who.” She moved to the coffee table to pick up half of the gifts he’d piled there. Harry gathered the other half in his arms, and they took the corridor down to his bedroom.

“Shall I regale you with another quote before you go to bed?” she offered as Harry finished placing the presents in his trunk.

“Are we doing bedtime stories now?” he asked with a smirk. “You do know I’m sixteen, right?”

She chuckled and leaned against the doorjamb. “It has been mentioned, I believe.”

“I’ll get changed and get in bed then,” Harry said, reaching for his nightclothes and retreating to the bathroom to empty his bladder and wash his teeth.

Saturnine was still where he had left her when he walked back out, but the blinds had been closed, and the bay window was open a crack, just the way he liked it.

Lifting the blanket, he slid into bed, and Saturnine turned off the lights before coming closer. He patted at the mattress by his feet in the hopes she would take the hint and sit down. Though the day had been almost perfect, he’d missed having her around, and he treasured the opportunity to spend a little more time together.

She obeyed the unspoken command, perching herself on the edge of the bed by his feet. The only source of light came from the corridor. The room was engulfed in shadows, rendering Saturnine’s expression unreadable.

“I’m glad you had such a good time with your friends, Harry. Treasure them and keep them close.”

“Aren’t they a liability?” he asked, daring to voice aloud a concern that had been steadily growing in his heart. Shouldn’t he keep his distance? What if they got hurt because of him?

“For whom?” she asked. “Do they pose a threat to you—or you to them?”

Despite the blanket around his shoulder, Harry felt a chill run through him at her words.

“No one can win a war alone,” she continued. “And friends make the best of allies. They’re a source of strength.”

“But they can get hurt,” he managed despite the lump in his throat.

“Yes—people get hurt in battles, and sometimes, they die.”

The lump grew more pronounced, and now, tears pricked at his eyes. “I don’t want any of them to die.”

“Of course you don’t.” One of Saturnine’s hands found his left calf through the blanket, and Harry felt a surge of affection for her. “It’s not your choice, though. If your friends decide to join you on the battlefield, it will be their decision. And you’ll have to respect it, just as you would want them to respect yours were the roles reversed. Just like it was Sirius’ decision to go to the Ministry that night when he’d been strongly advised not to.

“Free will is a strong aspect of who we are, Harry. Merlin knows that it’s part of what we’re fighting for. Accepting your friends’ decisions—accepting their sacrifices, should it come to that, is part of it. I know it’s hard, and I know it hurts, but if you love and care about them, you owe it to them to accept and respect their choices.”

Tears were falling freely now, and Harry couldn’t do anything more than a nod. Saturnine was talking about his godfather, he knew. Sirius’ choice—Sirius’ sacrifice. Sweet Circe, but it hurt to think about that. He’d lost more than a friend and guardian that day; he’d lost his hope for a better future. His hopes for a family of his own, a home—a place where he’d feel like he belonged. Wanted.

Saturnine moved closer, and her hand left his calf to come to grip his shoulder instead. “It wasn’t your fault, Harry. No one forced Sirius’ hand that day. It was his decision to come to the Ministry, his choice to join the others to come help you. A brave choice borne out of his love for you. A sacrifice that allowed you to survive. Don’t belittle his actions. You need to respect the man he was, the choices he made—even if it hurts.”

“Hurts,” Harry managed to push the word through his clogged throat. “So, so much.”

Another hand caressed and soothed him, losing itself in his hair this time. “I know it does, lad. I know.”

And Harry cried. He wept openly for the first time since that night—letting everything go, all the anger and bitterness, so that he could finally accept Sirius’ decision. And the reason why he’d done what he did.

Now that he’d had it explained to him in a way that he understood, Harry had no other choice but to do as he’d been told. Sirius’ love for him had meant everything, and he refused to belittle that. Not even a little—not even for his own comfort. He owed himself better.

Then, he let go of the anger and the self-recrimination and cried himself to sleep.

“I know I never asked,” Harry said one day, seemingly out of the blue, “but you and Remus—” He left his words hanging in mid-air, unsure of how to finish the question.

“I’m not hearing a question,” Saturnine replied evenly from where she sat on the sofa, nose in a book on Wandlore.

“Well, there’s more to it, right?” he continued, vowing to avoid any word starting with an S, like snogging, shagging, or, heaven forbid, sex. He could feel his cheeks flame—no way would he say that out loud.

That got him only an “mm-hmm” from the dark-haired witch.

“Well, I was kind of wondering if you could tell me that story,” he mumbled. “Or parts of it, at least.”

Holding her place in her book with one finger, Saturnine looked up to meet Harry’s gaze with a questioning expression of her own. She studied him for a long time before coming to a decision. Then, she slid a bookmark between the pages before closing the book altogether and abandoning it on the coffee table.

“I’m surprised that you didn’t ask Remus about this,” she said, folding her legs beneath her so that Harry would have room to sit on the other end of the sofa.

“I sort of did when we were at the Burrow,” he admitted. “He told me that you were old friends and roommates a long time ago. But I didn’t press him further. It didn’t feel right to do that behind your back.”

She responded with a warm, kind smile. “Thanks for that, Harry.”

Once the boy had sat down, the dark-haired witch conjured up two glasses of lemonade and began her tale.

“I’m three years younger than Remus. So, we attended Hogwarts at the same time for a little while. I was sorted in Ravenclaw, and he was, as you know, in Gryffindor,” she started, weighing her words carefully. “We didn’t know each other back then. We might have passed by each other more than once in the hallways or the Great Hall, but I don’t think we ever spoke to one another while we were there.

“After your parents’ death and Sirius’ imprisonment, things got difficult for Remus, and he left the country. I won’t go into more details about that. You’ll have to ask him directly for that part of the story,” she explained, and Harry nodded in understanding. “Earlier that summer, I had to leave Britain for reasons of my own, and I moved to the north of France. I knew there was a small wizarding community installed in Normandie, some of which spoke a bit of English. So I went there. Remus must have had the same idea. We ran into each other at a pub one evening. He recognised me from Hogwarts and introduced himself, and we started chatting amicably. I think he was really glad to finally run into someone who spoke proper English—so did I. We drunk ourselves stupid for a few hours and, as my flat was really close to the bar, I offered to let him sleep on my sofa.” She chuckled, lost in her memory. “Truth be told, I don’t think I could have gotten up those two flights of stairs on my own. That’s how wasted we were. Anyway, that’s how it started. We became friends the next day as we nursed our respective hangovers.

“It took me about two weeks to figure out that Remus was all but penniless and about to be expelled from the dingy flat he rented on the other side of town. I didn’t have much money myself, but I offered to let him borrow my sofa. He refused at first. But winter was approaching, and he couldn’t get any more jobs at the nearby Muggle farms where he used to work. Sleeping outside was no longer an option, so he caved in. And we lived together in that matchbox of a flat for the next three years or so.”

“You knew he was…”

“A werewolf?” she asked. Harry nodded. “No, not at first. I figured it out, eventually—after the third month or so, the pattern was hard to miss. I had secrets of my own, and I was content to keep his while he kept mine.

“Those were really pleasant days, in the end. Remus got the jobs he could in the neighbourhood, and I worked in a local bookshop, which allowed me to do a lot of reading between customers. We’d have supper together at the end of the day, and then we would spend our evenings talking about mundane stuff. It was the simple life we both needed at the time.”

“Why did you leave Normandie?” Harry asked with genuine curiosity.

Once again, there was a long pause while Saturnine considered her following words. “There was something I needed to study that required I move someplace else, and Remus had heard back from an old school friend that there could be a long-term job for him in Yorkshire. I guess it was time for both of us to emerge from our self-imposed hiatuses and return to the world of the living. Life has a way of falling into place like that sometimes.

“We didn’t see each other again until I returned to Britain in 1989—though we wrote each other letters every now and again. By then, Remus still lived in Yorkshire, though he’d changed jobs a couple of dozen times since getting there. I joined the Aurors, which kept me busy a lot. So, we didn’t see much of each other again. Until Dumbledore welcomed him back into the fold, and well—you know that part of the story already, don’t you? And then it was my time to join, which takes us to now.”

Though her story had held a wealth of information, it had left Harry with a hundred more questions. But he knew better than to ask any of them. Saturnine had never before shared so much of her past with him, and he treasured that thought.

“Thanks for telling me all that,” he said as she reached for her lemonade. Harry had long since finished his.

***

It was later in the afternoon when Harry returned with another question. Saturnine was surprised he’d waited this long. She felt as if she had opened Pandora’s box when she told him about her time in France, and she foresaw dozens of little questions about what she and Remus had been up to back then. Some things she wouldn’t mind sharing with the boy, but some secrets Remus and her had promised they would take to their grave.

“There was no Wolfsbane Potion then, was there?” Harry asked as he stood near the coffee table.

Saturnine sat up straighter, completely taken by surprise. Never in a million years did she think he would ask her about that. She was cautious in her answer, knowing the dark and disturbing path in which it might lead the conversation.

“No, it was invented a few years later,” she replied. “And even now, not many people know how to brew it.”

“Bet you do,” Harry said with a confident smile, and she gave him an affirmative nod. Of course she did—she learned how to the moment she first heard it was successful, and whenever she could afford the ingredients, she brewed it and owled it to Remus.

“What did he—” Harry started, then stopped abruptly, looking down at his feet as if he were unsure whether to pursue that line of questioning or not. “I mean, there was no Shrieking Shack in Normandie—was there?”

“No,” Saturnine said carefully. “There wasn’t.”

A part of her felt like she ought to leave it at that. Harry had been traumatised enough as it was, hadn’t he? Besides, it wasn’t her story to tell—not really. But then she looked up at Harry’s face, and damn if it wasn’t James and Lily Potter looking back at her and wanting—demanding—to know what had happened to their friend.

“It’s not a pretty story,” she warned him.

“Tell me,” Harry demanded, and there was no denying the fierce determination in his blazing emerald gaze.

Saturnine beckoned him closer. He sat down at the end of the sofa and, as always, she told him the truth. She informed him that people suffering from lycanthropy only ever had two choices: to care or not care. Some went out willingly during full moons without minding what or who ended up between their jaws during the night. The others, those who cared, took every measure they could to ensure that no one got hurt. If they could, they locked themselves up somewhere secluded. If they couldn’t, they used ropes and chains to tie themselves to whatever they could find that was strong enough to hold back the wolf. And they did it every month for the rest of their lives.

“At first, Remus refused to tell me where he went on those nights,” Saturnine explained. “He just came back bruised and battered two days later. So one time, I followed him under an Invisibility Charm. He went to a nearby abandoned farm, and I discovered that it had a well in the back that had run dry.”

“He spent his nights in the well?” Harry asked, understanding where the story was going. Tears pooled in his eyes.

Saturnine nodded. “Tied himself down, too—with heavy chains so that the wolf wouldn’t try climbing out.”

“You didn’t let him do that again, did you?” Harry asked incredulously, and she could see the outrage he felt on his face. It broke her heart a little to have to tell him that, yes, she did.

“You have to understand that there was nothing else to do back then, Harry,” she explained. “We had no way to contain the wolf—it had to come out. So, I stayed there all night, and I waited while the beast within came out to howl and scream at the moon. And when finally the sun broke out, I levitated a very unconscious Remus out of that well. I tended to every last one of his injuries—and there were many—before taking him home.” She brushed away a few tears that had breached the barrier of her eyelashes. “I did that every month for the next two and a half years. And it broke my heart every time.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry said, brushing away tears of his own.

“No.” Saturnine shook her head a little. “Not fair at all.” But then, life rarely ever was.

***

For a long time afterwards, Harry kept thinking back over what Saturnine had told him. He forced himself not to think too much about Remus spending his nights alone in a well. Instead, he tried to imagine what his two friends had looked like a decade younger, living in the French countryside. Somehow, his mind kept picturing Remus with a dark-blue béret, sitting on an old tattered sofa, while Saturnine made sandwiches out of slightly-overcooked baguettes.

It had been hard to learn what Remus had been through before the Wolfsbane Potion was invented. It had been even harder to learn that not every werewolf had the means to afford to get the potion, even today. And then he thought of Professor Snape brewing it for Remus during Harry’s third year at Hogwarts. The knowledge that the Potions Master had gone through the trouble of doing that, month after month, despite his intense hatred for Remus, sure put things in perspective.

The following week, on Monday afternoon, a thought struck Harry out of the blue as he worked on one of his summer essays. The sheer shock of his realisation jolted him as if he’d been struck by lightning. Something had been staring him in the face for days on end and yet, he’d completely overlooked it, just the same.

Saturnine had been at Hogwarts at the same time Remus had—which meant that Saturnine had been at Hogwarts when his parents were.

“Saturnine?” Harry cautiously asked as he entered the living room. “Can I ask you something?”

The dark-haired witch was busy reviewing his latest summer essay, and she paused in her note-taking to peer up at him. “Of course. What is it, Harry?”

“I—I’ve been wondering—” he started, then faltered, unsure of the best course of action. “Well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I thought that maybe—”

Setting her quill down on the coffee table, Saturnine sat up straighter with an amused smile. “Ask away, lad. I’m not going to eat you.”

Harry gathered his courage before speaking. “Well, it just struck me that you—er—you went to Hogwarts with Remus, right?” She nodded, and he pushed forward. “Did you know my parents then?”

Saturnine’s smile faltered at his words. “Ah.”

She heaved in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she seemed to contemplate her answer. “For a few years, I attended Hogwarts at the same time as they did, yes. But like I told you, I was in Ravenclaw, and they were in Gryffindor. We didn’t hang out much, even back then.”

“I know,” Harry said, coming closer and perching himself on the edge of the armchair. Then, looking up at Saturnine, he willed her to understand that he wasn’t asking because he wanted to pry into her life. He was simply desperate for any new nugget of information regarding his parents. “It’s just—I know so little about them. If there’s anything you could tell me, I’d be really thankful.”

“I don’t think I’d ever spoken to James Potter,” she admitted after a pause so long that Harry thought the discussion was over. “But I did know Lily Evans.”

“Really?” Harry beamed at her, hunching forward in excitement. “Remus and Sirius only ever talked about my dad, they told me so little about her. What was she like?”

“She was very kind and intelligent, and she had a wicked sense of humour that she tried hard to keep in check,” Saturnine replied, smiling as she reminisced about something. “But sometimes, it crept out.”

Harry couldn’t believe her words. No one had ever told him anything about his mom’s sense of humour—let alone that it was wicked.

“How do you mean, wicked?” he asked, eagerness written all over his face.

“A bit on the sarcastic side,” she explained. “And not always that respectful. She also had an uncanny ability to come up with corny nicknames.”

“Really?” No one had ever painted his mother in anything other than a glorious light, as if she was perfection personified. It felt incredible to learn that she was human after all. She’d had flaws like everyone else.

“Yes, but it was a side of her that not everyone got to see,” Saturnine went on, seemingly still lost in the memory that replayed behind her eyes. “Especially not the staff. Lily knew full well when to be on her best behaviour—and when she could let her teasing personality out for a stroll.”

“So, you knew her well, then,” Harry guessed, his gaze disarmingly hopeful.

The memory Saturnine had been reliving died at his words. “Harry—” she said in warning, her face closing up.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to pry,” he hurried to say. “Please, Saturnine. It’s just—I have these pictures of them, so, I know what they looked like. But I don’t know what they were like. Am I anything like them? Do we have anything in common?

“I know my dad was good on a broom, so, I think I got that from him. But I don’t know if I got anything from my mom, other than her eyes. I don’t know what her favourite colour was or her favourite dessert. I don’t know if she liked listening to music or if she had any hobbies.” Despite himself, Harry felt his eyes tear up, and he brought a hand up to brush them away in annoyance. “Sometimes, it’s like they never existed.”

“Forest-green, treacle tart,” Saturnine recited in a broken tone. “I don’t know about her musical tastes, but she liked to play Gobstones—even if she often lost.”

“I like treacle tart, too,” he said, a smile breaking through his sorrow.

“Yes, I noticed,” she said fondly, before falling silent again.

“Saturnine?” Harry asked, voice cautious when the dark-haired witch failed to add more to their discussion. He felt like sitting up to move closer to her but reined in the impulse.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, seemingly torn. She had a hard time meeting his gaze. “You know I can’t.”

Of course, he thought bitterly, standing up. Adults know better, don’t they? What should it matter what his parents had been like? There was a war going on—and more important things to consider. Never mind that his unanswered questions were killing him inside. “It’s okay,” he said, straightening his back like the good little soldier he was supposed to be. “I won’t ask again. I just—I wanted to know something about them.”

Saturnine was out of her seat in an instant, and her lean fingers curled around his wrist before he had time to leave the room. She pulled him back and forced him down on the sofa before sitting next to him.

“I feel bad having to do this to you, Harry. I really do. Please believe me when I say that I take no pleasure withholding information from you on such an important matter.” She sighed. “I didn’t realise you knew so little about your parents, and—well, like I said, I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to your father. But I did know your mother. We were friends, and of course I could tell you things about her, but I have to be careful.”

“I’m tired of having other people deciding for me what I can and cannot know,” he said, frustration slipping out. “I’m not a little child anymore.”

“I can understand that, Harry. But it’s not just about you,” Saturnine explained, removing her hand from Harry’s wrist to cover his fingers instead. “A lot of things are intertwined together, and it’s not just your life that hangs in the balance. Mine’s in there as well—and someone else’s.” She gripped Harry’s hand tighter. “I have never lied to you, Harry. And I promise I will tell you as much as I can now, and the rest, as soon as possible. But you have to give me a little bit of time to collect my thoughts and decide what I can safely share with you. Okay?”

Harry nodded over the lump that had grown in his throat. “It’s just—I don’t know them. It’s an awful feeling, Saturnine.” He sniffed, fighting back tears. “Do you know anyone else I could ask? I know who my dad’s best friends were. But did my mom have any?”

“If I’m not mistaken, her best friends were Alice Longbottom and Marlene McKinnon. Marlene died during the war, and—well, you already know about Alice.” A veil of sadness settled itself over Saturnine’s features, and Harry held her hand tightly in his.

He’d never thought about it, but Saturnine had lived through the first war, and she’d probably lost friends, too. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“It’s okay.” She tried to force a smile on her face, but it fell flat. “I hadn’t thought about those days in a long time, Harry. And it’s not all happy memories.” She paused. “I need you to give me a little bit of time to sort through it all, please.”

“Of course—I understand. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

She nodded at him before letting go of his hand. Harry was about to return to his room when another thought struck him.

“Can I ask you one last thing?” he said, feeling queasy.

“Of course,” she nodded in agreement. “Though I may not be able to answer.”

“Oh, it’s not about you,” he said. “I was just wondering if—maybe if you knew or could find out—if you don’t mind, that is. I’d like to know where my parents are buried.”

All traces of sadness in Saturnine’s face gave way to utter surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never been, and—well…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

“Oh, Harry,” Saturnine said brokenly. “Of course I know where they are. Why didn’t you ask? Remus or Sirius could have taken you—or the headmaster for that matter. I thought, and I’m sure they did, too, that the Dursleys would have already taken you.”

Harry shook his head. “They never told me the truth about my parents. They told horrible lies.”

Saturnine’s hands were back on him, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly. “I’ll take you, Harry—whenever you want. We can even go now if you’d like?”

“Can I get changed first?” Harry asked. “And maybe pick up some flowers from the bushes outside?”

***

Godric’s Hollow Cemetery was as Saturnine remembered it: a large square plot of land surrounded by a medium-height stone wall. Several tall oak trees extended their branches over the rows of tombstones that lined its flanks. She had no trouble making her way to where the Potters’ grave stood, the memory of their location still fresh in her mind despite the years. She slowed as the familiar headstone came into view. It was a single rectangular, light-grey slab inscribed with both of the deceased’s names—James’ on the left, and Lily’s, on the right. Unlike some of the other tombs, which had flowers and other gifts at their feet, the Potters’ was bare and looked like they hadn’t seen any visitors in years.

Harry was as quiet as a mouse by her side. He’d not only changed his shirt before coming, but he’d also taken the trouble to try and tame his tousled hair. In his right hand, he clutched at a thick bouquet of colourful wildflowers with so much strength that his knuckles had turned white.

Saturnine hadn’t lied to him. She had never once spoken to James Potter, though she knew him by sight. She knew them all—The Marauders, as the infamous quartet liked to call themselves back in the days. She’d been taught early on to be wary of them. So, she had always kept an eye out for them in the hallways to avoid attracting their attention. Sirius Black and James Potter had been natural-born pranksters—the whole school knew it—and she’d had no will to become their next victim.

Lily Evans, though, had been a faithful friend, and seeing her final resting place again tore at her heart. Saturnine hadn’t been back here since the funeral, and the sight unleashed a wave of melancholia within her. Feeling her eyes mist over, she fought hard to maintain her self-control. She needed to be strong for Harry. She could feel tiny tremors course through the boy, and she tightened her grasp on his shoulder. Looking sideways at him, she saw that he stood rooted to the spot where he’d stopped—mere inches from his parents’ grave.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she consoled, voice barely more than a whisper. “Why don’t you go give her the flowers?”

Her words were enough to bring life back to his limbs, and Harry took the three steps he needed to reach the headstone. Crouching on his haunches, he placed the flowers before it with shaking fingers. She heard him sniff once, and when he turned back to face her, the pain on his face tore at Saturnine’s heart fiercer than the flood of memories had.

“Should I say something?” the boy asked, his voice a tentative murmur.

“You’re free to do whatever feels right, Harry. No one will judge you,” Saturnine said, clenching her teeth a little to stop the tears from overflowing. Then, turning on her side, she indicated a forlorn oak tree a couple of yards away. There was a weathered bench beneath it. “I’ll wait for you right there. You take your time, okay?”

For an instant, it felt as if Harry was going to ask her to stay. But then resolve settled on his features, and he nodded at her before returning his attention to his parents’ grave.

Saturnine did good on her promise, and she moved to the small bench by the tree. She was glad for the chance to abscond. The memories had become too much, and the wetness had breached her eyelashes. “Oh, Lily,” she muttered as she sat down on the worn-out wood. “You would be so proud of him.”

Keeping an eye out for Harry’s prostrated form, she let her mind pull forth memory after memory of younger days. Recollections of children playing in the park and learning their first spells, of swings swinging impossibly high, of her younger self letting go at the peak before slowly flying down—properly flying instead of falling—for a few precious seconds. Echoes of Lily’s laughter, high-pitched and overflowing with mirth. Flashes of a pair of obsidian eyes glinting with boundless joy. And the phantom feeling of her own belly shaking with laughter.

There had been few moments of joy in her childhood—and more than a slight pain for her brother and herself. But their time spent outside, playing in the park with Lily, had been like a collection of precious gemstones. Lily had been a shining beacon of hope in the dreary darkness of their lives; sparkling, vibrant, carefree, and oh so alive.

Gone too soon, Saturnine couldn’t help but think bitterly, and her heart wept for the future and possibilities that never were. They were casualties of the war, James and Lily. And they had been forced to leave behind their most precious gift: a diamond in the rough with a heart as iridescent as his mother’s—their son, Harry.

***

“Do you mind if we make another stop before returning to Cove Cottage?” Saturnine asked as they readied to Apparate outside of Godric’s Hollow.

Harry nodded, gazing up at the dark-haired witch intently as he tried to decipher the stony expression on her face, but too many feelings seemed to be at war with each other within her.

He wasn’t feeling much better. A part of him was happy to have come, at long last, while another hurt from an unhealed scar that had been sharply reopened. If pressed to tell anyone what he’d said to his parents mere moments ago, he wouldn’t have been able to comply. He knew it had started with, “It’s me, Harry.” But the rest was a blur. He was sure he’d apologised for not coming sooner, but that was the only thing that had made an impression. His words didn’t matter so much as the gesture of coming here did. It was all about the act in itself: facing their headstone, with its clean, sharp lines and reading their names, carved with severe capital letters. It was a tangible reminder of their absence—one made of dirt and stone.

When Saturnine’s hand settled itself on his shoulder again, he leaned in just a little, wanting to absorb all he could of the warmth that ebbed through the thin layer of his shirt. She was very much alive, and Harry drew strength from that thought.

An instant later, they Apparated just outside another cemetery. This one was smaller than Godric’s Hollow Cemetery had been—and more sinister. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, and the weather was several degrees colder. Harry didn’t need a map to know they were a long way north of the West Country. Looking around, he couldn’t make out any familiar landmarks. In the distance, he could glimpse a river snaking away amidst the tall grass, and further ahead, a small town of brick, terraced houses.

“Where are we?” he asked, rubbing his arms against his sides to fight off the chill.

“The Midlands,” Saturnine replied, and Harry understood that her reply, vague as it was, was all he would get.

“Come,” she said a moment later as she led them into the small cemetery through a worn-out, rusty metallic gate. Saturnine had no trouble navigating among the various plots, only stopping at the last row before the black fences. After a moment’s pause, she crouched down by a tomb adorned by a simple rectangular slab of stone so dark it was almost black.

It was smaller than the Potters’ had been, less imposing and much thinner. Harry moved closer until he could make out the name written on its surface in an elegant cursive—Eileen Prince, 1930–1983. There was no quote on the slab. But an intricate coat of arms had been carved below the name and dates. A soldier’s helmet, topped with two large pairs of wings, surmounted a horizontally striped blazon surrounded by swirling leaves.

“Your mother?” Harry asked, remembering who Saturnine had inherited her middle name from.

She nodded, the sharp movement the only disturbing action on her otherwise frozen body.

Harry couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he did not doubt that the dark-haired witch was in pain. He could relate. Harry fleetingly wondered if he should offer her the same solitude she’d given him earlier. Then he thought better of it. If Saturnine wanted to be alone, she wouldn’t have taken him along. She could have come to visit her mother’s grave any time she wanted, and he wouldn’t even have known about it. But for some reason, she had chosen to take him with her.

“Your last name’s Prince, then?” he asked, trying to offer her a distraction from the pain.

“No, Prince was my mother’s maiden name.” She reached out a hand to trace the name with the tip of her fingers. “This was the last act of kindness of a loving son. And a gesture I wholeheartedly agreed with.”

Thinking back on a passing comment Saturnine had made about her father, Harry shuddered, wondering what the man must have been like; his children wouldn’t let their mother be buried under her married name.

Then, looking at the date, Harry did the math. “You were in France when it happened, weren’t you?”

She nodded, and he saw her fingers curl into a tight fist. “I didn’t even know that she was sick, so, I never got to say goodbye. When I heard about it, it was too late.”

“Could you at least go to her funeral?”

Saturnine nodded again but offered no comment on the matter.

Then, a small eternity later, she uncurled her fist before bringing the tips of her fingers to her lips. She pressed them to the inert stone an instant later. Saturnine said nothing more, but her eyes were wet when she stood back up, and Harry finally caught her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step closer to the dark-haired witch. He finally understood why she had taken him along. While there might be many things she couldn’t tell him, she could share her pain with him.

That she would trust him with her feelings in such a direct manner shook him to the core, and Harry was quick to close the gap between them. In two quick strides, he was by her side, sneaking an arm around her back as he leaned in for a hug that was as much for himself as it was for her.

“I hadn’t been back since she passed,” Saturnine admitted a moment later. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry said, tightening his hold on her before adding softly, “I won’t ask anything, Saturnine. But—well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, you know.”

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.

Mere minutes later, with their wands in hands, Saturnine, Tonks, and Remus burst through the fireplace of Cove Cottage.

“Check the kitchen,” Saturnine ordered. “I’ll have a look at the bedroom.”

“I’m coming with you,” Remus explained. “I want to check on something.”

Saturnine was already rushing into the corridor, Remus hot on her heels. The bedroom proved to be empty, as was the shower room. Harry’s Potions essay was on his desk. Peering closer, Saturnine noticed he’d stopped mid-sentence, at the end of a long ingredients list.

“It’s missing.” Remus’ voice cut into her musing, and she whirled on him. He was sitting on his hunches by Harry’s trunk, rummaging inside with both hands. “Harry’s cloak.”

“What cloak?”

“James’ old Invisibility Cloak.” Remus closed the trunk’s lid before standing up.

“Invisibility Cloak?” Saturnine’s mind reeled with the possibilities. Could it be? She wanted to ask more questions about it but now wasn’t the time.

Tonks’ voice filtered in from the corridor, “Guys? Got something here.”

Remus and Saturnine wasted no time returning by the Metamorphmagus’ side. They found Tonks standing by the sofa, a piece of parchment in one hand. Even from where she stood at the entrance of the living room, Saturnine recognised Harry’s handwriting.

“What’s it say?”

“I’m sorry for leaving, but my friends need help. Didn’t know how to reach you. Will come back as soon as I can. Harry,” she read aloud.

“Merlin’s balls, Harry, why didn’t you Floo to Hogwarts or Grimmauld!” Saturnine fumed, anger momentarily replacing the worry coursing through her veins. “That’s why I didn’t want to be responsible for a child. That’s bloody why.”

“Calm down, Saturnine,” Remus said, laying a comforting hand on her forearm. “At least he’s left a note. We’ll find him.”

“Yeah, we know he left on his own, and no one attacked him,” added Tonks. “That’s a good start. Now, he referred to his friends. I’m guessing Ron and Hermione, eh?”

Remus nodded. “Probably a good place to start.” He turned on his heel and reached for the pot of Floo Powder. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He threw a pinch into the fire. “The Burrow,” he said before walking into the flames.

“Who else would he call friends?” Saturnine asked after Remus had left. “There’s the Longbottom boy, right?”

“Yes,” Tonks replied, nodding. “And probably half the school. Harry’s got a big heart.”

Remembering photographs she’d seen from Harry’s birthday party, she asked, “Isn’t there a blonde girl? With really pale hair?”

“That would be Luna, yes. Luna Lovegood, that odd Ravenclaw girl. Her father runs The Quibbler.”

“We should check on them next. Then, the rest of the Gryffindor boys Harry’s age.”

“Minerva will have a list,” Tonks said, and Saturnine appreciated having the young Auror by her side. Despite her typically laidback attitude, she had a good head on her shoulders, she discovered. She knew how to be serious when the situation called for it.

It wasn’t long until Remus returned, and Saturnine knew right away that the news wasn’t good.

“What did you find out?” she asked, stepping forward.

“Molly just got home to find that Ron and Hermione are missing, too. She had left the two under the care of her older twins. Apparently, they left without them noticing.”

“Damn it!” Saturnine swore under her breath.

“What of the youngest?” Tonks asked. “Ginny?”

“Left behind, too,” Remus said, “She was out in the garden with the twins. She wasn’t particularly happy to have been forgotten.”

“Longbottom and Lovegood, then,” Saturnine said before turning back to face the empty living room. Slashing her wand angrily through the air, she left a message in floating scarlet letters: “Harry, if you’re home before us, Floo to Grimmauld right away, and wait for me there. That’s an order!”

She didn’t sign her note, knowing the boy would recognise her handwriting at once. A minute later, the three Order of the Phoenix members Apparated to the Longbottom household.

***

The broken-down gate surrounding the front yard of the Lovegood House was on fire, and Harry could barely make out the sign that read “Editor of the Quibbler.” There had been a second sign next to it. But that one was already consumed by the flames. Picking up their pace, the children—Harry in the lead—rushed up the zigzagging path that led to the front door where black-hooded figures stood.

“Wait!” Hermione said, reaching for his hand to halt him. “They’re going to see us.”

Understanding what she meant, Harry pulled to a stop as he reached into his pocket for his cloak.

“Come here,” he told his friends, and the three of them huddled close as Harry threw the magical cloak over them. This had been easier to do when they were younger and smaller. But they managed to get to a point where only the tips of their shoes were showing.

Creeping closer, wand at the ready, Harry yelled, “Expelliarmus!” The result was immediate, and two wands went flying as the Death Eaters that stood guard by the door jumped up in surprise. He didn’t wait for them to get their wits back and followed the sneak attack with a Jelly Legs Curse. By his side, Ron added a Confundus Charm.

“Keep watch, Hermione,” Harry said over his shoulder to the bushy-haired brunette that now stood a little behind him. He quickly folded his cloak back into his pocket. “Ron and I will find the Lovegoods.”

“Be careful,” Hermione advised as she faced the masked wizards who dazedly leaned against the side of the cylindrical black house. Harry barely heard her as he rushed through the broken front door with Ron at his back. The circular kitchen looked as though Cornish Pixies had been let loose in the house to ransack the space. The curved cupboards were open, their contents spilt on the hardwood floor. Harry wasted no time looking around, deciding to head instead for the centre of the floor where a wrought-iron spiral staircase stood. It led to the upper levels, where shouts and small explosions could be heard.

More Death Eaters were in the house, and their friend needed help. There was no time to waste, and Harry took the old iron steps two at a time. The first floor, which had to be Luna’s father’s workplace, was even more of a mess than the kitchen had been. Piles of books and papers were strewn about the labyrinthine space, and broken furniture had exploded all over the carpet-covered floor in small pieces and sharp-edged shards. A fight was ongoing in the circular room, with Luna’s father on one side—half-hidden behind a printing press—and two more Death Eaters on the other, who sought protection from flying hexes behind a worn-out leather sofa. The two teenagers wasted no time deciding who to side with; throwing up Shielding Charms, they rushed out to help Xenophilius Lovegood.

Though he looked tired, the forty-something wizard was still fighting on. His long platinum-blond hair was a mess of sweat and tangled locks, blood was dripping from a gash on his left temple, and his light-beige robe had been singed in several places. But he kept throwing hexes as the newcomers got into position. Once Harry and Ron had cleared the fighting field, they joined him, adding their magic to Lovegood’s, and spells flew, unbound. Magic spiked in the air, striking like coloured lightning from one end of the room to the other, but Harry knew the fight was nearing its end. They’d upset the balance, and the Death Eaters were losing ground fast, their strength waning more quickly than the setting sun outside.

Through the chorus of screamed hexes and spells and the sound of the resulting explosions, Harry heard one of them say, “We should go, Rosier, or they’ll be the death of us.”

The second man, who was the shorter of the two, didn’t seem to like that idea. “It’s just kids. I’m not backing off before some brats. Hold your place!”

Harry threw him his most powerful Blasting Curse to the face in reply. The masked wizard had just enough time to duck behind the sofa again to avoid being hit full-on, and the spell blew up the window behind him in an explosion of broken glass and wood splinters.

It was enough to scare away the taller of the two men, and he vanished from the Lovegood house an instant later with a loud crack. The second Death Eater, Rosier, cursed at his companion’s betrayal from his hideout.

“Give it up!” yelled Ron. “You’re outnumbered three-to-one, and we have more backup on the way.”

Using the pause in the engagement to his advantage, Harry grabbed at Mr Lovegood with one hand to tug him back and push him closer to the wall before taking his place closer to the printing press’ edge. “Rest up, sir,” he instructed. “We’ve got this.” Leaning heavily against the wall, Luna’s dad seemed all too happy to comply.

On the other side of the room, Rosier muttered something that Harry couldn’t make out. It sounded a lot like an incantation, and he readied himself for an attack, bringing up a protective shield just in case. With a wild, manic laugh, the dark wizard stood up to face them.

Harry stared at his opponent for an instant—his dirty-white mask with snake-like eye slits reminding him so much of the Dark Lord that Harry’s insides churned—before the coward Apparated away.

It was too early to celebrate the victory, though. A blazing, breathing creature that looked like a dragon made of fire now stood where the wizard had been. It lurched forward, clawing at everything it could touch, devouring carpets and furniture alike in blazes of flames.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, Harry and Ron did their best to try and fight it back, throwing blasts of air and a few Aguamenti at it, but the fire’s hunger was impossible to satiate.

“Where’s Luna?” Harry called out to Lovegood.

“Upper floor,” he replied. “Locked in her bedroom.”

“Go get her, then leave the house,” Harry said. “We’ll hold it off until then.”

“Hurry!” urged Ron, between two puffs of breath. The temperature had risen so high that his cheeks were almost the colour of his hair.

***

In the dimming sunlight, the Lovegood house looked like a battlefield. The cylindrical black house, which resembled a giant chess rook, had withstood a fierce assault. Two windows had been blown up near the ground floor, and unnatural living flames licked at the northern side of the building.

“Sweet Circe, that’s Fiendfyre,” muttered Tonks as she ran closer. “I hope no one is inside.”

“Check the house,” Saturnine ordered, hot on her heels. “I’ll manage the fire.”

While the two wizards entered through the gaping front door, Saturnine moved to the back of the Rookery, arms raised high, palms outstretched. Even from this distance, she could feel the roaring fire’s dark energies. It would be difficult to manipulate it and get it to do her bidding. Fire magic wasn’t her strong suit, and she had a hard time forcing regular flames to behave. It would take all her concentration, and then some, to tame Fiendfyre.

Taking a moment to focus on her breathing, she closed her eyes as she kept feeling for the wild energies of the flames that coiled and rolled ahead of her. She could sense their hunger to devour anything in their path. Opening her eyes, she latched onto that perception of the undulating flames, stroking them with her powers. Focusing her magic and will, digging deep within her core, she forced the flames away—away from the damaged house and vulnerable people inside.

It was easy to trick the flames into wanting to relocate, but it was harder to contain them once they were freed from the distraction of the burning habitat. Fingers splayed before her and growing white under the strain, Saturnine forced more magic out of herself as she coalesced the fire into a smaller and smaller ball. She pictured it in her mind and watched it take form before her eyes. Her awareness of the world narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light, her entire focus solely on the task ahead. Bending it under her will, the ball of flames got smaller and smaller until the tiniest of flickers remained. Summoning a powerful burst of wind, Saturnine smothered it. Then, dazed and exhausted, she stood still for a moment.

Remus’ awed voice filtered through her haze, bringing her world back into focus. “And here I thought that fire wasn’t your strongest element.”

Saturnine heaved out a few deep breaths before turning back to face him. Small tremors shook through her arms, and her reply to him came out weaker than she intended it. “It’s not.”

“The Lovegoods are missing,” Remus said, worry etched into the tired lines of his face. “Tonks has gone to the Ministry to report the incident and rally the troops. We’re going to need help looking for them and the rest of the kids.”

“Damn it!” she swore. “How did they know? How could they possibly have known Luna and her father were in danger?”

“These kids are resourceful. It’s possible they came up with a way to communicate that we don’t know about,” mused Remus. “It looks like they got here in time. From the damages we saw inside, more than two people fought back the attackers.”

“The question is, did they manage to escape from whoever attacked them?”

“I think they did,” Remus said. “There would be a Dark Mark hovering in the sky and bodies on the ground, otherwise.”

Saturnine’s stomach somersaulted at the thought. Damn it, Harry, she cursed inwardly. Why didn’t you try and find me?

“Where are we?” asked Harry as he looked around to discover their group had Apparated into the middle of a forest, next to a meandering river. The trees were so tall that the dying sun’s last rays reached the moss-covered ground with difficulty. It reminded him of his Occlumency barrier, and he found himself looking for Quidditch hoops along the river bank. He didn’t find any.

“The Forest of Dean,” replied Hermione in a quiet voice. “I camped here once with my mom and dad.”

“So did we,” said Luna. “Do you remember Daddy, the anglerfish in the lake?”

Her father distractedly mm-hmmed in agreement as he moved to sit on a nearby flat stone. Xenophilius Lovegood looked tired beyond measure, and his fingers shook around his thin, long wand. Apparating away from what was left of their home had zapped the last of his strength.

Harry fleetingly wondered what had happened to the Rookery, and if that cursed fire was still devouring everything in sight. Hermione had said it was Fiendfyre; enchanted flames that were somehow alive—sentient. It was the product of advanced Dark Magic, and they were all lucky to have survived it unscathed.

He was glad the three of them had gotten to the Lovegoods when they did, or this day would have ended on a much darker note. And Harry wasn’t sure he had it in him to survive another close friend’s death.

“Are we safe here?” Ron asked in a slightly trembling voice. His eyes danced from one bush to the next as if expecting to find giant spiders or werewolves.

“The moon’s nowhere near full,” Harry told him. “And I think the Forbidden Forest’s the only one in Great Britain with a family of Acromantula.”

“Don’t worry,” said Luna, coming to stand closer to him. “The Bowtruckle will protect us.” Though she was dressed in a pair of striped blue pyjama pants and shirt, the Ravenclaw blonde looked very sure of herself and completely at ease in this foreign environment.

The ginger-haired Gryffindor turned to her with a bewildered expression. “Thanks,” Ron said, tone dripping with contempt, “I feel so much better already.”

Luna seemed to miss the sarcasm completely, and she turned her dreamy silver eyes to his, a kind smile warming up her porcelain-white face. “You’re welcome.”

“We should be safe here for a little while,” Hermione said as she knelt to the floor. She put her handbag down and started rummaging in its folds. When she reached in with both hands, her arms disappeared inside all the way up to her elbows. “I know I have it in there,” she muttered as she searched further up inside her small pouch.

“Aha!” Hermione exclaimed at last before pulling back with an armload of cloth that she tossed to one side. Standing up, she reached for her wand, and a few “Leviosa” and one “Erecto” later, she had assembled a full-sized wizarding tent in a small open space near one of the river’s bends. It was dark-brown with mended parts in lighter and darker hues. Clearly, it was second-hand.

“You thought to pack that up while we waited for Harry?” asked Ron incredulously.

“Don’t be daft,” she said, pushing the curtain that hid the entrance to one side. “I’ve had it ready for months now.” Ron’s eyes widened at her words. “I had the idea when we went to the Quidditch World Cup.”

“But that was at the beginning of our fourth year,” Ron said as he followed her inside. “You can’t have been carrying that with you all this time? That’s mental!”

“Never mind that, Ron,” Harry said, following suit. “I’m glad you did, Hermione.”

The inside of the tent looked a lot like the ones Harry had seen two years ago. The bushy-haired witch had pulled out some shrunken furniture from her bag before returning it to its proper size. It was sparse and simple, but it had a cosy vibe to it, and it wasn’t the worst place Harry had ever stayed.

Ron was as bewildered with it all as Harry was, but the Lovegoods seemed to take it in stride. When Hermione produced a worn-looking loveseat, Xenophilius Lovegood was all too happy to slump down in its folds.

Hermione sat down on a chair, busy searching within her charmed bag again. Minutes later, she pulled out a few phials that seemed to contain medicinal potions. She handed two to Luna, who went to sit next to her father so that she could help him tend to his wounds.

“What do we do now?” asked Ron as he sat down cross-legged near Hermione’s chair.

Harry thought about that long and hard. His first instinct was to take everyone back to Cove Cottage, but with the Fidelius Charm still active, all his friends would see was a bare plot of land. 12 Grimmauld Place was equally protected and, without Dumbledore’s intervention, would only let Ron and Hermione inside. While they could have gone back to the Burrow or Hogwarts, Harry was hesitant to endanger more of the people he cared about before he fully understood their situation.

What would Sun Tzu do? he wondered, before answering his own question. Think things through. Gather information and plan a strategy.

Ever since leaving the cottage, Harry hadn’t had a minute to think, rushing into one situation after the next. The instant he’d arrived at the Burrow, he’d been swept into a whirlwind of urgency that had started with Hermione informing him that Luna was in danger and that they had to get to her fast. He hadn’t had time to say much more than, “Let’s go!” before Hermione reached for his arm and Ron’s, and she Apparated them both away to the battleground.

“How long have you been able to Apparate?” Harry asked her as the thought caught up with him.

“I’ve been reading about it for months now,” she said, and that didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest. “Of course it’s illegal to attempt it if you’re underage.”

Sensing there was more to the story, Harry said, “But…”

Hermione blushed a little as she said, “I’ve been doing calculations, and well—I have used that Time-Turner quite a lot, it would seem.”

“You mean you’re seventeen already?” Ron asked. “Blimey!”

Harry had no time to feel impressed by his best friend’s prowess; his mind was ablaze with questions. “How did you guys know about the attack?”

“Luna told us—or rather, her hare Patronus did,” Hermione replied.

Bewildered, Harry looked at Luna, who sat next to her father. She was dabbing what looked like Dittany on his temple. “They’re always happy to assist,” she said over her shoulder. “You only need to ask them.”

“Who were they, Luna?” Harry asked. “Do you know why they attacked you?”

It was her father who answered him. “My work, perhaps,” he replied dazedly. “I have been quite insistent about relaying the truth.”

Harry nodded in understanding. For a while now, his newspaper, The Quibbler, had been printing all the stuff the Daily Prophet kept ignoring. Between conspiracy theories and discussions of imaginary creatures, Xenophilius Lovegood had made it quite clear which side he stood on—and it wasn’t Lord Voldemort’s.

“I’m glad you came to help us, Harry, Ron, Hermione,” he continued, fixing them each, in turn, with his cross-eyed silver gaze. “Thanks for saving our lives.”

“Of course, sir,” replied Harry.

“We should stay here for the night,” Hermione suggested, before going back to her bag. “I’ve got some biscuits in there, and I can make tea for everyone. It’s not safe to move tonight. But tomorrow, we can try and reach out to Order members to ask for their help.”

“Do you have any chocolate chip cookies?” Ron asked her eagerly. And it looked as if the mere promise of food made him forget everything about the dangers lurking about the forest they were in.

***

Harry dreamed again.

He couldn’t have said where he was, but he immediately wanted to leave. There was a tangible sense of wrongness to the darkly lit room he found himself in. It was a cavernous space so massive that he couldn’t see its walls. The floor beneath his feet was made of dark-grey uneven stone and was wet as if it had rained recently.

Moving forward, despite his better judgement, Harry shuddered as flaming torchlights revealed a pile of pale, off-white bones. Several skeletons had been laid to rest atop each other, and they’d lain there ever since to gather dust in a jumble of femurs, tibias, and ribs.

Something moved in the distance, diverting his attention from the pile of bones. Harry couldn’t see what it was, but instincts told him he wasn’t alone. Something or someone was here with him, barely out of sight, shrouded in the darkness. Palms sticky with sweat, the young man moved forward, wand in hand.

Voices drifted to him and, against his better judgement, he aimed for the place he thought they came from.

“We need their help, Fenrir,” a sibilant voice that Harry recognised at once said.

“Yes, my Lord,” a dark, gruff voice responded. “In exchange for a better life for us all.”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Voldemort said, and Harry could start to see the pale contour of the mad wizard’s distorted face. The man standing next to him was no man at all. He was the opposite of the Dark Lord. Whereas Tom Riddle was thin, hairless with a gaunt and ashen face, the stranger was muscular to the point of appearing burly. He had long, matted grey hair and whiskers that covered half of his face, giving him a bestial appearance. Coming closer, Harry noted that his Death Eater robes looked uncomfortably tight.

“Talk to them again,” the Dark Lord ordered. “We—”

Turning on his heel with the fluidity of a snake ready to pounce, Voldemort narrowed his scarlet eyes at the spot where Harry stood.

The young boy froze; this had never happened before. But he’d never had so much range of motion either. Harry fleetingly wondered if it had to do with his Occlumency lessons; had the connection somehow become stronger because he’d become better at it? Or perhaps was it simply that the cave Voldemort stood in today was less protected than the strongholds he’d occupied before.

Pale, purplish thin lips stretched in a parody of a smile as the Dark Lord said, “I believe we are not alone, Greyback.” Then, taking a step forward, he seethed through clenched teeth, “Where are you hiding, little boy?”

Harry stepped back in alarm.

“Ah, I see,” Voldemort said, and red eyes locked onto Harry’s. “I’m coming for you, little boy. I’m coming.”

An intense burst of pain shot through the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, and Harry could feel the Dark Lord invading his mind. It wasn’t the gentle prodding of Saturnine’s magic, and it put Professor Snape’s worst attacks to shame. Harry fought with all his might to tear away from that dark place, but there was no way he could invoke his beloved forest with its obstacle course of Quidditch hoops.

Instead, Harry thought of everything he held dear—his school friends, Remus Lupin, who was his last link to his departed parents. He thought of Saturnine, who’d shown him nothing but kindness all summer long, and Luna and her father, so different but the least judgemental people he knew. And Ron’s sister, whom he desperately wanted to see again.

His mind was filled to the brim with memories of fun times spent in Gryffindor’s common room, of learning spells with Remus and working on his essays with Saturnine. Thinking of Ginny’s smiles and Luna’s corky necklaces, Harry screamed as he tore himself away from the Dark Lord’s mental grasp. Holding onto the light with all his might, he ripped the darkness apart, and the dream bubble exploded. Reality returned, along with four pairs of curious eyes.

“They’re coming,” Harry said between two quick breaths.

An instant later, he was on his feet in the middle of Hermione’s tent, his wand in hand.

Harry, Ron, and Xenophilius Lovegood stood on the riverbank with their wands in hand while Luna and Hermione hurried to pack away the tent. The first lights of morning pierced the sky above the giant trees surrounding them. The forest was deathly quiet, birds and animals having not awoken yet. Droplets of dew covered the long blades of grass and tufts of moss around them, reminding Harry of Cove Cottage.

Harry desperately wished he could return to the peaceful life he’d made for himself there. He wanted more of that summer filled with reading, homework, flying, and talking with Saturnine about magic, spells, cooking, and becoming an adult and learning to let go of the past and pain—of being normal.

Harry regretted having had to leave without saying goodbye and hoped against all hope that he would get to see Saturnine again. He wanted to apologise for having had to break the rules and thank her for the kindness she’d shown to him.

A series of loud cracks reverberated in the quiet forest, the tell-tale sounds of wizards Apparating nearby, and Harry gripped at his wand tighter. He could have used his cloak again, but it wasn’t large enough to hide them all, and there was no way he would hide while his friends were used for target practice.

“They’re coming,” Harry muttered as he anchored his feet, assuming a battle stance.

A snarl that was more beast than human pierced through the foliage on their left, and branches cracked as their opponents grew nearer. The first hex missed Ron by inches, flying past his left ear, leaving behind a streak of red light.

Mr Lovegood wasted no time throwing back a loud, “Bombarda!” in the direction from which the hex had come. Tree trunks exploded under the impact, and the fight broke out in earnest.

Half a dozen hooded, masked Death Eaters emerged from the forest, charging at them, wands at the ready. Leading the pack was the stout wizard Harry had seen before, Fenrir Greyback. Now that he stood in broad daylight, Harry saw that very little of him remained human.

“Baubillious!” shouted Ron, and a bright yellow-white bolt of lightning shot from the tip of his wand towards the two Death Eaters on the far left of the group.

Lowering his wand at the werewolf’s feet, Harry shouted, “Incendio!” A burst of flames shot from his wand to light the broken branches and dead leaves that separated their group from its attackers.

“You’ll have to do better than that to stop us, boy,” Greyback sneered, and Harry caught a glimpse of his pointed, yellow teeth.

Behind him, the young wizard heard Hermione mutter sotto-voce, “Fumos.” A defensive cloud of smoke swirled forward. It seemed to have a will of its own as it grew thicker the further it advanced. Pretty soon, Harry could only barely make out the shape of Ron standing by his side. The rest of the forest was coated in a thick greyish mist.

“If you think that’ll stop us,” snarled Greyback, “that’s pathetic, children.”

Harry felt rather than saw Hermione move closer. “I won’t be able to hold it up much longer,” she said, her voice sounding strained. “We need help.”

“How—” Harry started, but before he had the time to finish his sentence, several loud cracks echoed on their left. More wizards had just Apparated into the mist; the Death Eaters had gotten reinforcements.

***

Saturnine felt like she had just Apparated in a fog bank on a pale winter morning along the Thames River. Recognising a Fog Charm when she saw one, she froze where she stood. They couldn’t attack without knowing where the children were—and who else was there.

Her instincts screamed at her to use Air Magic to dispel the fog, but she fought against them. If the kids were under attack, that thick bank of fog was probably the only thing keeping them alive at the moment. She couldn’t risk disrupting it without knowing more about the situation first.

“Spread out,” she muttered through clenched teeth to the fellow Order of the Phoenix members that Apparated alongside her. “Don’t attack until we know what’s going on.”

She heard Remus and Tonks hum in agreement and the faint rustle of leaves as they stepped away, each in a different direction.

She had barely gone three steps when someone screamed a little ahead of her. It was a high-pitched scream from a young girl’s throat. Hermione Granger or the Lovegood girl, her mind supplied, and she knew they’d run out of time; the moment for discretion had passed. Reaching deep inside, she located her magic and channelled it through her entire being. Extending her arms ahead of her, palms outstretched, she let the Elemental power course through her and out. And the air around her sang along with her magic. A small vortex started to pool between her raised arms, and she watched as it grew to become taller than she was. When it reached the clear sky above, she pushed it forward, and it swirled on itself, trapping the misty layers in its twirling core. The scenery cleared as the small tornado pushed forward before disappearing into nothingness over the rolling river.

Fighting resumed the instant the tornado had passed, and she barely ducked in time to avoid a spell thrown her way. Rolling on the ground to avoid a second hit, she reached for her wand and threw a wandless Slicing Charm towards her attacker. Whoever stood beneath that Death Eater mask let out a pained scream before Apparating away. Coward! she thought, getting back to her feet. I hope you splinch yourself on your way back.

A little way ahead, she saw that Tonks was relentlessly throwing hex after hex next to Harry, Ron, and Luna’s father. Half a dozen Death Eaters faced them, but the small group seemed to hold its own.

Casting her gaze further ahead, she looked for Remus and the missing girls, and what she found froze her blood in fear. She found her friend near the riverbank, wand drawn as he faced a tall, burly man with long hair. And between the two, caught in the stout wizard’s strong hands, was Hermione Granger, face white with fear.

Knowing that Remus couldn’t attack the wizard without risking injuring Hermione, Saturnine wasted no time standing up and heading his way. She had but a split second to make a decision, and she cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, even as she ran forward. Knowing she would only have one chance to succeed, she focused all her attention on her target as she aimed her wand. The charm she’d used to make herself invisible would shatter the instant she cast her next curse, and she couldn’t risk hitting Hermione in the crossfire. Her aim had to be perfect.

Steadying her feet and taking a much-practised stance, Saturnine raised her wand-hand and relaxed her wrist as she readied herself to say the words. Taking a deep breath to centre herself, she fixed her gaze on her target and shouted, “Crucio!”

The Death Eater was lifted off his feet, letting go of Hermione at once. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then lurched backwards until he splashed into the murky river.

The young, bushy-haired witch fell to her knees, and Remus was by her side in an instant. Emerging from a nearby bush, a young girl with long blond hair was by them a moment later.

“Get them to Grimmauld, Remus,” Saturnine instructed before turning on her heel.

She didn’t wait to see if Remus would obey, her focus latching onto the fight that lay ahead of her. Some of the Death Eaters had defected, but four of them still stood facing off the group lead by a very disgruntled Tonks. Saturnine charged forward, joining the fray.

Her first attack was a wandless, nonverbal spell, and she took a bit of pride in its strength. The masked Death Eater facing her was sent flying backwards as if he’d been gut-punched by a gorilla. Now, more than ever, she firmly believed that students had to learn not to rely so much on their wands. Pureblood wizards and their old ways were so predictable in a duel. The ability to think outside the box was such a considerable advantage that it could do more than merely even the odds.

The wizard standing next to the one she’d knocked out retaliated for his friend so quickly that she had no time to call forth a protective shield. Instead, she threw herself to the ground, rolled forward to avoid the blow, and mere seconds later, she sprung back to her feet, wand in hand. A nonverbal “Bombarda,” went flying out of the tip of her wand with a flash of colour. It hit its target squarely.

Taking advantage of her proximity to the enemy and her stance, which was more of a crouch than anything, Saturnine forced all of her weight on her left leg as she used her right to kick at the next Death Eater in line.

The wizard fell to his knees in a flurry of black robes, a yelp of pain escaping his masked mouth. Saturnine gave him no time to recover. Bringing herself back to a full standing position, she took another step forward and followed her kick with a second one that knocked the wind out of the man’s sails. A nonverbal Ensnaring Charm tied itself around his legs and torso an instant later.

Needing to catch her breath, Saturnine put a little distance between herself and their attackers, regrouping with Tonks and the boys. Since she had last laid eyes on him, Ron had been hit with a slicing hex, and his forearm was bleeding. The cut didn’t seem life-threatening, though, and it didn’t seem to hinder the ginger-haired boy, who was throwing curses with a vengeance.

Looking at Harry next, she saw that he was unarmed, albeit red-cheeked and covered with sweat. She moved closer to him, her peripheral vision keeping track of the dwindling group of Death Eaters still facing them. She saw the hex before the black-robed wizard finished casting the spell. Saturnine had read his intent in his eyes and recognised the flick of his wrist. As she looked on, she saw that Harry’s attention was completely focused on his wounded friend, and her feet started to move before her mind had the time to fully form the thought. She barrelled into Harry from the side, pushing him away even as the curse ripped through the air. Her next thought was to cast a Shielding Charm, and she hurried to think up the incantation. Her nerves were set alight by the Cruciatus Curse before she had the time to complete the thought, and she fell to the floor like a beanbag.

For a moment, nothing existed besides the pain. It was all-consuming, white-hot knives piercing every inch of her skin, her head feeling as if it were about to burst with pain. A scream tore through her throat as she sank into the wet ground. And just as quickly as it had come, it disappeared. Her bones still screamed in pain from the fire that had coursed through them, but she could open her eyes again. She drew in a shuddering breath as her hand searched for the wand that had slipped through her fingers.

Her first thought was of Harry, and she searched for him. She found him by her side, one of his hands around her shoulder as he helped her up. She was glad for his strength; she couldn’t have held herself upright of her own volition at the moment. Harry looked torn up with worry and a little banged up, but there was no severe injury in sight, and Saturnine exhaled a relieved breath.

“Are you all right, lad?” she managed to say through teeth that clattered from the curse’s aftereffect. At Harry’s nod, she said, “Help me up.”

He obeyed, pulling her up by the arm and taking most of her weight. Although she would rather have stayed curled up in a lump on the floor to sleep the day off, Saturnine knew the fight wasn’t over, and she had a duty to stand and protect Harry.

Sweet Circe, who was she kidding? She didn’t jump in front of an Unforgivable Curse to protect him out of a sense of duty; it was something that ran far more deeply than that—something much more primal.

Kreacher, the old house-elf of 12 Grimmauld Place, supplied them with tea, while Molly Weasley fretted and fussed over the lot of them. Their wounds, though numerous, were minor, and between Remus and Mrs Weasley, everyone was soon patched up, cleaned up, and tucked into one of the living room’s comfortable sofas or armchairs with blankets draped over them.

Dumbledore wasn’t long to join them, eyes hooded and worried behind his half-moon spectacles. He wasn’t the only member of the Hogwarts staff to have made the trip. Harry’s least favourite teacher, Professor Snape, had come along. The dark-haired Potions Master settled himself in a corner near the door, his black robes and clothes mingling with the darkness found there, making it easy to forget he was even in the room.

The Lovegoods started in on the explanations, recounting the attack on their house and Luna’s idea to use her Patronus to call for help. Then, Hermione took over as she explained how she’d been the one to receive the message and how the three of them quickly got to the Rookery. Then she described the fight that ensued.

Harry couldn’t help but notice that she glossed over a few details, such as the magical Galleons she’d used to contact Harry and the fact that she could Apparate even though she was technically still under-aged. If Professor Dumbledore noticed any of those facts, he let them slip. But a glance at the back corner of the room told Harry that neither lapse had been missed by their attentive Potions Master. His black eyes had narrowed both times, and Harry could tell, he could just tell, that the man was dying to cut in with a biting comment each time. Guessing that the headmaster’s presence was what forced him to keep his temper in check, Harry was relieved that Snape wasn’t the one asking the questions.

“—then we retreated to the Forest of Dean to hide for the night,” Hermione finished. As if she were parched, she reached for her teacup to take several long sips.

“That’s where Tonks and I found them,” Remus explained, and it was Harry’s turn to frown in confusion. Nymphadora Tonks had left quickly after everyone made it safely back to Grimmauld, saying she had to go inform the Aurors of what had happened. But she wasn’t the only one missing now, Harry noticed. Saturnine was equally absent from the room, and he was startled to realise he had no idea when she’d given them the slip. And now, Remus had just implied she’d never been part of the rescue mission at all.

“They were facing half a dozen Death Eaters,” he continued. “We’re lucky to have gotten there when we did.”

“How did you find us?” Harry asked him. He’d been wondering that ever since he’d had a minute to think.

Turning to look at him with a sly smile, Remus replied, “A silver hare told us where to go.”

Harry’s bewildered gaze moved to where Luna was sitting with her father.

“It was Hermione’s idea,” she said, with a dreamy look in her silver eyes. “I wanted to ask the Bowtruckle, but she insisted I use my Patronus instead.”

A good thing she did, Harry thought, but he kept the comment to himself.

“Whose fog spell was that, incidentally?” Remus asked. “It was very thick.”

“It was mine,” Hermione replied, her tone revealing she’d taken pride in the comment. “What was that wind spell that got rid of it? I’d never seen anything like that.”

“Ah, one of Tonks’,” Remus said, but something in his tone told Harry that wasn’t quite the truth. Besides, the Metamorphmagus had been close to where he and Ron were. And she was too busy fighting off their attackers to have had anything to do with that small tornado. “A Windstorm Charm, I believe.”

“Thank Merlin that you two were here, though,” Harry said, deciding it was probably best to play along and keep Saturnine out of the story. He stared hard at where Ron and Hermione sat next to each other as he said the words, hoping they would catch on. “Don’t know what we would have done without you and Tonks.”

“Did you recognise anyone?” Dumbledore asked.

“Fenrir Greyback was there,” Remus said, and Harry’s gaze was quick to return to the man sitting by his side. He’d never heard so much anger seep out of the mild-mannered wizard’s voice before.

“He’s still by his side, then,” Dumbledore said. “Dark news indeed—not that I am surprised.”

“He was with You-Know-Who before,” Harry said, remembering the dream-cum-vision he’d had before waking up in the Forest of Dean. “He said something about wanting a better life. ‘A better life for us all,’ were his exact words, I believe.”

That caught everyone’s attention; even Professor Snape edged a little closer.

“Who is he?” Harry asked.

“Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and contaminate as many people as possible. He wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards,” Remus replied, the anger barely restrained in his voice. “It was Greyback who bit me,” he said at last, and that was the only explanation Harry needed for his strange attitude. He inched slightly closer to the sandy-haired man, offering what little comfort he could.

“What else did you see, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, and Harry told them of the cave with the bones and the wet stone floor. He was surprised when the headmaster turned to the Potions Master at the end of his tale. “Have you any idea where he is, Severus?”

“Albania, I believe, though I cannot be sure,” he said in a flat tone. “The Dark Lord’s been gone for a few weeks now, though no one knows why.”

Harry hated to be reminded that Snape was on their side. It had come as quite a shock when he’d been told he was the Order of the Phoenix’s spy within Voldemort’s ranks. Ever since he’d discovered the truth, it had been harder to hate him. “Do you think he’s looking for—” He stopped himself before saying ‘the wand’, suddenly unsure if it was okay to talk about that, given the present company.

“Yes, Potter?” Snape asked, arching an imperious black eyebrow. “You’ve got something to say.”

Harry’s eyes left the sour Potions professor to latch onto Dumbledore’s form, silently asking him for directions.

“Perhaps,” the old wizard said as he stroked his beard. “Or perhaps he merely seeks to form new alliances. There are large werewolf packs in Eastern Europe, and Greyback’s presence could indicate that they’re trying to recruit them.”

Venom dripped out of Snape’s eyes as he was forced to swallow what had to be yet another scathing retort. Dumbledore was keeping him in the dark, Harry noted with glee. It was a petty reaction—and he had no doubt Saturnine would have chastised his behaviour had she been there. But it had been a lousy day, and Harry would take all the silver linings he could get.

The Order of the Phoenix meeting—for that was what this had been—didn’t last much longer after that. And within ten minutes, both Snape and Dumbledore departed. An exasperated Mrs Weasley soon pushed a reluctant Ron and a more subdued Hermione through the Floo. They were soon followed by Luna and her father.

That left Harry with only Remus and a ball of worry that had grown to a pumpkin size in the pit of his stomach.

“Everything okay, Harry?” the sandy-haired wizard asked, having sensed that something was off.

Heaving in a deep sigh, he forced the words out. “How mad at me do you think she’ll be?”

“I think she’s going to be happy that you’re okay, for the most part,” Remus answered with an amused chuckle. “But I’m afraid you should prepare to lock your broom away for the remainder of the summer.”

That made Harry feel a little better. If taking away his Quidditch practice time was all the punishment he would get, he would suffer through it gladly. But somehow, he doubted Saturnine would be so lenient. She’d warned him not to disregard her rules, and he’d failed miserably at that.

“I had to go and help them,” he said, and it was hard to tell who he was trying to convince. “I didn’t know how to warn her. I—I would have otherwise.”

Remus stepped closer to place a hand on his shoulder. “Really, Harry? You do tend to rush headlong into danger without alerting anyone. Especially not adults.”

“Not anymore,” he said defensively. “I learned that lesson when—” His words died on his lips, and Remus’ hand tightened on his shoulder. It was evident the man knew what lesson it was. “I did leave her a note, and I would have come to her if I’d known where she was. Or done that thing with my Patronus, if I knew it was possible.” After a pause, he added, “Will you teach me how to do that, Remus?”

“You should ask Saturnine. If I remember correctly, she has quite the impressive sea eagle Patronus,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy teaching you—once you’ve properly apologised.” At that, he used the hand he had on the boy’s shoulder to steer him towards the fireplace. “Come on, Harry—time to go make amends.”

“Why did she leave?” he asked halfway there, partly to buy himself more time and partly out of sheer curiosity. “And why did you act as if she hadn’t been in the forest with us?”

“Ah,” Remus said, removing his hand from his shoulder to scratch his chin instead. “Glad you caught on to that and followed my lead, by the way. I—I was rather afraid you would mention her by name. Given the present company, it would have been quite the gaffe.”

Harry frowned in confusion. “Do you mean the Lovegoods or Professor Snape?”

“Both, actually,” he said. “Only Dumbledore and I know her real identity, Harry. Everyone else in the Order has been introduced to Leen Nine, soon to be the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. It’s important that you remember that when you mention her to the others.”

“A good thing you intervened, then,” he said, making a mental note to tell Ron and Hermione that the next time he saw them. Though he’d made them promise not to tell anyone about who he was spending his summer with, he figured it was best they started watching their tongues before September 1st rolled around.

***

There was comfort to be found in repetitive gestures, and Saturnine had never felt more grateful for cooking in her life. She had a simple list of steps to follow, with no thinking required. A hundred and fifty grams of flour joined one tablespoon of sugar and fifty grams of sliced butter. Forgoing magic, she mixed the dough by hand until its consistency was perfect. Then she went about peeling the apples and cutting them into thin, identical slices—much like a potioneer would prepare her ingredients.

Apple tart in the oven, she wondered if she ought to cook something else or if she was ready to face the worry that had settled in her gut. She was saved from having to decide by the sound of the Floo roaring to life in the living room.

Bracing herself with both hands on the tiled counter, she lowered her head over the sink to heave in a couple of deep breaths.

“I brought Harry back,” came Remus’ voice from the kitchen’s entry. “The meeting was a quiet affair, but I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Thank you, Remus,” she said, straightening up. Her gaze lost itself out of the window, and she peered at the cliffs and the ocean she could see in the distance. She couldn’t face Remus yet; she had no idea what she’d find in his eyes—probably some form of I told you so.

“I’ll get going then,” he said, sounding hesitant. “Unless you need me for something.”

“No, we’ll be fine. Thanks again, Remus.”

When she heard his retreating steps, she turned on her heel to watch him go, following after him into the living room. Harry stood poised by the sofa, looking sheepish and slightly green around the gills. Remus said goodbye to him, and then he was gone. A heavy silence settled on the two of them as they remained frozen where they stood.

What was she supposed to do? Chastise him, yell at him—punish him? Thinking back on her own childhood for a role model was a lost cause. Harry could commit the worst foolishness known to mankind, break all the rules, and doom the entire Wizarding World if he so wanted, and still, she wouldn’t resort to punishing him the way her father did.

Merlin, she wasn’t even sure she was the one who ought to come up with any such kind of reaction. What right did she have to criticise the boy’s actions? She wasn’t his mother. She was just the poor sod who’d been asked to look after him for a couple of weeks. She hadn’t been granted any parental privileges.

And yet—someone had to do something. Right?

“Harry,” she said, words forming in her mind as she moved to stand closer to him. He took a step back at her approach, and she froze in fear. Harry looked dreadful enough as it was with his head hung low and eyes downcast. Guilt ebbed off of him in waves.

Rethinking her actions, Saturnine did the only thing that made sense to her. She stepped closer, opened her arms, and drew him in for a hug. She felt the boy shudder against her—whether in surprise or something else, she didn’t know—but that made her hold him tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled from somewhere near her left shoulder.

“Never do that to me again, Harry,” she begged him as one of her hands lost itself in his tangle of dark-brown locks. “Never again—I was so worried.”

She felt him nod, and he mumbled another, “Sorry,” that sounded much tearier than the first one.

“You come and find me the next time—me or another adult. Or you wait until I get back.” She placed her chin atop his messy mop of hair as she held him close. She was afraid of what would happen if she ever had to let him go. “But never pull a stunt like that again. You and your friends mustn’t go facing off with Death Eaters on your own ever again.” Some of her agonising worries seeped away at the words; somehow, mentioning her fears aloud forced their claws to retreat from where they’d sunken into her heart. “Do you have any idea what would have happened if we’d showed up any later than we did? What the Dark Lord would have done if he’d got his hands on you, Ron, or Hermione?”

She heard a wet sniff come from the crook between her neck and shoulder, and the arms around her back tightened their grasp.

“Thanks—for coming for me—’Nine,” Harry said between two more sniffs that were close to sobs.

“Always,” she promised. And by Merlin, she meant it.

Harry’s close encounter with Death Eaters had two direct consequences: Saturnine intensified their Occlumency training, and—as Remus had predicted—he had to kiss his flying free time goodbye. Other than that, nothing changed within Cove Cottage. He still cooked breakfast every day, while she took care of their lunches and dinners. Professor Lupin dropped by once or twice a week for tea. And later that month, Harry was even allowed one Saturday afternoon at the Burrow with Hermione and the entire Weasley gang.

Nothing had changed—but at the same time, everything had. Harry now had something new, something he’d never had before. He had someone who cared about him. Someone who worried about him, who was afraid for him. Someone who gave him rules to follow and punished him when he broke them.

Harry was no fool; he knew Ron and Hermione loved him and thought of him as a brother. And Remus Lupin had always been more than a teacher. And Sirius—Sirius had loved him, too, and with time, perhaps the two of them could have built that kind of relationship. But his godfather was gone, and the fact remained that Saturnine was the first person, since James and Lily Potter died, who cared about him as a parent would. And that was more precious to Harry than all the money in Gringotts’ many vaults.

Harry had yet to put his feelings into words, though. And he wasn’t quite sure if he ought to. Saturnine had never commented on how she felt about him. After their brief hug the other day, they’d relocated to the kitchen, where Harry was given a slice of the best apple tart he’d ever tasted in his life. Then he’d proceeded to tell her everything about the Order meeting she had missed, which included a complete recap of the last twenty-four hours. Saturnine had told him of his revoked flying privileges and their new Occlumency schedule, and that had been that. They had moved on, resumed their routine, and never brought the subject—or their hug—up again.

But Harry liked to think that he wasn’t the only one who had felt a shift in their dynamics. He couldn’t dismiss that something had loosened in the dark-haired woman’s azure gaze. There was a warmth there that hadn’t been allowed to show before. And not a day would go by when Saturnine didn’t find a way to touch him. Whether it was a clap on his shoulder or a quick pat of his forearm, it was as if she needed to reassure herself that he was there, wholesome and unarmed.

And Harry had altered his behaviour accordingly—choosing to spend less time alone in his room and more in the living room, where Saturnine often spent her free time reading. There, they would either chat or be content to enjoy their respective books in silence.

And so it was that when Harry truly hit a wall with his Potions homework, he did what any other child in his situation would do: he went and asked a grown up for help.

Entering the living room with parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle in hand, he asked, “Do you have a minute?”

Saturnine was sitting sideways on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, with a book in her hand. She placed a finger between the pages and raised her head at Harry’s arrival. “Of course,” she said. Then, catching sight of what lay in the boy’s hands, she asked, “Trouble with your homework?”

Harry nodded.

“Hmm, and that would be Potions. Right? That’s the only one that’s left if I’m not mistaken.”

Harry nodded again.

She sighed. “And what has Professor Snape assigned you lot this year?”

“He wants us to re-work three potion recipes while changing one of the core ingredients, without them losing any of their potency,” Harry said. And then, because he couldn’t help venting his frustration, he added, “That’s rich coming from a man who’s been trying to drill it home from day one that we were not to ever step one toe out of line and always, always, follow each and every one of his instructions and potion recipes to the letter—or else face his wrath.”

Placing a bookmark between the pages, Saturnine closed her book. Unfolding her long legs, she placed it on the coffee table before patting at the space next to her. “That’s pretty advanced stuff. I’m surprised he’s asking fifth-years for something like that.”

Harry snorted, feeling better now that he’d let some of the steam out. “Wouldn’t be the Parchment from Hell, otherwise.”

Saturnine raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, that’s what we call Professor Snape’s summer essays,” Harry informed her. “Last year, we had to pick a charm and invent a potion that would yield the same result. No one scored above A—and that was only Hermione.”

“Which charm did you pick?”

“Hangover Charm—and I proposed a potion that used Alka-Seltzer, sugar, lemon juice, and vitamin B.”

“Oh, Harry. I wonder if I should praise you for your audacity or worry that you knew how to make a decent headbanger juice at such an early age.” She chuckled. “How did you score?”

Harry’s smile soured as if he’d been forced to take a sip of his proposed hangover cure. “Didn’t! Snape disqualified me because my potion was too Muggle.”

“He might have had a point there,” Saturnine said, still smiling. “It wasn’t so much a potion as it was a beverage.”

“I know, I know. It was a rushed job that I did on the train on my way to Hogwarts. And before you start to worry about me, I asked Dean Thomas to help me with the ingredients list.” Harry paused before handing his essay to the knowledgeable witch. “For once, I’d really like to do it right. And who knows, Professor Snape might even agree to grade me this time.”

“I’ll gladly help you,” she said, taking the paper from his hand. “And if he’s reluctant to do so, I’ll see to it that Professor Snape grades it, Harry. Promise.”

And so it was that they spent the entire afternoon, and the following evening, working on Harry’s homework from hell. Saturnine had real patience when explaining things—which boded well for their upcoming Defence classes—and she could hold her own in Potions, Harry discovered. But the best part was that she didn’t hand him the solution on a silver platter, though the young man was certain she could have if she so wanted. Instead, she was content to tutor him and help him along until he reached the end-point on his own.

Saturnine asked him questions that, when answered, highlighted the errors of his thinking. She went over some of the more classic theorems that Professor Snape had quickly barrelled through, taking her time with each one and supplementing each theory with examples that made it easier to understand. Ultimately, she did have to fill in a few of the knowledge gaps that Harry possessed, but she left him to make the connections between those and the rest of his reflections on his own.

The following morning, she double-checked everything Harry had written down and felt quite sure that the changes he’d made to the potions would work. And when the boy grumbled something about what a pointless exercise this had been, Saturnine spent close to half an hour explaining to him that it wasn’t. Sometimes witches and wizards could find themselves in dire situations where they didn’t have stores full of ingredients readily available to make any potion that caught their fancy. And that, at such dire times, having a sufficient understanding of the craft to allow them to switch ingredients to their hearts’ content could very well save someone’s life. And Harry swallowed all the complaints he had on the tip of his tongue, wondering how many of Professor Snape’s difficult essays had been more useful than he had first thought.

The next day, Saturnine cancelled their Occlumency lessons so that she could Floo away from the cottage for a short while to procure everything they needed to test all three potions recipes Harry had developed. The young Gryffindor had no idea where she managed to procure not only the cauldrons but all the necessary ingredients from. And she refused to tell him. But the fact remained that she went through the trouble to do so. And that left him feeling warm all over.

Harry brewed under Saturnine’s watchful gaze all morning, all afternoon, and late into the night. That left him exhausted, his back aching from spending so many hours hovering over a cauldron. His hair was matted to the side of his face, congealed into thick, greasy lumps by the vapours that had sunk into his every pore. But he still beamed a huge smile as he held three phials containing the required potions out for inspection. A fully functional Cure for Boils that was a little more purple than blue—but Saturnine assured him that was because of the chilled Alka-Seltzer they’d used instead of the room-temperature Advil. A powerful Forgetfulness Potion that was a little gooier than expected but just as orange—a change that could be explained by switching the four mistletoe berries to the petals of three red roses. And a Strengthening Solution that smelled strongly of coffee—no wonder, given the amount he’d used to replace both the crushed cayenne pepper and the half-drop of viper venom.

“Excellent job, Harry,” Saturnine said as she helped him carry the phials to his bedroom and safely tuck them into his school trunk. She even added a Break-Me-Not Charm on them before he closed the lid. “And you thought you were pants at Potions.”

“Well, brewing in the cottage’s living room with you is a lot different than in a class half-filled with rotten Slytherins and Professor Snape breathing down my neck.”

“Speaking of school,” Saturnine said, moving back towards the door. “I’ll take you to Diagon Alley sometime next week so that you can get your supply for sixth year, and—” she looked him up and down “—some new clothes, perhaps?”

“I’m fine with the ones I have,” Harry rushed in to say. “Maybe just a pair of robes?”

In truth, he had grown quite a lot recently, and everything he owned was too short now—or still desperately too baggy if it was some of Dudley Dursley’s cast-offs. But Harry knew that he only needed to get a decent set of robes, and everything else could be hidden underneath. After all, it was all he could afford.

“Nonsense,” Saturnine said, turning back to face him and leaning herself against the doorjamb. “You need new trousers and shirts, and something warm for when the summer’s over. I’ve seen your sweaters. They’re worn-thin. I don’t care that you don’t like shopping for clothes, we’re going, and it’s final.”

Harry felt himself blushing, and he rubbed his neck as he thought hard and fast for a way to wiggle out of this situation without having to reveal the truth. When he failed to come up with any, and the silence had stretched too long for him not to reply, he forced himself to say, “It’s not that I don’t like to, Saturnine. I just—I don’t have much money, that’s all.”

That seemed to surprise her. “What do you mean? Surely your parents left you something. The Potter family is a very old one, there’s bound to be enough Galleons in the Gringotts vaults for you to buy a few pairs of t-shirts once a year.”

“Yes, they did leave me some money,” Harry said hastily, not wanting her to get the wrong idea about his parents. They had thought to make the necessary arrangements to leave Harry some money. “But it isn’t much, and I have to be careful if I want it to last me until school’s over. It’s no problem, really. I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not.” Saturnine crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry knew her well enough to know that whatever decision she’d come up with was final. If it really came to that, he supposed he could buy a few things, then go his entire year without buying anything during the Hogsmeade trips.

“You’re getting new clothes—proper ones that fit you. I’ll buy them myself if I have to.” Her brows furrowed, and she added. “And I’ll check in with Gringotts because none of that sounds right to me.”

And that left Harry speechless.

Four days later, Saturnine and Harry Apparated in a back alley in the middle of Muggle London. It was a warm summer day, and he could hear the bustling noises of the city coming in from the main road. It was a jarring departure from the quietude of Cornwall, and now that he was away from the coast, the air felt unbearably warm and stuffy to Harry.

“Clothes first,” she told him. “Weasleys’ Wheezes later, if you behave.”

Harry gave her a bright smile in response. If he could get any treats on top of his school things, he would be on his best behaviour. And, thus, they set out on a shopping spree.

They were both dressed in jeans, and Harry wore a loose white t-shirt with the logo of a music band he’d never heard of, while Saturnine had chosen one of her trademark hoodies. For a witch, she blended well with the Muggles; with her wand hidden in a sheath that she wore around her forearm beneath her clothes, nothing gave her away.

She led Harry to a large store that he’d never been to but seemed to sell a bit of everything. She knew her way around and had no trouble directing them to the correct sections. They got four pair of jeans in various shades of blue and two pairs of black slacks. They also bought two pairs of shoes—and boy, did it feel good to step into something that was the right size for once. Finally, they purchased five t-shirts, three jumpers, and—upon Saturnine’s insistence—three warmer sweaters.

Harry felt queasy when they neared the cashier’s desk, and he was glad he’d had a light breakfast. But Saturnine stepped forward when they reached the desk, and she paid for everything with no fuss as if she went about and bought armloads of clothes for teenagers she barely knew every day. No one had ever done that for him, and the kindness and sheer simplicity of the gesture brought tears to Harry’s eyes. When Saturnine caught him furiously rubbing at them, he pretended they were still itching from when they’d crossed through the perfume aisle.

Once out of sight in the alley they’d Apparated to, the dark-haired witch shrunk the bags, and she placed them in the pouch she had slung over her shoulder. Then she turned to Harry with a pinched expression.

“Don’t fret, but I can’t be seen walking down Diagon Alley looking like that,” she replied.

Harry nodded, thinking she meant her Muggle clothes. But when she raised her wand over her head, and a charm shimmied its way down her hair and face, he took a step back in surprise. As he watched, her long dark hair—which she had worn unplaited for the first time in forever—shortened and assumed a strawberry-blond hue. Her blue eyes became green and widened to take a slight almond shape. Her nose buttoned up as her cheeks rounded, and she lost about ten years in just as many seconds.

“Wow!” Harry said as he stared in awe at the stranger facing him. If he’d ran into her without knowing who it was, he would never have recognised her. “How long will that hold?”

“About two hours,” Saturnine replied, and Harry was glad to note her voice remained the same.

“Wicked!”

“Don’t forget to call me Leen at all times,” she said before reaching for his arm and Apparating them away.

Diagon Alley was brimming with activity. The London cobblestoned wizarding alley and shopping area was full of students and parents huddling from shop to shop to retrieve the books and equipment pupils needed for Hogwarts. Between tottering piles of spell books, quills, rolls of parchment, potion bottles, and globes of the moon, Harry felt the familiar buzz of excitement he’d felt every year as the new school term descended upon them. He was ready to go back, eager to learn more about the Wizarding World, and dying to reunite with his friends.

No sooner had he thought that than a familiar high-pitched voice called his name through the crowd. Turning on his heel, Harry saw, under a mess of untameable brown locks, Hermione’s familiar beaming face. Her rosy lips were stretched into a warm smile, and she dashed for him, throwing her arms around his lithe figure in a bone-crushing embrace the instant she was close enough.

Harry was surprised that her arms were free to do so; he’d half-expected the brightest witch of her age to be carrying around at least a book or two by now—if not half a dozen. When he caught sight of his red-haired best friend, his wondering came to a stop. Ron was lagging behind, strenuously making his way through the throngs of students. With the large pile of books he was balancing in his arms, the young wizard had a much harder time parting the crowd.

“All right there, mate?” Harry asked with a grin; it wasn’t hard to see where Hermione’s books had gone.

“That—” Ron started, then paused to draw in a deep breath, “—is only for the optional classes. Can you believe it?” Another breath. “We’ve yet to get our books for the regular classes. She’s mental, that one, I’m telling you.”

“Oi!” Hermione said, mock stomping on his foot. “I heard that, you know.”

Harry was smiling in earnest now, realising how much he’d missed his friends and the easy-going camaraderie the three of them had.

“Leen and I just got here,” he said, indicating the witch standing by his side. Ron and Hermione did a double take at that, though they both refrained from commenting on her charmed appearance aloud.

“Want to shop with us?” Ron asked, eagerly. “You could help me carry those?”

Harry turned a hopeful gaze towards the woman by his side. At her nod, he reached forward to take three heavy volumes from Ron.

They were soon on their way to Flourish and Blotts, where they were sure to find all the necessary manuals for the compulsory classes. Their shopping continued with a visit to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where Harry got two new sets of robes and Gryffindor uniforms. Then they made a stop at Broomsticks, where both Quidditch players re-stocked up on care products for their trusted brooms.

By the time they were done with their supply run, Harry—who had been on his best behaviour throughout—was practically bouncing from foot to foot. He kept glancing up at Saturnine to gauge her mood, searching for the best moment to make his request.

The witch had behaved as she had earlier that day at the clothes shop, paying for every single one of Harry’s purchase without a fuss and never once raising an eyebrow at the amount that was asked of her. And that was part of the reason why Harry felt bad for asking for more—and yet, she had said that he could stop by the Weasley twins’ shop if he behaved, hadn’t she?

“Is there something you wanted, Harry?” Saturnine asked as they walked past Gringotts Wizarding Bank’s columned entrance.

Hiding a grin, he said evadingly, “Well, we’re not far from 93 Diagon Alley, and there’s a store I wanted to check there.” Ron snorted by his side, having recognised the address. “That is, if you don’t mind, of course,” Harry hurried to add.

“Ah, and which wee workplace would that be?” Saturnine asked, mirth obvious in her voice. “Well, I wonder if that wouldn’t be the wondrous Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” she asked, cramming in as many Ws as she could in a single sentence. “I did say that we could stop by. Lead the way, lad.”

And Harry did—or rather he followed Ron without seeming too obvious about it. For all that he’d paid to help kick-start the establishment, he had yet to see it for himself. And what a sight it was. The light-blue street-corner building was one of a kind and could be seen from the other end of the street. A giant sculpture of a smiling Weasley twin sat above the front door with a white rabbit atop its ginger hair. A mechanical arm holding a top hat moved up and down, hiding and revealing the rabbit, in turn. Well, it sets the tone, Harry thought, delighted.

The inside of the shop was even better. Every stall and shelf was covered in what amounted to a wizard child’s dream. There were hundreds of practical joke objects, such as Extendable Ears, a Reusable Hangman, Skiving Snackboxes, and Fred and George’s unique WonderWitch products, such as Love Potions, Ten-Second Pimple Vanishers, and Pygmy Puffs. In another section, Harry found an entire display of Muggle Magic Tricks that he hurried to point out to Saturnine, thinking she might be more interested than most in those. A full range of fireworks completed the ensemble, including the famous Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs and no less than twenty other new, creative pyrotechnic products. And, of course, a rack full of sweets stood near the till.

Harry knew to be cautious around any sweets invented by the infamous twins. He had not forgotten the Ton-Tongue Toffee they had experimented with on his cousin Dudley. While it had been fun to see his fat cousin suffer its ill-effects, he had no wish to find himself with a rapidly swelling tongue turning purple.

When Harry reached the till half an hour later, he had an armload of Weasley products. Saturnine was still by the Muggle Magic section, and he fully intended to buy these himself. It was one thing to have the adult in charge buy his school supplies and clothes, but candies and jokes in a box were items he ought to buy with his own pocket money.

The ginger-haired twins stopped him with two identical raised palms and a matching set of gentle smiles.

“Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right?” said George. “No charge.”

“I can’t do that!” he protested, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“You don’t pay here—you gave us our start-up loan. We haven’t forgotten,” added Fred. “Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it if they ask.”

Harry could have done without the reminder. While the shop was the Weasley twins’ dream, the seed money for it had been Harry’s Triwizard Tournament 1,000 Galleon winnings. He hadn’t thought twice about lending out the cash they needed to kick-start their business, not wanting anything to do with that blood money that reminded him of Cedric Diggory’s death and his close encounter with Voldemort.

Then, turning towards Ron who stood by Harry’s side, Fred said, “That’s three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut. Cough up.”

“I’m your brother!” protested Ron.

George huffed, and his brother grimaced; it would seem blood-bounds held no place in business transactions. “And that’s our stuff you’re nicking.”

The trio and Saturnine were out of the shop some ten minutes later, each with an armload of products that were sure to raise hell in Hogwarts. And Harry could almost kid himself into thinking that this was a typical outing for them. But he hadn’t missed the familiar faces of Tonks and Shacklebolt in the crowd earlier. And he was pretty sure he’d caught sight of Moody in the mirror’s reflection while he tried on clothes at Madam Malkin’s. Harry understood that the entire day had been arranged. The Order of the Phoenix had taken all the necessary precautions to ensure his safety while he went about Diagon Alley with his friends. He knew this probably had to do with the role he was expected to play in the war, but a small part of himself liked to believe that it was because they cared.

“It’s now time we took our leave,” Saturnine said, as she moved closer to grab Harry’s hand. “It’s been nice seeing you,” she said to Ron and Hermione, with a sincere smile.

The three friends exchanged their goodbyes, and then Saturnine Apparated them both away.

Summer, for Harry, was coming to an end, and as he sat on a boulder near the cliff’s edge, he wondered if he would ever come back here again. He hoped he would. His forced seclusion hadn’t been so bad, and he’d gotten used to the majestic sights. Here, the landscape was rugged and worn; it had character. The Cornwall shoreline was a sight to behold, regardless of the weather—dramatic under a force eight gale and serene on cloudless summer days. A permanent haunting air hung around the towering, rugged, granite cliffs and pounding Atlantic waves.

Harry wished, more than anything, for the freedom to follow the path north and south to his heart’s content one day. He wanted to discover every crooked-shaped rock formation and every natural cove hidden in the cliffs’ flanks—to find all the steep paths that led down to small sandy beaches that only existed at low tide.

As it were, he’d settle himself for one more sunset. These were his favourite; there wasn’t much west of here for a long, long way, and nature was free to display the full palette of day turning into night. The sky was ablaze with vibrant hues of blue, red, pink, and yellow to the point where Harry didn’t know where to look anymore for there was so much to see.

“A sight to behold,” came Saturnine’s voice, easily drifting to him over the light wind blowing in from the oceanfront.

Harry’s eyes left the scenery for an instant to flicker over his shoulder. His friend wore her usual garb: dark-blue jeans and a navy hoodie. Her long raven hair had been braided in a plait all day, but a few strands had come loose by that point. They blew in the wind by the side of her face.

“I’m going to miss this,” Harry said truthfully.

Saturnine mm-hmmed in agreement as she sat down next to him on his dramatic promontory of weathered granite. “When I look at those cliffs, I can’t help but wonder if they’ve been carved by some giants throwing a tantrum—or by lightning itself. It also reminds me of my time in Normandie. The coast there is a bit similar, though the cliffs aren’t as tall, and their stone is whiter.”

Neither Saturnine nor Remus had mentioned the time they’d spent living together in the north of France since Harry first found out about it, and he was curious to learn more. “You lived near the coast there, too?”

“Not really—the village was inland,” she said easily. “But Remus and I liked to go on walks when the weather permitted. I’d make sandwiches that we’d take with us, and we’d go down to the shore and have lunch atop the cliffs, gazing across the horizon—the homes we had left behind.”

“Do you miss it?” Harry asked. “Those days?”

Saturnine took a long time to answer, and her voice had a wistful quality to it when she did. “They weren’t easy, but they were simpler. But that time only exists in the past now, Harry. We could go back to that ramshackle apartment and do everything the way we used to back then, and it still wouldn’t be the same. Remus and I aren’t the people we used to be. We’ve changed as we’ve grown older.

“Life is like that, Harry. You’ll understand this yourself soon enough. Nothing’s ever set in stone—it keeps on changing, evolving. You meet new people, and others fall out of sight. You think that some people will never leave your side, but then life happens, and they drift apart. And others remain by your side, the same but different altogether.”

Her words made him think of Sirius, and Harry realised he hadn’t thought of his godfather in days. Now that he did, he found that it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. The pain of his absence was still there, but the agony of the circumstances of his death had lessened to the point where it became all but imperceptible.

Digging deep within himself to find the courage to ask, he enquired, “What if you don’t want them to?”

Saturnine sighed, gaze lost on the horizon. “You can’t force them to stay, Harry. The best you can do is ask, but—you have to be prepared to let them go.”

“Why?” he asked, sticking himself to a monosyllabic question; his voice couldn’t be trusted with more at the moment. Deep down, what he really wanted to say was, Please don’t leave me, too.

Turning to face him with a soft smile, Saturnine asked, “Would you like it if someone forced you to be somewhere you didn’t want to be?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then you have your answer, lad. Some people will want the same thing you want at the same time, and others won’t. Or maybe they’ll change their mind down the line. It’s like that, Harry. You can’t fight it, and mostly, you can’t force people into situations they don’t want to be in. That only ever leads to misery.” She paused, then looked away. “But you can always ask, there’s no harm in that—so long as you’re prepared for any possible answer.”

Harry took a long time to ponder her words. He could ask, but was he prepared for a negative answer? It was one thing to go on as they had, to delude himself into thinking that Saturnine felt the least bit like he did, that she, too, wanted him to stick around. But could his heart—broken as it was—take it if she were to dash his hopes with a resounding no?

“I wish we could both stay here,” he decided to say at last; it was close enough. “Where things are simple, and I don’t need to ask anyone for anything.”

Because I already have everything I want, his heart added.

***

Saturnine could sympathise with that feeling. And at the back of her mind, she could see Dumbledore smirking that knowing smile of his. Damn, even in her imagination that man was annoying. She couldn’t for the life of her begin to guess at how he’d known. How in the world could he have figured out that she was right for Harry or that Harry would be right for her? She’d never even once in her life entertained the idea of having children one day. And there she was, saddled with not only a child but a teenager to boot—and wasn’t that said to be ten times more difficult to handle? But she had fallen into it effortlessly. And she’d done a great job at it, too, hadn’t she?

Harry had survived the summer. He’d put on a little weight and wasn’t as skinny as when he’d got here. She had gotten him into new clothes that actually fit him—although she had lost the battle when she mentioned getting a haircut. She had seen to it that he did his homework and taught him a few things to get him there. And aside from those dreadful two days when he went missing to help the Lovegoods—an event she refused to spend too much time reminiscing because the what-ifs were just too awful to contemplate—she had played the parent card wonderfully.

But where had that come from? She hadn’t known what to do, hadn’t had any role model to follow, and had never once before in her life thought to inquire in on the subject. And yet, she’d done a great job at it—out of sheer instinct. And what did that say about her?

And how, in the name of everything that was magic, could Albus Dumbledore have known what she didn’t even know?

“Mingling, scheming old sod,” she muttered through clenched teeth before catching herself, remembering that she wasn’t alone.

“Who?” asked Harry from where he still sat, next to her.

“Dumbledore,” she admitted, seeing no point in lying about it now that the words were out. “But best pretend you didn’t hear me say that.”

“You worry about the Defence classes?” he asked.

“I worry about a lot of things, Harry,” she admitted. “Teaching included.”

“I’ll help you out if I can,” he said. It was sweet of him to offer. “I mean, I can’t do the teaching for you. But if you’re having difficulties, maybe you can tell me about it, and we can try to find a solution together or something. I mean, we did work on the syllabus together, sort of. And well—I don’t know, but maybe—well. Just, if you think that I—ah... oh, forget it,” he rambled on, and she couldn’t help herself from tousling his hair with her hand. Harry didn’t seem to mind the gesture—if the smile on his lips was any indication.

“Thanks for the offer, Harry,” she said, feeling emotions welling up within herself, too. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Then, because she had to, and because she had postponed it long enough as it was, she said, “We need to discuss what things will be like at Hogwarts, Harry. Between you and me.” Her hand kept stroking through his mop of hair, and she felt him shudder at her words.

“I know I’m to call you Leen at all times,” Harry said, the words almost guarded. “Or rather, Professor Nine, I guess.”

“Yes, that’s one thing. But you’ll have to act as if you don’t know me, Harry. It’s best if no one realises we’re friends.” At that, Harry physically pulled away, recoiling as if he’d been punched in the stomach by the strength of her words—soft-spoken as they were.

“You can’t mean that?” Harry said, looking up at her with imploring eyes. “You can’t want that? No!”

She’d known this would hurt, and she’d put it off as long as she could to give herself more time to find another way. But she hadn’t. “Harry, I—”

“No!” he all but shouted. “Please, Saturnine. I—” he gasped, closing his mouth quickly as if to stop himself from saying something, then his resolve seemed to strengthen, and he said, “Please don’t. You said it was okay to ask. So, I’m asking you not to.”

Oh, and wasn’t it a bitter feeling to have your own words thrown back in your face? But how could she make him understand that this wasn’t her decision at all? This choice—arduous as it was—was made for his safety and in no way reflected her feelings.

“If something happens, you can always come find me,” she said. “But in class and in the hallways, you will have to act as if I’m just a teacher. And I will behave as if you’re just another student.”

She knew the words were all wrong the moment she said them, and now, there were tears in Harry’s eyes as he started to fold in on himself.

“It’s just an act, Harry. And it’s for your safety,” she hurried to add as she reached forward with both hands to grip his shoulders. “It doesn’t mean that I will stop caring about you. I’ll try to find a way for us to talk, but we’ll have to be careful about it. And when other people are present, we’ll have to act as if we don’t know each other.”

“It’s not fair,” Harry said in a strangled voice, and she could tell he was fighting off tears and losing the battle.

“Life rarely is, lad,” she admitted with the honesty she was accustomed to showing the boy. Letting all her defences down, she willed him to read in her own moist eyes and the tensed lines of her face how much that decision ate at her. “But there’s no other way.”

Displaying the heart of a true Gryffindor, Harry nodded. And the motion was enough to send twin tears cascading down his cheeks. She dabbed at them with the pads of her fingers and wished, not for the first time that summer, that she wasn’t so much of a prisoner of her bad choices’ consequences.

“Are you all set?” Saturnine asked from where she stood near the doorjamb to Harry’s bedroom.

She preferred to stand there because it faced the bay window; she loved to gaze longingly through its panes. Or she could take in the entire room—from the bed on one side to the desk facing the opposite wall—in one glance. Smiling fondly, she observed Harry as he fastened his trunk’s latches before returning to his desk to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything there. She watched, amused, as he crossed the room to kneel by the bed and peer beneath it to check that nothing had been left there, either.

It did not escape her notice, as the boy double-checked everything one last time, that a quick ‘Accio Harry’s things’ would have solved the problem in no time at all. But sometimes, it was good for him to do things without magic. And she would cast the spell herself before they left to make sure that nothing was out of place.

When Harry was finally done fretting about the room, he came to a stop by his bed, looking as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Entering the space, Saturnine motioned for him to sit down on the now-bare mattress, and she joined him there.

Things weren’t okay between them, and she knew it. She’d barely slept last night, busy as she was replaying their discussion by the cliffs. It hadn’t been enough, she knew; she hadn’t been enough. But should she have said more? Was she even ready for that… to admit aloud what she could barely even comprehend? Asking was the easy part, but being prepared for every possible answer was quite another beast to tackle entirely. And she wasn’t ready to go and poke that dragon yet.

But she had to make things right with Harry, though—one way or another. She couldn’t let him return to Hogwarts as he was, thinking that what they’d so carefully built between themselves—no matter that it remained unlabelled for now—had been lost.

Saturnine acted on the spur of the moment. Forgoing the lines she’d rehearsed in her mind, she reached up to the neckline of her hoodie. The cotton pooled near the place where the front of the hood started on both sides of her neck. Reaching below the layers with her fingers, she easily found the silver chain she kept hidden there. Pulling it up, her fingers deftly found the clasp and worked it open. Despite how fraught with meaning that particular necklace was, it felt nearly weightless once it rested on her open palm.

She held her hand out to Harry, and he peered down at the necklace with curiosity. Looped around a simple silver chain was the delicate pendant, a curling ‘S’. It was a gift from days long past—from a child who had since grown into a man she no longer knew.

“In well over twenty years, I have never once taken it off,” she explained. Already, her neck felt naked without the added weight of the chain around it. She had to resist the impulse to reach up to her neck to rub at it to try and ease the feeling. “I could easily stand to lose everything I own, but not this—never this.”

Then, grabbing both ends of the chain in her fingers, she reached forward to clasp it around Harry’s neck. “This is but a loan, Harry. I expect you to return it to me when the school year is over,” she told him in a grave tone to let him know she meant it. “So, don’t you lose it.”

Harry was quick to reach up a hand to shield the dangling ‘S’ protectively. “I won’t; I promise.”

“Keep it hidden under your clothes at all times. No one can be allowed to see it,” she cautioned. “It will keep you safe when I cannot and remind you that I’m never far away.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, gazing up at her with eyes a little too bright. He had yet to take his hand away from where it protectively cradled the silver pendant.

***

September 1st was still a week away. But Harry was fully packed, as was Saturnine.

Like all Hogwarts staff, she had to be present ahead of the term to arrange her classroom, stock up on supplies, and iron out the last details in anticipation of the school year that was about to begin. Thus, it had been decided that Harry would spend his last week of holidays at 12 Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione. And it would be Mr and Mrs Weasley that would take him, along with their other children, to Platform 9¾ to board the train to Hogwarts come August 31st.

Harry didn’t dread going back to Grimmauld as much as he had before. It was strange how much had changed within him in only two months. He still missed Sirius, and he knew that that particular pang of pain he felt every time he thought of him would never go away. But it didn’t overwhelm him to the point where he felt like he was suffocating anymore. And he could stand to see 12 Grimmauld Place again. After all, he already had—when they’d all Apparated there for safety after their encounter with the Death Eaters. And it had taken Harry a few hours after being back at Cove Cottage to realise he hadn’t once thought of Sirius in all the time he’d been there.

“Have you ever seen Muggles do magic tricks, Harry?” Saturnine asked from where she stood in front of a full-length mirror. Her question drew him out of his thoughts and back into the moment. “It’s fascinating how they manage to do so much with so little.”

They had both moved to the room that had been Saturnine’s for the summer. It was the same size as Harry’s had been, but it had a simple window in lieu of a bay window. And the en-suite had a bathtub instead of a shower cubicle.

The dark-haired witch stood in clothes Harry hadn’t seen her wear before. She wore ankle-high leather boots slightly more feminine than the sturdier ones she usually wore, black trousers so tight they disappeared inside the boots, and a long-sleeved, light-blue blouse with a tie-bow neck shirt. She certainly looked more professorial now than she’d ever had before, Harry reflected—and much more feminine. Blushing faintly, he quickly clamped down hard on that last thought.

“Muggle magic, Harry?” she asked him again when he’d failed to reply for too long.

“Huh, yeah… I might have seen a show once on the television when I was little.” And he had, hadn’t he? It felt like a lifetime away—before Hogwarts, before he discovered what real magic was like and that he had it in him to perform it. “A man in funny clothes, making things disappear.”

“Do you know how they do it?” she asked, looking at him through the reflection in the mirror she was facing rather than turning around. “Sleight of hand and misdirection,” she explained. “A lot of misdirection.”

Reaching behind her head with both hands, she gathered her long loose hair in one hand and used the other to twist it around itself. She wound it into a tight chignon that she secured in place with a black elastic band. Next, she pulled a small box out of her pocket, and from within, she removed a pair of brown contact lenses that she used to camouflage her familiar azure-blue gaze. Using various forms of makeup that Harry couldn’t name, she made her cheeks appear hollower and higher, added to the plumpness of her lips, and made her eyes appear more almond-shaped.

It was nothing transcendental, but every little change came together to redefine the image she presented. Harry could still recognise Saturnine underneath all the makeup—but only because he knew what to look out for and had seen the transformation happen firsthand. If he hadn’t known she’d changed her appearance and he’d run into her when he wasn’t expecting to see her, he might have been fooled.

Next, she added a pair of thick creole earrings studded with gemstones that sparkled, reflecting the light at every possible angle. Harry found them distracting; his gaze was frequently averted from Saturnine’s face to their glittering magnificence—which, he figured, was probably her intent.

“Magicians have a saying of which I am very fond,” Saturnine said, and her voice was different now, too. There was a faint trace of an accent that hadn’t been there before. It made him think of Fleur Delacour and the other Beauxbatons students he’d met during the Triwizard Tournament. But Saturnine’s accent was less pronounced—more like that of someone who’d been born abroad but who had been living in Britain for a few years now. He guessed that wasn’t too hard to pull off for someone who’d spent three years living in the north of France when she was younger.

“People only see what they’re expecting to see,” Saturnine finished, and the cadence of her words became slightly slower and more hesitant. “I find that to be particularly true where witches and wizards are concerned.”

The last item she pulled out was a pair of simple, square-shaped, black-rimmed prescription glasses that, when she put them on, lent her the air of a bookworm. This, and the way her shoulders now drooped forward, put her at odds with the confident witch who usually carried herself with the stance of a trained fighter who could hold her own against Death Eaters.

Harry marvelled at her disguise for its sheer simplicity. There was nothing magical about it. It wouldn’t wear off after a few hours like Polyjuice Potion did, and it couldn’t be dispelled by a counter-curse. Not even Alastor Moody’s magical eye could see through it. It was a Muggle masquerade—the perfect way to trick a school full of wizards and witches who would never once stop to look for something so out of their realm of thought.

Checking for the umpteenth time that the necklace with the small ‘S’ she’d entrusted him with was still there, beneath his dark-green shirt, Harry realised he’d better warn his friends, or else they would be in for quite a surprise when Professor Nine made her first appearance in their next Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

***

The seven-storey high castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood tall and fierce upon its bed of rocks, its many spires and turrets highlighted by the sun rising behind its bulk. Its three highest towers—the Astronomy, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor—peeked above the clouds.

Squinting against the sunlight, Saturnine could barely discern the familiar window of the dorm she lived in for seven years, in Ravenclaw Tower. It felt strange coming back here and walking the familiar pathway that led in from Hogsmeade. Part of her rejoiced at the familiar sight of the calm Black Lake south of the castle and the green expanses of the dense Forbidden Forest that stretched in the distance everywhere the eye could see. But another part of her was filled with dread at the dangerous situation she was about to put herself into.

She hadn’t come back to the Highlands of Scotland in fifteen years, and there was little left of the shy eighteen-year-old witch who had left the school grounds with a broken heart and rage coursing through her veins. She was thirty-three now and all grown up. Even without the makeup and disguise that she had put on, she doubted her old professors would have recognised her. She’d been but one student amongst hundreds, and she hadn’t given any of them a reason to think of her in decades. But the disguise, she knew, wasn’t for them.

This whole masquerade had been designed with only one wizard in mind—one person Saturnine needed to fool at all costs. People only see what they’re expecting to see, she reminded herself, and Severus Snape wasn’t expecting to see his long-lost sister enter the Great Hall today to join him in his world of lies and deceit.

Saturnine had grown several inches since they had parted ways, and her figure had blossomed into that of a woman. The baby fat was entirely gone from her cheeks, and her daily physical exercise regimen had earned her a lean and toned body. But years passing and physical changes wouldn’t be enough; Severus would recognise his sister’s traits in a heartbeat. So, she’d upped the ante and added every Muggle trick she could think of to fool him.

Unsure if it would work, worried that Severus would see right through her disguise at a glance, but with no other choice, Saturnine pushed forward until she stood by the large oak doors that shielded her from whatever fate awaited her inside. What would happen if he recognised her? Would the old rancour that existed between them persist? Would the last fifteen years have been enough to ease their sharp edges, or would it have been just enough time for them to fester and mature into the foulest of beasts?

Either way, the revelation of her true identity, were it to come to light, would put both of the Snape siblings’ lives at risk. Severus was a known Death Eater who stood close by the Dark Lord’s side, and Saturnine was Dumbledore’s secret weapon in the war against Voldemort. It didn’t matter that they had both sworn to protect Lily Evans’ child. In a war as ruthless as the one they were fighting in, either side could try and use them against each other.

Albus Dumbledore had reset his pieces on the chessboard, and it was time for a new game to begin. Saturnine would move as the headmaster intended her to, for now. But she knew that if it came down to a choice between the old wizard’s Grand Plan and Harry Potter’s life, she wouldn’t think twice—consequences of the war effort be damned.

Steeling her nerves and pushing her glasses back up the length of her nose with the tip of a finger, Saturnine Eileen Snape pushed open the heavy oak doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Knowing her disguise was the best she could make it for where she was going, she could only hope it would be enough and that she wouldn’t crack under the pressure.

***

“All men can see these tactics whereby I conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which victory evolved.”

—Sun Tsu

~ End Of Part One ~