45.Echoes in the Wind

26th of December 1992, Saturday

Ron Weasley

“He should never have gone without a wand, Molly!”

Seeing his father lose his composure was unnerving; he had been worried sick when he picked him up from the Ministry after Damien’s father called him. Once he was sure Ron was unharmed, his father simply hugged him and brought him home. For a moment, Ron thought that was the end of it, but that calm was but a storm brewing in his heart once they were home. For once, it was not directed at him.

Hearing Arthur Weasley’s raised voice sent shivers down his spine in every wrong way. His usual composure and welcoming, warm smile were nowhere to be seen when he stormed into the kitchen with his wife.

“No, Arthur—you know how young children are—my cousin Archibald died at thirteen from a curse backlash when trying to practise at home unsupervised, and only god knows what our twins get up to!” This wasn’t just the usual raising of their voice in the heat of the argument. It was the angriest Ron had ever heard his parents. He soon winced; Molly Weasley’s subsequent shrieks were a sight to behold, even through walls.

Bloody hell, even the cups on the table vibrated despite the kitchen’s closed door–not that it did much to dampen the sound. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT, ARTHUR. RONALD IS FOLLOWING IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS WITH YOUR OBSESSION WITH MUGGLE GARBAGE!”

The twins were giving him a thumbs up, while Ginny looked like she wanted to disappear into her chair. Percy had remained in Hogwarts to study—and if Fred was to be believed, he was studying very hard with his new Ravenclaw girlfriend.

“THAT OBSESSION WITH MUGGLE GARBAGE SAVED HIS LIFE!”

Ron winced. His obsession with the muggle garbage they called bodybuilding had nothing to do with his father, this time. But nobody asked him; they never did. Sometimes, he felt like a stranger in his own home. He found his calloused palms more interesting than everything else at that moment. Months of effort had left their mark, and Tom Riddle’s Protein Potion helped a lot; for lack of a better term, his body was well-transformed.

His arms, legs, back, and chest had begun to fill out visibly, and the chubbiness had melted from his face and body, much to the envy of his yearmates.

He had grown another inch, too, and was the tallest boy in Gryffindor his year.

“HE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN FIGHTING ANYWAY! YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE ALLOWED HIM TO LEAVE TO DIAGON WITH ALL THOSE KILLERS ON THE LOOSE”

“I CAN’T KEEP MY CHILDREN COOPED UP FOREVER! RON HAS NEVER ASKED ME FOR ANYTHING BEFORE, AND HE FINALLY FOUND SOME FRIENDS—”

“DEATH EATER SPAWN-“

“CYRUS GREENGRASS IS A RESPECTABLE MAN WHO JUST SAVED OUR SON A WORLD OF GRIEF IN THE DMLE. AND PANDORA LOVEGOOD HAS NEVER HARMED A FLY-“

“A MISTAKE…”

The shrill yells abruptly stopped, leaving uneasy silence behind, but Ron’s ears still rang.

“It seems they finally remembered the Imperturbable Charm, Fred,” George said through snickers.

“Right you are, George. But did you hear the voices, the volume—” His face twisted with envy. “Why didn’t we inherit those lungs?!”

“Not all hope is lost, brother! I am beginning to get some ideas.”

Their eyes lit up in a way that didn’t bode well, but at least they knew better than to bother Ron.

“It’s not funny.” Ginny sniffled. “They never argued like that before! A-And now we probably won’t get to go to Romania to visit Charlie for the new year because of Ron!”

“How is it my fault?” Ron huffed and folded his arms, but his sister continued glaring at him.

“We were supposed to be good and listen!”

“I did nothing wrong!” Ginny eventually lost the staring contest and averted her eyes first. “If you want to take it up with someone, it’s the bloody blokes that attacked us.”

“Right you are, Ronniekins,” Fred added, patting his shoulder with glee. “Nothing wrong indeed. Just smack some dark wizard with a chair. Marvellous.”

“Splendid,” George nodded eagerly, his smile so wide it threatened to split his face in half. “Absolutely magnificent, I say. Knocked out two more with a single swing of your mighty fist! As expected of our youngest brother!”

Ron ignored the rush of heat to his cheeks.

“Will the two of you stop it!” he exploded. “Bloody hell, it wasn’t nearly as grand as you make it out to be. We could have been in serious trouble. People died, for Merlin’s sake! Spells were flying everywhere, and there was that literal madman fighting a dozen of them down the street and attracting all of their attention.”

“Ah, yes, the infamous Dragon of Diagon.”

“Dragon of Diagon?” Ron echoed, confused.

“Well, the Small Dragon of Diagon—they say he’s part goblin. The Tiny Terror of Gringotts, some call him,” George said with a straight face.

A moment later, he exploded in laughter, and his twin was quick to join. Fred and George found the whole event awfully hilarious. Ron, however, was left with a deep sense of discontent; they didn’t understand, so far in their jokes and making light of anything; his brothers did not understand how close he came to death.

And naturally, his family had the gall to blame him for it.

“It was just some wizard, if a very strong one.”

“Charlie said ten is the number of wizards that it takes to subdue an angry adult dragon,” Ginny said, no longer angry, even though her face was flushed red for some reason. She took out the crumpled edition of the Daily Prophet, the first page showing the cloaked figure ducking under spells in the middle of Diagon. “He fought over a dozen and won. And they say magic bounced off him, too—just like a dragon! Ron, surely you saw more?”

The expectant brown eyes made him sigh.

“For the tenth time, Ginny, I barely saw a thing and was busy hiding most of the time,” Ron groaned. “I’m not stupid enough to charge out into the fight for no reason, even if I had a wand. I am not suicidal, you know.”

“Then why did you fight?”

“‘Cause they bloody wankers attacked Florean’s and tried to take people’s wands.”

“Not yours, though,” Fred said innocently. “You weren’t allowed to carry one.”

Ron scoffed. “As if it would make a difference. I might be decent for a second year, but they knew far more spells than I do—and far more dangerous ones, too. Look, I didn’t want to stay for hours in the DMLE grilled by suspicious Aurors either!”

He didn’t regret it, though. When one of the cloaked figures tried to grab Astoria, he jumped in without thinking. Ron would do it again, trouble be damned. If he could go back, he would probably suggest they meet in an entirely different location, though.

A few minutes later, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and their parents emerged, looking suspiciously calm, but their breathlessness and flushed faces betrayed the anger still simmering beneath.

“Pack your things quickly,” Arthur urged. “You’re going to Romania.”

“Weren’t we going to leave tomorrow evening?” Ginny asked. “And… what do you mean by ‘you’? Aren’t you coming, Dad?”

“Change of plans, Ginny,” their mother responded instead, her voice hoarse.

“The mess in York will keep me busy for a few more days,” their father added, sighing heavily. “We also decided to contact Bill and see what protections he can place around the Burrow. These are trying times…”

Fred and George shared a look, and for once, there was no mischief in their eyes. Ron just felt… numb.

“But I want to see Bill, too,” Ginny whined.

“You’ll see him when we return from Romania. And Ron,” Molly Weasley’s voice turned dangerously low, “don’t think I have forgotten your stunt! Rushing to fight like some muggle instead of hiding inside the ice cream parlour! You’ll not get out of your punishment, young man! It’s for your own good.”

It seemed that his mother had won the argument.

“They attacked my friends, Mum,” he protested, despite knowing it would be of no use.

His mother’s lips thinned so much they might have disappeared. After his dad’s warning glance, she swallowed whatever she was going to say and instead muttered, “Your friends should have hidden inside, too, then.”

“But they didn’t, and I refuse to just run like a coward and leave them behind.”

“Stop arguing, young man!” Molly’s already flushed face looked even redder. “Now go and pack your things; All of you.”

Ron shrugged and headed to his room. It wasn’t fair, but he had grown accustomed to it already. What were they going to do—take his wand away again? Make him study harder? Forbid him from brewing his Protein Potion again because he was too young to brew potions at home? Give him more chores, make them nastier, or even more pointless?

The suffocating, overprotective hovering of his mother was nothing new, and if she could wrap them all in cotton and keep them safe, she would. Ron understood better why Bill and Charlie had left as soon as they finished Hogwarts.

His mind put all of that aside and focused on that day. The crunch of the chair between his hands as he slammed it at the dark wizard’s head. It was… satisfying in a way words failed to describe. But it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. He remembered how his heart thundered in his ears, and his limbs felt heavy as he couldn’t get enough breath and got tired far faster than Damien or his sisters did. Cardio. He needed more cardio, even if it was bad for his gains.

Bodybuilding was all good, but… it wasn’t practical. Ron needed to do something else. Something better.

‘Re’em’s blood and heart that will transform you into a titan amongst men.’

A furious shake of his head banished Tom Riddle’s sweet words from his mind. He did not need nor want anything to do with the Dark Lord. Nor would he ever forget how a cursed item had taken control of his body and played him like a puppet.

No, Ronald Weasley would become his own man, just like his eldest brothers. He wasn’t half as talented or smart as prodigies like Potter or Black, but the last year had shown him one thing: hard work paid off, no matter what.

So, he merely had to work harder. Grand plans, lofty goals, and whatnot were not his forte, but small steps Ron could do. He had to start running and build up stamina properly. Even wandless magic—at least something minor and helpful like a knockback jinx could make all the difference, even if it took months of effort to get the hang of it, as Petrov had claimed.

Perhaps Charlie would have some good advice or at least point him in the right direction.

27th of December 1992 Sunday (1 day later)

Amelia Bones

The two months she spent with the Incan Warlocks of the Andes were fruitful. While a bit rustic, their methods of transfiguration and enchantment had been an eye-opening experience for Amelia, even if she did not care for their blood magic and rituals. While not as bad, or dare she say evil, as the Aztecs, the Incas were not shy about such magicks either. Duelling with the staff-wielding warlocks saw her improve in ways she never thought possible.

But as with all good things, this too came to an end, and two months was the limit of her welcome.

And so Amelia descended the mountains to the small wizarding settlement, whose name she couldn’t pronounce, let alone remember. There wasn’t anything special about the settlement—a local and far more destitute version of Hogsmeade, with an inn and a few shops that sold various supplies and services. The robed figure that haggled with a subtle British accent over a potion ingredients stand, however, caught her attention. Black cloak, black robes, black cowl, undoubtedly a wizard up to no good.

Amelia Bones’ curiosity was stoked as much as her suspicion was. While no longer an Auror, it merely meant she was no longer bound by the orders of her superiors. The laws of Wizarding Britain meant even less in this lawless land, where no legitimate Magical Institution operated after the Incas had refused to acknowledge the ICW.

So she followed and investigated. Stalking the suspicious wizard to the shabby, abandoned shack two miles from the village was harder than Amelia thought, even with her invisibility cloak. The person was definitely cautious, judging by his vigilance, as well as the anti-tracking and anti-scrying charms he cast every fifteen minutes.

A part of her was tempted to just go about her way and return to Wizarding Britain for the new year as she intended, but there was something familiar about the figure. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Not to mention, she was bored and had nothing to do for another day, as she was waiting for the monthly international portkey anyway.

So Amelia followed. The shack was covered with alarms and curses that would make Mad Eye Moody whistle with appreciation. Still, after an hour of careful circling, Amelia found a weak spot in the shack’s defences and managed to glimpse the face of the person inside through the gaps in the sheepskin covering the window.

The face of a person who ought to be rotting inside Azkaban instead of sitting in a small wizarding settlement in the other corner of the world.

30th of December 1992 (3 days later)

Thursday

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon, sister,” Alfred Bones greeted her warmly. But the bags under his eyes and the tenseness in his shoulder betrayed his worry; his wand was drawn, pointing down to the pavement, but ready to spring into motion. “What did you gift me for my thirteenth birthday?”

“Alorium’s Compendium of Counter-Curses,” she said.

“My apologies. These are trying times, as you have surely heard,” he said, sighing.

“Yes, if only recently. It made me think I have been away for too long,” Amelia allowed. A sense of danger tingled down her spine as she crossed the doorway. Her brother had set up some protections.

“Greece, Egypt, Siam, and even the Andes—quite the adventure.” Alfred stopped at the fridge to crack open a bottle of firewhiskey. “How was your sabbatical?”

“Fruitful,” Amelia huffed as she took the offered cup. “And tiring. I brought some presents for my niece and nephews, of course.”

“And nothing for your favourite brother?”

“You’re past the age for gifts,” she shot him down mercilessly. “I don’t see the children or the wife.”

“Eleanor has gone to Canada with Duncan and little Alan until the storm blows over,” he sighed. “Susan is safe in Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts,” she snorted. “Is Hogwarts even safe anymore after that fiasco with Petrov and Quirrell?”

“It is. Dumbledore pressured the Board of Governors, who convinced the Wizengamot to have an Auror permanently posted on the grounds—Mad-Eye Moody, at that. And you know how seriously he takes his job.”

“Yes, that ought to do,” Amelia conceded. “Is anything known about the Azkaban escape?”

“Heh, figured you’d hear about it. The main theory is that it has something to do with the Animagus containment runes that somehow repelled dementors, allowing the prisoners to regain mental faculties,” he sighed. “The same ones they placed to prevent Pettigrew from turning into a rat and scurrying off. One of Voldemort’s lieutenants managed to break out of their cell, shank the warden in his sleep, and use his wand to break out the rest of the prisoners. They only fished out Henry Sowle’s corpse from the Northern Sea seven days ago. Of course, you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

“Of course,” Amelia scoffed. “As if the Ministry ever enforced those pesky rules of non-disclosure.”

“You were quite the stickler for the rules yourself, if my memory serves me correctly,” her brother tutted.

“Yes, yes, don’t fret, little Al. I know how to keep my mouth shut.” Amelia didn’t miss following all the laws and rules, though. It had been liberating not to be constrained by one thing or another for the last half a year.

Her brother took a generous mouthful of firewhiskey and belched a gout of fire. “So,” he started uneasily, “are you going to return to the DMLE now? They could certainly use a person of your calibre. I’d be surprised if they didn’t beg you to return, even. Scrimgeour has boldly asked me dozens of times when you’d return.”

“I have more pride than that, brother. I’m not some dog that can be kicked around when convenient and summoned back when necessary.”

“Right, my apologies, Amy—” He sprang back, yelping as Amelia sent three Stinging Hexes his way. “Did you have to hex me?!”

Amelia tucked her wand back into her sleeve. “Until you learn some respect for your elder sister. My name is Amelia, little Al.”

Her brother’s face soured, but he eventually nodded and took a big shot of whiskey. “Right, if not returning to the DMLE, what will you do now?”

“It remains to be seen.” She took a small sip from her cup, but the streak of liquid heat going down her throat didn’t bring her any solace, let alone joy.

“I have prepared a list for you.” Alfred took out a roll of parchment from his robes and placed it on the table.

“A list?”

“A list of jobs in Wizarding Britain befitting a woman of House Bones that might catch your interest.”

Amelia fiddled with the garish red parchment, not bothering to unfurl it. “It’s dreadfully thin. I might just want to spend the rest of my days in leisure, as you suggested last time.”

Alfred looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “I know you. You start getting irritated if you aren’t doing things for half an hour. You can’t sit still, sister.”

“Perhaps,” she slipped the parchment into her pocket anyway, “but it’s not me you ought to concern yourself with. You need to strengthen this house’s defences.”

“They’re plenty strong,” her brother proclaimed proudly. “I even had a friend look them over.”

“I could break them in ten minutes if I were determined,” Amelia noted, and Alfred deflated. “And I’m alone. If Travers and his murderous allies come, you’ll be dead before the DMLE comes to save your arse.”

“You fret too much.” He waved away, but it looked like he was trying to convince himself more than anything else. “It will hold enough for me to escape through the Floo. Scrimgeour has scoured the Floo Network Authority, and not a single wizard or witch has been killed in their home.”

“And has this conjecture been put to the test?” The silence was all the answer she needed. “Look, brother, it’s not for me to tell you what to do. You’re head of our house, but our elder brother and parents overestimated their defences.”

“I know, Amelia,” he said, glaring at the bottle of firewhiskey. “I know it. But what can I do? I’m not a fighter. I’m not an Enchanter, either. Unless you’re ridiculously rich, most protections are best when laid down by your kin, and we lost the Bones Manor and all our defences along with our parents twelve years ago.”

“A Fidelius,” she proposed. “A Fidelius Charm will make your home unassailable.”

“Come off it, now,” Alfred scoffed. “The Fidelius Charm sounds good, but is ridiculously impractical for everyday life.”

“It’s not like you have guests often,” she chided. “Have you forgotten how the Dark Lord’s lot operated a decade ago?”

“Yes, you couldn’t trust that your guests won’t be Imperiused. But it doesn’t change the fact, not to mention Fidelius is a highly complicated piece of magic and very demanding to cast. You must be very skilled at Charms and possess considerable power. Only a handful of wizards and witches can do it in Wizarding Britain. You should know this.”

“I do, and I’m offering to protect your home, you little gremlin,” Amelia drawled. “I’ll even be your Secret Keeper.”

Her brother’s mouth hung open, forming a perfectly round O. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” she chortled.

“You can do the Fidelius?”

“I told you my sabbatical was fruitful. I always had the power, but I believe my skills in Charms ought to be advanced enough,” she offered. “This House and the surrounding fenced yard aren’t particularly big or famous, so it should be well within my capabilities. So, do you want it?”

In his typical fashion, her brother instantly abandoned his earlier complaints.

“Yes. A thousand times yes. Merlin knows I would sleep better for it, and even Eleanor and my boys can return.”

“A Fidelius is not a substitute for vigilance, little brother,” Amelia warned. “Anyway, I met a most interesting face in the Andes.”

“An old friend?”

“An old enemy,” she whispered. “Severus Snape.”

Her brother’s face darkened. “I had hoped they would catch him again.”

Amelia clamped down on her emotions and let her irritation show in her voice. “Alas, he escaped the moment he thought someone was onto him. Very paranoid.”

Or so the world would think. They would never find Severus Snape’s corpse again. A Peruvian Vipertooth was infamous for its voracious appetite for human flesh, not leaving a single bone behind as it swallowed its prey whole like a python.

For good or bad, her parents were avenged by her own hand, and she felt… good.

“A pity.” Alfred filled his cup with firewhiskey again and stared into the distance. “Travers is still on the run, too.”

It was for the better, too. The real pity was that Severus Snape was so tight-lipped that she couldn’t get anything out of him. He never seemed too bothered about being caught, almost resigned, even, not that it stopped him from being a spiteful bastard.

Amelia could have used the secrets he no doubt held about many upstanding citizens of Magical Britain.

“Anyway.” Amelia stood up. “I think I’ll go back to my place and get a good wink of sleep. Don’t drink too much, Al.”

“Yes, Mum.” He saluted mockingly. “What about the Fidelius?”

“It will take me some time to calculate everything and prepare,” Amelia snorted. “A week—and according to what I know, it has to be cast on the third day after a new moon, so don’t be too impatient.”

Amelia apparated away, straight into her house. It was just as untouched as she left it. None of her alarms had been rung, so there were no intruders. With a wave of her wand, her fireplace roared to life, and the ruddy flame slowly began to chase away the chill that had settled in her house.

A part of her almost felt guilty for killing one of the vile monsters that killed her elder brother, her parents, or her nephew. Almost. Her conscience was clear, for the best part was that wanted men were considered outlaws in that part of the world, and killing them was legal. An outdated practice, but one Amelia didn’t feel guilty about following.

Just as she was shrugging off her robes, her eyes paused on the list of job offers her brother had compiled for her.

Her lips curled with amusement. Security, advisor, tutor, even child-rearer, and she almost wished she had hexed Alfred properly when she read the marriage offer. It wasn’t a terrible marriage offer… if she fancied those pretentious French men.

Which she didn’t.

Just as Amelia was about to toss the list into the fire, her gaze paused on the last job Alfred had begrudgingly considered worthy of her station.

Deputy headmistress of Hogwarts.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be bad to keep an eye on her niece while ensuring Albus Dumbledore wouldn’t try some of his mad schemes in a school full of children again.

Winter Holidays

Juno Bellatrix Black

Holing up inside the study of the head of the House gave her… solitude. Nobody could enter without an invitation, and the room was enchanted to block out all sound from the outside. It was the perfect place to sit down, think, and scheme uninterrupted. Or to grieve and lament on the whims of fate.

She stared at the urn holding Cassiopeia Black’s ashes. It was a fancy urn made of black clay and inscribed with intricate Latin script in silver inlay.

“Allowing bad feelings to fester is a recipe for disaster.” One of Arcturus’ lessons kept ringing in her mind. Juno hadn’t understood then, but she understood now. The terrible knot in her chest and the tangle of chaos in her mind had rendered her almost useless, a shell that functioned by the power of habit more than anything else.

“What should I do, then?” A nine-year-old Juno had asked.

“Go through every single one of them. Inspect each feeling and dissect it like you would a frog for Potions. Slowly and honestly, for the moment you start deceiving yourself, you will grow weak.”

It was as humbling as it was sad. And here she was, forcing herself to reflect on the mess that had become her life. She knew it was never going to be easy or simple, but the last ten days had been a rollercoaster.

Her gaze remained on the urn as if it held the answer to all of her problems. The protection and guidance of that old, crotchety witch was reduced to a handful of ashes. There was no love in House Black, Juno knew, and the familial loyalty was done out of necessity, self-preservation, and centuries worth of tradition. Cassiopeia cared for her in her own twisted way, which involved ruthlessness and a desire to instil her knowledge and experience into the young witch at all costs. Some might call it cruel, but her great-aunt had taken no joy in it, as if it were merely showing her the way of the world.

Most of those agonising lessons were still etched in Juno’s mind and body in ways she could never forget, including lessons never to let emotion sway your decisions. There was no love between Juno and Cassiopeia, merely a lukewarm familial connection.

There was no love in House Black.

So why… why did Juno feel like she wanted to cry? Why did she feel so lonely despite the countless hours of lessons on self-sufficiency and independence? A Black was always supposed to be alone, for allies could turn into enemies when interests clash within the blink of an eye. It was not merely the sorrow of losing the protection that Cassiopeia Black’s presence brought.

Juno furiously wiped off the tear threatening to spill from her left eye.

The thought that she tried not to dwell on came next. If it weren’t for her agreement to hunt the Horcruxes with Harry Potter, Cassiopeia wouldn’t be dead. She wanted to blame Harry for it, but couldn’t. The thinly veiled guilt oozing out of her friend sobered her up. In the end, he had warned them. Warned them that Voldemort was not to be underestimated.

If fault had to be levied, it was to be placed onto Juno’s shoulders. She was the one who told Cassiopeia to go to Little Hangleton. No, not told but ordered, as the head of House Black. An order that Cassiopeia would have never refused.

Was that why she felt sad? Trifling guilt? Was it why the bitterness in her mouth wouldn’t go away, rendering even the sweetest of desserts tasteless?

It was her fault. Underestimating the Dark Lord, who was vanquished, defeated, but not dead.

Juno shook herself, and her eyes fell onto her uncle’s severed head. Rabastan Lestrange’s face was now forever frozen in agony, a physical reminder of his pathetic demise. Preserved with potions from House Black’s private stock, it would not decay for decades.

She expected satisfaction at finally meeting and killing one of her wayward kinsmen who had abandoned her, but instead, there was only numb emptiness. There was a sliver of dissatisfaction lingering, for she never got to ask her uncle why. Why did they abandon her for some… ambitious half-blood pretender?

No, Juno did not hate the fact that Voldemort was a half-blood, she realised. She loathed the fact that he was merely a cruel brute with low cunning despite his prowess in Dark Magic. One step short of a rabid monster. She hated that her parents still abandoned her after he was defeated for some senseless blaze of glory out of misplayed loyalty, as if Juno was not worth raising. As if Voldemort’s mere memory was worth more to Bellatrix and Rodolphus than their daughter, their own flesh and blood.

The thought only stoked the embers of hatred that had been seething underneath it all.

The thought that her mother wanted her back only warmed her for a heartbeat. It was not out of love, or she would have reached out. Bellatrix simply wanted her daughter back, the way one wanted back their favourite toy. Juno’s nails raked through her palm, and she carefully exhaled, trying to suppress the surge of fury that ran like molten lava through her veins.

‘I have seen your heart, Juno Lestrange. For all your hatred of your parents, you desire them the most…’

The insidious words only stoked her ire more. Why would some drivel spewed by a cursed soul shard cut her so deep? Juno did not want them. She did not want the love of her treacherous parents!

Why… why did it sound like she was lying to herself?

Juno hated Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange.

Her only regret was that she couldn’t act upon that hatred. She was too weak, alone, and vulnerable after the death of her guardian, the last adult loyal to House Black. She was now alone. Forget about vengeance; her independence and survival were at stake here.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Harry Potter’s relentless persistence brought a ghost of a smile to her lips. The Boy Who Lived was nothing but stubborn and lingered in her manor, clinging to that invitation as a shield. His presence, however, was soothing, even if Juno would not admit it. Somehow, Harry managed to lessen the gloom.

He never prodded her with annoying questions, asked her about feelings, hurled accusations about their mishaps at Diagon, or made any excuses. No, Harry Potter had decided to make his presence here known silently as if to show her that the world went on, no matter their feelings, and Juno was grateful for it.

He never paused for a moment. His every waking moment was carefully squeezed for all of its worth. Training, studying, exploring the manor grounds, and planning how to deal with the many problems that kept cropping up, Harry Potter took it all in stride and kept going. It made her feel ashamed and alive at the same time.

Perhaps it was time to stop moping and keep walking forward. It would have been what Arcturus and Cassiopeia have done in her stead.

Sighing, Juno steeled herself–burying her head in the sand for long was already shameful. For some reason, clearing her mind was laughably easy this time.

“Wally, bring me all the editions of the Prophet since that day,” she ordered. Remembering how Hagrid’s concoction always soothed her nerves, Juno added, “And a cup of honey mint tea.”

She choked on a mouthful of tea that went down the wrong pipe as soon as her eyes fell on the headlines.

“FIRE, MURDER, AND MAYHEM IN DIAGON IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. DEATH EATERS AND RENEGADES ATTACK HOLIDAY SHOPPERS! MYSTERIOUS FIGURE KILLS SIX AND INJURES TWO DOZEN MORE AS CHAOS SPILLS IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY!”

A part of her apprehension from earlier lessened. With an ally like this, Juno felt oddly optimistic about the future, no matter how grim things seemed. However, a part of her suspected that even if they were merely friends, Harry would have done it anyway.

It went against everything Juno had been taught. Juno knew Harry hadn’t weighed the possible consequences down the road and had thrown himself headfirst into the fray. He knew it, too, when he had spoken to her about how sometimes life wouldn’t give you the chance to consider and contemplate your options.

Juno was still glad for it regardless.

Knowing Harry came to save her was one thing. It was sweet, really, that he tried to go after her without hesitation, even if Juno didn’t consider herself to be something as inane as a damsel in distress. It warmed her heart to know that her friend cared, and any previous apprehension melted away.

Harry had killed six, maimed three, and knocked out over a dozen more. Whereas her parents would not even care for their daughter, he had been willing to kill to save her, and it warmed her heart.

In his love for humility and understatement, her friend had not even mentioned any of it, as if he had not done anything worth speaking about. This was the full extent of Harry James Potter’s abilities, even if he had help from Nyx. True, none of the wizards and witches he faced were fighters, and some were underfed, slow, and weak from their years in Azkaban. A pair of good Aurors would have seen them bested, too, but Harry still won despite being significantly outnumbered.

The genuine humbleness, however, grated on her nerves.

“I already attract too much attention,” he had responded when Juno voiced her concerns. “And well, being wanted by the DMLE is nothing to be proud of. In fact, it’s troublesome.”

“I know the laws. You were within your rights for self-defence, if a bit heavy-handed,” she had said with an annoyed sniff. “At most, the DMLE has the right to hold you for seven days to follow procedure and let you go.”

“Aside from the unlawful Obliviation of one Tiberius Selwyn,” Harry had reminded laconically. “It would paint a target on my back, too—bigger than the one I already have. No, it’s better to remain anonymous, just like the Death Eaters did in the Blood War. Give them a taste of their own medicine.”

The last few days had been spent studying, duelling, revising, and researching the portkey-making manuals. Living with her best friend was not as exciting as she initially expected, now that she had swallowed her apprehension and grief. He didn’t treat her any differently than at school, aside from the distance he gave her to mourn. A part of her appreciated not being coddled or pitied. And Juno was thankful for it. There was a trace of pity in him, but it gave way to a surprising amount of understanding he didn’t bother to hide.

Juno finally got a taste of Harry Potter’s unwavering dedication. Hours of practice each day, where he drilled himself to exhaustion to squeeze his body and magic to the limit. Combinations, chain-casting, and pushing the boundary of every spell. Even dabbling with wandless magic, though that seemed to be an area where Harry Potter finally struggled.

How many countless hours had her friend spent trying to make casting magic something almost instinctive in nature?

Juno saw it again—the reason Harry Potter was better than her in every way that mattered. It was not a difference of talent but dedication. Of course, she was envious of his seemingly endless knowledge of the basics of magic, but that was merely a part of the difference between them. Getting good at magical theory was merely a matter of time and dedication, which meant Harry Potter had already put in the time for it, no matter how ridiculous such a notion was for a twelve-year-old.

No, when other children fretted for one thing or another, quarrelled over friends or gossiped over the latest happenings in Hogwarts, Harry Potter had been studying or training like a dedicated smith who slowly hammered a piece of raw steel into a finely tuned sword.

When Juno was busy fretting over the woes of House Black or trying to network, Harry Potter was busy delving into the esoteric details of charmwork and spells that would not be expected of them until at least their sixth year.

It showed with his magic. When Juno allowed herself to look at his magic during training, it was thick and smouldering. Harry Potter had the most unique magic she had seen, the colour of dark emeralds, and he was slowly sharpening it to a keen edge. It was hard to see Harry’s magic, as if his whole body was covered by an invisible cloak hiding everything away–even his mind, but in the rare moment she managed to catch a glimpse, it looked like a sword.

When Juno allowed herself to observe others with her Mage Sight, most wizards and witches’ magic looked like a shapeless blob of different colours. Some blobs were more angular, shapely, or elongated than others. A select few had their magic vaguely resemble one animal or another, while Dumbledore looked like a veritable mountain, a kaleidoscope of colours that threatened to drown everything despite the tight control the headmaster always kept.

Regardless, her friend’s relentless effort spurred Juno into working harder. It was easier to push herself for longer hours, to focus her mind to sift through texts on Herbology, Potions, and Charms, now that it was a matter of life and death. Her only regret was that Dumbledore’s reward would have to wait.

They were finally prepared to visit her grandmother today. It wasn’t the portkey that took them so much time; they had got the hang of it and enchanted one on the fourth day, but the custom dragonhide robes that took so long to make.

After that fiasco in Diagon Alley, Juno would be a fool to leave the fortress that was Black Manor unprepared.

“It would be best to learn how to apparate,” Juno mused as she arrived at the foyer where Harry was already waiting for her, garbed in the unassuming black robe.

“I can ask Sirius to teach us next summer,” Harry mused. “I looked into it too—a younger wizard or witch’s magic isn’t strong enough to bend space the way apparition requires.”

“We’re not your average twelve and thirteen-year-old,” she drawled. “Ready?”

Harry paused at the doorway.

“Are you sure we have to do this?” he asked quietly. “You already decided to get enough O.W.L.s for partial emancipation before the end of the year.”

“This is merely an insurance. A way to buy me some time, should Cassiopeia’s death be discovered earlier,” Juno said. “As Arcturus very well explained.”

“I don’t like it,” Harry said stubbornly. “We’re essentially going blind into what could be an ambush. What if your mother is waiting there?”

“Druella was just as terrible a mother as she was a grandmother,” Juno thinned her lips. If she could trade Druella Rosier for Cassiopeia Black, she would do it in a heartbeat. “My mother might be mad, but she would know I have no reason to visit that woman ever.”

“Be on your guard, then,” Harry said with a groan. “Time to change hair and eye colour. Just for good measure.”

“I would almost say you’re paranoid.” Juno, however, was the first to charm their irises and curls to an unassuming brown. She put on fake glasses and a hefty scarf that covered half of her face for good measure, while Harry wore an oversized trapper hat and sported similar features. If anyone looked at them, they would think them siblings.

It was surprising how much your choice of clothing and colour of hair and eyes could make you look like someone else.

Even the pimply conductor of the Knight Bus didn’t question their choice of attire with the winter chill.

Druella Black lived in a small, cosy cottage in rural Dorset, nearly an hour by the Knight Bus. The bus dropped them on the nearby road, and they had to walk on foot for ten minutes through a muddy road to reach her grandmother’s haunt.

“The door isn’t supposed to be opened ajar, I take it,” Harry murmured, his wand already in his hand.

“No,” Juno said, drawing her wand. “It’s not.”

“We can just take the portkey and leave right now,” he proposed quietly.

Juno was very tempted to agree and return to her warm, cosy manor. “No. If my grandmother is taken, I have to know. If she’s killed, I have to dispose of the body.”

“Why?”

“A body means investigation by the DMLE and a public funeral. Or at least a funeral that would demand Cassiopeia’s attendance or my own.”

Harry gave her a look of exasperation, then glanced at the cottage and sighed.

“Well, you know the drill, then.”

“Yes, yes—Muffling Charms and Disillusionment. And we use the portkey at the first sign of danger.”

Two tense minutes later, they finally made their way inside, and a deranged Bellatrix didn’t jump out from behind the door as Juno expected. There was nobody inside the cottage, which stank of rot and rotten eggs; nobody alive, that is—her grandmother’s corpse was on the crumpled bed, in a state of decay that would suggest she had died at least a month ago.

It didn’t look like she had died peacefully, judging by the way her sheets and covers were torn apart. Even her half-rotten face was twisted into a grimace of agony. This had been personal.

At this moment, Juno did not doubt this was the work of her mother. There was no feeling of loss or grief that had struck her like a bludger when Cassiopeia had died, just a numb relief.

“A pitiful woman,” Harry muttered as he held his nose. “Nobody even noticed she died for so long.”

“Do not pity her, Harry,” Juno spat, her voice full of scorn. “Druella Rosier would not have died at the hands of her eldest daughter if she were a better mother. As they say, you reap what you sow.”

“So you think it’s Bellatrix, then?”

“Who else?”

“Right… How do you plan to get rid of the corpse?” he asked after giving the bed one final glance of pity. “Vanishing it might just see it appear somewhere else.”

“I can’t cast magical fire hot enough to incinerate bones.” She bit her lip with frustration. “We’ll have to return them to Black Manor and use the cremation furnace.”

“What of this place?” Harry motioned to the signs of struggle on the bed. “If someone deigns to visit eventually, it’s going to raise a lot of questions.”

“Let’s just burn it down–incinerate the evidence of her demise,” she decided after half a minute of furious thinking.

“Ah, I’ve made friends with an arsonist,” Harry lamented, tone full of faux regret.

“I don’t want to hear that from a,” her voice raised with a snarky pitch, “‘wanted half-goblin murderer who secretly works for Gringotts.“

The two of them erupted in laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Five minutes later, Druella Rosier’s rotting remains were bundled up in her blankets before unceremoniously shoved into a mokeskin pouch, and they stood outside.

Just as Juno was still grappling with her future options, Harry’s wand was already in motion.

“Incendio!”

A sizeable burst of fire erupted, greedily engulfing the cottage, forcing Juno to step away from the blistering heat. But it wasn’t the dull red flame that the fire-making spell usually produced, but a pure white one, streaked with slivers of poisonous green as if the fire itself was being infected.

So hot was the flame that the air began to shimmer, while Harry seemed to be staring at his spell in wonder.

A moment later, he shook his head and jumped back, cancelling his Incendio. The cottage was still aflame, even if the fire’s colour turned bright orange.

“What was that?” Juno asked. “It definitely isn’t a simple Fire-Making spell.”

“I… don’t know?” Harry greedily gasped for breath, his face covered by sweat as he glared at the yew wand in his hand. “I cast the Incendio the same way I always did. It’s just that my magic and my wand decided to just—well, erupt with everything they had?”

“Did you try to channel anger or frustration?”

“Nope, my head was pretty empty,” Harry huffed. “I mean, I wasn’t thinking about anything, and just this one Incendio drained me more than training for half an hour.”

“Must be a result of the ritual, then. Have you cast the fire-making spell since All Hallow’s Eve?”

He scrunched his brow as if trying to remember, then uncertainly responded, “I’m not sure. Forget it. I can try this later. Let’s get out of here before the Aurors or the Muggles arrive. We have to get back to studying again. It’d be best if you take as many O.W.L.s as possible with at least an O.”

“At least?” Juno deadpanned at the boy, who shrugged.

“An O would remove any doubts from people’s minds about what calibre of witch you are.”

Juno hummed noncommittally. A part of her just wanted to gaze at the fire forever. It was pretty. Shaking her head, she forced herself to look away. Harry was right. She had studying to do, and achieving the best results was expected of her. Soon enough, she would be forced to fight and claw for every scrap of independence she had enjoyed so far, and that’s even without the struggle that would be Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

“No time to dally,” Harry reminded, grasping his portkey and nudging her expectantly.

After one last admiring look at the beautiful fire, she touched the dagger-shaped pin on her cloak and intoned, “Leave!” The world twisted, and Juno’s navel felt as if pulled by a hook.