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Chapter Text

It felt both like waking and coming up from under deep water all at the same time.

She had little interest in moving, finding herself fascinated by the equally familiar and strange pattern of cracks in the ceiling above her head. At one point, Bronach remembered, she had known each and every one of them, had mapped them better than she had ever mapped Astronomy charts. If she turned her head, she knew she would see the battered window trim, never repaired after the bars were ripped out by a trio of redheads in a flying Ford Anglia.

The pipes creaked down the hall and she startled, before memory took over. There was a hosepipe ban. Petunia woke at dawn for the first time in living memory, just so that she could coax a frigid shower from the pipes before Dudley and Vernon rose, demanding their breakfast.

Old memory overlapping with new habits, Bronach swung her legs over the side of the battered cot, finding them surprisingly shaky, as if she was rising from a sickbed of several days. Once they'd stopped shaking she rose up, eye catching on the battered mirror hanging on the wardrobe door, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks, reaching out to support herself on the wall.

At fifteen she had already had her fair share of scars. Petunia had hated the look of them, forcing her to wear long sleeves and pants, even during the heat wave, just so the neighbors wouldn't gossip about them. Her trademark lightning bolt was fodder enough for the neighborhood biddies. Yet, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she found a familiar tracery of silvery scars that only revealed themselves when she was wholly herself, all metamorphmagic and glamored alterations released.

A year of near-starvation had been the final straw for any growth spurts that had tried to take root, and between fifteen and eighteen she hadn't changed much at all. But as someone who had studied the differences intimately, Bronach knew that she wasn't looking at the same body as had lain down on the cot the night before. It wasn't just her eyes, but her entire being, down to the muscle tone she'd worked hard to achieve and maintain through hard work and lots of practice.

Almost expecting the mirror's surface to change, she reached out to touch it, needing to feel the glass under her fingertips. It was solid and slightly cool, and she watched herself breathe in and out. In, and out.

It had been real.

When Námo had come to her in a dream, telling her of this chance, she had only half-believed everything would be as he had said it would. Half of her had been absolutely certain that everything she'd been through in the last two centuries would disappear like mist in the morning sun, reduced to a memory, a dream. But her proof was written in her skin, and that was enough to make her hope that the rest of his promise had been fulfilled as he had offered it to her.

The water shut off down the hall, and she moved automatically to grab the clothing that had been laid out on the chair that sat before the battered desk. Memory, brought forward out of long years, told her that Petunia would come rapping at her door if she was not in the kitchen by the time the woman had finished dressing. Morning and evening meals were still her obligation, Bronach recalled as she pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothing, as was the garden's upkeep, even as every green thing withered in the face of the August heat.

Thankfully she had managed to recall how the stove worked before Petunia arrived in the kitchen, her newest gossip rag in hand. Bronach dutifully had a cup of cold tea waiting at Petunia's place at the table, and her aunt sipped at it and watched her over the top of her tabloid, clearly suspicious but unable to pinpoint what Bronach had done wrong.

By the time Dudley and Vernon were stirred from their beds, Bronach had already consumed her two slices of toast and rasher of bacon under Petunia's gimlet eye, leaving the rest of the prepared breakfast in the warmer.

"I'll come in and do the washing after they're done," she told Petunia, the first words she'd spoken since waking in Dudley's second bedroom. The English words felt strange on her tongue, the entire sentence taking a moment to construct in her head, despite trying to practice, first with Kreacher and then with a few trusted others, over the many years in an attempt to keep the memory of her birth tongue alive.

"You know the garden chores," came Petunia's clipped reply, but Bronach was already opening the kitchen door, breathing deeply as she stepped out into the back garden. After the sterile, oppressive air of the house, the garden felt like a paradise, a haven. She wasn't certain if she was projecting, but it felt as if the house had absorbed its occupants' conviction that she was not welcome there. But the back garden had been the closest thing that she'd had to her own space ever since she'd been entrusted with its upkeep, and she almost felt that it was embracing her as she stood there.

Unsurprisingly, the heat had been cruel to the plants, but there was still life thrumming through the soil as she knelt by a flowerbed to dig her fingers in it. Her mother's sacrifice had indeed created wards around Privet Drive, as Dumbledore had once told her. They seemed to hum in the air like silent cicadas, or the vibration of a harp string, but even without them there was a magic in the soil that Arda had lacked. Even in this non-magical neighborhood it rushed up through the soil to nurture the plants as she called to it.

Not too much, she reminded herself as the entire garden threatened to teem with life under her hands. You don't want to raise suspicions.

The magic bucked under her fingers, as restive and frisky as if she rode a green horse across the Downs in the spring, but just as she had quieted her mounts, she tamed the magic, spreading it lightly through the garden to nurture her plants like the water denied to them by the drought.

And like a green horse, it slyly gave her a bit of a slip, spreading out to the surrounding gardens, as if to keep her on her toes. It startled a chuckle out of her, one that she stifled lest Petunia hear, and she settled in for the mundane chore of weeding, knowing that there was such a thing as too much magic. Neville had taught her that life and magic interacted in unpredictable ways, and all magical plant species had once come from non-magical plants. Too much magic and a magical species would grow, and while it was a fitting punishment for the careless cruelty of Petunia and Vernon, Bronach was old, and tired of holding the grudge.

As she did her chores, she listened for any indication of her Order watcher, wondering who had been on shift before Fletcher. They were good enough at their job to stay clear of the property wards, and the sheer amount of ambient magic was enough to force her to keep her senses dull, lest it go to her head. Her dampeners were beyond her reach, at least for the moment, and she couldn't afford anything less than clear focus.

Morning warmth was replaced by noon's crippling heat, and Bronach worked on, absently weaving a cooling charm around herself as she prepared the garden for her departure, ensuring that it would survive without her there to tend it. She would be gone by nightfall, and it was unfair to let the plants fall victim to Petunia's callous indifference to anything that would not amplify her social standing.

Afternoon slipped slowly into evening, the humidity settling about her shoulders like a wet blanket. When Bronach was finished, she slipped into the house, bypassing the lounge where Petunia sprawled in her chair with a small fan pointed at her, in favor of returning to Dudley's second bedroom.

Her childhood belongings were still scattered about the room, just as out of place now as they had once been, making it a simple task to gather them. School supplies, half-finished assignments, and textbooks were stacked neatly on the desk until there was nothing left of hers beyond Dudley's overlarge secondhand clothes hanging in the wardrobe. After making sure that there was nothing hidden in the space below the loose floorboard, Bronach opened her school trunk, finding a small scroll resting on top of the mess within.

Your things are with Kreacher, the flowing Tengwar script read. You will not be denied your possessions, even if I could not substitute them here.

More proof that it had been real. Taking a shaky breath, she set the short missive aside and set herself to emptying and repacking her trunk, wandlessly vanishing the rubbish and neatly storing what could be useful so that everything fit with room to spare. She could possibly shrink it, but it would be far better to charm it weightless and carry it that way. Her vanishing spells were already pushing the boundaries, particularly in a house that had already seen several incidents of accidental magic over the years.

Finished, she rose and looked around the room, finding nothing of her own amidst Dudley's broken possessions. Latching her trunk, she stood it on its end, but something tucked under her pillow caught her eye.

Setting it aside, she found herself looking at the phoenix and holly wand she had carried from the day that it had chosen her in Ollivander's shop to the day she'd woken in the Ram Duath with its broken and charred remnants clutched in her hands. For a long moment she simply looked at it, afraid to touch it, but she steeled herself, reaching out to grasp it in her hand.

It was like being plunged into a tub of warm water and clutching a live wire all at once. The loss of her wand had haunted her like a lost limb in those early years after the Ram Dúath, a space that even the Elder Wand-turned-Staff could not fill. Though it had bonded with her, she had not felt the same depth of familiarity, the same warmth of welcome, even though it had served faithfully when she had wielded it.

Dampness on her cheeks surprised her, and as she brushed her fingers across them Bronach found that she was weeping. For a long moment she clutched her wand, and then set it on her desk while she opened her trunk once more. It would be safest, for her plans and for herself, if it was not with her for the next few hours.

Hedwig had returned sometime during the day, and Bronach shooed the bewildered owl out of the window. The empty cage she left on the desk, another discarded birdcage to go with the one that had been in the room before she'd ever occupied it.

Petunia was waiting for her in the front hall when she descended, and Bronach wondered what had tipped her off. From the faint sound of the telly carrying through the lounge door, Vernon had returned from work while Bronach was packing, and the news was just beginning.

"Are you leaving then?" Petunia hissed, eying the trunk as if it was a rubbish bag. "The old man said you have to stay here unless someone comes for you."

"I do not intend to return," Bronach settled her trunk in the corner behind the front door. "My mother's protections on this house will fail, and though I expect the threat to my world to be dealt with in a year's time, I suggest that you depart."

"How dare you-" Petunia spluttered, but Bronach was done.

"Leave Petunia, and don't look back. The wizarding world will not come looking for you if they cannot find you here; I certainly haven't spoken of you."

Her aunt's face twisted as if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Aren't you going to take that with you?"

"There is one last thing I must do before I leave," Bronach murmured as she opened the front door. "But once that is done, I will return for it, and you will never see me again."

The heat hung over her, even more oppressively than it had while she worked in the garden. Her feet took her, by habit and by inclination, towards the old play park.

Námo had promised her. He had promised her, and so far he had delivered. What she found in the play park would be the final proof, the completion of all that she had asked for as she watched Aragorn tire.

As she stepped onto the grounds of the playpark, her eyes were drawn to the figure sitting on the only unbroken swing. Tentatively, afraid, she walked towards them, stopping an arm's length away as they rose and stepped towards her.

She couldn't speak, her heart choking her words as it pounded in her ears.

"Hail Thuri Ruinil, Lady of Aughaire, member of the Fellowship and of the Grey Company, who fought at Pelennor and in many battles that followed," King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, High King of the Dúnedain said with a gentle smile. "So this is your home."

"This is where I came from." The words fell from numb lips. "I would not call it home."

Slowly, as if trying not to frighten her, he reached out to cup her cheek, the familiar calluses making her knees tremble. At some point, she realized, she had begun to weep, and his thumb smeared the dampness of her tears over her cheekbone as it swept them away.

"Is his face so hideous that it inspires tears?" a soft voice, filled with laughter, asked from behind her, and as Bronach turned, Queen Arwen Undómiel was there in all the grace and beauty that she had been renowned for during her reign.

"No," Bronach managed as Arwen stopped in front of her. "It is with joy that I weep. I had feared that everything that came before was simply a dream."

"It would have been a good dream, for all its cruelty," Arwen said, drawing her close. Bronach's arms wrapped around the queen in a desperate hug, afraid that if she let go, even for a moment, she would be alone once more. "But it was not. We are here, and we have no intention of leaving."

"There is nothing to come between us now," Aragorn said as she released Arwen, and it was his turn to hold her. "No kingdom, no throne."

"Just a small matter of a Dark Lord," Bronach laughed roughly. "But first, wraiths."

"Are you certain that you wish to continue as you described?" Arwen asked with a frown. "You did not speak of your cousin with any fondness, and you yourself know what may come of it."

"He was a horrid child." Dudley's gang could be heard as they approached the playpark. "But I believe he became a better man."

"We will follow your lead," Aragorn said with a nod. "What do you need of us in this moment?"

"Can you feel the difference in the land, in the magic?" Bronach murmured as the first of the boys approached the edge of the playpark. "Does it call to you?"

"My fingers itch for needle and thread, to set magic into them in a way that surpasses even my greatest works," Arwen agreed, stepping up to take the place at Bronach's left shoulder. "There is something here that is greater than either my father, or the mother of my mother, ever managed to preserve."

"It is like, and unlike, to Imladris, to Lothlorien," Aragorn confirmed as he moved into the place at her right shoulder. "Something within me stirs, though I cannot name it."

"You need not name it, only trust in it," Bronach said, eyes fixed on Dudley as the gang spotted her. "Call upon Eärendil or Elbereth in your need, and trust that their strength will answer your call." The joke the gang was enjoying was lost to the years of her memory, but she knew that the group needed to scatter, to seek shelter.

"What are you doing Potty?" one of the gang jeered as they sauntered closer.

"Who're your friends, scar-head?"

"They gonna pay you? Or did you have to pay them?"

"Your parents need you home," she told Dudley, ignoring the juvenile cruelty of his companions. "They sent me to fetch you. As I left, the news was predicting killer hail, as big as golf balls, so we'd best get under cover quickly."

The gang shifted, glancing nervously amongst themselves, but Dudley scoffed. "Coward, Potty? I've heard you, you know. Crying out like a wittle baby at night. Don't kill Cedric," he sneered, drawing laughter from his cronies at the falsetto. "Who's Cedric? Your boyfriend? What would he think, seeing how long it took you to replace him?"

"Return to your home, or I'll make you."

She was rewarded with a slight spark of fear in his eyes, so fleeting that the gang missed it. "Sure you will," he managed to say without his voice trembling. "Mum's got tea on, so I might as well anyway. Killer hail is probably more fun to watch from inside, see if any of the twerps get hit because they weren't smart enough to get inside."

The gang made general assenting noises, dispersing towards their homes, and in a few minutes it was just Dudley, Bronach, Aragorn, and Arwen in the dusty playpark.

"Who're you supposed to be?" he demanded, eying Aragorn warily, hands drifting towards his bottom, as if he wanted to clutch it, the way he had the previous summer when the Weasleys had come to pick her up. "Are you freaks like her?"

"What does it matter?" Bronach gave him a slight shove, to get him moving. It surprised him, and he started walking, though with a dark scowl that threatened retribution. At one time, that might have scared her, but he was just a fifteen year old bully. "We don't have much time, and you need to be in the house before it's too late."

"Are you doing something freaky again?" he hissed, coming to a stop. They had reached the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent, and the air was growing increasingly chill. "You're not allowed to do your freak stuff outside your freaky school!"

"It's not me you have to worry about," she said, watching the mist rise. It was too late to seek out shelter behind the wards. They wouldn't make it, even if they ran. "There are far worse things in the world than an underage witch."

"Why don't you just leave," her cousin complained as he kicked at a stone. "Stop getting us normal people caught up in your freaky nonsense."

"If I left now, you would die," she said flatly, and looked at her companions. "It's too late. They're here."

They'd discussed the possibility of this moment several times. What they might do, what they might change, how they might react. Námo had given them time to consider when and where, and all three of them had stayed up late for a week, discussing this moment.

In the end, their feet had brought them here to the alley, and as Bronach listened to the screams of the dying, no longer just her mother and father but many, many more voices, she wondered if there were some things that were beyond changing, a fixed point in every timeline.

Moving, she shoved her cousin against the wall before she turned and reached out blindly for Aragorn and Arwen, catching their hands and gripping them tightly. Their warmth bolstered her, pushed back the memories in her ears even as she shivered and the lights dimmed around them.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!" she sang out into the darkness that threatened to envelop her, voice trembling, but she pushed more strength into it, focusing on the warmth of the hands grasping hers.

Arwen's voice echoed her own, far steadier and stronger, power vibrating in every word that warmed her to her bones as the darkness flinched back. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

"Eärendil! Gil-Estel!" Aragorn's voice rang out, a battlefield commander's cry. The dementors had faltered, falling back at the invocations, but they weren't gone, not yet.

"Once more," she said, her voice gaining strength as she took a deep breath. "All together.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel, le nallon sí di-nguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"

"Eärendil! Gil-Estel!"

The alley filled with silver starlight, illuminating the dark wraiths as they faltered and fell back, fleeing from the blessed light. As it faded, she wobbled slightly, and Aragorn was there to steady her. It was a long time since she'd openly called upon that much power, but she was recovering far quicker than she had previously and found her feet in seconds, instead of minutes or hours.

"We need to go," she said, and glanced at Dudley.

He looked back, eyes filled with terror. "What were those things?"

"Dementors," she said, glancing down the alley, knowing Mrs. Figg would be by soon. "Had we failed to drive them off, they would have consumed all of our souls, leaving nothing behind but a husk that has not realized that the occupant is already dead."

"They- I felt-"

"Being in their presence forces you to relive your worst memories," she said, wondering once more what Dudley had seen. He had never spoken of it, to her knowledge, though it had an impact on him, somehow. Perhaps this near miss, though less near than before, would have the same impact. She gestured towards Privet Drive, and he peeled himself off the wall, leading the way. Arwen took over steadying her, and they walked arm and arm as Aragorn watched their backs.

Bronach had never figured out how long it had taken for Mrs. Figg to alert the Order and get a new watcher in place. All of the Order's focus seemed to have been on the Ministry and her newest underage magic charge, but perhaps this time they would get a fresh guard in place. She needed to be away before they could arrive, but she had to get Dudley under the wards.

Petunia was waiting in the hall when they arrived, face more pinched than usual. "Don't let Vernon see you," she snapped softly as Bronach entered, separating from Arwen. "I told him what you said, about moving."

She was certain he took that well. "We were set upon by dementors tonight."

Her aunt lost any color that she had in her face, reaching out to pull Dudley close to her, and to Bronach's surprise, her cousin allowed it.

"We drove them off," she continued, with a brief gesture to where Arwen and Aragorn were waiting on the doorstep. "He will be fine. But I would still consider moving, in case anyone decides to look for you here."

The answering nod was short and terse, but Bronach could read stubbornness in it. Hopefully it would serve her well in the coming arguments with Vernon.

"Have a good life," she said as she picked up her trunk and headed out the door.

To her surprise, Dudley followed, looking anxiously around.

"If I wanted to get in touch, how would I?" he blurted out after a long moment where she watched him from the front walk.

"Put a letter in the post, addressed to me at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replied, bemused. It was how Hermione's parents managed to get letters to her during their school years. "It'll get to me. Or if you see a post owl, they might carry it for you."

"Like your owl?"

"Yeah," Aragorn took her trunk from her hand, and Bronach turned her back on Privet Drive. "Like Hedwig."

She led the way through Little Whinging's maze of streets, Aragorn carrying her trunk and Arwen between them, watching for signs of the Order. But they made it to the train station without being stopped, and Bronach couldn't help but be grateful for it.

There was a confrontation coming, but she'd rather have it behind Grimmauld Place's wards than in the streets of Surrey.

It was the work of a few moments to rummage in her trunk for the money she needed to purchase three tickets to London, and a short wait before the train actually arrived. While they waited on the platform, an owl swooped down, a letter in its talons.

"And so it begins," she murmured, skimming the notice of her expulsion before she slid it into her pocket. Sure enough, Arthur Weasley's letter was dropped into her lap, and she didn't even bother to open it, already knowing what it would say. The train arrived with the last letter, this one summoning her to the hearing, and she tucked all three of them into the trunk before letting Aragorn carry it on to the train.

"They charged you with underage magic?" Arwen asked lowly as the train pulled out of the station, all three of them arranged in a clump at the back of a nearly empty car. Aragorn had arranged it so that Bronach was in the middle, and she normally would have protested, since she didn't need the extra defense, but she was weary, and this way she could allow herself a brief nap during the journey.

"The hearing is still on," she replied, leaning her head on Arwen's shoulder. "So much for not carrying my wand."

"When should we exit this...train?" Aragorn asked, glancing up and down the length of the car.

"Waterloo Station." It was obvious that Arwen had understood her weariness, given that the woman was humming a charm-laced lullaby, but Bronach suspected that she had no idea how potent the charm was now. "Wake me in half an hour or so?"

Aragorn must have agreed, but she didn't hear it. She didn't notice a single thing until he shook her softly.

Coming to alertness quickly, she found that they were just pulling into the station. "We've got another train to catch, and then a walk," she said as they shuffled off with the remaining passengers, slipping through the crowds easily enough. If they had more time, and Aragorn and Arwen were more familiar with the modern era, she would have insisted that they spend the time spotting and losing any tails they might have picked up. Logically she knew that it was unlikely the Order would have discerned her departure by train, especially since she wasn't supposed to know about Grimmauld Place, but it was hard to turn off centuries of paranoia.

Constant vigilence! She heard in her head, and couldn't help but chuckle, drawing both of her companions' attention.

"It's nothing," she said, wincing at the noise of the station. It was beyond loud, compared to the world she had left, the only world Aragorn and Arwen had ever known. They'd all tried to prepare, once their course of action had been decided, but how does one prepare for the screech of a train's brakes, garbled announcements played over the loudspeaker, and the persistent hum of human beings simply existing. For all that it had once been her normal, her reality, she had lived in a world without modern plumbing for far longer than she had lived in this one.

It was only a little better on the next train, but as they drew closer to Grimmauld it got a bit quieter. Grimmauld was near the main streets, but not on them, and she welcomed the quiet and lack of people on the streets. Aragorn carried her trunk without complaining, though she'd made it weightless as they left Privet Drive, and Arwen had tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. Hedwig, who had made an appearance once they had turned off the main streets, was flying overhead, a shadow in the falling night.

"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London," Bronach informed her companions as they approached the hidden door. "The Order of the Phoenix is currently occupying the Black Family's London seat."

She could feel the house up ahead in a way she had never managed to before. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that she was probably still considered the magical head of House Black, as well as House Potter, but there was a part of her magic that called out to, and was called for in return, by the hidden dwelling that they had just stopped in front of.

Nobody was entirely certain how magically recognized Heads actually qualified, but it was a strange mix of legal inheritance and familial compatibility. The goblins had gleefully explained a little of it to her as they used her new status to levy penalties on both houses for violating their security during the war, finding it fitting to reclaim dozens of goblin-made artifacts along with a portion of their wealth.

Her bond with Kreacher hummed slightly as she stopped in front of the house, and the family magics seemed to increase in their humming until she could almost hear it, their presence almost a tangible weight behind her breastbone. The house elf waited for her inside, she could tell, clearly having followed her instructions to guard the locket, and her family heirlooms.

To her surprise, she could feel the fidelius on the house, like a poorly fitting coat thrown awkwardly over the existing ward scheme. She wasn't certain if she was still considered a Secret Keeper, as she had been after Dumbledore's death, but hopefully her position as Head of House Black would be enough for Aragorn and Arwen to gain entry to the house.

"So this is your home?" Arwen said, looking at the dingy facade as Aragorn glanced about at the dingy patch of grass that was failing at being a park.

"It is," Bronach said, then made a face. "Or it was and is all at the same time? It is in a far worse state now than it was when I finally set out to turn it into a home."

"Well, if you've done it once, you can do it again," Aragorn said, hefting her trunk up and stepping up onto the front stoop before he frowned. "You should probably go first."

"Probably," she murmured, following him with a strange reluctance. This wasn't her house, not really. Not now. This wasn't the house that she'd shared Christmases with Teddy and Ron and Hermione and their children, this wasn't the house that she'd dueled her way out of when the Ministry decided she was too much of a danger to let roam free.

It wasn't even the house she inherited, stripped of its history and ransacked by Death Eaters who she had accidentally given passage through the wards by bringing them there. No, this was Walburga Black's decaying house, with a hippogriff developing cabin fever in the woman's bedroom and her godfather's misery practically bleeding out of the walls.

Her godfather.

Bronach swallowed hard. She hadn't considered that she would find him here, alive and angry, unknowing of what had transpired in the Department of Mysteries, unaware of how badly she'd screwed everything up. Centuries had passed, and the grief and guilt was still strong, though dulled slightly by time and distance.

Not just her godfather, but an entire host of ghosts, depending on who was visiting from the Order. Moody, Emmaline Vance...

Fred. Tonks. Remus.

She wavered, uncertain if she had the strength to see all of them alive and well, unknowing that they had died, in many cases for her. A soft hand in hers drew her out of her thoughts, and Arwen's smile was sad, but understanding as she said: "Kreacher will be cross if we ruin his dinner plans by lingering."

They had switched into Westron's comforting familiarity at some point after they had left Privet Drive. Bronach knew that it would be a tactical advantage, considering that the general translation charm required one to know what the language was that needed translation, but they would need to speak English around the Order.

Summoning her courage, she touched her fingertips to the door, unsurprised as it swung silently open. It would always do so for the rightful head, and those who were named as family. One of many defensive and welcoming measures that one of her ancestors had laid on the house.

She wondered, as she had many times before, why Sirius, as Head, hadn't named Tonks or Andromeda to the family when he had the chance. The umbrella stand would have spent far less time as a tripping hazard, though the Order would certainly lost its warning about her presence in the house.

Walburga's portrait was still and quiet behind its curtains, and she motioned for Aragorn to set her trunk down quietly, just inside the door.

Kreacher appeared in the hall, hands on his hips. "What time does Mistress call this?" he hissed in a harsh whisper. "Kreacher is putting up with the mutt..."

"Dementors, Kreacher," she murmured, crouching down so that she was on his level. "We couldn't avoid them. Do you need anything from us?"

"Kreacher has cleaned," he declared proudly. "Mistresses and Master's rooms are clean, but Kreacher did not fix them....Mistress's trunk is there, and unpacked as Kreacher remembers it being."

"Thank you," Bronach whispered. "Hedwig should be outside, can you make sure the owl roost is prepared for her? And who is currently where in the house?"

"Weasleys be here," he said, fond irritation coloring his voice, a vast difference from his original grumbles of blood traitors. "Headmistress, Miss Andy's daughter, the wolf, and the mutt. Children upstairs, adults downstairs."

"We had best start in the kitchen then," Bronach murmured as she straightened, feeling as if she'd rather face a goblin patrol than the interrogation that awaited her in the kitchen. Aragorn and Arwen fell in behind her as she moved towards the stairs at the back of the front hall, hoping that they could get this over with sooner rather than later. She wanted nothing more than to barricade the three of them in the Head's suite and just hold them for long enough to convince herself fully that this wasn't a dream, that it wouldn't be ripped away from her.

The steps were narrow, but silent underfoot, and she lingered in the shadows to watch the occupants of the kitchen. Molly Weasley was clearly getting dinner ready to serve, moving about the kitchen as dishes set the table, while McGonagall, Tonks, and Remus were clustered at one end, having a quiet but intense discussion. Sirius sat at the end of the table, nominally part of the conversation but clearly irritated and not interested by it. Arthur, Moody, and Dumbledore were likely still at the Ministry, and she hoped they'd stay there until she finished with this crowd. Moody and Dumbledore would likely seek her out for conversations regardless, but at least she wouldn't have to stop in the middle of the explanation.

She couldn't hesitate any longer, so she stepped out into the kitchen, deliberately raising her hands over her head, palms empty as she scuffed her foot on the flagstones to announce her presence. Aragorn lingered in the shadows, Arwen behind him, just as they'd discussed when they had planned her introduction to the Order.

"Who are you?" Molly asked, eyes fierce as she gripped her wand. This wasn't the woman who knitted sweaters for an orphan who didn't expect Christmas gifts, this was the woman who had put down Bellatrix Lestrange. "How did you get in here?"

"I mean nobody in this house any harm, unless they serve Tom Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort," Bronach said as calmly as she could manage, not looking at Remus, Tonks, and Sirius, who also had their wands trained on her. "Albus Dumbledore himself gave me the Secret to the fidelius."

"And how are we supposed to believe you?" Tonks said from off to the side with a scoff. "We're told when they're bringing someone new in."

"You can't keep a magically recognized Head of House from their family seat," Bronach said softly, eyes drawn to Sirius, who said nothing even as his jaw clenched. "But I also had the fidelius password, written in Albus Dumbledore's hand and shown to me by retired Auror Alastor Moody."

"When was this?" Remus asked pleasantly, but she suspected it was a facade.

"August sixth, nineteen ninety-five."

Uproar, far louder than she would have expected for a room filled with only five people.

"Impossible," Tonks said, hair cycling through multiple colors.

"Improbable," McGonagall corrected, narrowing her eyes at Bronach. "Not entirely impossible, though improbable indeed."

"You'll have to forgive Hermione, Professor," Bronach said, unable to stop the rueful smile she felt spreading over her face. "She didn't tell us until the Headmaster told us that it was the only way to save Sirius and Buckbeak at the end of our third year."

McGonagall frowned, but said nothing. Clearly she was starting to be convinced by her proof of identity, though unwilling to admit it. Choosing the next easiest target, she glanced at Molly. "Beds empty, no note, car gone! You could have died! You could have been seen!"

"That's not exactly a secret," the witch sniffed, her wand still rock-steady.

"In August of ninety-two, Fred, George, and Ron flew Arthur's illegally charmed Ford Anglia to Little Whinging, Surrey in order to rescue me from my room. They came back saying that there were bars on my window, and I was being starved. You fed us breakfast, and then sent your sons to degnome the garden. I went with them, even though you told me I didn't have to."

Molly blinked in surprise.

"Polyjuice exists," Tonks pointed out. "And they could have tortured her."

"Can polyjuice withstand a metamorphic change?" Bronach said, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows to demonstrate that she had no Dark Mark, and slid her features into her favored neutral form: brown hair, brown eyes, scars hidden, face softened and rounded...she held the change for a moment, then mimicked Tonk's preferred bubblegum pink spikes before letting the changes lapse. It felt strange, spending so much time in her own form after two centuries of holding changes. Yet it felt easier, far easier than it had when she'd first tried to show Teddy how his mother preferred to wear her hair, and she suspected that it wasn't just familiarity and practice.

"Potter isn't a metamorphmagus," Tonks retorted. "And you can't teach it. It's in your blood or it isn't."

"My grandmother was a Black," Bronach pointed out. "Though it is not a naturally expressed talent of mine. But there is enough Black in me for the Family Magic to accept me."

"And inheritance may awake dormant bloodline talents," Sirius said, the first time he'd spoken. "And after you were born, James and I agreed that I could name you my heir. Though I think we're beyond that now."

"It's a mess," she admitted, feeling a smile crawl on to her face. "I swear on my magic, I was born Holly Jaimie Potter, though it has been many, many years since I used that name to identify myself. I swear that I am the magically recognized head to both House Potter and House Black."

Sirius slumped down into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

"If Sirius named you heir, how are you Head of House while he lives?" Remus asked suspiciously.

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed? Only innocent lives, Peter!" she quoted, seeing his eyes widen. "Magic works in strange ways Professor Lupin. I'm not sure how to explain it."

"Time travel," Professor McGonagall said dryly, startling a chuckle out of Bronach. "If you gained entry to this house in four days time, it's not impossible that your inheritance was bestowed at some future point. And while unprecedented, it is not illogical that you carried it when you returned, displacing the order of things."

"Sounds about right," Bronach said, knowing that the truth was far more complicated but not wanting to tell her godfather that he had died, not wanting to explain to any of them that over half the people in the kitchen now were dead the last time she stood in this kitchen.

"No, it doesn't." Sirius took a deep breath. "How far?"

"Don't ask me that," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Please."

"How many years?" he pressed, eyes flashing. "Ten? Twenty?"

"Over two hundred," fell from her lips, Bronach unable to deny him this.

The number seemed to strike all of them like a physical blow.

"Most was spent in another dimension," she added, knowing that it didn't make anything better. "There was a magical accident when I was in my forties involving spells and an activated portkey that resulted in my arrival in a different dimension. My bonded house elf was able to reach me, but we were not able to return of our own power."

"And you return now, twenty five years or so earlier than you left," McGonagall said, sitting down slowly. "Why now?"

"Because even though the war ends in three years, I don't like the way it ended," Bronach said honestly, shoving her own feelings as deep as she could. "This was a convenient point for me to change things."

"You're not going to tell us, are you?" Remus asked, looking vaguely despairing.

"I'll share what is helpful to know," she said, feeling too much like the headmaster for comfort. "But please, the very fact that I am here changes things. What I know is not particularly useful, especially since I intend to change certain things."

"And the dementors?" Molly said, finally lowering her wand. "Did those attack in the same fashion?"

"That happened," Bronach grimaced. "I had hoped to avoid it, and I had hoped to avoid the hearing, but they let me off last time, and I'm far more prepared."

"How did you hope to avoid the hearing, if you couldn't avoid the dementors?" Tonks asked curiously. "I mean, you can only get rid of them using a patronus, and if you cast one, you'd set off the Trace."

"Wandless magic doesn't set off the Trace."

All of the adults looked at her skeptically. "I'm not going to perform a wandless patronus," Bronach finally lowered her hands, satisfied that nobody was going to attack her. "But my companions and I could call upon blessed starlight, and I had hoped it would register as wandless magic."

"Companions?" McGonagall was saying, only for the words to die on her lips as Aragorn and Arwen came out of the shadows, Aragorn first as always when in uncertain territory, splitting to bracket her once they were both fully visible.

"Aragorn Telcontar, and his wife Arwen," Bronach introduced. "They are friends from my life in the other dimension, and have agreed to help me end the war."

Frowns appeared on every face, but weariness swept over her, and she was done with explanations, with carefully choosing her answers to questions. "I know this is confusing," she said, glancing at each of the adults in turn. "But it has been a long day. If you have urgent need of me, you may ask Kreacher, or seek out the rooms occupied by the Head of House, but I will be available to you tomorrow morning."

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place, was, at its conception, a town house.

Grimmauld Place now, was a manor house masquerading as a town house.

Magical space had been used so much over the years that the house was at least double, if not triple, its original space, allowing it to hold not only the immediate household, but their guests, most of the Black Family Library, as well as several public and private rooms for entertaining and relaxing in. Given that it was a townhouse, its spread was vertical, not horizontal.

The first floor was mostly entertaining space. While dinner guests might go no further than the dining room and the entry, those privileged enough to be entertained by the Black might see the drawing room on the first floor. An even more privileged few were granted the honor of staying in the guest room housed on that floor.

Also hidden on the first floor was the Head's study, and an entrance to the library, but Bronach knew that those were well-hidden. Unless Sirius remembered, likely none of the Order knew that they were present, though she could see them out of the corner of her eye as she climbed the stairs.

The second floor appeared mostly empty, with only a single bedroom, but there was another library entrance, and the schoolroom for pre-Hogwarts children occupying the rest of the space. She led Aragorn and Arwen up the stairs to the third floor quickly, knowing that the teenagers were gathered in Ron's room and not wanting another fraught meeting.

Nothing of note was on the third floor, unless you counted the fact that Walburga had been snubbed by Arcturus, the Head until his death in 1991, by being given rooms on it. While she had occupied Grimmauld with Orion, it was rightfully Arcturus's, and he and Melania's seldom-occupied suite was hidden from almost all on the fourth floor, near Sirius and Regulus's rooms, which they occupied by being the eldest male candidates for Head of House.

It must have galled Walburga, Bronach thought as she passed Sirius and Regulus's doors, to see her sons elevated above her own status in her own residence. It was a fairly new concept, having an heir in each generation, a practice brought on as pureblood lines dwindled due to infertility and war. But Arcturus had kept the old ways, choosing his heir from his grandchildren, instead of his son.

"Here we are," she announced to Aragorn and Arwen, suddenly unsure of herself. They had never had a space that was theirs. It had always been her intruding on their quarters, or the pair of them stopping in one of her dwellings, or some combination of the three of them meeting along the road. Most days she didn't doubt that they loved her, but it was hard, having to maintain the careful distance they had needed in front of the court and observers.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Arwen said decisively, reaching into the space where Bronach knew the door handle to be. It made a part of her settle, knowing that magic recognized the pair as her partners, even if they had only made their vows before each other and the stars. "And if it is not, we will make it be so."

Aragorn grinned suddenly, and swept Bronach off her feet as Arwen opened the door. "Coming through," he said to Arwen as he ignored Bronach's grunt of surprise and carried her into the room.

"What was that for?" she asked as he set her on her feet.

"I seem to remember an old custom about carrying one's partner across the threshold of their new home," he said, turning to lift Arwen and carry her from the hallway into the suite's sitting room. "Is it not right to heed it?"

Bronach blinked in sudden emotion. "It is quite right," she managed, touched by the gesture. In need of distraction, she looked about, orienting herself in the space. As Kreacher promised, it was clean, and a warm fire was burning in the grate. The furnishings were dated, but serviceable, and to her surprise, Kreacher had unpacked.

He had mentioned that he had unpacked, she recalled as she turned, taking it all in, but she had thought that he meant clothing. Not the familiar tapestries on the wall, both her own and Arwen's work, nor the warm blankets from her loom on the backs of the settees. A project Arwen had been working on was on the table next to a chair well-positioned to get what starlight filtered through the London smog, and Aragorn's current book was waiting for him on an end table by the fire. Her spinning wheel was set up in an empty corner, a basket of rolags waiting to be spun, and her workbasket was tucked under the coffee table.

"This is quite pleasant," Arwen said with a genuine smile. "It needs a few touches, but I can see us being very comfortable here."

"There are two bedrooms," Bronach said, pointing at the doors that stood ajar. "Traditionally, one for the master of the house, and one for the mistress."

Aragorn peered inside one of them. "It looks large enough for three," he said, something roguish in his eye as he glanced at her. "Unless either of my ladies wishes to sleep elsewhere?"

"If you will have me, I will share," Bronach said, glancing down at the tips of Dudley's oversized trainers. "But I do not wish to disturb either of you."

"As if that is even a question," Arwen scoffed, placing her hands on her hips. "I did not leave everything I have ever known only to let you continue to distance yourself from us. This is not Minas Tirith or Annuminas where we had to guard ourselves. You yourself told us that nobody we did not invite would be able to enter these rooms, and I will not let you keep up the facade that you are not an equal part of our relationship."

"Then we will have to find a purpose for the other room," Bronach managed once she had her voice back, giving Arwen's hand a squeeze. "Perhaps a workroom, or a study?"

"You will want a place for your looms and wheels," Aragorn pointed out, leaving the doorway to the bedroom in favor of the end of the settee by his favorite book. "And while I'm sure there is such a place, a sturdy desk would be appreciated."

"There is time enough for such decisions later," Arwen said, taking a seat on the opposite settee. "Will Kreacher be kind enough to bring us food, or must we return to the kitchen to retrieve a tray?"

In answer to her question, a tray popped into existence on the coffee table, and Bronach sat next to Aragorn as Arwen began serving supper for all of them. It was familiar, simple fare, such as they might have prepared for themselves when on the road, and it soothed Bronach in a way that something from this dimension wouldn't have accomplished.

It felt surreal, sitting on the formal Victorian furniture of the Head's suite in Grimmauld Place, wearing Dudley's old castoffs, with Aragorn next to her in denims and a tee shirt and Arwen in a long skirt and airy blouse that reminded Bronach of the pictures she had seen of seventies hippie fashions. They'd talked about it, and she'd shared all she could of the world that had birthed her, but it had been their world that her heart had fallen in love with.

It had also broken her heart, watching Aragorn tire and realizing that no matter how much she loved them, they would be sundered in the end.

"I still can't believe that we're here," she murmured, pushing food around on her plate with a fork. "All three of us, with this chance."

This time, there would be no Hallows in her hands. The Elder Wand's curse would die with Dumbledore, the Resurrection Stone be smashed to bits and left in the Forest. Her father's cloak would remain an heirloom of her house, passed down from parent to child as it had since the days of Ignotus.

She would be fully mortal, with her partners having the same lifespan, and barring catastrophic accident, one day they would leave the world together.

"It is a marvel and a blessing," Arwen said, reaching across to squeeze her hand. "I look forward to what we will build together."

"But first, we will eat, and then we will sleep," Aragorn chided, nudging her plate. "I have long wished for the chance to wake up beside both of you, with no need to return before others awaken to find us not in our proper places."

She woke: warm, comfortable, and wrapped in familiar arms. Arwen curled into her, dark head pressed against her collarbone, while Aragorn's arms wrapped around them both, pulling her against his chest.

They'd never been allowed the joy of waking up spontaneously, free of the fear of another finding Bronach in bed with the royal couple. Eldarion had known, when it was clear that Aragorn was starting to tire and before Námo had offered this chance, so that he could send word to Bronach should something happen. But Bronach had only told Daervunn, for the same reason, and she doubted that Aragorn or Arwen had told others. There was already enough noble outrage that Aragorn had chosen a foreigner over their own sisters and daughters, and Bronach's own self-appointed task had required her to move in anonymity that she would have been forced to sacrifice had she been named consort.

Let alone the pressure to bear children, and the scorn when she did not. Any children that came from her would have been consistently scrutinized, legitimacy questioned, considered a threat to Arwen's children, or even considered superior to Arwen's children. Even though they were full human, there was still much noble concern that Arwen had once been eldar, even if her marriage to Aragorn had sealed her fate to the path of the edain.

But she would not have borne children, and the scorn of the court would have been heaped on her shoulders for failing at a woman's traditional duty: the continuation of her husband's line.

A thought occurred to her, and her breath caught in her throat. She would not have borne children, but she was fifteen again, her cycles present, if irregular. Without a conscious thought, her hand drifted to rest against her empty womb.

The Master of the Hallows, with their immortality, could not sustain the changes that a pregnancy would demand. Hermione had postulated that it was something to do with her body's drive to maintain equilibrium, to right itself to the state it had been in when she mastered them. In Arda she had been grateful for it; without the luxury of contraception, or modern hygiene products, her cycles would have been just another thing she would have had to manage and overcome.

Arwen's hand covered hers. "What are you thinking, this early in the morning?"

"I am not cursed," Bronach breathed, hoping not to wake Aragorn and disturb the peacefulness of their rest. "Should we succeed, I might bear children. If we wished."

"Do you wish?" Arwen asked, glancing up at her from under her eyelashes. Considering it for a moment, Bronach leaned down, pressing a kiss to Arwen's temple.

"I did once," she admitted, removing her hand from her womb in favor of running her fingers through Arwen's silky hair. "But I would not ask it of you who has already raised four children, even if you were spared bearing them."

"Any children we bear in this world, regardless of which of us gives birth to them, would be a treasure," Arwen's voice was soft and fierce. "Eldarion and his sisters were not allowed to be ours in the way they should have, and I am sorry for that. If we were so blessed, I would gladly risk the birthing bed, and should it be your birthing bed that the child comes from, I would hold them through sleepless nights so that you might rest. And as they grow we will tell them of the brother and sisters that came before them, no less loved and cherished for all that they were not allowed to know you as another mother."

"She is right," Aragorn murmured in her ear, the combination of sleep-roughened voice and his breath against the back of her neck, along with the thought of bearing a child, doing dangerous things to her heart rate. "If it is a child you wish for, then it is a child you shall have."

"Another day," she murmured regretfully, leaning back into his broad chest. "For one, I will not birth a child until this war is concluded."

"And your other argument?" Arwen asked, laughter underneath her words.

"The world considers me to be fifteen, even if I am not, both in body and in spirit." Bronach made a face. "And in both of my worlds I would be considered to be too young to be in a relationship with you, let alone bear a child."

Arwen and Aragorn both appeared as if they were in their twenties, fresh out of university and ready to face the world. She envied them the freedom it offered, but Námo had apparently received more leeway with them than her particular situation allowed for.

"In time then," Aragorn nuzzled the back of her neck. "We have been patient all these years, we will be patient for a few more. And this time, we will have places such as this where we can be wholly secure in our safety."

Reluctantly, Bronach wiggled out from between her partners. "Right now it is time to start on what we can."

"Is it possible to bathe?" Arwen asked as she sat up, flicking the end of her long braid over her shoulder. "I would dearly appreciate a chance to get clean."

Now that was something she could accomplish easily. They'd run through the basics of modern plumbing and waste management the night before, but mostly they'd been too tired for anything beyond the most immediate needs.

"Come with me," she said, padding over the faded carpet to the bathroom door. It was filled with hulking antique fixtures, but everything did what it was supposed to. With a twist of her wrist, she had the large clawfoot tub filling, leaning against the edge to test the warmth of the water. Kreacher had already exchanged the previous towels with her own, and a block of soap waited on the stand next to the tub. She picked it up, finding that it was the rosemary-scented kind that she'd traded for in Bree before they left. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off from the tub's edge, letting it fill while she went about seeing to her own immediate needs.

Arwen bathed first, her appreciative moan as she sunk into the warm water indicative of how well she was adapting to the idea of modern plumbing. Bronach suspected that the tub would survive any future renovations, unless they found one that could fit all three of them, instead of just two. Leaving her partner to her bath, she instead sought out the massive wardrobe that dominated the small dressing room.

Kreacher had unpacked in here as well, neatly making space for Aragorn and Arwen's clothing among her own. She saw that he'd only unpacked daywear for all of them, mostly casual, and he'd brought out the muggle clothing that had been with her when they had first fallen into the Ram Duath. It had been kept in the trunk she had carried at the time, stored under layers of preservation charms in a shrunken trunk within her main trunk, untouched and out of place in Arda. When Námo had offered, her trunk was packed with what things Aragorn and Arwen had wanted to bring with them, enough clothing to keep them content until they were able to get properly outfitted.

Her plans for today mostly involved answering questions and starting the necessary alterations to the house. With that in mind, she sorted through their wardrobes, finding a comfortable work dress that she'd often worn when she was moving about any of the Arnorian towns in the Fourth Age. She didn't dare presume to set out clothing for Aragorn and Arwen, but she did bring forward several of the outfits she knew they preferred that would be appropriate for what she had planned.

Coming out into the bedroom, she laid her own clothing out on a chair, sneaking a glance at Aragorn, who was leaning slightly propped up, the sheet draped enticingly over his hips, leaving the broad expanse of his chest bare for her viewing.

They could hear Arwen rising from the bath, water displaced and gurgling as the stopper was pulled, but her world narrowed to Aragorn as he drew back the sheet, rising himself in all of his glory.

Her mouth went dry, and she knew she should be moving, should be capable of coherent thought even after all these years, but it had been so long since they'd been gathered, all three of them in one place, with enough time to spend in private. Námo's message had come to them in a dream, and Irmo had given them a dreamspace to discuss it in, but Bronach had to hold her placement in the North, not wanting to suggest to anyone that the falsehood that was about to be perpetuated was anything but the truth.

At the same moment as they had met in the play park, a palace servant in Gondor had likely found Aragorn's still body. Arwen had vanished without a trace, but Eldarion and his sisters would tell the grieving kingdoms that their mother had stated that she would depart when her husband did, never to be seen again. If anyone truly searched, they would find her upon Cerin Amroth, having joined her husband.

But he was here, there was no fear of interruption or discovery, and all she wanted to do was touch him, trace over his scars with her fingers, and perhaps her tongue...

She pulled herself together, forcing her eyes up to meet him. "You are a terrible, terrible person," Bronach informed him, trying to get her breathing and heart rate under control.

"Oh, am I now?" he murmured, coming closer, mischief in his eyes. "How so?"

"What is he doing that is so terrible?" Arwen called from the bathroom, before appearing, a towel wrapped around her body. "Oh, I see."

There was laughter in her voice, and Bronach risked a glance in her direction, only to regret it as the towel slipped slightly. "You're both terrible," she muttered, giving in and pressing up on her toes to kiss Aragorn briefly before fleeing to the bathroom.

Cool water splashed on her face cooled most of her ardor, and when Aragorn eventually wandered in, she could think clearly enough to ask if he also wanted to bathe. He agreed, and she ran the water once more, with him peering over her shoulder, clearly taking in the nuances of the plumbing system.

"Would that the palaces have been equipped as such," he murmured, sliding into the warm water with a sigh. "I always felt bad for those who drew our baths."

She left him to it, returning to the main room where Arwen had commandeered the dressing table and found her comb and brush there. Bronach plucked it from her hand, setting to work combing out the long strands, still in awe at their lack of tangles. Her own hair snarled terribly if not braided and pinned up.

"What do you suggest I wear?" Arwen asked, eyes fluttering. The Queen had always loved having someone tend to her own hair, and the few times Bronach had impersonated a Lady-in-Waiting or a lady's maid in order to be close to the royal couple, this had been a shared pleasure of theirs.

"I intend to remain in the house, mostly working on bringing it up into a livable space," Bronach said as she finished combing and started to braid, her fingers making quick work of the ebony strands. "My own clothes are set out, and I took the liberty of bringing forward several suggestions in the dressing room for you and Aragorn.

"We'll follow your lead," Arwen said, holding still as Bronach pinned her hair into a crown of braids. "Yesterday, women did not appear to cover their heads as the women of Gondor did."

"It is not necessary in the non-magical spaces, though the more traditional magical fashions use head coverings, usually a hat, when they are in public," Bronach said, putting the last pin in place. "Nobody will expect you to cover your hair in the house."

"Thank you," Arwen brushed a kiss on Bronach's cheek as she went into the dressing room. While she waited for Aragorn to finish in the bath, it was easy enough to make quick work of tidying up the room and making the bed. Then it was her turn to bathe, and she hurried up, not wanting to keep her partners waiting.

Once she was dry and clad in a clean chemise, she parked herself at the dressing table, prepared to do battle with her hair, but Arwen intercepted her comb and made much shorter work of combing, braiding, and pinning her hair up than Bronach had expected it to take. Aragorn had clearly helped Arwen with her laces, if the Queen hadn't managed it by herself, but Arwen lent a hand as Bronach slipped into her overdress and sleeves.

With no other reason to linger, she stared at the door to the living area of their suite. The morning had been such a treasure: waking up with her spouses, dressing with them, instead of acting as their attendant...and now they would have to hide it all away again, until they could reasonably seek out the privacy of their suite in the evening.

"It is only for two years," Arwen said, giving her hand a squeeze. "And unlike before, we have this space where it is safe for us."

"I'll be at Hogwarts for much of the year," Bronach admitted, resenting the castle in a way she had never before.

"And you do not trust that we will find a way?" Aragorn asked from where he was peering out the window at the rest of London. "We will not let you go alone."

"I do not know of any way beyond moving to Hogsmeade that you might be close enough to see regularly," Bronach said, considering the secret passages. "And my access to the village is...unpredictable."

Umbridge hadn't, but it wouldn't be beyond her to restrict Hogsmeade access if a student angered her. And Bronach had no intention of kowtowing to a petty despot. "We had best seek out Kreacher, and our morning meal," she said, letting the matter drop. "It is early, but he knows our habits."

When they made it to the kitchen, they walked straight into a standoff between Molly and Kreacher.

Each wielded a cast iron skillet as they faced off in front of the hulking iron stove, and neither looked inclined to budge any time soon.

"Hells," Bronach muttered as she took in the scene. "They've come to an agreement about this, but Molly has no idea."

"We'll go take a seat at the table," Aragorn said, and she could sense Arwen's politely hidden laughter as the pair slipped away, leaving her to deal with the arguing pair.

"I'm sure you can understand, M-Mrs. Weasley," Bronach said politely, almost stumbling and calling Molly by her first name, as she'd been permitted after the war, "but Kreacher is very possessive of his kitchen."

The witch sniffed. "He's hardly shown an interest in it before."

"It may not have been clear yesterday when I explained, but Kreacher has been my companion through my...travels," Bronach chose her words carefully. "You will find that he is much more himself than he has been for quite a while. As such, his understanding of his obligations is much changed."

Kreacher harrumphed, but thankfully held his silence, clearly trusting her to make things right. Bronach saw Molly preparing another objection, and held up her hand. "Kreacher is a sworn house elf to the House of Black, and as such will take orders from its Head, and only its Head unless otherwise instructed. As I have no inclination to work against the Order, or threaten the current occupants of this house, there is no concern. He will be an able assistant in the restoration of this house, and I think you may find him to be particularly possessive of the kitchen."

"I will make breakfast for my family," Molly insisted. Kreacher puffed up with offense.

Counting to ten made Bronach slightly less ready to confiscate the skillets and beat both of them with them. "That is indeed your right," she said, keeping her tone measured. "However, Kreacher has the primary obligation to prepare breakfast for the members of the House of Black that are in residence, and any guests recognized by that house. You are permitted use of the kitchen, so long as it does not interfere with his duties."

Hoping that Molly understood that it was her final word on the situation, Bronach knelt to speak with Kreacher. "Breakfast for the three of us, if you please," she murmured in Sindarin, hoping to forestall any rudeness from the house elf. "Enough of the basic English staples to feed the non-Weasley occupants of the house, since she will not likely permit her family to consume what you make. And I would appreciate a pot of tea if you please."

The house elf nodded reluctantly, and with a snap of his fingers set to work. With a warning glance at Molly, who looked as if she was going to protest Kreacher's occupation of the kitchen, Bronach retreated to the table where Aragorn and Arwen were watching the entire confrontation.

As she watched Kreacher and Molly pointedly ignore each other, something seemed to tap on her shoulder, looking for her attention. It took her a moment to puzzle out what it was, but she realized it was the house itself calling for her attention.

"I need to meditate in the ritual room," she murmured in Sindarin, drawing Aragorn and Arwen's eyes, seeing Kreacher's ears perk up. "The house wants something of me."

Neither of them looked particularly intrigued by this, but Aragorn nodded, shifting in his seat so that he had a better view of everything in the kitchen. Bronach moved towards the stairs, towards the door that was shimmering into view for her now that she was focused on it. It led to the private part of the cellar: the brewing room, the wine cellar, and the ritual room where the cornerstone rested.

It was a unique feature of magical houses, at least those that were constructed on traditional lines. There was always the cornerstone, where the wards and any spells on the house were anchored, and often the ritual room was built around it. To her knowledge, in most houses it was considered to be both part of the house, and separate from it, in order to isolate any magical backlash, yet act as a final fallback point for the occupants.

The Black ritual room was bare stone, with the cornerstone in the center of the floor, runes radiating outwards and marching up the walls. They spoke of prosperity, of good health, of safety, of protection...it had taken her days to fully translate everything. An antechamber separated the ritual space from the hallway, and she slipped out of her dress, glad that she hadn't chosen anything with inherent magical properties. Stockings and shoes followed, until she was bare but for her chemise.

Thankfully, the ritual room magically adjusted itself to be at a comfortable temperature, and she didn't have to worry about chilled feet as she padded barefoot towards the cornerstone. Kneeling, she reached out and pressed her hands against it, dropping all of her barriers and opening herself fully to the house's magic.

It washed over her like the waters of Nenuial had, when the Rangers of Tinnudir had taught her to swim. Kreacher's presence was like a beacon in the depths of magic she was sinking into, anchoring her in the same way that Calenglad's hands once had in the lake waters. This was both alike and different from the last time she had touched the stone. Before it had been overwhelming, but now she was surrounded by the house's magic, rooted to the very bedrock of London, strengthened over generations of Blacks who had been born, lived, bled, and died in this very house.

Each and every act of magic contained by the house contributed to it, shaped and formed over the years by the will and desire of those who had dwelt here. Unconscious or not, the magic lingered, creating a semi-sentience that she suspected was nothing compared to what Hogwarts had attained. Bronach could feel the pockets of magical space where the dormant rooms waited, feel the magical objects contained there, see the occupants of the house and name the location of every magical object within. The locket horcrux was clearly visible, a black taint on the house's magic, and she could tell that the house disliked and resented its presence.

Kreacher stood out like a living flame, and she could feel Aragorn and Arwen through their connections to the house, new but growing stronger. She would need to bring them here, introduce them to the stone and bind them to it as they had bound themselves to her. The house reached out to her, guiding her along spell-lines and ward-lines, showing her all that it was, all that it had been, and all that it could be. Bronach felt that her earlier observation of the fidelius as an ill-fitting coat was inadequate: the house was about ready to shrug it off, restrained only by the power the headmaster had poured into the charm's casting, but now wasn't the time. Soothingly, she repaired the fading charms and spells that had suffered from disuse and lack of maintenance, preparing to bring the full strength of the wards to bear once she had spoken with the headmaster, or at least warned him that by raising the war-wards she would shred the fidelius.

Her studies of warding were hardly as extensive as Bill's, but she knew enough to tell that at full strength, not even Riddle or Grindelwald would have been able to make a dent, not unless they had brought an army. To trespass upon the property with the intent to harm would render one no more than a smear on the pavement outside.

Bronach suspected it would take nothing less than a nuclear detonation on top of the house to shatter them, and even then the ritual room would likely remain.

There was a warning throb in the magic, an alert for incoming Floo travel, and she pulled herself away from the connection. The magic of the house receded like the tide going out, but there was an increased awareness that remained in the back of her head, much like the family magic nestled in her breast. She wondered if this was something that every Head of House experienced, or only someone who was as in tune with magic as she had been forced to learn during her sojourn in Arda.

Precious minutes were wasted in redressing herself, but she dared not present herself in only her shift. Nothing had happened in the kitchen yet, but she suspected that it was either the Headmaster or another Order member who had come through, and they had not had a chance to determine the extent of any magical abilities Aragorn or Arwen might have attained with the greater concentration of magic available to them.

As she entered the kitchen, all of her attention was focused on Moody, who was standing at the end of the table, glaring down its length at her partners, who were meeting his hostility with their neutral court faces. Time seemed to slow as he drew his wand, clearly intending to cast a spell, and she didn't think, just reacted.

He may have been quick, but she was quicker.

Decades of fighting an actual physical war, where being a second too late could mean death or maiming, training with Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas so that she could be just a hair faster...her reflexes had been honed to a keen sharpness, and thanks to Námo she hadn't lost any of her physical condition. Moody had been fast enough, skilled enough to survive decades as an Auror and the first war, but she was better.

And he had just drawn on her partners.

When her brain started processing everything, she was standing between the tip of his wand and Aragorn, who had risen from his seat as he swept Arwen under the safety of the table behind him. There was a blade in Aragorn's hand, and she suspected Arwen had also drawn one. A magical shield hovered in front of them, been spun from Bronach's fingertips, and her own blade was pointed at Moody's throat, having knocked aside his wand hand.

She must have vaulted the table, Bronach realized, and in the back of her mind she was appropriately impressed by the feat. Her unique situation had taught her to prepare for being able to carry out any maneuver in whatever clothing she might wear, but she was still impressed that she'd covered the distance so quickly in a gown.

The house nudged at her, and she felt the tingle of its magic in her feet, and realized that it had also acted to protect her partners, speeding her movements and strengthening her shield. It surged around her, ready to eject Moody for his offense against Aragorn and Arwen, and she knew that if they had been introduced to it properly, he would have already been removed, if not simply a smear on the flagstones.

Bronach choked down the house's protective impulses, knowing that they needed Moody. Knowing that they couldn't present themselves to the Order having just killed one of its most skilled veterans. She could feel the magic roiling around her, and wondered vaguely if it was manifesting, the burn of it in her veins feeling like live sparks.

"That," she breathed, when she had control again, "was very unwise."

"That," he mimicked, lowering his wand slightly, but not enough to make him no longer a threat, "was not the reaction of a fifteen year old."

"How many fifteen year olds do you think could survive dueling Voldemort?" she retorted.

"Not many," he admitted grouchily. "But that doesn't mean you're not an impostor."

"No glamor or potion can adjust for a metamorphmagus change," Bronach shifted, choosing red hair on a whim, making herself more like the mother she had known only through pictures. "Your apprentice should have taught you that, if you hadn't already known."

"Metamorphmagry runs in the Black family," Moody growled as the Floo flared again, admitting Tonks. "You claim to be a Potter."

"Dorea Black married Charlus Potter, and bore him a son: James." Bronach hissed, losing patience with his paranoia as the family magic demanded retribution for the danger to her partners. "By blood and magic, I am both Head of House Potter and House Black."

"Are you still on about this Mad-Eye?" Tonks yawned, dropping into a seat at the table, clearly accustomed to her mentor's paranoid ways. "I told you. She's a metamorphmagus, she's Potter, and she's Head of House."

"There's something not right," he grumped, finally putting his wand away. "No fifteen year old moves like that."

"Time Travel," she gritted out, wondering what tales had been told after she'd retired for the night. "Is that enough explanation for you?"

"It'd be better if you told everything," he snapped. "They say you won't say a word, but that the war ends in three years."

"There's too much at stake to go spreading it around," she snapped in return, sheathing her knife. "If you make it to the end of the war, we'll get a drink and I'll tell you the story of what might have been, okay?"

He eyed her warily, seeming to know that he'd pushed her far enough. "I'll hold you to it," he said gruffly, turning to leave. Something seemed to strike him, and he glanced back over his shoulder. "You moved to shield them. Why?"

"Because that was my job." It had been far, far more than that, but by now it was instinctive to throw herself between the innocent and danger, even more so when it was her partners being threatened.

"What were you, some sort of bodyguard?"

She knew that Arwen was smiling as the woman rose from under the table, discreetly tucking a knife away. "Something like that," Bronach said vaguely.

Moody harrumphed, and stumped through the Floo, leaving Tonks behind.

"You've got big brass ones," the witch told her with a raised eyebrow. "Not many folks take on Moody when he's pissed like that."

"Barty Crouch Junior was scarier," Bronach said flippantly, hoping that someone would repeat that back to Mad-Eye. It was somewhat true: finding out that a Death Eater had successfully subdued and impersonated a notoriously paranoid Auror had been a terrifying end to a nightmarish evening.

Tonks's eyes widened, and she nearly tripped over her feet as she followed her mentor through the Floo.

Molly said nothing about the confrontation as she finished preparing breakfast, and Arthur, when he put in an appearance a short while later, clearly was bursting with questions. His wife, however, kept him reined in, practically marching him through the Floo before she cleaned up his breakfast dishes and set them to wash as she worked on breakfast for the children.

Having finished their own breakfast, Bronach glanced at Kreacher, who was finalizing the last of the dishes she'd asked him to prepare for the others. "If you could put warming and stasis charms, we'd like your opinion on how to renovate the house," she asked.

"Kreacher would be happy to," he said, and she could feel his magic settle over the plates and platters he'd set out on the table. There was a sticking charm there too, that she didn't mention, clearly intended to prevent Molly from moving the dishes and replacing them with her own.

They bypassed the rest of the cellar rooms, not wanting Molly's attention further on the house's most private spaces. It was bad enough that Bronach had ventured to the ritual room while she was in the kitchen. Introducing Aragorn and Arwen would have to happen another time.

"Entry first," Bronach murmured as they climbed the stairs. "Walburga's portrait is a menace that needs to go."

The Order had tried several times to remove the portrait, none with any success, but with the house backing her, it was easy enough to sever the sticking charm, redirecting its energy into the wards. Kreacher vanished the portrait, curtains and all, leaving only a square of unfaded wallpaper to signify that she had even existed.

"Catalogs," Bronach said, glancing about. "I need catalogs from every furniture and decorator in magical Britain. Kreacher, can you see to the collection of them? In the meantime, we'll tour the rest of the public rooms."

With a nod, Kreacher disappeared, leaving Bronach alone with her partners. "Any thoughts?" she said, gesturing at the empty hall.

Arwen eyed the troll-leg umbrella holder. "That should go," she said.

"Absolutely," Bronach murmured, conjuring a stack of parchment and a quill from her supplies. It was the work of a moment to write Vault on a bit of parchment, tear it off, and wandlessly stick it to the offending umbrella stand. "We'll need a coat rack," she said, starting a list. "New wallpaper and carpeting, anything wood needs refinishing..."

"The chandelier needs polishing," Aragorn pointed out as he glanced up. "And the lights."

"Art, for the walls," Arwen mused, glancing about. "And a mirror, above the hearth. Perhaps a table of some sort?"

Noting all of it down, Bronach nudged open the dining room doors. "And this is only the beginning."

Chapter Text

Hermione had come to cherish being the first non-adult to wake. If she was quiet, she could read, or work on her summer assignments, before Mrs. Weasley gave them their cleaning tasks to do. Once Ron and the others woke up, they were put to work as soon as breakfast was consumed, and she was tired of waging a losing war against a house that clearly did not want them there.

The underage magic rules were stupid. With all of the adults around, surely they could get away with the first year charms that Flitwick taught for cleaning and tidying?

Tiptoeing down the stairs, she was surprised to see that the dining room doors were open. Despite the fact that it was right by the front door and the Floo in the entry, the Order had never used it for their meetings. Probably due to the fact that Mrs. Black's portrait would start screeching at the slightest hint of noise.

Which was why it was even more strange that there was a soft hum of voices coming from the dining room. Normally even that much noise was enough to trigger the portrait and resulting screaming match between mother and son. Automatically, she glanced over to where the portrait hung, and found only a darker square of unfaded wallpaper instead of the ragged curtains installed to try and deal with the matter.

Looking around further, she saw bits of parchment stuck to various places around the room. The troll leg had one that said Vault, and there was one above a table that read Mirror?. Something about the handwriting seemed familiar, but Hermione couldn't place it.

"I don't understand why you're hexing the flatware." An unfamiliar man was saying as she stopped by the ajar dining room doors. "Inventorying the linens, yes. Inventorying the flatware, absolutely. But hexing it?"

"There are visitors to this house who do not respect the property of others," a voice replied, sounded irritated. "I would prefer not to purchase my family heirlooms from the black market. Again."

Much like the handwriting, the voice felt familiar, but the accent was strange. Taking a deep breath, Hermione peered around the doorway.

To her surprise, three people were gathered at the end of the room, where the big china closet was. One of them, a woman, was holding up linens as if she was examining them. As Hermione watched, she refolded the one she had and put it in one of the stacks forming on the table. The man she had heard was holding a stack of plates in one hand, clearly passing it to the second woman, who was a head shorter than her companions. Something about her profile looked familiar, and Hermione squinted, trying to figure out who the woman reminded her of.

"Kreacher, how are those curtains looking?" the woman asked, taking a dish from her companion.

"Full of doxies, but Kreacher has managed," came the voice of the house elf Hermione had learned to avoid. As she watched, he shuffled out from the curtains with a frown on his face. "Kreacher thinks Mistresses will not like them though."

"They'll do well enough until we choose new ones," the woman sorting through a stack of napkins said.

The shorter woman glanced over her shoulder to smile at her, and Hermione couldn't breathe for a moment, her breath trapped in her lungs at the first sight of the woman's face.

She seemed to be eighteen and eighty all at the same time, carrying herself with a level of self-assurance rarely found in any of Hermione's schoolmates. Viktor and Fleur had been the exceptions, but both of them had their own reasons for maturity beyond their years. But the eyes, the eyes were what Hermione focused on, a shade of green nobody had ever been able to precisely define other than telling an orphan that she had her mother's eyes. And above them, an infamous scar bloomed on her forehead, making it impossible for her to be anyone else.

Several things were clear to Hermione. Her friend had somehow arrived at Grimmauld Place without telling Ron or Hermione. Yet, the girl who had shared her dorm room and gossiped with her about Viktor Krum and complained about homework and Ron Weasley and obsessed with Ginny about quidditch was gone forever.

Without knowing it, she must have made some sound, and all three turned to her. "Hermione," Harry said. "I-"

"What happened?" Hermione blurted out, unable to reconcile how her friend had changed in the short period of time since they'd waved goodbye to each other at King's Cross at the end of June. "I mean, it's only been a month and-" you're not who you used to be.

Confusion, and then an achingly sad expression flickered over Harry's face, and she handed the plate back to the man. "You might want to sit down," she said, pulling out a chair for Hermione and taking one for herself. "I had thought that they would have told you last night."

"Who would have told us?" Hermione demanded as she took a seat, head spinning. "Last night?"

"We arrived last night, and explained the situation to Molly, Professor McGonagall, Tonks, Sirius, and Remus," Harry said, and that was just another difference between what Hermione was fast considering old-Harry and new-Harry. Old-Harry had always been painfully polite to adults she had respected, and here New-Harry was using first names, as if they were equals.

The man snorted. "You explained little enough," he said, when Harry looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "It's the truth, craba."

"You're hardly one to talk about too-short explanations, Strider," Harry retorted with a half-smile, as if this was an old joke of theirs. "But I suppose I will explain now, at least a little."

"If it's secret, you don't have to tell me," Hermione said loyally, knowing that if Harry had been doing some top-secret training for the Order, Dumbledore may have forbidden her to tell anyone.

"It's not secret, just sensitive," Harry sighed. She glanced at Hermione for a moment. "It's been a long time."

Sometimes, Hermione found that her brain had been processing small details in the background, only to present her with a fully formed theory when she least expected it. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out: "You've been time-traveling!"

Harry laughed. "Dimension and time-traveling," she said, clearly understanding that Hermione didn't mean it as the accusation it had sounded like.

"How many years?" she had so many questions, and Harry seemed to know that, but this one was the one she needed the answer to right away.

Harry glanced at both of the strangers, seeming to do math in her head. "Almost two hundred," she said, and the man nodded. "I lost track after a while."

"When did you dimension hop?" Hermione had never been exceedingly interested in science fiction, but her father was, and the entire family dissolved into debates over dinner periodically, usually when he'd finished reading something new.

Once again she seemed to be doing mental math. "Maybe twenty-five years from now," Harry said slowly, clearly mulling it over. "I didn't want to go back then, because..."

She took a deep breath, and Hermione found herself bracing for impact. Two hundred years, and her best friend still made the same expression when she was about to say something that made her extremely vulnerable yet was highly important and insightful.

"...because in three years, something is going to happen that, while it brought me happiness, also condemned me to misery," Harry murmured, both of the strangers looking solemn behind her. The woman reached out to rest a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry accepted the comforting touch in a way Hermione hadn't seen her friend manage. There was no flinch, there was no bewilderment, just simple acceptance, going so far as to reach up and brush her fingers across the hand in return. "Some people, they would want what happened. It would be...useful...to them." Her mouth twisted in disgust, and then she lifted her eyes to meet Hermione's.

"I choose to be happy."

The conviction in her friend's voice was earth-shattering, and that, more than anything cemented Hermione's belief that she was going to support this new, changed version of her friend. All of their acquaintance, Harry had been so awfully tentative at accepting anything that made her happy. It wasn't ever something she had said, and Hermione suspected that the girl hadn't ever realized it, but Hermione noticed things. She knew that the Dursley's didn't make even a pretense that they loved their niece, she knew that life there was no better than life in prison. She knew that nobody had ever told Harry that it was okay to be what she wanted, to like things, to want something and be grateful when you got it.

She didn't understand it, but how could she? Hermione had grown up the only child of a pair of dentists, loved despite her accidental magic, supported and nurtured as best as her parents could. When she got her Hogwarts letter, her parents took her school shopping and bought her as many books as she wanted and wrote her weekly letters to make sure she knew that they loved Hermione the witch as much as they had loved Hermione the slightly odd child. Harry had none of that, and while Hermione could sympathize, she couldn't empathize, not completely.

So if Harry said that she wanted this particular change because she wanted to be happy?

Hermione was going to burn down London to make it happen if it proved necessary.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked simply, knowing that Harry wouldn't accept any grandiose declarations of loyalty, mostly because she wouldn't understand that someone else was willing to fight alongside her, for her.

Even then, Harry looked a bit bewildered by her simple acceptance and lack of further questions. "There's not much that can be done right now," she said slowly, as if waiting for a dam to burst. "One or two things can be done, and at least one other started, before we go back to school. I need to consult with Bill on something, but the biggest thing I need to accomplish before September first is to establish their legal identities."

Harry gestured at the pair of strangers, and Hermione finally remembered her manners.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, smiling at them. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

They hadn't said it, but Hermione suspected that they were this other dimension's Ron-and-Hermione. Not Ron and Hermione, but the two people Harry allowed herself to trust, to get close to. That alone made them worth knowing.

All three seemed to be having an intense, silent conversation in the manner that Hermione was most familiar with her parents using to discuss something privately without being so obvious as to leave the room or dismiss her. Harry raised an eyebrow, and then Hermione caught what could only be some sort of sign language flickering between the three of them. Fascinated, she realized that it wasn't just the married-couple-telepathy at play, but an entire language of gestures, expressions, and hand signs.

Finally, Harry nodded, almost imperceptibly. "I'd prefer if this stayed between us, at least for the moment," she said, and with a flick of her hand, the dining room door closed softly. "It is nothing harmful, but somewhat unbelievable and not something I intend to make public knowledge."

"Do you want me to swear an oath?" Hermione offered, having spent most of last year quietly looking up ways Harry could have proven she hadn't entered herself in the tournament. Magical oaths had come up, but by the time she'd discovered them, it was nearly June and would have been fairly worthless. And while she'd tried to mention them to Mrs. Weasley, as a way Harry could prove that You-Know-Who was back, the woman had brushed her off, saying that the adults were handling it and she was too young.

With a startled look, Harry shook her head. "No, that won't be necessary. But I do ask that if you find yourself alone with the headmaster, you do your best not to look him in the eye."

Hermione blinked. "The headmaster knows Legilimancy?"

It was Harry's turn to blink. "You know about that?"

"It came up in my research when I was looking for ways to stop your weird dreams last year," Hermione said. "Madam Pince nearly revoked my library access when I asked about it. I couldn't find more than a passing reference to Legilimancy and Occlumancy in any book outside the Restricted Section, and Professor McGonagall refused to give me a pass for unspecified research. They're supposed to be mental arts dealing with the ability to access or safeguard thoughts and memories."

Harry looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then chuckled. "I should have known," she murmured, half to herself. "Yes, the headmaster is an accomplished legilimans. As is Professor Snape, though his greater strength is in Occlumancy."

"Because he's a spy," Hermione said, the pieces clicking. "That makes sense. Do you know them?"

Something about the question made Harry sad. No, Hermione thought, watching her friend's almost imperceptible reactions. A memory associated with this house and with Occlumancy or Legilimancy is painful. She probably wouldn't have caught it is she wasn't so practiced in deciphering her friend. It was harder now, Harry had changed some of her behaviors and gotten even better at controlling her emotional displays, but her core self hadn't truly changed that much, and Hermione had always been good at the fine details.

"I learned, at least a little," Harry said after a pause. "I do not think I could teach them. It is intensely personal, and the way I learned was not...ideal. There are books in the Black Library I could share with you, if you kept them a secret."

She almost foamed at the mouth. Weeks she'd been here, and nobody had mentioned a library.

The chuckle that slipped from Harry, and the fond expression, proved more than anything that her friend had remembered her through two centuries of separation. "It's currently hidden from anyone not the Head of the House of Black," she explained with a shrug. "And also, if I recall correctly, reasonably cursed so that non-family can't access it."

"Fair enough," Hermione said, already accustomed to the old families hoarding knowledge more preciously than they hoarded their gold. "So, should I wait to hear what you were going to tell me until I've read the books?"

"The headmaster, if he keeps to his past behavior, will not spend any time with you this summer," Harry said with a shrug. "It should be simple enough to keep this secret from him."

With a soft smile, she gestured at the man standing on her right, behind her chair. "Hermione Granger, may I make known to you Elessar of the House of Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor, High King of the Dúnedain, and his Queen, Arwen Undómiel of Imladris, Elrenniel."

Kings and Queens, Harry what life did you lead? Hermione wondered, taken aback. She'd never heard of Gondor, Arnor, or Imladris, let alone the Dúnedain, which meant that Harry's dimension hopping took her farther afield than an alternate timeline of their own universe. "It is an honor to meet you," she said, wondering if she should curtsy. "How should I address you?"

"Aragorn and Arwen Telcontar," Harry said. "Elessar was his regnal name," she added, clearly watching Hermione try and reconcile that with the formal introduction.

That at least made more sense. Then a thought occurred to her. "Did you change your name?"

For some reason, that made the Telcontars laugh.

"When didn't she?" the queen said with a smile.

"You bore three names in the year that I met you," added the king.

"Only two," Harry protested with a scowl.

"They added your epessë after the Pelennor," the king said mildly. "That brought us to three."

"I'm going to murder your brothers," Harry grumbled, glancing at the queen, who smiled serenely, clearly unconcerned by the threat against her family.

"Holly, Thuri, Ruinil," the king counted them off on his fingers. "That's three in less than six months. Then...Craba...do we count Cennaniel and Baurion as a single incidence, or separately, considering you were both independently?"

"We call her Bronach," the queen smiled at Hermione. "It is the name that she received from her adopted people, and the one she says she returns to most often."

"You can still call me Harry," her friend assured her with a quicksilver smile. "I don't intend to go public with the time-travel."

It didn't sit right with Hermione. Her parents had once mentioned a patient at their surgery who had adopted a new name, and how they had to make sure that all the records were updated and the staff instructed to use the new name. If Harry had been renamed as Bronach, Hermione would use that name, even if the rest of the Wizarding World refused to.

Her elbows already ached with the thought of how many times Ron would get it wrong, but she knew he'd come around. "If you don't mind," Hermione said, watching her friend's reaction carefully, "I think I'll use Bronach, in private like this."

There was pleasure in Har-Bronach's eyes as she nodded. "Whatever makes you most comfortable."

In the awkward pause, they heard Mrs. Weasley slipping up the stairs, clearly not noticing the missing portrait. Bronach glanced at the door. "You should go downstairs and eat," she urged gently. "Molly is...adapting to things slowly. She likely has prepared breakfast for you, but Kreacher has also laid out food for those not of the Weasley family. I will not be offended if you eat none of it, but the dishes on the kitchen table are Kreacher's."

Hermione suspected that there was far more to the story than that, but somehow Bronach had learned diplomacy. "Thank you," she said, the words feeling inadequate. "Um, I'll see you later?"

Bronach smiled. "We'll be around."

"So that was your Hermione," Aragorn said as the girl slipped out of the room. "She is as intelligent as you said she was."

"That was surprisingly fewer questions than I had anticipated," Bronach admitted, resting her face in her palm for a moment. "She picked up on...a lot. But I'm sure she'll be far more academic about it soon enough."

Idly, she took the dish that Aragorn handed her and hexed it. They were almost done ensuring that nobody could remove the flatware or silver from the cabinet without her express permission lest they suffer an increasingly severe punishment based on knowledge and intent. It was something she'd dreamed up during one of her many recoveries, still sulking over how the house had been stripped of its heirlooms and legacy decades later.

The Potter ancestral home, she'd learned from the Gringotts account manager stuck dealing with her after the war, had been decimated and the land cursed by the Death Eaters who had slaughtered her grandparents. Nothing that had been in the house had survived, and precious little had been kept in Gringotts. Grimmauld Place had been emptied of much of its contents, first by Molly and Mundungus, then by the Death Eaters who had ransacked the ground and first floors. By the time Bronach had fully moved in, there was nothing of the family left that hadn't been stored in the library or the study.

"Well, we're well equipped with table linen," Arwen reported, glancing at the piles she'd sorted. "Most of it is serviceable, but that pile is just ghastly."

She had to agree, taking in some of the patterns that were in that pile. "Kreacher, put this wherever we're going to store things for Gringotts," she told the house elf, indicating the pile. Some of it may have had traditional significance, but she wasn't going to waste useful storage space on it in the meantime. "At least none of it was hexed, cursed, or poisoned."

"What next?" Aragorn said, glancing around the room. "The table and chairs are serviceable enough, I suppose."

Bronach laughed, rapping her knuckles against the table. "That's polite for hulking and absolutely overcompensating for something."

Arwen's eyes sparkled with mirth. "The walnut is nice though."

"Absolutely," Bronach agreed, making a note on her list of things needing to be done to refurbish the dining room. "It can be transfigured into something less ostentatious though."

"New curtains, transfigured table," Aragorn said, glancing around the room. "The silver is appropriate, as is the flatware..."

"I refuse to dine in a room that resembles a stuffy tomb," Bronach said flatly, making another note. "The wallpaper and carpet need to go, and Kreacher has a point about the curtains."

"They are of a very fine weave," Arwen commented, lifting one to get a better look at it. "I have not seen the like before."

"Non-magical," Bronach said, amused at the cheek of some shopkeeper in years past. "Whoever sold them must have purchased material in the nonmagical world and used magic to construct them. Enterprising soul."

"You once had a dress," Arwen murmured, turning to her. "A dress of blue linen. You wore it in Dol Amroth in the summer."

"I bought the undyed cloth and dyed it," Bronach caught on after a moment. "It might take me a bit to obtain all of the materials I need, but I could certainly replicate it. There's linen enough for the entire room."

"White walls, if you are against a tomb," Aragorn mused, tapping the fading wallpaper. "Plaster, perhaps?"

"I'm sure we can find a nice pattern in predominately light colors," Bronach replied, making another note. Kreacher had brought back an initial stack of catalogs, waiting for them at the end of the table, and there would be more brought by owl before the day was out. "The rug though...we may need to wait until I get the curtains dyed, so we can submit that to a weaver I know." She grimaced. "If they're in business yet."

"How very...domestic," said a voice from the doorway, and chills ran up her spine.

"Don't pretend that you have any attachment to this house," she commented, proud that her voice was steady. "If you had your way, you'd burn it to the ground."

As she turned, she spotted Sirius in the doorway, leaning against it as if he hadn't a care in the world, scruffy, unshaven, and if her instincts were right, smelling of stale alcohol. He looked much as she remembered herself to appear, after a night in which she'd done her best to put a dent in the house's wine cellar.

Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself to do something about the cellar. She'd been mostly good ever since Ron, Hermione, Andromeda...those that she had left to call family had sat her down and told her that they loved her too much to see her drowning herself in the numbing haze of alcohol and whatever else she could find in her attempts to just stop.

Stop feeling. Stop living. Either one would have sufficed at that point.

"Going to bring me to heel?" he bristled, clearly sensing some of her observation. "Rein me in like a disobedient whelp?"

"Hardly," she drawled, leaning back against the table. "It's not worth the effort to teach an old dog new tricks."

Something eased in him. "So," he said, running his hand through his hair. "Head, eh? Hope you'll be better than the last one."

"Like that's hard?" Bronach felt the words tumble out before she could stop them. Thankfully, Sirius just snorted.

"You're a Potter, it's a low bar." He hesitated, and then said: "If I could ask for something..."

"I'm going to try and get you a proper trial," she assured him, scowling at the reminder of Ministry mismanagement. Crouch died too quickly for his callous disregard for justice, though it was tempered by Junior's poetic revenge. "Of course, that will have to depend on the rat."

"I was going to ask about Andy," Sirius said, clearly taken aback by her jumping straight to his situation. "Bring her back into the family?"

"Of course," she said, waving it away. "I've got to write to the goblins today, I'll add that in. And look up how to disown Bellatrix."

"Not Narcissa?"

Bronach sighed. She'd mulled it over, and the list of reasons why and why not were just about equal. "Not yet."

"Even though her husband showed up in June?" Sirius's eyes were stormy.

"They've not been charged with Death Eater activity since Lucius's acquittal in 1981," she reminded him. "If I disown her now, with no viable heir, there will be talk. Talk we can't afford right now. And Narcissa is not her husband, and while her son does an excellent impression of his father, he's still young enough to learn better."

Draco had never become her friend. He'd honestly not moved the needle far past enemy either. He had dropped the Death Eater cause, but hadn't changed much beyond it, supporting traditional pureblood political positions, either deliberately or unknowingly causing the same old conflicts to fester in their society. But right now he was fifteen, and she couldn't help but wonder if Narcissa had a safe place to flee to after the Department of Mysteries affair, would the witch have decamped to save her son?

Remembering the fear and desperation in the witch's voice as she had leaned over Bronach in the Forest, she couldn't help but suspect she might have.

"Leopards don't change their spots," Sirius scoffed.

"You did," she pointed out.

"Who're they?"

It was an obvious subject change, but she allowed it. "Aragorn Telcontar, and his wife Arwen," she introduced, gesturing to each in turn. "Aragorn, Arwen, this is Sirius Black."

"Her godfather," Arwen said with a brief smile. "I am glad to meet you."

"Mmmm," Sirius said, peering closely at them. "Yes, but no." Footsteps on the stairs made him turn, and he called: "Moony, get your arse in here. I want an opinion."

"Did you even notice that your mother's portrait is missing, or did you just not care?" Remus said, coming into the room. It made her heart ache, knowing that Teddy had never gotten to meet his father, never gotten to hear him and Sirius banter like this.

"Eh, she hasn't been screeching for the last half hour, so I figured it was fine." Sirius brushed off the concern, gesturing at Aragorn and Arwen. "Hey Moony, ask Harry who she brought home with her."

"I don't think we've been introduced yet," Remus glanced at Aragorn and Arwen, seeming to only notice them once they'd been pointed out, but she suspected he'd taken in the entire room as he was chastising Sirius. "I'm Remus Lupin, an old school friend of Harry's parents."

"Remus Lupin, may I introduce to you Aragorn Telcontar and his wife Arwen," Bronach said, knowing that she was being more formal than strictly necessary, but it was vastly more informal than introductions at court. "Remus was also my professor when I was thirteen."

Remus let out a put-upon sigh, exchanging a long suffering glance with Sirius.

"It's hereditary," he said, taking a seat at the table.

"Totally hereditary," Sirius said with a nod. "Did Mr. Potter ever tell you about meeting Mrs. Potter?"

"No, I missed that story," Remus said after a moment's thought. "Was it as bad as getting slapped on the first night of school because he declared his eternal devotion?"

"Went arse over teakettle in an attempt to help carry her books," Sirius's voice was filled with humor, and Bronach found herself listening intently, wanting to hear every detail. She knew few enough stories about her parents, let alone her grandparents.

"We really should have known better," groaned Remus. "The hair, the flying, and now the sap. I'd hoped she'd take after Lily." He glanced at Aragorn and Arwen, who had moved slightly closer to Bronach, all three of them confused at the direction this conversation had taken. "Which one, do you think?"

"Both," Sirius said, grinning at Bronach, though she could see wistful grief in his eyes. "James would be so proud."

"So," Remus said, addressing Aragorn, who raised an eyebrow at him. "Was it love at first sight, or what?"

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said politely, years of reigning clearly helping to keep his face clear of any indication that he was startled by their perceptiveness. Bronach knew that her face would be burning if she was any inch less disciplined in hiding her reactions, particularly relating to her partners. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Very good, very good," Sirius said, waving away the denial. "If you weren't talking to the Mauraders, that might have worked."

"Sirius, they're friends of mine who offered to come back and help deal with the Voldemort," Bronach kept her tone flat, not wanting to offer any encouragement. "They're also married."

"So?" Sirius shrugged. "Triad marriages are a thing. Rare, but a thing."

"There's no point in denying it," Remus told her gently. "Your father, James, he fell in love with Lily the moment he saw her. Six years of mooning after her until she finally agreed to give him the time of day. With front row seats to that, it's impossible not to recognize it in his daughter."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped. "There's nothing between us beyond friendship and hard-won loyalty." Aragorn snorted, clearly remembering their initial meeting.

Remus glanced between them, and held up his hand to stop whatever Sirius was about to say. "Is it because you're technically underage right now?" he asked, sympathetically. She wondered if he was considering the age difference between himself and Tonks right now, even though she was legal.

Clearly, they weren't going to let this go. Bronach looked to Arwen, who signaled her approval by straightening her sleeve, and then to Aragorn, who flashed the Ranger sign for your lead. With a sigh, she glared at her godfather and the father of her godchild. "Yes. It is."

"I don't particularly care," Sirius said nonchalantly. "Clearly you've time traveled back from a time when you were of age, so it doesn't matter. And you don't look like you did a month ago, so you're probably not physically fifteen anymore either. Was that what I felt this morning, you introducing them to the wardstone?"

She scowled at the memory. "Moody was here."

Remus sobered up quickly, glancing between them. "Who did he try to hex?"

Sirius looked positively feral. "Whatever it was had to be bad if the family magic reacted like that. Woke me up, felt like electricity crawling over my skin."

Bronach had felt that it was more akin to fire. "Them," she gritted out, fury rising up in her once more.

"And he isn't a smear on the hearth?" Sirius's knuckles were practically white from how hard he was gripping the table. "If you had the restraint to choke back the house, no wonder it spilled over to me."

Black blood within Black wards, she thought, feeling the man's connection to the house. He was more present than Remus, but not as present as Aragorn or Arwen.

The house remembered the child it had sheltered, but it also remembered the rejection of the man.

"Magically recognized bonds," Remus whistled softly. "You don't do anything by half, do you?"

"She vaulted a table," Aragorn commented idly, as if he were conversing about the weather. "I haven't seen her do that in a while."

"You haven't seen me start a bar fight in a while," Bronach muttered.

"I want to hear those stories," Sirius said, some of the fury clearing away.

"You were sparking," Arwen said, voice tinged with concern. "The last time there were reports of your magic manifesting visibly was..."

"Probably Carn Dûm, but nobody survived to talk about it," Bronach said after a moment of thought. "Maybe Minas Morgul. Officially? Pelennor."

"You slept for a month after the Pelennor," Aragorn eyed her as if he was considering shuffling her back to their bed. "And it was two months before you could get out of bed after Carn Dûm..."

"Different magics, different dimensions," she hurried to say as Sirius and Remus exchanged concerned glances. "I wasn't actively working magic, just keeping the house from striking him down where he stood. Plus, especially after sleeping, I'm acclimating well to the house and its ambient magic."

"All of this is very interesting and I want to hear all of it," Sirius said, looking torn. "But please: love at first sight, or was it a full seven years like your mother?"

When she looked at Aragorn and Arwen, neither of them were any help in diverting Sirius's request for gossip. In fact, they both looked intrigued.

"You implied I was a propositioning you, the first time we spoke," she reminded Aragorn.

Arwen covered her mouth to stifle laughter. "Bree?" she asked Aragorn, who nodded ruefully.

"The Prancing Pony," Bronach added. Clearly, he had the luck of many Rangers stopping at the inn. Without fail, one of the town's unattached women usually attempted to bed them, and succeeded often enough that it encouraged more attempts.

"If I can say something in my defense," Aragorn said pointedly, "I had no idea that there was anyone stationed in Bree." He paused for a moment, and added. "I also had no idea that Thuri was a woman. Or still alive."

"So if he thought she was..." Sirius broke down laughing. "What about you?" he asked Arwen.

"I did not meet her for another eleven years or so," Arwen said serenely. A thought seemed to occur to her. "When you were presented at Annúminas, was it you or Kreacher who was Baurion?"

"Me," Bronach rubbed at her forehead, wondering if she could get stress lines this early in life. "Kreacher was Cennaniel, since we figured nobody would ask much of Cennaniel that day."

"She was cross-dressing as a man," Arwen told Sirius and Remus, who looked startled for a moment, and then broke down laughing.

"Still though," Sirius asked, regaining control. "I want to know who she takes after."

"Dunharrow," Bronach muttered, wondering if it would be immature to bury her face in her hands and hope they all stopped asking questions.

"The muster at Dunharrow, or some other visit to Dunharrow?" Aragorn asked, sounding as if he suspected he knew the answer.

"Did you often go to Dunharrow with me?" she retorted. "I've only been twice, once to disable the Doors of the Dead, and once for the muster. I could not sleep that night, knowing the road ahead, and in my wandering, I crossed paths with Éowyn."

"Who I had just rejected," Aragorn said, the final pieces clearly filling in for him. Then, he looked startled. "That was after the Hornburg. You'd been avoiding me..."

"Look, I never claimed to be sensible in my pining," Bronach snapped. "You'd clearly forgotten that I wasn't a man, since you easily offered to share your bed with me, and by that point in time I was wholly aware of your epic romance where there was no place for me!" With a gesture, she included Arwen in the last statement. "Hence, once I knew that there was a future for any of us, I took myself off to a place where I could be useful and get over what I would never see."

"Clearly, you didn't," Remus said dryly. "I can't believe you lasted eleven years. James couldn't last ten days."

"James couldn't last ten minutes," Sirius corrected.

"It's worse," Arwen murmured, eyes sparkling with mischief and Bronach dropped her head into her hands, wondering why she hadn't just left the room ten minutes ago. "It took her eleven years to stop hiding from us, and then another seven before you would allow us to claim you as our own."

"I should have left when Daervunn told me what he needed," she grumbled as Sirius and Remus laughed. "Ten years of careful work and planning, and then he has to go and ruin it all."

"You were the best for the assignment," Aragorn grasped Arwen's hand. "I do not know what we would have done, had you not been at Rushingdale that night."

"Arwen wouldn't have been in danger if not for me," Bronach pointed out. "Daervunn's people in the south practically wrapped everything up without my assistance, and it was the presumption of a relationship between us that inspired the attack at Rushingdale."

"And you think you would have been better placed on the hunt, instead of with Arwen?" Aragorn said. It was an old debate between them, and she truly couldn't argue in good faith anymore. In the end, Daervunn's meddling had brought her to her partners, and she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

"He still ruined my exit strategy," she muttered half-heartedly. "To the day he died, he never said why he told you where I was."

"I refused to order an end to searching Nenuial for you," Aragorn's eyes were solemn.

She looked at him in shock. "That was what made him tell you? I was possibly stabbed, swept over a waterfall, and out into the lake! What mortal would have survived that?"

"We could not bear to think of you trapped beneath the waters," Arwen's hand settled on her shoulder. "Not with your condition."

"You were pregnant?" Sirius asked, clearly torn between being upset about her description of her injuries and absolutely dumbfounded by the idea that she might have lost a child.

"No." All three of them said emphatically.

"That was...illuminating and yet makes no sense," Remus muttered.

"I could not be," Bronach said with a shrug. "Physically impossible."

"Pureblood curse?" Sirius asked quietly.

"I was cursed during the war, and one of the effects was barrenness," she explained. "That damage should be fully healed now, so children might be an option, sometime in the future."

"Who cast it?" Remus said, reaching out to clamp down on Sirius's shoulder. "None of the Death Eaters would have dared throw something like that around, just in case it hit one of theirs."

"I handled a set of cursed objects," she said vaguely. "I know better now, and there's very little chance of anyone else coming across the entire set."

"How can you be so sure?" Sirius challenged.

"Because I already have one of them, and I'm not going to share it," she snapped. "It's harmless on its own, and certainly can't cause infertility. If it did, I wouldn't be here."

Remus seemed to be thinking something over, reaching a conclusion he didn't seem to like.

"Do you know if there's a copy of Nature's Nobility in the house?" he asked Sirius and Bronach.

"Remus no," she warned.

"Yeah, there should be," Sirius said, confused. "Drawing room, I think."

"Not for long," Bronach muttered, already up an out of her chair.

Remus had the advantage, being closer to the door, but she stepped lightly up onto her chair and then onto the table, leaping down and gaining a few seconds with the distance she covered. But Remus was already out in the entry, racing up the stairs.

She tried to remember where the damned book would be in the drawing room, but it hadn't been there when she'd inherited the house. Kreacher had secreted it away in his cupboard, but she didn't know when that had happened. Hopefully it had already happened, but knowing her luck...

Bursting into the drawing room, she tried to summon the book out of Remus's hands, but he dodged the spell, rifling through pages until he got towards the back. Desperate, she lunged for him, sweeping him off his feet with a swift kick and sending them both grappling to the ground.

They rolled around on the carpet for a moment, clouds of choking dust making it hard to breathe, and then Remus managed to pin her in place, the book falling from his hands as they pulled her wrists above her head so she couldn't scratch at him. She drove her knee upwards, almost striking her target, but he shifted, using his weight to press her legs down into the carpet. There was amber in his eyes as they locked with hers, and she realized that the full moon was a week away, and Remus's strength would be growing.

"What the hell?" Sirius said from the vicinity of the doorway. "Why do you two look like a pair of muggle wrestlers?"

"Do me a favor, Pads," Remus said as Bronach tried to squirm out of his hold. She'd been very good at grappling, but his extra strength, and the fact that she didn't actually want to hurt him made it difficult to worm free. "Look up Peverell for me."

Footsteps, and Sirius bent down to pick up the book. Pages rustled, and Sirius announced: "Found 'em. Who're you looking for?"

"Did one of them marry a Potter?"

"Don't," Bronach muttered, glaring up at Remus. "Really, you don't want to ask these questions."

"Yeah," Sirius said before Remus could reply. "Iolanthe Peverall. Married Hardwin Potter."

"Any relation to Ignotus Peverell?" Remus tightened his grip as she wriggled.

"Grandkid." Sirius sounded thoughtful. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Ignotus and his brothers," Remus grunted as Bronach heaved up and managed to flip them. "Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus. Three brothers."

"Wait," Sirius said. "You were looking into this during the war. We made that side trip to the graveyard in Godric's Hollow after visiting James and Lily. You wanted to see..."

"The sign of the Deathly Hollows on Ignotus's grave," Remus said as Bronach got to her feet. "James laughed it off, but his cloak was old. Too old to be a standard invisibility cloak."

"You were such a nutter," Sirius said, still holding the book. "I mean, did you really think that James's cloak was the cloak? Death's Cloak?"

"An Invisibility Cloak that gets passed down through at least three generations without showing a hint of damage, even through two wars?" Remus sat up from where he'd landed on the dusty carpet. "It certainly wasn't a normal one."

Chapter Text

Footsteps in the entry below interrupted them, and Bronach couldn't be more grateful.

She hadn't wanted to explain anything about the Hallows, hadn't want to discuss anything about the war and the deaths that had come with it. Even Molly's wary presence was welcome, and she turned to face the redheaded witch. "Is there something you needed me for?"

"The children have been working on making this place livable," the woman who at one point had practically been her surrogate mother said stiffly. "I had intended for them to begin work on the dining room this morning, but it appears that you have already been there."

"It will be fully functional by supper this evening," Bronach said. "Not refurbished, but functional for mealtimes. I intend to work on the drawing room for most of today, before I raise the house's wards at sundown."

Sirius startled, letting Nature's Nobility close. "The house's wards?" he repeated, looking vaguely impressed.

"The war wards," she confirmed, wondering what he had heard of them.

"That will shred the fidelius," he warned, though he didn't seem as distraught about the idea as she'd expected him to be. "If you didn't know."

"I know," she rolled her eyes. "The house doesn't want it here when the existing wards are far superior."

Remus and Molly stared at her, but she'd startled a laugh out of Sirius. Clearly he knew at least a little about the house's wards, and she wondered if they were always communicative with those that held them, or if she was just special.

Freak echoed in her ears, and she shook it off. Petunia's shrewish insults were behind her now.

"The headmaster was very specific," Molly began, but Bronach shrugged.

"This isn't the headmaster's house," she replied as politely as she could manage. "The Black wards, raised to war footing, are nearly the equal of Hogwarts, or Gringotts."

Hogwarts fell, a nasty voice in her head whispered to her, and she couldn't help but be glad that the horcrux in her body had been the payment the Valar had taken in exchange for her return. She was enough of a bad influence to create negative self-talk without its help.

"We'll see," Molly said, and bustled off, leaving them in the drawing room.

Taking a deep breath, Bronach glanced around, finding the same faded, ugly furnishings that had been in the house the day she'd inherited it. Ugly curtains full of doxies covered the large windows, cursed objects filled the ornate cabinets on either side of the fireplace, and the furniture was faded, ostentatious, and uncomfortable.

"Curtains first," she murmured to herself, glancing around to see if Kreacher had followed them upstairs. "Kreacher?"

The house elf appeared next to the fireplace, glancing at the cabinets. "Is it time?" he asked, and she found her eyes drawn to the surprisingly subtle locket, half-hidden behind the Order of Merlin.

How she'd forgotten about the horcrux, she really didn't know. But now that she was aware of it, it was like an infected wound in the house's wards, bleeding malice and hatred that tainted everything around them. Perhaps it was Kreacher's magic, still muffling it, still hiding it?

"Yes," she swallowed hard. "Let's do this."

She drew open the cabinet doors, considering what the best option was. The ritual room was most contained, but she'd have to carry it through the kitchen, and she didn't want to taint it with the horcrux. Outside the house wasn't an option, since she'd have to go quite a distance to do so safely, and that was more hassle than she wanted to deal with.

"Kreacher, I would like wards around myself and the fireplace that no living thing, magical or otherwise, or magic could cross," she instructed, wrapping the chain around her hand. Thankfully, the chain itself hadn't been cursed, but she could feel its magic reaching out to feel for weaknesses.

He nodded, and wards surrounded her, cutting her off from everything, including her bonds with the house elf, the house, and her partners. Sirius and Remus were saying something, but Kreacher's wards held true, and Aragorn moved to intercept them, putting his hand on Remus's shoulder before Bronach turned and studied the empty grate before her.

Before, she wouldn't have dared attempt this alone, and especially without her wand, but Arda had taught her control in a way she couldn't have ever fathomed.

"Burn," she whispered as she let the chain slip through her hand into the grate, remembering the wild fury of the flames in the Room of Requirement, letting her hate and fury feed it until a flame leaped from her fingers to circle around the locket resting in the iron grate. She held it back, only allowing it to feed on the locket, and her arms ached as if she was holding back a warhorse that wanted to run. But she was practiced and had tamed many a fractious colt, and the fire's will had nothing upon hers.

In the grate, the locket melted and Tom Riddle's soul shard screamed in rage and defiance before vanishing into nothingness.

Wand movements. Incantations. Intent. The three components of any spell that they taught in Hogwarts. If you made it through your OWLs, you were told that the spoken incantation was unnecessary if you had the appropriate intent.

They'd forgotten to teach that wand movements were only another optional component.

Intent was the key factor, and gestures could anchor wandless casting. So as the last drops of molten gold dripped through the grate to puddle on the bare stones, she drew back the flame until it was no larger than a candle's flame, cupped in her hands. Bronach let go of the fury that had filled her and pressed her palms together, stifling the flame.

Beyond the wardline, Kreacher met her eyes with a triumphant and grieving smile, Regulus avenged once more. Another gesture, and the molten gold vanished, leaving the house no longer burdened with the horcrux's malice.

The wards came down and Grimmauld Place crashed over her like a breaking wave, but she fixed herself in place until the sensation subsided. Already she could feel a change in the house, a lightness created from the absence of the horcrux's hatred.

"Who taught you that?" Sirius asked, wide-eyed. He glanced at Remus, who looked equally taken aback.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Bronach said dryly as Arwen swept over, her lips pinched into a firm line.

She might have forgotten to warn her partners about how she'd be getting rid of horcruxes. At least the first few. Gryffindor's sword, or just a basilisk fang, would manage the last two, but Bronach hadn't mentioned the extremely dangerous cursed fire she'd be using for the ones she intended to collect over the summer.

"Hands," her partner demanded softly, and Bronach obediently held them out. To her surprise, they were red and angry in a way that suggested burns. "This is not good."

"Non-magical healing," Bronach murmured when it looked as if Aragorn was going to reach for them. "They'll heal faster without magical interference."

"Very well then," Arwen's jaw was set. "Kreacher, if you would, the healer's kit from my things?"

In a moment, the house elf was back, and Arwen bullied Bronach into an armchair with a Look. Aragorn peered over her shoulder and winced. "If you want them to heal without magic, I probably shouldn't touch them," he said apologetically. "Not right away at least. I've an itch that I don't know if I can direct properly."

Glancing at them, she wondered how they could explore his previous ability to heal, particularly the Black Breath, without jeopardizing anyone's health or giving their secrets away. He seemed to read some of this in her eyes, because he shook his head quellingly. "No, Bronach, we will not practice on your mishaps."

"You will not create any deliberately either," Arwen said, tone laced with warning, as she bound Bronach's hands with aloe-soaked bandages. "I refuse."

"What's going on?" a voice demanded from the doorway, and Bronach looked away from her partners to find the Weasley children and Hermione peering at her.

"Who're you?" Ron demanded, taking in the scene. "Aren't Order members supposed to stay in the kitchen?"

"Ron, that's Harry," she heard Hermione mutter, and the muffled yelp suggested that there had been at least one elbow thrown.

"No it isn't," he protested. "Harry doesn't wear dresses."

If it weren't for Arwen's hold on her hands, Bronach would have let her head drop into them. As it was, Aragorn smirked at her, and she heard Arwen snort in a very unladylike fashion.

"I do now," she said, managing to find words in a reasonably acceptable tone. "And I wore one for Yule Ball, remember?"

"And very pretty you were," Fred said promptly, sliding into the room with a grin that made her heart ache. "Very pretty indeed," his twin responded, the two of them moving in mirrored patterns, and she couldn't help but recall how lost George had been in those early years, half of a whole, always a missing piece.

"I saw the pictures," Remus said, and Sirius nodded. "She was very pretty."

"Can I see these pictures?" Arwen murmured from where she was bent over Bronach's hands, tying off the bandages.

"Later," Bronach muttered, then glanced at her friends. "Yes, it's me. I had a bit of a magical mishap so I'm a bit different now."

"Older," Ginny said, clearly having decided that everything was safe and throwing herself on one of the settees. "And with new friends?"

"Different friends," Bronach corrected. "Aragorn and Arwen Telcontar, please meet Fred and George Weasley, their younger brother Ron, and their sister Ginny."

Aragorn nodded politely, while the teenagers waved awkwardly. Ron glanced at Hermione, clearly realizing that she'd been left out.

"They met her earlier." Eruption forestalled, she glanced about, unsure of what smalltalk she could manage. "Kreacher, if you could vanish those curtains, doxies and all, I'd appreciate it."

With a snap, the offending curtains were gone, and light struggled through the dusty panes. She glanced about, confirming that the room was still hideous and also full of people she didn't know how to deal with, and decided once again that avoidance was the best policy. "Kreacher, if you could find some empty crates, we'll move the cabinet contents into the vaults for now."

"You're acting rather high and mighty," George teased, taking a seat next to Ginny. "I thought this was Sirius's house."

"Magic thought otherwise," Sirius said with a half-hearted scowl. "She's magically the Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black." As an afterthought, he added: "And she's welcome to this junk heap."

The Weasleys stared at her.

Bronach ignored them and glanced between the cabinets and her hands. Arwen seemed to catch some of her thoughts. "No," she said firmly, rising and putting her hands on her hips.

"I didn't do anything."

"You were thinking of doing something," Aragorn raised his eyebrow at her. "You will not put yourself at risk for harm for something as trivial as moving objects."

She frowned. "I'm not putting myself at risk for harm."

"Everything in this house is cursed," Arwen pointed out dryly, before turning to Kreacher, who had just appeared with the crates she'd requested. "She's thinking of packing the items by hand."

The house elf looked scandalized and horrified. "Kreacher be doing," he said firmly, punctuating his words with a snap of his fingers that sent the cabinets contents marching off their shelves and into the crates.

Realizing that they were probably right, if irritatingly so, Bronach glanced around at the rest of the room. "Carpet has to go," she murmured, scuffing her feet and causing a cloud of dust to rise up. It was worn enough anyways that it would have needed replacing. "We're going to spend a pretty penny on replacing all of them."

"You'll manage," Sirius said, tearing his astonished gaze away from Kreacher. "You could redo the house a dozen times, top to bottom, and never manage to drain the vaults."

Ron shifted uneasily, and she remembered how insecure this Ron was around displays of wealth. There wasn't anything she could do: he wouldn't take charity, his parents wouldn't take charity...

"George," she said, and then remembered that she could add. "Fred."

"Yes, m'lady?" they chorused, clearly deciding to rub in her title.

"Never again," she pointed at first George, then Fred. "I'm making that a condition."

"A condition of what?" Fred asked, exchanging a quick glance with George.

"Our business agreement," she said, and watched their eyes light up. Pointing at the settee across from her, Bronach glanced at the rest of the occupants of the room. "Anyone who's going to tell Molly about this had better leave now."

Hermione raised her eyebrow, not looking as torn as Bronach had thought she'd be at the thought of keeping secrets from the adults. Ron just looked vaguely confused, while Ginny seemed thoughtful. Sirius seemed darkly amused at getting to know a secret that Molly didn't, and Remus seemed vaguely resigned.

Nobody left though, so she willed the door shut with pressure on the house. It swung silently, not alerting anyone else in residence, and she activated an old ward on the stairs that would warn her if anyone was approaching.

Aragorn looked at her. "Business investments?" he asked in Westron.

"George was very successful, for a business started with a tiny budget in the middle of a war," she said, watching his and Arwen's reaction. "A month ago, they would have received enough to purchase a significant number of ponies, if we're holding costs equivalent to Eriador. I want to see how far they can go, and possibly impose some safety regulations." She remembered all too well the silent warfare between Hermione and the twins over product testing in the common room that was awaiting them.

"You know best," Arwen replied in Westron as well. "We will follow your lead."

"Don't lead us astray," Aragorn teased.

"I have a proposition for you, of the business variety." Switching back to English, she met Fred and George's eyes squarely. "Reasonable funding for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes product development, including the use of a property in Diagon Alley that will be set up on a rent-to-own plan, in exchange for twenty-five percent of net profits after the fifth year of operations from the premise, right to reject products that do not meet my standards, and ability to impose certain standards on development and testing. Oh, and my name is not mentioned in connection with the business, nor do you refer to me by any title ever again unless publicly required."

The twins exchanged a long look. "And what products would you be rejecting?" Fred asked suspiciously.

"Love potions," Bronach said flatly. "I find them abhorrent, even if they only cause mild infatuation. How are they different from the imperious?"

Another long look, and George nodded. "Fair enough. Standards on testing?"

"I don't care what you test on yourselves, but any outside testers must be reasonably compensated and under a healer's supervision if it's an ingested product," she said. It was what George ended up doing, a few years after the war, and it had worked out pretty well. She thought she remembered the name of the healer they'd ended up contracting with, and could possibly pass it along to the pair.

In the background, Hermione's eyes widened, and she nodded furiously. "That saves you from a lot of legal hassle," she told the twins seriously. "Nobody can take you to court if you can show that you've properly tested everything."

Yet another look, and Fred leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Twenty-five is a big percent," he said slowly. "Even net."

"Future buybacks wouldn't be out of the question." She'd give them that. By setting it to net, instead of gross, the twins would certainly be able to cover expenses, since she was funding research and development. They'd only be responsible for production, marketing, staffing, and packaging.

George was the next to speak. "I think we may have a deal," he said, glancing at his twin, who nodded. "Of course, we'd want to review the contract."

"It may take a few days to have drawn up, but I'll have it to you before September first."

Sirius's eyes sparkled with mischief. "The dead will be turning in their graves," he muttered gleefully. "Please tell me this is a joke shop?"

"Who do you take us for, good sir?" Fred cried. "Percy?"

George pretended to faint, as if he'd taken a mortal wound to the chest. Bronach hoped her flinch wasn't noticed.

They looked too similar now, and for a moment she saw Fred, still and pale on the stones of the castle floor.

"Weasley Wizarding Wheezes is only the newest shop catering to Wizarding Britain's under-appreciated tricksters," Fred informed Sirius solemnly, and Bronach realized that Remus was drawing closer, clearly interested. "We plan to cater to all types, from classics like fake wands that turn into rubber chickens, to a range of sweets that allow you to skive off class."

"Excellent," Sirius sat down on the only unoccupied settee in the room, rubbing his hands together. "Let me know if you're hiring, so long as you don't mind a stint in Azkaban on my resume. I used to be pretty good at that shit. This one time, I got the drop on Snivvly..."

"Don't call him that," she found herself hissing, on her feet before she realized what she was doing. Sirius was looking up at her, face confused, mirth fading from his eyes, but all she could see was a sunny June afternoon, a pair of boys taunting another for no better reason...

Because he exists.

"Why are you sticking up for him?" Sirius asked, bewildered. "He's a greasy git, can't be arsed to say a single decent thing about anyone who isn't a Death Eater..."

"He's an arse, but every time he sets foot in a Death Eater meeting he's taking his life into his hands," she spat at him. "Try to set aside your....your petty, schoolboy rivalry for once in your life and just leave him alone."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sirius blurted out. "He probably celebrated when he heard your dad was killed."

"I would've," she found slipping past her lips, burning on her tongue, "if I had learned that the man who tormented me for seven years without reason was gone."

"What are you talking about?" Sirius snapped, clearly defensive. "It was just a bunch of jokes. And he started it."

"You and my dad started it," she retorted. "On the bloody train, before any of you were even sorted, so don't give me any of that Slytherin bullshit excuses."

"You could just tell he was up to his ears in dark magic, even then!"

"So were you!" she shouted back, gesturing at the house. "And even if he was, you tried to feed him to a werewolf, so I don't think you have any high ground left to stand on."

Taking a deep breath, Bronach smoothed down her skirt, trying to control herself. It had been a long time since she'd slipped this badly. "I don't care what you say about him in the privacy of your own rooms, but Severus Snape, while still an arse, at the very least deserves respect for acting as the Order's only spy among the Death Eaters."

Feeling overwhelmed, she glanced around, finding that the room's occupants were staring at her in disbelief. Remus, she was surprised to note, was the only one who had the grace to look somewhat remorseful.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured, the door swinging open with a thought, "I have a contract to write up."

Aragorn had the courtesy to allow her an hour to regain control before seeking her out. She'd retreated to the library, burning out her excess energy by literally burning away the curses on the books that prevented those who were invited to use the library from using it safely. It wasn't the recommended way to break curses, but Bill had told her that if they had energy to spare, and the curses were your garden-variety preventatives, there was no point in developing or using an extremely specific counter when you could just overload the spell-matrix and thwart the curse that way.

The wards on the door alerted her to his presence, and as she turned she was glad that the house recognized him as hers. She'd done away with the ward that would have had nasty consequences for anyone with a nonmagical parent who entered without express permission, but left the one that prevented non-family from entering. She didn't want to deal with most of the house's occupants.

"Don't touch anything that isn't on this bookshelf," she said, pointing to the one she'd already ruthlessly stripped of any protections not intent on preserving and maintaining the books over the years. "The copies I brought with me had their curses broken already, but I've got to work on doing these."

"Fair enough," Aragorn said. "Are you well?"

"Just fine," she said, not wanting to get into it, even with him. Not when she was just starting to get her emotions under control.

"I haven't seen you slip this much since Daervunn died, after we'd lost Eowyn and Faramir the year before." He paused, and then asked: "Is it because you feel as if you have lost your friends? Hermione, at the least, does not seem to mind."

She considered what she could say. "I am a ghost in a house of ghosts, yet all who dwell here, live. I alone recall what had been, and in the face of the living it feels as if it is a heavy burden."

"How many?"

The question startled a laugh out of her. "Do I measure in lives lost, or in lives changed?" she asked bitterly. "The absence of the dead is not something that the living forget."

"Three in the room," Arwen's voice said softly. "Sirius and Remus, but also the twin you called Fred."

"And George was never the same," Bronach rested her hand on a heavy tome of dusty wizarding law. "None of them were. Percy had reunited with his family, only to keep his distance due to grief."

Consider this my resignation!

Percy, you actually made a joke!

"It seemed as if George had lost a limb. Some of his spark went out for good. Molly...it took her years to stop setting the table for him."

When they had returned to the Burrow, they had found his clock hand lying on the floor below. It was carefully placed next to the clock and dusted every day.

"How do you tell a young boy that you, his godmother, never knew his parents either?"

Teddy had been disappointed, only half-consoled by Andromeda's ability to tell stories of Tonks's childhood, always aware of the gap where stories of Remus should be. She could tell him of how he had taught a wobbly thirteen year old how to cast a Patronus, how he had passed out chocolate after a Dementor attack, how he had been the best DADA professor she'd had, but that hardly seemed enough to encompass the man Remus had been.

"What do you do, when there is no body to bury? When the world does not mourn a man they had considered to be a fanatic, and a murderer?"

Sirius had fallen through the Veil, there was nothing left of him but her memory of his laughter. The Ministry hadn't exonerated him until after the war had ended, forced by Hermione, Ron, and her own memories being displayed before the entire Wizengamot. To most of the world, he had died in 1981, and it just took some time for Death to catch up with him.

Strong arms wrapped around her, and she leaned into the support Aragorn offered, burying her face in his chest. Bronach had thought she'd been prepared for this, for the dual balance of having everyone back yet still having lost everyone she remembered, but the reality of it was a staggering weight on her shoulders.

"You were loved by them, and you will be again," Arwen said, and Bronach felt her brush a kiss across the top of her head. "Even if they are not who you remember them to be."

"And even if you are not, you are loved by us," Aragorn continued. "In a few short years, there will be no more need to hide. Nothing to keep us separated."

She shifted so she could rest her cheek against his chest, feeling him shift to lean against the bookcase behind them. The magic writhed for a moment, but she yanked at it, dispelling the protections that threatened him. Arwen's arms encircled them both, wrapping her in what she could only describe as a warm cocoon of gentleness.

"Hush now," she heard Arwen murmur. "You are safe."

That evening, the wards warned her of a new presence in the house.

"Kreacher," she murmured, as Aragorn and Arwen glanced up from the books they had found in the Black Library as she had purged the threatening charms unless the material was such that the barrier was needed.

Thankfully, those were mostly on the second floor.

"He is here," Kreacher reported as he appeared, scowling mightily. "What does Mistress want?"

"A tea tray," she said, mind whirling. The thought of leaving the library made her slightly weak at the knees, but she knew that this confrontation needed to happen on her terms. "The silver, with the family crest."

"Where?" Aragorn asked, glancing about the dusty library.

"The sitting room," Arwen said immediately, glancing at her. "Can you change it slightly?"

"Transfigure the settees, the wallpaper," Bronach said, putting together the pieces. "Yes." She had an idea of how she would decorate it, a nod towards what she eventually planned to turn the room into.

"Go with her," Arwen ordered Aragorn, as easily as she had ordered the Council about during one of Aragorn's Harad campaigns. "I will follow after."

They separated, Arwen heading down the stairs towards the kitchen, and Bronach leading Aragorn across the landing. There wasn't much time, so she focused on the basics. Conjured curtains of gray silk at the windows, vanishing the offending rug. With a wave of her hand, the wallpaper rippled into a gray and gold pinstripe, the gold so thin you could hardly see it unless you were close. As she felt the alert ward on the stairs trip, she furniture transfigured the furniture upholstery to match, freshening the wooden arms and legs. Kreacher had already rid the room of dust and grime, and it was a blank slate, ready to be restored.

Whisking into her seat, she composed herself, noting how Aragorn had settled himself into the window seat where he could watch the whole room, clearly intending to give off the impression that he was absorbed in the book he had brought with him. "Hands," he warned, and she glared at the bandages until they turned flesh-colored, enough so that nobody would notice if they did not know to look.

Dumbledore swept in, presenting himself as composed, but she could tell that he was disconcerted. She wondered what it was: the house, or whatever report Molly had given him.

"Headmaster," she murmured, remaining seated. "Please, take a seat. I've arranged for tea."

"My dear girl," he said, clearly choosing to act as the kindly grandfather she had thought him to be, in her first few years. After the war, she hadn't quite known what to think of him, of his association with Grindelwald, of the way that he could have changed so many things if he hadn't been intent on sending her to her death... "I must say how glad I am that you were not harmed yesterday evening."

"I am very fortunate to know a method to repel dementors," she replied blandly.

"Remus taught you that, yes." He stroked his beard. "One of my best students, if I do say so. You are another, if I might be so bold. Not many can master a spell so complex as a patronus."

"I have found that it is not the skill of the caster, but the strength of their will that determines success with the charm." She could still remember the DA's last meeting, filled with the silvery patroni that nearly the entire group had been able to cast. "But your words are kind."

Arwen entered silently through the door, bearing the tea tray that Bronach had asked Kreacher to prepare. Unobtrusively, she placed it on the side table nearest Bronach, and set about preparing a cup to Bronach's preferences.

Accepting it, Bronach thought she had a glimpse of Arwen's plan. Turning to the headmaster, she smiled as politely as she could. "How do you take your tea, Headmaster?"

"Three sugars, if it is no trouble," he replied, and she watched him from over the rim of her teacup, saw him note that Arwen did not move to prepare his cup until Bronach had nodded, the crest on the silver teapot, and the delicate china cups that Kreacher had paired with the set.

"I was incredibly disappointed to hear that you had left the safety of your home," he said, sipping at his tea. "Did you not receive the advisements from Sirius and Arthur Weasley?"

"My home is this house, Headmaster," Bronach raised an eyebrow. "Did Sirius not inform you that it is not he who is the Head of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black?"

If Sirius hadn't, she was certain any of the others she had spoken with in the last twenty-four hours would have.

"My dear girl," Dumbledore's face morphed from grandfatherly disapproval to concerned alarm. "I know you and your aunt and uncle have had your differences over the years, but surely they pale in the face of your relationship?"

"Our relationship merely enhances our differences." Bronach was proud of her steady hand as she lifted her cup once more. "Now that I have taken my place in the Black's London Seat as it's Head, there is no need for me to return to Privet Drive during the summer holidays. I will be quite safe here, even without the sacrificial blood wards."

"That is quite a burden for one so young as you," Dumbledore looked sorrowful, and she bit back the snide comment about being old enough to be pitted against Riddle. "To be a Head of House at your age? It is something I wished to spare you. Surely Sirius can take up the mantle until you are quite ready?"

"The Head of the House of Black can only be removed by their death, Headmaster. It is well known. So well known that I find myself intrigued by your advocacy that Sirius takes over for me." She caught the flash of irritation and panic in his eyes. "And Sirius is technically an escaped prisoner, and therefore ineligible on all sides to act as my Regent. As a Regent must bear Black blood, and be recognized by the Head, my list of options grow thin."

Feeling cheeky, she pretended to consider. "I believe that the only suitable member of the House of Black is Madame Malfoy. Would you advise me to appoint her as my Regent?"

She relished the brief moment of horror. "My dear, I only have your best interests in mind."

"I understand Headmaster, but blood and Magic have deemed my ascension not only proper, but necessary, and who are we to gainsay them?" She reached over to set her teacup aside, but Arwen was already there, whisking it away. "You mentioned the blood wards, and that reminds me. The Fidelius on this house will be removed."

"While I understand your hesitation, given the last time you were supposed to be safeguarded by the charm, I must insist that it remain." The headmaster was trying to sound sympathetic, but she had clearly rattled him enough that she mostly heard his firm command. "I myself am the Secret Keeper, do you not trust me?"

"I do not fear betrayal," she said, and it was true. She was no longer afraid of it, merely accepting it as inevitable from those whom she did not trust fully. The headmaster had too many plots of his own for him to be trusted with her wellbeing. "However, this house is host to ancient wards. It is not the house's location that your secret protects, but the presence of the Order within its walls. At dawn tomorrow, I raise the war wards on this house, and all other spells not linked to the house will be destroyed."

"You cannot do that," Dumbledore said tightly. "It is necessary for our safety."

Our safety. The Order's safety. "The paranoia of the House of Black is legendary, Headmaster," Bronach said coolly. "All one must do to receive the protection of the wards, should they not be family, is to ask Sanctuary."

"That is a very old custom."

"But no less powerful for being old," she said placidly. "I raise the wards at dawn, Headmaster. It is your choice whether or not you wish to ask for Sanctuary on the Order's behalf."

"Very well," he said, seeming to concede, but she suspected he was reshuffling plans. "But I must insist that you do not leave the protection of this house."

"The House of Black offers the Order of the Phoenix Sanctuary within the walls of the ancestral London property while Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters remain threats to the world," Bronach murmured, feeling the magic swirl about her, binding both of them to the rules of Sanctuary. It bound her to their shelter and wellbeing, while preventing them from harming her.

Given the notable temper of the family, she suspected that the Black war wards took a very broad definition of harm.

"And no, headmaster," she said, rising to her feet. "I will not agree to remain within these four walls. There is, at the very least, a hearing that I am summoned to attend, business to conduct, and shopping for the upcoming term to arrange. As you can see, I am very busy, and unfortunately must allow you to see yourself out now."

Arwen slipped in and rescued the teacup Dumbledore had set aside earlier in their conversation, tidying the tea tray and preparing to return it to the kitchen. Dumbledore stood as well, clearly put out by her open defiance. "The Order will arrange for the purchase of your supplies. Whatever business you may have surely can wait until Voldemort is removed from this world."

She couldn't help it, a frown slipped through her mask. "Using that name within this house voids the offered Sanctuary," Bronach said, staring down the headmaster. "While I recall that fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself, I choose a reasonable compromise for the safety of those I protect. The Taboo Curse was a legitimate threat, and those who use the self-created title of the Dark Lord threaten the safety of those within these wards. You have had this single warning. I will not issue another."

He stepped towards her, but Aragorn smoothly slid between them. "I believe Miss Potter has informed you that this meeting is at an end," he said, in the same voice that he had sentenced a Gondorian noblewoman to life imprisonment for her attempts to have Arwen and the children assassinated. "Do you need assistance leaving this house?"

"Harry, my dear girl," Dumbledore said, glaring at Aragorn. "We must discuss these strangers whom you have brought into the house..."

"They are far less strange to me than you are," she said, lifting her shoulder as she turned away. "My trust in them is absolute. They are not part of the Order, and are not subject to your rules. As Head of the House of Black, they are welcome within these walls for as long as they live."

Dumbledore looked between her and Aragorn, mouth tightening, but said nothing further, sweeping out of the room with a rustle of robes.

When the door closed behind him, she sagged slightly, the effort of holding the conversational equivalent of a tightrope walk having taken up the last of her energy. "I knew that I would have to position myself as an alternative," she said, steadying herself on the settee arm. "But I did not think it would be so soon."

"You did very well," Arwen said, the tea tray in her hands as she sailed by, clearly intending to return it to the kitchen. "He was abominably rude to you in your own house."

"He was, wasn't he?" she said thoughtfully. "Well, hopefully that will be the end of it, at least for the moment."

Chapter Text

She felt strangely off kilter for the next week, as if a single word might make her shatter. Bronach knew she was hiding it well; only Aragorn and Arwen seemed to understand exactly how desperately unbalanced she felt, particularly every time she crossed paths with someone she remembered to be dead.

The other occupants of the house only saw her efficiency, her dogged drive to drag Grimmauld Place into something habitable. With Kreacher's help, dust and cobwebs were magicked away, artifacts placed into her vaults for safekeeping until she could do a proper inventory and break the curses on anything she wanted to display. The portraits were all read the riot act about revealing Black family secrets to anyone not of the blood outside of the house, and Phineas Nigellus Black was loathing his life as the sole occupant of the schoolroom, which she'd dragged out of storage for the sole purpose of installing his portrait there.

"You're a headmaster, sir," she told the portrait with a straight face as Kreacher installed him next to the blackboard. "What better place for you to hang than in the schoolroom, where you can inspire young minds?"

"I'm not particularly fond of Dumbledore!" he called after her, but she ignored him. There would be time enough to discuss his allegiance after she'd dealt with Riddle, and neutralized Dumbledore, but for now he was a liability.

Hermione loved that the first floor of the Black library was opened to her, and spent most of her days there, adding to her summer homework and completing revision schedules for the coming year. The twins often browsed the shelves, clearly looking for mischief, and Ginny and Ron found that it offered solace from Molly's incessant mothering of her children, since she assumed they were doing schoolwork when they were in the library.

They most often weren't, unless Hermione had dragged Ron into doing his summer assignments, but Ron found one of the Black ancestors a fair chess opponent, and the two often argued their way through an evening that way. Ginny...Bronach was unsure of what the youngest Weasley was up to, but it was clearly nothing too harmful, or the wards would warn her.

Now that she'd raised the house wards to war footing, they wrapped around her like the archer's leathers she'd grown familiar with, armor that flexed and flowed with her every move. She felt everything magical that moved within the house, down to the owls or Kreacher crossing the wards. To his credit, Dumbledore had the Order minding their manners, but she steered clear of Moody, not wanting to give the old Auror a reason to break the rules of Sanctuary.

So she spent her days working on the house and writing the innumerable letters that needed to be sent in order to bring her affairs in order. A pointed letter to Gringotts allowed her to seize Hufflepuff's cup as payment for Bellatrix's failure to conduct herself as one of the Family, along with disowning the mad witch. This time, she listened to Aragorn and Arwen's chiding and simply dripped a bit of basilisk venom that she'd purchased into the cup, watching a priceless artifact dissolve with a hiss and a soft scream. She'd already made inquiries with the goblins about harvesting the basilisk, now that she was well-informed about Right-of-Conquest, and they intended to carry that out during the next summer, which would be a nice windfall for her vaults. Andromeda, Ted, and Tonks were brought into the family, and a politely chill letter sent via Kreacher to Narcissa Malfoy, informing her that the Head of the House of Black would be observing the behavior of herself and her son to see if they needed to be disowned alongside Bellatrix.

She had wondered, as she'd watched Kreacher pop away, how Narcissa would take that. The woman had never truly apologized for anything, but had managed to keep herself and her family well-afloat in the trials and the scandal that had followed the end of the war.

It was a relief, at the end of busy days, to closet herself in her suite with her partners, nothing more strenuous than the stack of decorating catalogs waiting for them. Together, they'd already refurbished the dining room, and had moved to taking their meals there, along with whomever else of the household wished to join them. Molly still insisted on making food for her family, but Hermione had joined them once, and Sirius and Remus made a habit of joining them for dinner, the former claiming duty as a member of House Black, and the latter claiming a need to supervise him.

The drawing room was nearly done, merely waiting on the wallpaper for Kreacher to magic onto the walls. They'd sent out the furniture for reupholstering, and it had been returned to them that morning, just in time to be set out on the new rug that had arrived.

She was already making mental notes as Kreacher served the soup course when Remus glanced at Sirius and said: "Harry, we should discuss your hearing tomorrow."

A wave of bitterness crashed over her at the reminder. "You mean my trial?"

Remus looked briefly taken aback. "It's just a hearing, Harry."

"An inquiry into my casting spells underage, held in Courtroom Ten, before the whole Wizengamot, recorded by a court recorder..." Bronach delicately sipped at her soup. "Fudge will turn it into a trial."

Sirius looked vaguely murderous. "He wouldn't dare."

"You should know well enough how little the Ministry cares for justice," she murmured. "However, you may tell the Headmaster when he visits tonight that his attendance will neither be appreciated, or needed."

"What are you planning?" Remus asked, warily.

"Fudge is a coward and a blowhard." Bronach finished her soup and laid her spoon in the dish, ready for Kreacher to whisk it away with the course change. They alternated between a formal course meal and family style at dinner, depending on his menu plan. Tonight he was clearly in a French mood, if the soup was any indication. "If you put him in a room with the Headmaster and myself, he'll either wet himself or give himself an aneurysm."

That, at least, made Sirius snicker.

"That's the why," Remus said, clearly having developed patience after years of the Mauraders, "but not an explanation of what your plan is."

"Arthur, while well meaning, should not bring me in. It's already well known that the Weasleys are close to Dumbledore, and to me. My Aunt will escort me, as she should, being my guardian. Besides, we have testing to arrange with the Department of Magical Education."

"I thought you said you had told your aunt and uncle to move, without leaving a forwarding address behind," Remus said as Sirius grumbled at the reminder that he was not at all eligible to be her guardian. "How do you plan to solicit her assistance?"

"Who said I needed it to be Petunia Dursley?" Bronach said, allowing her hair to cycle through a number of colors before returning to its natural black. "Tonks has already agreed, and she's met Petunia before, so it should be no trouble."

This, at least, set Sirius laughing. As Kreacher served the main course, Remus seemed to be thinking about it, and then glanced up at her. "I don't see how anyone could argue that you being escorted by your aunt wouldn't remove some of the pressure on your hearing. And it's hard to argue that Tonks, as an Auror, is not capable of seeing to your safety."

"We will be with her," Arwen cut in. "That will be sufficient."

"You will not," Bronach loosened her grip on her knife before it screeched against the plate.

"We will," Arwen's jaw was set. "I will not let you go into danger."

"I have walked far more dangerous roads with nobody to watch my back," Bronach tried to soothe her partner. "This is merely political mechanations. Even now, nobody would be fool enough to assault me in the middle of the Ministry of Magic during normal hours." In six months, yes, but not now.

"That does not make me feel reassured," the corner of Arwen's mouth slanted downwards, the only indicator of how deeply upset she was, but Bronach refused to give in and let either of them attend with her. "We agreed, did we not? To share dangers equally?"

"I will be attending a trial for which I have ample evidence to prove that I am innocent, despite how badly the Minister wishes to see me expelled. Expulsion is the worst they are legally allowed to commit, and though she does not know it, I have Amelia Bones as an ally. She will not let justice be miscarried, and the purebloods will have to bend to my side should I point out that they are expelling the last of the Potters for allegedly defending herself with an outburst of accidental magic."

Arwen's mouth tightened, and she looked at Aragorn, who looked equally unhappy. "Why are you so insistent that we not accompany you, even to support you?" he asked.

"Lucius Malfoy will be outside Courtroom Ten tomorrow," Bronach cut her potatoes with more force than necessary. "Dolores Umbridge will be inside it. Both of them will see you as inferiors, both of them will find the mere suspicion that you are linked to me worth acting upon. I have the protection of the law on my side, as a citizen. Your paperwork is still processing, and right now any association with me is too dangerous."

Arwen pushed back her chair and rose. "How long will you insist on keeping us at a distance to protect us?" she asked before sweeping out of the room.

Bronach glanced at Aragorn, who looked troubled. "I understand your reasons, but I do not like them," he murmured, glancing at the door.

"Go to her," Bronach said, no longer having an appetite. "You know that she needs a second person for comfort, when she is this unhappy."

Aragorn nodded, and followed in Arwen's wake. Mechanically, Bronach called for Kreacher, asking him to send Aragorn and Arwen's plates to wherever her partners had retreated.

Aragorn found Arwen pacing a worn spot into the new rug that they'd chosen for the sitting room of their suite. For a single week, he thought, they had been possibly the happiest, most domestic they'd ever been, and tonight reality had intruded in a brutal way.

"We knew that she was going to have to face things like this on her own," he told Arwen, no happier about it than she was, but more resigned. Arwen knew much of statecraft, and he had kept nothing from her during their reign, but she had also not asked, and he had not offered, all that Bronach had done for them over the years.

He had not known, not truly, until he had asked Daervunn to make an argument for why Bronach shouldn't retire from spying in an attempt to balance the needs of the kingdoms against his own desire to keep her close. Aragorn would never have wanted to keep her from doing something that she loved, but he had other spies, could recruit other spies, if she was not critical.

Unfortunately, she was too good at what she did, her magic giving her an edge that no other could replicate. Daervunn had laid out how much of their information during the Rhunic campaigns had come from her, well behind enemy lines, how many assassination attempts she had thwarted, how many times she had placed herself in the right place at the right time in order to avert some political disaster...

So he had told her that if she didn't want to spy, he would support her, but Aragorn knew her as well as he knew himself, and Bronach would not retire until she was not needed. And there would always be a need for spies.

Bronach was capable, and that was the worst of it, knowing that she could, and would, walk into danger alone, knowing that she could make it through to safety. It went against his instincts, letting her go tomorrow on her own, but he had to trust her analysis of the situation, had to trust that she was doing her best to balance her own safety against theirs in a way that left none of them overly exposed.

"She shouldn't have to," Arwen hissed, stopping in her pacing, fists clenched. "Isn't that what we agreed to, when we decided upon this? That she wouldn't have to be alone in this, not ever?"

"We knew that she would have to leave us, at least this year," he reminded her softly. "We could not pass for students."

Arwen's head tilted in a way that he knew meant that she was mulling an idea over in her head. "No," she allowed, stretching the word out as she formalized her thoughts. "But it is not only students who go to schools."

"We know nothing for certain," he warned her, starting to see her thoughts.

"It is not certainty that is needed," his wife said, raising her chin in a way that he knew spelled the end of his protests. She rarely backed down when she was like this, and to her credit, she was usually right. "We know enough to make us valuable in our own strengths, and that is what we capitalize on."

So they planned until Bronach returned, unhappy and still upset from their disagreement, and the evening was spent going over her strategy and making amends for the way dinner had ended. In the morning, Arwen helped Bronach to dress, making sure that she was as put together as could be, and together they waved her off from the front hall.

Then, they went in search of one particular resident of Grimmauld Place.

Remus Lupin opened his bedroom door, looking slightly worse for wear. Bronach had told them, both in a different world than this and behind the privacy of their sitting room door, of the moon's curse and what it does to a body even in spite of abundant magic. It had been a day since the last full moon, and Lupin still looked as if one recovering from a wasting illness.

"May I help you?" the man asked, tugging his worn cardigan tighter. Others may have missed it, but Aragorn had been a Ranger too long to miss the way that the movement made the wand up his sleeve more accessible.

"We have a few questions for you," Arwen said, turning the full force of her smile on Lupin. "Might we have a moment of your time?"

"If it's about Harry, you probably want to talk to one of the students," Lupin said, glancing between them. "I was only her teacher, and for less than a year. Sirius might know better, they wrote letters..."

"Oh no, Mr. Lupin," Aragorn smiled politely. "We think you're the perfect one to answer our questions."

After the trial, with Tonks playing a marvelously accurate Petunia Dursley, the summer days seemed to slip by faster and faster until Bronach found herself staring at her school trunk, packed and waiting for her to take it to the train station in the morning.

She had been separated from her partners for a century, only allowed stolen moments no longer than a week at most, yet almost a month of waking up in their arms, of spending their days reshaping Grimmauld Place to suit the three of them, of quiet evenings in their suite had ruined her for what lay ahead.

If there hadn't been laws requiring that OWLs and NEWTs had to be taken with at least a year's gap between them, if there hadn't been a need for Harry Potter to return to Hogwarts. If there wasn't a horcrux slumbering in the Room of Requirement...

Every time she looked at her partners, she wanted them to ask her to stay. As they ate Kreacher's farewell meal in the dining room, all of the occupants of the house gathered for the first time the entire summer, she wanted to declare that she was staying. She could do plenty for her own goals here, Bronach knew. Being an active Head of House was a full-time responsibility. There were investments to manage, the Wizengamot to navigate, influence to curry and favors to earn and trade. Aragorn had started straying towards wizarding law in his library forays, as Arwen oscillated between whatever subjects drew her interest in between experimenting with her needlework and charming Molly, who had slowly come around.

But she had to go, Bronach knew it in her bones, so she had packed her trunk, setting aside herself in favor of Harry Potter, who seemed almost like an entirely different person to her now. The school uniforms, the terrible handwriting, the shoddy attempts to skive off her Divination homework...they fit like an outgrown shirt, pulling and stretching in all the wrong places. Yet, she'd learned to shift, had practiced and practiced for centuries until it was second nature, and she shifted now, though she wore her true face in place of the many, varied faces she'd worn over the decades. It was a mental shift, an attitude shift, and Harry Potter was just another persona, just another role she played for an audience.

Reluctantly, she pried herself away from her school trunk, glancing at her partners as they relaxed on the settee, Arwen with her needlework and Aragorn with a book in hand. "I want to show you something," she said, and they glanced up in confusion. "Come take a walk?"

Grimmauld Place, for all of its magical extension, was limited by the plot of land the house stood on. One could only go so far in most directions, and eventually, there was only one direction to go: up.

Bronach led her partners out of their suite into the hallway, heading for the door she'd put extra effort into concealing from them. The house had agreed, after she'd shared her intentions, helping to hide it from those who should by all rights be allowed to know its secret, but it wasn't a secret anymore.

Grasping the knob, she twisted, and it swung open silently, the staircase illuminated by moonlight, though she knew that there would be candles in case of cloud cover. Up the tight spiral she led them, bidding Arwen and Aragorn to close their eyes, to trust her, and they did, as they had trusted her time and time again. She held Arwen's hand, guiding her, as Aragorn trailed after, grasping Arwen's free hand, until she had them positioned just right.

"You can open your eyes," she murmured, swallowing hard, hoping she'd gotten everything right.

Arwen's sharp intake of breath made her breath catch in her throat, and for a long moment she couldn't breathe, afraid that it had been a terrible idea after all. And then her partner was reaching out for her, dragging her close, pressing soft kisses all over her face. "How?" Arwen breathed in her ear. "How did you give me my home back?"

"I took cuttings, whenever I was in Imladris and Lothlorien," Bronach confessed. "And saved seeds as well. Kreacher and I put them under every preservation charm we could manage. Someday, I had hoped, someday to give you a garden like the ones you had spent most of your life in, but I did not know how it would be possible."

"Thank you," Arwen said, holding her tightly. "This is...this is beyond words. I loved Minas Tirith and Annuminas..."

"But they were not the growing lands of your youth," Aragorn said, eyes filled with emotion, and she was glad, because for all that he had been king and ranger, he had also been a child raised in Imladris, and Bronach suspected it would always be home to him. "No matter how many gardens we planted, no matter how beautiful, they were not Imladris or Caras Galadhon or Cerin Amroth."

"I thought...that while I was gone, you could come here," Bronach murmured, gesturing around at the rooftop conservatory she had wholly overhauled until it resembled a blend of Galadriel's garden in Caras Galadhon and one of the many gardens that surrounded the Last Homely House. "There are benches and couches, and it will always be the perfect temperature. And on clear nights, you will be able to see the stars."

Kreacher would tend to the garden in her absence, and magic cared for much of it already. She had to speed the growth to get the plants to their currently abundant state, but the magic would sustain them until their age caught up with their maturity and growth happened at a more natural rate.

"It is lovely," Arwen said, drawing back slightly to look around further. "I shall regret leaving it."

It was as if ice water had been dumped over her head. "Leaving it?" Bronach managed to murmur, proud that her voice betrayed nothing but polite confusion. She had thought there was something that her partners were not speaking to her about, but she'd considered it reasonably inconsequential, likely to do with the barriers that age had thrown between them.

Aragorn reached out, hand grasping her elbow as he guided her to sit down, and her feeling of dread deepened. They are unhappy here, she thought numbly, watching as the pair exchanged a brief glance. They are unhappy, and they wish to leave.

"Never," Aragorn said, kneeling before her to grasp her hands, and Bronach realized that she'd spoken aloud. "We are not unhappy here, and we will never leave you. It is simply something that we had wished to surprise you with tomorrow morning."

Arwen sat on the bench next to her, looking worried, but defiant. "We will not let you face the castle alone," she said, reaching to lay her hands over Aragorn's. "Your headmaster was quite intrigued when I offered myself as a teacher of thread magic for those who wish to learn."

A professor. She hadn't considered it, even as Arwen's attempts at infusing power into the works of her hands were increasingly successful, the magic coming easier and far more powerful with each attempt. Thread magic hadn't been taught at Hogwarts for centuries, despite its practicality, but if Dumbledore had accepted Arwen's offer....

Suddenly, all of the small pieces Arwen had been crafting in the last few weeks made more sense. Glancing at Aragorn, Bronach asked: "And have you also elected to teach?"

"Alas, I will simply be accompanying Arwen as her supportive husband," he said, drawing a chuckle out of her as his thumbs rubbed soothing circles on her hands. "Whatever shall I do with my free time?"

"We will be living in the castle," Arwen said tartly, lips curling up in a smile. "You will find plenty to amuse yourself, I'm sure."

"You will not be alone," Aragorn said, looking earnestly up into Bronach's eyes. "We may not be able to stand at your side openly, but we will be there."

"There's got to be something she's not telling us," Ron said, glancing around the bedroom where they'd holed up on the last night before the school term began. "I mean, Harry never trusts people."

"She trusts these people," Hermione told him, trying to be as firm as she could. "The Telcontars are good people Ron, and I'm glad Harry has them at her back."

"Have you seen them?" George said skeptically. "If anything, Harry's protecting them. Not the other way around. She already has that saving people thing, remember the Second Task?"

"How could we forget?" Ginny muttered, looking uncomfortable with the reminder of Harry's incessant need to protect others.

"How do you reckon that?" Ron asked his brother, and the twins exchanged a look.

"It's how they move around each other," Fred said after a long moment. "If you know Harry, it's obvious."

"No it isn't," protested Ron, and Hermione held off the urge to drop her face into her hands. She knew what the twins were talking about, and had seen it several times, usually when unfamiliar Order members were in the house. Harry, Bronach, had never explained what she was to the Telcontars, but they had once been royalty. Hermione had her own suspicions about what role Bronach had played in their lives, but it wasn't her place to pry.

"Look," George said, rummaging in his pockets. "We'll put it to a test."

"How so?" Ginny leaned forward to get a better look.

"Fireworks," Fred explained poking at the little boxes in George's hand. "We're experimenting with them for our shop. These won't harm anyone, or anything, but they'll make a lot of noise and some flashing lights. If Harry thinks they need to be protected, she'll react."

"This is a terrible idea," Hermione said, but Ron and Ginny were already up and moving towards the door. Hoping she could talk them out of it, or at least waylay Ha-Bronach before the twins found her, she trailed behind as they headed towards the drawing room. If the trio hadn't secreted themselves away for the night, they could usually be found there.

Much to her dismay, Bronach was there, discussing something with Aragorn by the fireplace, while Arwen was fussing over the newly-hung curtains. They shuffled away from the door before they could be seen, and Fred tapped one of the boxes with his wand before throwing it into the room.

A moment later there was a loud bang, and sparks hissed and crackled as they exploded out of the doorway. Through the sunbursts in her eyes, Hermione saw a figure come streaking through the doorway, turning on their heel with a speed that made Fred and George stumble back, driving Ron into Hermione and sending all four of them tripping backwards onto the stairs. There was a yelp, and Hermione saw, as if in slow motion, Ginny overbalance and start to tip dangerously over the railing.

Bronach, visible now that the sparks were clearing and Hermione's eyes had adjusted, snapped something in a foreign language, just as Ginny toppled over the rail. Before Hermione could say anything, Bronach was lunging after her. One leg wrapped around the bannister, and as Hermione untangled herself from Ron and the twins, she saw that Bronach had a firm grip around Ginny's ankles. The pair hung from the bannister for a long moment as footsteps were heard from the kitchen stairway.

"Reach your hand up to your ankles," Bronach told Ginny, as Aragorn came out of the drawing room and anchored Bronach in place. Pale, Ginny struggled to do as Bronach asked, eventually managing to fold herself in half.

"Good, very good," Bronach ignored the adults spilling out of the kitchen stairwell and kept talking to Ginny. "Now, I'm going to switch so I'm holding your wrists, not your ankles."

Carefully, she did as she promised, showing no sign of strain. At Bronach's command, Ginny let her feet fall, showing that she was only hanging a foot from the carpet in the front hall.

"Very good," Bronach said, and Hermione thought that her friend would be smiling, if her face could be seen. "Now, you're only a foot off the ground, so I'm going to let you slide free and land safely, okay?"

Ginny's head bobbed, and for a moment neither moved, and then Ginny's feet hit the floor. Mrs. Weasley rushed towards her daughter, patting her all over as if to check for injuries. Hermione found herself watching as Bronach curled her body upwards in an impressive display of abdominal strength until she was sitting on the railing. Aragorn stepped back, giving her space, and the two shared a wordless glance that seemed to contain entire conversations. Then the corner of his mouth tipped up in a slight grin, almost unnoticeable, and Bronach's shoulder's quirked in a shrug.

"What was that?" Mrs. Weasley shouted up at the landing.

"Some fireworks went off and startled me," Bronach said blandly, placing both feet on the landing and slipping off the rail. "I accidentally bumped into Ginny, and she overbalanced."

"We set them off," Ginny said, looking sheepish. "Harry probably thought we were attacking, and she moved first, asked questions later."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to go back to Hogwarts?" Sirius asked, looking skeptical. Hermione suspected that he and Professor Lupin knew the truth about Bronach, given the way the pair had interacted with her.

"Better this than any other reaction," Bronach shrugged, leaning her elbows on the rail.

"I fail to see how this is better," Mrs. Weasley harrumphed.

"Considering that I didn't draw a weapon?" Bronach snorted. "This is the preferred option."

"What do you mean, draw a weapon?"

Bronach looked as if she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Aragorn, standing in the drawing room doorway, sighed, frowning slightly. "I mean, ever since the age of eleven, I've been armed with a deadly weapon, and during my fourth year I became quite good at using it in my own defense," she said, even blander than before. "To say nothing of the knife up my sleeve."

There was a soft snort from Aragorn, echoed by Arwen, who had come up to stand behind him, her chin resting on his shoulder. Hermione had a terrible suspicion that Bronach was carrying far more knives than the one she'd mentioned.

"Molly," Professor Lupin said, glancing at Sirius and then at Bronach. "Harry is right. Given the events of June...her reaction was rather measured, and nobody came to any harm. I'm sure she'll reflect on what happened, and the others will put more thought into the possible consequences of any pranks they wish to play."

Ginny was nodding in agreement, sidling towards the stairs. Hermione saw the twins melting back into the shadows, hoping that they weren't next on Mrs. Weasley's list.

Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley allowed herself to be drawn into a hushed conversation with Sirius and Professor Lupin as they maneuvered her back down into the kitchen, leaving the group on the landing alone.

Bronach glanced at the group of them, and Hermione was surprised to see Fred and George looking apologetic.

"Sorry," they muttered. "Just...testing some things."

"Be mindful of who you test your products on or around," Bronach advised them with a wry smile. "Clearly, we," she gestured at herself and Aragorn, "are prone to reacting strongly if startled."

"Sorry Harry," Ginny said, coming up the stairs. "Thanks for catching me."

"No worries," Bronach said, waving off the apology. "You'd best get out of sight before your mother comes looking."

The Weasleys all paled and retreated upstairs. Hermione lingered for a moment, but Bronach shooed her away. As she climbed the stairs, she wondered if any of the others had even thought to realize that Bronach had effectively proved Fred and George's point.

Chapter Text

"You're not coming."

Sirius crossed his arms over his chest as he peered past her into the hallway. "Have you been waiting out here all night to get the chance to say that?"

"You're not coming to King's Cross with us this morning," she repeated. Bronach hadn't, everyone else in the house was just an absurdly late riser by her standards. It was simple enough to estimate Sirius's time of waking and arrange to be at his doorway when he opened the door.

"And why not?" he scowled. "I can disguise myself."

"The platform will be swarming with people who'd love to see you arrested," she matched him scowl for scowl. "If, by some chance, the civilians don't automatically call for your head, the Ministry officials there will. And I doubt Pettigrew has wasted any time informing Riddle and his Death Eaters about your animagus form. Going into any wizarding area, as yourself or Padfoot, is the fastest ticket back to Azkaban."

Digging in her pocket, she withdrew the key ring she'd had delivered earlier that week and dangled it in front of him. Bronach hated bribery, but it was certainly an efficient way of getting what she wanted. "I don't want to have to confine you to the house, but I can and will have the wards bar you from exiting until tomorrow unless you agree to stay away from King's Cross today."

Her godfather blinked at her, looking away from the key ring. "You sound like your mother when she forbid us from going on a pub crawl in London for James's stag night."

"Did you listen to her then?" her heart skipped a beat at this sliver of her mother that she'd never known before, given back to her so casually, as if it wasn't anything special.

"We picked some sleepy Welsh village instead," Sirius grinned as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "There's probably some folks who'll swear they saw the Wild Hunt pass through that night."

"I'll adjust the wards," she muttered, turning away and moving to put the keys back into her pocket.

"Hey, wait," Sirius grabbed her shoulder. "I'll behave, alright? Be a good dog and stay at home and not bark at the house elf."

"I just don't want to have to organize your second escape from Azkaban," she sighed, knowing that it was unlikely that Fudge would even let him get to Azkaban. "Or try and get there before they have you kissed."

"Promise," Sirius said, going slightly pale at the mention of the prison. "What're the keys about?"

"Muggle flat in Edinburgh that I purchased recently," she said, holding them up again. "It's our trade for you not coming to King's Cross today."

"How so?"

"Remus knows the apparation coordinates, you get the keys, and so long as you swear to use glamor charms, stay out of wizarding areas, and keep your head down, it's yours for as long as you like." She paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He was less morose, far more cheerful than he had been in her memories, but the confinement in the house was still wearing on him, particularly after she blocked off the wine cellar, knowing that neither of them needed that temptation. "I know this house is full of bad memories, and even the best cell can get claustrophobic."

"I'll be a good dog," Sirius promised, actually looking serious for once. "Keep my nose clean and everything. I want to see you three take Britain by storm, and can't do that if I'm in Azkaban."

"Good," she said, handing over the keys and hoping she hadn't made a grave miscalculation.

"Think I could maybe get a bike?" Sirius asked as they headed down the stairs towards the dining room, where Kreacher had surely set out breakfast by now. "Tinker with it a bit, as long as I ride it in Edinburgh?"

"Just make sure you don't get stopped by the police," she told him with a frown. "Fudge must have told the muggles about you- they had your picture all over the telly in my third year."

"Yes Lily," he rolled his eyes as they passed the place where Walburga's portrait used to hang. "I'm not going to get myself thrown in jail until after you become ruler of wizarding Britain."

"Wizarding Britain has no royalty," Bronach rolled her eyes as she took her place at the head of the table, Aragorn and Arwen already seated and buried in their respective publications. This morning, Aragorn had the Prophet, Arwen Witch Weekly, and The Quibbler waited next to Bronach's plate.

"Not the way the muggles understand it," Remus piped up from his place next to Aragorn, where he was spreading marmalade on toast. "But we have had kings and queens."

"Three, to be precise," Sirius nicked a piece of bacon from Remus's plate before the professor shooed him away. Kreacher tended to serve breakfast buffet style on the sideboard, but Bronach was happy to see that one of her partners had already arranged a plate for her. Sitting down, she reached for the jam and set about preparing her toast.

"They never taught us that in History of Magic," she said. "Three kings and queens?"

"Two kings, one queen," Sirius sat down with his plate. "What's-name, the one who married the hag and got removed because of it, Queen Mary of England, France, and Ireland, and of course, Arthur."

Bronach reviewed her history, which was unfortunately scant. The history section of her library was the only one she'd never much ventured into, unless it dealt with the Peverells, or immortality. But she did have vague recollection of her primary school history. "Mary, as in Elizabeth the First's sister?"

"Secretly a witch," Sirius mumbled through a mouthful of toast. "This was before the Statute, but she kept it hush hush on the muggle side and didn't do much on the wizarding side."

"There's actually doubt about the legitimacy of Malodora Grymm's husband, and whether or not Mary was queen of the wizarding world," Remus pointed out mildly. "They don't bear the title of king or queen of wizarding Britain, and many traditionalists don't recognize them as royalty at all on our side of things. I believe most scholars typically believe that the last true king was Arthur Pendragon, since neither Grymm's husband nor Mary were accepted by the crown."

"Accepted by the crown?" Arwen glanced over the top of Witch Weekly. "A magical object?"

"Quite," Sirius said, this time managing to swallow whatever he was chewing. "Merlin took Arthur's crown and put a spell on it, so it will only accept a worthy bearer and kill the unworthy who try to become wizarding royalty."

"That sounds like a children's story," Bronach said, picking up The Quibbler. "Otherwise Riddle would have tried to use it."

"It's not," Remus shrugged. "Nobody really talks about it, but the Department of Mysteries was built around the vault in which Merlin placed the crown. They couldn't even pick it up to move it, so they just built the Department around it. Every hundred years or so, someone digs up the legends again. According to them, Merlin said that the crown would choose a witch or wizard when there was a need for one, but so far it's accepted none of those who have presented themselves to it."

"How does one present oneself to a crown?" Aragorn asked, and Bronach suspected he was contemplating his own coronation, and how this vastly differed.

"Nobody knows," Sirius grinned, clearly relishing the story. "Those who have survived the experience won't, or can't, talk about it. And only a few have actually survived."

"And that's enough horror stories for the morning," Bronach said, opening The Quibbler. "The three of us have a train to catch, and I'd like to be there early."

"Are you still hoping to have me take you?" Remus inquired.

"Please," Bronach said, hearing Molly heading up the stairs to rouse the rest of the students. From experience, she knew that it would take the Weasleys another hour and a half at least to assemble for the train. "I'd like to get there early enough to get settled."

"Kreacher will take us, as planned," Arwen said, smiling at Bronach. "I would rather ride the train than deal with the odious woman you tell me will be teaching this year."

"And it would be interesting to see what you experience," Aragorn added, turning a page of the Prophet with a faintly disgusted expression. "Remus tells us it is not unheard of for professors to ride the train, merely unusual."

"I have no problems with that," Bronach said, warmth spreading through her at the gesture. "Though we had best not be associated with each other this early in the year."

"We will choose a separate compartment, no need to fear," Arwen chuckled. "But if you are not in my class, I will be very cross."

"I will be in your class, and I will show you the Room of Requirement," Bronach promised. "It will be a useful meeting place."

"Room of Requirement?" Sirius exchanged a glance with Remus.

"Seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," she said, finishing her breakfast. The plate disappeared as she nudged it away from her, and she took a moment to finish her tea. "It adjusts to the user's needs."

Aragorn's eyes lit up with a wicked glee. "Morning practice?" he asked innocently.

"Morning practice," she agreed with a mock scowl. Truth be told, she knew she was losing her conditioning after a month of being effectively confined to Grimmauld. There had been the occasional trip out, but only when absolutely necessary and always to the muggle world. It would be a pleasure to get back into the routine of practice, even if there was no obvious need for knife or swordplay in her life now.

Arwen closed her copy of Witch Weekly and smiled at them. "Nothing obvious," she reminded unnecessarily. "Even if magic can heal most things, we do not need questions raised by both of you appearing with sword wounds."

The next forty-five minutes or so was spent in idle preparations, making sure that the house would maintain its current state of repair while she was away, and ensuring that the Order would have appropriate use of the property. While most of the students were racing up and down the stairs or consuming breakfast in the dining room, Bronach met her partners in the entry, trunks in hand.

Aragorn and Arwen had their own trunk, which they'd sourced with Kreacher's assistance, their belongings carefully packed across the many compartments along with many of the supplies Arwen planned to use in her teaching. They'd also stored plenty of their books, the duplicates from the library she'd taken to Arda, and enough weaponry from her and Aragorn's collection to outfit a small company. Bronach had her old trunk, mostly filled with things from her previous life, but she'd enchanted extra space into it to hold her own things.

"Do we pass muster?" Arwen said, giving a little twirl. Bronach had spent several evenings adjusting her partners' wardrobe for both wizarding and muggle fashions, and Arwen had taken that work and run with it. The robe she was wearing was new, dyed in blue from Bronach's own stores if she guessed correctly, cut with Arwen's preferred neckline, but sleeves and the position of the belt perfectly matching traditional wizarding fashion. Aragorn was clad similarly, but his robe went only to his knees, like one of his favored surcoats, and beneath he wore a pair of trousers and his well-broken in boots. Clad in the green preferred by the Rangers, he would not have been out of place in the forecourt of Esteldin even before the war.

"Absolutely," Bronach said, watching as they each settled traveling cloaks over their shoulders. "And I?"

She twirled slightly, enjoying the look in both of her partners' eyes and regretting her apparent age, much as she had spent the last month regretting it. They'd all agreed to scale back her participation in the physical side of their relationship, but already the enforced abstinence was starting to get to her, especially with comparatively unfettered access to her partners.

Aragorn seemed to appreciate the fit of her bodice, boned in a manner that muggles would consider antique, and the shape her corset offered her under the more concealing bulk of her clothing. Arwen's eyes seemed to be torn between professional appreciation of the cut and construction of her garment, particularly the skirt, and the person wearing it, if the way her eyes kept darting to different places was any indication.

"Lovely," she murmured, reaching out to trace a seam on the inside of Bronach's arm, her fingers lingering just a hair too much to be entirely platonic. "You've outdone yourself."

"Quite proper, for a pureblood," Sirius muttered from where he was leaning against the wall, clearly struggling to put aside his anti-pureblood prejudice in favor of complimenting his goddaughter.

"You had best get moving," Remus said, checking the time on the heavy grandfather clock in the hall. "How are you getting to the station?"

"Kreacher will take us," Arwen said, picking up her valise as the house elf appeared. Aragorn lifted their trunk, and Bronach nodded at them, robbed of any words. They were coming to Hogwarts with her, she reminded herself. This wasn't a permanent goodbye.

"Find a compartment near us," Aragorn murmured, grasping Kreacher's hand as the house elf offered it. Arwen had time only for a brief smile before they disappeared, leaving Bronach alone in the hall.

Well, not entirely alone.

"Give them five minutes, and then we should go," she said to Remus, picking up her hat from the stand next to the door. Carefully, she pinned it to the artfully arranged hair that Arwen had lingered over that morning, doing her best not to disturb the spray of flowers tucked into the brim. Then it was just a matter of donning her own traveling cloak and watching the hands of the clock move exceedingly slowly.

Her own watch was a reassuring weight in her pocket, the same one that Molly had gifted her a lifetime ago. She'd offered it back, knowing that Molly may not appreciate her current possession of it, but the witch had simply looked at her with knowing eyes and closed Bronach's fingers over the watch after a long moment.

"Harry dear," speak of the witch, "I'm so glad I caught you before you left."

To Molly's credit, the hug she pulled Bronach into had only a hint of stiffness, a clear sign that the witch was adjusting to Bronach. As she drew back, Molly absently straightened the lines of Bronach's outfit, smoothing away the creases. "You look very smart my dear, very proper. I'm sure you'll turn quite a few heads on the train! Of course you know, but this is a very important year, so please do try to keep your head down and focus on your studies."

"I'll be absolutely certain to start an illegal, extracurricular Defense club," Bronach promised in her most deadpan voice, causing Molly to chuckle and shoo her away. Remus apparated them both to the protected spot on the platform before asking:

"You're really going to start such a club, aren't you?"

"The fifth years need to pass their OWLs, Remus," she murmured under the hum of the platform as it slowly filled up. They were still early, but there was a fair few families already present. "You've read Slinkhard's book, it's hardly suited for first years, let alone OWL and NEWT students."

Remus grimaced and carried her trunk over to the train. Most of the compartments were open, but as she passed one of the closed doors, Bronach caught a glimpse of Aragorn inside, despite Witch Weekly covering most of his face.

They usually traded the three papers they subscribed to, in order to get a well-rounded view of what the Wizarding World was being told, but it never failed to amuse Bronach to see the former King of Gondor and Arnor reading a magazine advertising 10 failsafe ways to woo your wizard! or other equally lurid headlines.

After Remus helped her load her trunk into the compartment in front of Aragorn and Arwen, he smiled briskly at her, clearly aware of the absence of her parents, who should by all rights have been there. "We expect regular letters," Remus told her, covering his emotions so well she suspected he wasn't consciously aware of doing so. "Be sure that you don't forget."

"Enjoy Scotland," she replied with a smile. "Oh, and find the mirrors you made for use in separate detentions." Lowering her voice, she leaned forward as if she'd almost dropped something onto the platform. "My mail won't be safe for very long."

His eyes went hard, and then distant. "I'll see what I can do," he promised, before melting into the crowds. With nothing else to do but wait, Bronach closed the exterior carriage doors and settled in with a book she'd been meaning to read, the cover charmed to look like meaningless fiction in order to avoid questions about why she was reviewing soul magic.

Neville was the first to find her, doing a double take as he walked down the interior corridor and spotted her. She lowered her book and smiled at the boy who might someday become a brilliant Herbology professor. "Have a good summer Neville?"

"Um yeah," he mumbled, clearly taken aback at the sight of tomboy Harry Potter dressed as a proper pureblood heiress. "You?"

"Busy," she said honestly. Between establishing Aragorn and Arwen in both worlds, getting her estates in order as much as possible, and formalizing her plans to ensure that nothing went as she remembered it to go from now on, there had been little enough time to rest. Rehabilitating Grimmauld had been the only restful bit. "You can sit with me if you'd like. I told Ron and Hermione that I would save them seats, since you know how the Weasleys are, but there's plenty of room."

His grin was shy, but he lifted his trunk up onto the luggage rack and took a seat across from her. "Did you know that there are teachers behind you?" he asked as she put her book down.

"Oh?" she lied. "More than one?"

"Two," he said, the noise from the platform growing steadily louder as more families arrived. It was quarter to, she thought, and the platform was crowded with students, their pets, and their families. "New ones."

"There's always Defense," Bronach murmured, pretending to think about it, as if she didn't know that Arwen was going to teach while Aragorn simply wandered about. "Is that a new plant? I think I've heard of it....mimbulus mimbletonia?"

"You've heard of it?" Neville looked overjoyed. "My uncle got it for me. It's got this really cool defense mechanism?"

She saw his finger drifting close to one of the pustules and intervened. "It shoots stinksap if it's roughly handled, correct?" Arwen and Aragorn had seen her in worse messes, but she personally didn't want to be reminded of how bad it smelled. "It must take special care to grow then."

Conversation about the plant carried them until Hermione, Ron, and Ginny arrived, and the plant was carefully set aside while they stowed trunks and negotiated seating. As the train lurched into movement, a wisp of blonde hair caught her eye in the corridor, and Bronach nudged Ginny. "Isn't that your friend?"

Ginny gave her an odd look, and nodded. "We've got room, right?" Bronach said, glancing at Ron, who looked disgruntled at the thought of having to relinquish the extra seat he'd claimed.

With everyone nodding, Ginny fetched Luna in from the corridor and introduced her to everyone with a perfunctory wave. "Luna, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Luna Lovegood."

"Any relationship to the Lovegood who runs The Quibbler?" Hermione asked as Luna sat down, clutching the magazine to her chest.

"Daddy runs it, but I help sometimes," the blonde said, blinking owlishly. "Have you read it?"

"I keep making her read it," Bronach said as Hermione bit her lip, clearly witholding an opinion that she considered rude. "It's quite amusing, and the news is often more accurate than the Prophet." Such as the article in August's edition that claimed Fudge had been secretly pressuring the Department of Mysteries into declaring her curse scar a dark artifact in need of intensive study. It was not only illuminating, but something she could see Fudge scrambling to do, which made it absolutely hilarious.

Hermione, unfortunately, couldn't find the humor in it.

"I'll tell Daddy you said so," Luna said with a bright smile. "He'll be so happy to hear that Harry Potter likes his magazine."

Ginny thankfully seemed to see Hermione's internal struggle and started an argument with Ron over the latest Quidditch standings. Under the cover of their sniping, Bronach was able to draw Hermione into a conversation with Neville about the Mimbletonia while Luna donned her spectrospecs and opened The Quibbler. It was an uneventful train ride, helped along by Kreacher's inclusion of a lunch hamper sufficient for the entire compartment. Bronach still purchased a few things from the trolley, mostly to satisfy long-ignored cravings, but her hamper meant that nobody was subjected to Hermione's annual diatribe about sugar.

Malfoy passed by and seemed as if he was considering stopping, but Arwen passed by at that moment and he moved along. Bronach wasn't sure if any of the others had seen her, but in the bustle of confusion at Hogsmeade Station, Hermione grabbed her elbow. "You never said they were coming!"

"They didn't tell me until last night," Bronach said, watching as Aragorn helped Arwen down from the compartment and guided her across the platform to the carriages, students parting before them, leaving a trail of whispers in their wake. Ginny and Ron noticed at that point, both shooting Bronach wide-eyed glances that she ignored in favor of placing her trunk with the rest. "It was a surprise."

Hermione's lips thinned, a clear sign she had more questions, but it was too exposed. Even in the carriage they claimed, Neville and Luna prevented them from speaking openly, so Bronach was spared an interrogation.

As everyone disembarked, she spared a moment to pat the thestrals. Ron glanced uneasily at her as she caught up to them in the Entry Hall. "There's nothing there mate."

"They're called thestrals," Bronach said under the cover of everyone entering the Great Hall. "Only those who have seen death can see them."

Ron shuddered, but slipped into his seat among the other Gryffindor fifth year boys, striking up a conversation with Seamus and Dean. Neville must have been close enough to hear, since he sent her a sympathetic glance as he cautiously settled the Mimbletonia on the table where it wouldn't be knocked into accidentally. Bronach glanced at it, and then twitched her fingers under the table, laying a wandless imperturbable charm on it, not wanting to risk a stinksap fountain at the table.

The sorting itself was uneventful, not that she remembered it being so, and she spent most of it watching Aragorn and Arwen at the Head Table, seated between Flitwick and McGonagall, just about as far as possible from Umbridge as could be. It was easier that way; far less chance of having her vision flicker between the present and her last memories of the Great Hall.

It had gotten easier by exposure, adjusting to the living presence of those she recalled as lost, but a snippet of Colin Creevey's voice floated down the table and she flinched, focusing harder on her partners as a reminder of when she was. Her housemates had mostly left her alone, clearly having read the Prophet. If she remembered correctly, Hermione would have a row with Lavender about it in the dorms.

Dumbledore introduced Umbridge first, and Bronach applied herself to listening to the load of waffle along with Hermione, finding a dark amusement in how her friend's lips grew thinner and thinner as Umbridge's plans for tyranny were laid out. Under the sparse applause from those who hadn't been listening, Hermione glanced at Bronach, clearly wondering if she'd just heard correctly. There was time for a quick nod, and a swift scowl, and then Dumbledore was rising again.

"And finally," the headmaster said with a genial smile, "this year, I am happy to announce that we have managed to secure a guest lecturer." Arwen stood as he gestured to her, face serene as whispers rippled through the Great Hall. "Professor Telcontar will be teaching any third year and above who express an interest in thread magic. All interested students are advised to speak with your head of house before Friday, as lessons are expected to commence on Sunday morning."

Arwen nodded regally before taking her seat, and the headmaster gestured to Aragorn, who did not rise, but nodded in acknowledgment. "She is joined by her husband, who may assist in her classes from time to time, and as such should be offered the same respect as you offer all of our professors."

The rest of the start of term announcements were unremarkable, and Bronach took advantage of the general confusion to slip through the crowds, making for a secret passageway she remembered. It saw her safely up to the tower, and she rummaged through her memories for the password.

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia," she told the Fat Lady, who swung open with a nod. Bronach didn't linger in the common room, knowing what she would find. Instead she climbed the stairs to her dormitory, finding her trunk at the foot of her bed. A quick tap, and her school things were flying to their appointed places, allowing her to sink onto her bed and rest her head in her hands.

Valar it had been hard. She had thought she'd be fine, used to Court and its functions, but the emotional weight of being back in Hogwarts, the ocean of experience separating her from her peers had nearly sent her reeling. And that wasn't counting the continuing torment of seeing what she thought were ghosts, two years not enough to make a visual difference in most of the students who hadn't survived 1998.

Soft footsteps on the stairs made her sit up, hoping that she looked unconcerned as the doorknob twisted. Hermione poked her head in, glancing around before noticing her.

"Everything alright?" Hermione asked softly.

"Long night," Bronach said honestly. She couldn't quite remember when Lavender and Pavarti had come up, but she thought she had a little bit of time. "I'm fine though."

"If you need anything, let me know," Hermione said, starting to close the door. "Promise?"

"Yeah," Bronach said, only half meaning it. She wouldn't bother Hermione with problems her friend couldn't fix, and most of what weighed on Bronach was beyond the ability of anyone to fix. Gathering her nightclothes, she hurried through getting ready for bed so that she could retreat behind the comforting barrier of her four-poster's curtains before anyone else came up.

She woke at dawn, still not used to anything different, not when they'd kept the habit at Grimmauld. It was ludicrously simple to change into something she could move around in and slip out of the dorm, even easier to make her way through the empty common room and halls until she reached a familiar tapestry.

"Your map is quite handy," Aragorn said, tucking it away as he pushed off from the wall. "As is your cloak."

"They had better be," she kissed Arwen's cheek briefly before pacing back and forth, considering what they needed. "Shall we?"

What the Room had created wasn't anything like the myriad of training grounds she'd set foot on over the years, but it was a pretty good amalgamation of the better ones. Setting the satchel that she'd brought with her by the door, Bronach lifted her arms over her head, stretching.

"What do you want to focus on today?" she asked Arwen as Aragorn wandered around, poking at targets and training dummies.

"Knives, I suppose," her partner said, glancing about. "Throwing, and perhaps close combat if you'd oblige."

"I think I might," Bronach teased, knowing that while they were certainly serious about practicing, it was a fringe benefit that knife work brought them in close contact with each other.

Opening her satchel, she strapped her knives into place, at least the ones she hadn't been carrying already, before withdrawing her bow and a quiver. Aragorn was waiting for his own chance to rummage in their communal weapons stash as she took her place at the archer's mark, glancing at the targets downrange and measuring the distance.

After an hour of archery and knife work with Arwen, she was sweaty, achy, and pleasantly exhausted in a way that she hoped would lead to a less fraught day. They parted for their own quarters to clean up, Bronach slipping back into her dorm to find that none of the others had stirred since she left. Guaranteed privacy, she took a longer shower than she might have otherwise, yet still managed to be dressed by the time Hermione stirred.

"Wait for me?" her friend said after a moment, clearly still trying to come to terms with Bronach's preference for early rising, an oddity compared to the girl Hermione recalled from a few months ago.

"In the common room," Bronach promised, shouldering her school bag and heading back down the stairs. It was still empty, though one or two of the more ambitious students passed through while she waited for Hermione. The Great Hall was quiet in the early morning, waiting for the students, but Aragorn and Arwen were already at the staff table, heads bent over Aragorn's copy of the Prophet. She felt a pang of wistfulness, there would be no more swapping of papers over the breakfast table, not with the distance between staff and students.

Hermione offered her the Prophet, seeming to sense her melancholy, and Bronach pulled herself together, embarrassed to be caught slipping. Thankfully, nobody else seemed to have noticed, and she threw herself into mentally annotating the Prophet's nonsense as the Hall filled with students seeking out breakfast.

Eventually schedules were passed out, and Bronach glanced at hers in resignation, already knowing how the day was going to go.

"Are they trying to kill us?" Ron moaned, his own schedule in his hands. "Binns, Trelawny, Snape, and Umbridge on our first day?"

"It's not going to get significantly better," Bronach muttered, watching Umbridge survey the Great Hall, looking unbearably smug. "Don't get too comfortable."

Ron looked torn between whimpering and tearing his schedule in half and going back to bed.

History passed without issue, effectively a free period that Bronach used to start writing lesson plans for the DA. She intended to start it earlier this time, once it became clear that Umbridge was beyond useless. Vaguely she considered using the period to actually study, since she had the chance to possibly not do terribly on the OWL depending on how she intended to deal with Riddle's nonsense, but she had time, and the lesson plans were more interesting.

During her free period, she sought out her head of house.

McGonagall eyed her warily as she entered, clearly not used to Bronach seeking her out. "Yes, Miss Potter?"

It was still strange to hear her birth name, but she'd worn so many different names over her lifetime that the instinctive flinch was stamped out of her. "I want to take all the OWLs."

This was clearly not what McGonagall had expected to hear from her. Hermione, perhaps, but not her. "Absolutely not," the witch rallied briskly. "Your grades hardly merit granting such a thing, and you are two years too late to begin any of the elective studies."

Already having suspected it wouldn't be an easy argument, Bronach reached into her satchel and pulled out the small velvet bag warded against any hands but her own or her partners. Reaching inside, she withdrew a slim folio and four smaller bags.

"You'll find my certificates of journeyman status for arithmancy, potions, defense, and warding in order," she said, placing the folio on McGonagall's desk and sliding it towards the witch, who looked flabbergasted. "Of course, they were granted years from now, but the knowledge remains."

McGonagall's lips thinned as she examined the certificates. "They are indeed valid, if dated entirely impossibly. But that only justifies your taking arithmancy, not the Ancient Runes or Muggle Studies exams."

"I grew up in a non-magical household," Bronach said flatly as she felt the bags until she found the one she wanted. "There's no way I'll fail the Muggle Studies exam."

"And Runes, Miss Potter?" McGonagall eyed her warily. "What justification do you have for taking that exam?"

Bronach opened the bag she'd chosen and tipped the contents out onto the Deputy Headmistress's desk, letting the silver crest slide gently onto her journeyman certificates. McGonagall picked it up carefully, lips thinning even further.

"A mastery in runic magic," she said, glancing over the tops of her spectacles at Bronach. "A surprising choice for one who chose not to take it two years ago."

"I was properly motivated when I took up the field," Bronach smiled blandly, accepting the crest back when it was held out. "It did take several years though."

"Most masteries do," McGonagall seemed to notice the other bags Bronach had withdrawn. "Multiple?"

"Four," she confirmed, laying them out in her hands so the bags were easily counted. "Runic magic, alchemy, charms, and enchanting."

"Four masteries is unheard of," the professor retorted automatically, hands absently replacing the certificates in the folio.

"Unusual, but most people don't have the time, motivation, or funds to accomplish it," Bronach shrugged, accepting the folio back. "I had all three."

McGonagall rallied after a moment of shock. "Be that as it may, you will sit placement exams for Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Muggle Studies. Miss Johnson has already filed notice of the first Gryffindor quidditch practice of the year, so it will have to be Saturday, after lunch, since I assume you will be occupied in the morning. If you do not report to my classroom, I will assume you are not interested in taking the exams and will not put your name down on any of them."

"Yes ma'am," Bronach said, replacing everything into the bag and putting the bag in her satchel.

"And I expect to see improvement in all of your classes, Miss Potter, or I will rescind my permission." McGonagall took a deep breath. "Is there anything else, Miss Potter?"

"I'd like to sign up for the thread magic seminar," Bronach said politely, amused by the flurry of emotions that ran across the professor's face at her words.

She was fairly certain that if McGonagall was any less disciplined, the words of course you do would have been muttered, but all the professor said was: "I will add your name to the list. Professor Telcontar will be in touch."

Ron and Hermione were waiting in the hallway for her. "Angelina's scheduled practice for Saturday morning and McGonagall wants me to take placement tests before she lets me sit the OWLs for the other electives," she announced as they headed towards the stairwell that would lead them to the dungeons. "So that's my Saturday completely booked."

Ron went pale. "All of the OWLs," he groaned. "You're mental."

"They're not issuing you a Time Turner, are they?" Hermione asked, dropping her voice as a group of second years passed them. "You can't possibly take all the classes, I tried."

"It's not the Ministry who cares, it's the professors," Bronach shrugged. "Too many students failing looks bad on their records, so they don't let students take exams unless they're sure that they'll pass. Anyone who grows up in a non-magical house can take the Muggle Studies exam without the class though, it's like an unwritten rule."

Hermione looked as if she was about to turn around and hurry back up to McGonagall's office, but Ron caught her arm. "You'll be late to Potions if you go now," he said, before muttering: "Why am I friends with mental people?"

Chapter Text

Much to Bronach's disappointment, Severus Snape was a tough nut to crack.

Despite the fact that she had prepared a perfect Drought of Peace, set up a textbook example of a well-laid out workstation, and cast several Auror-level shielding variants to enclose potential explosions and prevent outside interference, the most she'd provoked from the man was a slight twitch in his eye as she set her phial on his desk, five minutes earlier than Hermione.

She truly had been hoping for a chance to inform him that her newfound devotion to an organized workspace was due to a muggle television show called Worst Cooks in America, but alas, he was far too stubborn to cave during their first lesson. The show wouldn't air for another fifteen years or so, if she was remembering correctly, but the purebloods wouldn't understand enough about television to check her reference, and the muggleborns likely wouldn't care.

It was only the first salvo in a war she fully intended to wage until the last day of term in June. If the year didn't end with her driving him so insane that he resigned his position and went to brew in a cave far, far away from students and possibly society as a whole, she was going to lose the bet she'd made with Aragorn. The eye twitch was probably the best she could hope for at this point, so she'd settle for it.

The good mood carried her through lunch and all the way up to the North Tower where it died a swift and painful death the moment Trelawney looked at her and stared.

"You," the witch croaked, crossing the room in a display of surprising agility, shawls fluttering in the swirl of incense that followed in her wake. "You have been touched! Your Inner Eye has been opened."

Pavarti and Lavender looked torn between being impressed by the professor and disgusted that it was Bronach garnering the attention. Ron looked amused, hiding a snort as Trelawney came to stand in front of Bronach.

"Some power has touched you," Trelawney breathed, reaching out a shaky finger until it brushed Bronach's scar, which she'd unfortunately had to reveal in order to sell her existence as Harry Potter. "Tell me, child, do you dream? Do you see in the flames? Cast stones? Read the cards? Scry upon the waters?"

Bronach could only recall Trelawney being this...present during the Battle as she hurled crystal balls on the heads of Death Eaters. It certainly wasn't her usual showmanship, nor was it the spooky trance of the woman's true prophecies. But she'd been woolgathering for too long, the professor was still waiting for an answer, and the entire class was staring at her.

"Um," she muttered, hoping that they could go back to Trelawney ignoring her. "I dunno?"

Valar help her, Trelawney beamed. Clapping her hands in delight, the professor took a seat at the poof that Hermione had once occupied, clearly uncaring of how Ron edged away, looking appalled. "Then we shall help you discover your talents!"

Oh no. Oh no. Trelawney looked far too excited about the prospect as she ordered the rest of the class to move close, telling them imperiously that it was not every day they got to witness someone whose Inner Eye had been so resistant to guidance discover their divinatory talent. Nobody seemed interested in intervening, clearly relieved that it wasn't them.

"Now Harry my dear," Trelawney said, as if they were friends settling in for a cuppa instead of a teacher who'd been giving glowing praise to Bronach's increasingly dramatic death predictions for the last two years. "Tell me, have you had any encounters since our last time together that may have prompted this sudden change?"

Lie. Lie, lie, lie. "I dunno, maybe?" she fumbled, the glamored scar on the back of her hand itching slightly. "I mean, there was the whole...Third Task thing?" An idea came to her, and she paused for effect. "I did have a weird dream this summer though."

"A dream?" Trelawney looked absolutely delighted, clearly unbothered by the reference to Cedric Diggory's death, which had made many of the students uncomfortable. "Go on child, tell me what you dreamed of."

"In my dream, I met a wise woman," Bronach said, editing the story as she mentally cursed Galadriel for the nth time. Over the decades she'd come to an uneasy understanding with her moments of foresight, but it was never a predictable or controllable burden, for all that it was clearer than her previous instinctual knowledge. "She bade me gaze into her mirror."

"What did you see?" Trelawney leaned forward, as if this was the most exciting thing she'd ever heard. "What did the mirror show you?"

"It was actually a basin," Bronach could feel the cool shadows of the mallorn, the hushed stillness of Galadriel's garden as they stood in silence. "A basin of pure silver, crafted by the wise woman, who was a great craftsman herself."

"Silver," Trelawney mused thoughtfully. "A lunar connection, made by her own hands...a very powerful tool indeed. Did the basin have anything in it?"

"As we spoke together, the woman filled the basin from a fountain of clear water."

"And what did she say to you?" The entire class was hanging on her every word, not just the professor. Bronach had to think quickly, editing her encounter down to a tale that would not end up with her admission to St. Mungo's next to Lockheart.

"She told me that the mirror could show many things," Bronach said slowly, as if recollecting. "Things that are. Things that were. And things that have yet to come to pass. But also that she did not know what she saw, most of the time."

"Did you look?" Trelawney whispered, eyes wide. "Did you see?"

"No," Bronach said. "Only the reflection of starlight."

"Not scrying on the water then," Trelawney murmured thoughtfully. "Or perhaps the basin did not respond to anyone but its maker. No matter, there is plenty to investigate. Was there anything else?"

"No," Bronach said firmly, not wanting to discuss her dreams of Irmo and Námo, let alone Galadriel's gift to her and the times where she had seen clearly enough to let her foresight guide her steps. "Not that I can remember."

"No?" Trelawney echoed, sounding pensive. "Pity. A wise woman comes to you in a dream filled with divinatory elements. Clearly you have not yet found a medium through which your Inner Eye sees!"

Bronach had never been so interested in getting to DADA in her life.

Umbridge's look of disappointment as all of the students were in their seats as the bell rang was something to be savored in a day full of unexpected twists.

Bronach sat straight-backed and attentive in her seat, obediently dancing to the woman's tune as she patronized the entire class and did her best to provoke a response. So Bronach did what she was best at: subverting expectations.

"Pardon me Professor?" Bronach said after her raised hand was acknowledged by the woman's faintly disappointed Miss Potter. "Is that the Auror's official ruling on Diggory's death? Was it published in the Prophet and I missed it?"

"Mister Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Umbridge simpered, her eyes cold. "No matter what lies are being told by...certain people."

"Of course, Professor," Bronach said smoothly, settling her hands on either side of the useless waste of paper that was their textbook for the year. "I was simply wondering if the case had been officially closed by the Aurors yet. They, after all, would know best."

The lesson careened away after that, tripping over Hermione's observance of the glaring omission of practical work which earned her a cutting reply. It was shocking, with Bronach's knowledge of the type of person the witch was, how blatant Umbridge's bigotry was even now.

"Are you an education professional?" she muttered under her breath as Umbridge proclaimed the propriety of her curriculum and its alignment with Ministry ambitions, puffed up with self-importance like the ugliest toad Bronach had ever seen.

"Hand, Miss Potter!" Umbridge snapped, rounding on her.

"Apologies, Professor Umbridge," Bronach's voice dripped with all the false sincerity she could muster. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."

"See that you don't," Umbridge said after a long moment, clearly trying to adjust to the measured, non-confrontational response. Bronach dropped her eyes to her book, glad that she'd charmed it to display whatever book she was reading for her own interests when her fingers were on it. The class period was already setting up to be long and dull.

Though, she thought as Umbridge instructed them to read the first chapter it's better than whatever Trelawney was shrieking about. They'd dissected her dream for the rest of class, examining each bit of symbolism until it was nearly incomprehensible. Bronach already dreaded the rest of the semester, and the loss of what she'd perceived to be an additional free period where she could do her own studying and research.

Unfortunately, the reminder of Cedric's death had its impact on the student body, and a noticeable gap was left between her and the rest of the student body when Bronach sat down for supper. Thankfully, the Weasleys and Hermione did their best to fill in the gap, and to her surprise, Neville joined them.

"Did you sign up for the class on thread magic?" Neville asked Ginny politely as he passed her a dish of potatoes that she'd asked for.

"Oh hell no," the redhead said fervently. "If Mum caught wind of me signing up, she'd think I'd gone domestic. I'd never get to play Quidditch for the Harpies! She'd have me knitting sweaters, sewing quilts, and married off to some nice young ministry employee the day after I graduated." Ginny's dramatic shudder had their section of the table laughing.

Bronach snorted as she helped herself to peas. She'd heard most of Molly's complaints about her "reckless daredevil daughter" who, according to Witch Weekly had once dated their way through an entire Quidditch team.

Boys and girls.

No, Ginny didn't have the temperament for the careful, precise work that was thread magic. Bronach hadn't, not for another decade or two. She wasn't even certain that Hermione could move beyond the basics, since thread magic was a far more instinctive magic than her friend had ever excelled at.

They're different people, she reminded herself as she glanced around the table, focusing on George's undamaged ear and Fred's...Fred's life.

"Doubt we'll learn anything in Defense," he was complaining, the conversation clearly having jumped while she was lost in her head. "Not with Umbitch teaching.

Hermione jumped in to chide him, but Bronach snickered. "Write it off as self-study," she advised. "We can start our own study group." In fact, she already had lesson plans drafted. Now she just needed to step them down from boot camp to underage student intensity.

Students are not soldiers she told herself firmly, but her vision flickered, the Great Hall filled with the dead and the survivors.

Colin Creevey's body, even tinier in death.

He laughed, somewhere down the table, and her stomach soured. Making vague excuses, she rose and headed for the doors, needing to be away from the memory.

Unprocessed trauma, her Hermione would have said, looking sympathetic as her hand instinctively covered her scarred forearm. You might want to talk to someone about it.

Who? Bronach had always replied, and the three of them (since these conversations always happened at Ron and Hermione's kitchen table in the middle of the night) laughed with a grim humor that they couldn't seem to let go of. I'm the Girl-Who-Triumphed. Most mind healers want to open me up and see how I tick.

"Going somewhere Miss Potter?" a sickly sweet voice interrupted, and Bronach realized that she'd lost herself somewhere between the Gryffindor table and the doors of the Great Hall.

"Back to my dormitory Professor," Bronach invented on the fly. "I'm feeling a bit unwell and would like to lie down."

Umbridge smiled in a way that didn't reach her eyes. "If you are unwell, Miss Potter, should you not seek out Madam Pomfrey? As school matron, it is her duty to see to matters of student health."

"Just cramps Professor," Bronach dropped her voice, as if ashamed, drawing her arm across her midriff as if they truly existed. Vaguely, she realized that it wasn't impossible. She hadn't yet had her period since she returned, and she had a brief moment of panic that her barren womb hadn't been corrected with her return. Keeping it out of her voice, she smiled awkwardly. "Nothing that can be done except wait it out."

The toad looked vaguely disgusted, but refused to let the matter drop. "Surely the matron could provide you with something to assist you?"

"I can get a good night's sleep and a heating pad in my dorm Professor, but if you insist I'll go to the Hospital Wing," Bronach shrugged as if it didn't bother her, though she was seething at the witch's insistence at inserting herself in every particle of Bronach's life. If she refused, Bronach suspected that it would be grounds for a detention, and she didn't want to end up having to adjust her shifted features more than she already was. It was throwing her off, being so close to her natural form and yet slightly different.

Turning on her heel, ignoring the whispers and attention from the rest of the Great Hall, Bronach started up the stairs towards the Hospital Wing, considering various ways of implicating the toad in something that would get her sentenced to Azkaban for life.

Madam Pomfrey bustled forth the moment that the door shut behind her. "Injured already Miss Potter?"

"I'm pretty sure it's just menstrual cramps ma'am," Bronach said with a shrug. "Professor Umbridge insisted that I come see you though."

"Are they that bad?" the matron's wand swished, and Bronach stilled her instinctive reaction to what was, in truth, a weapon pointed at her. "How strange...you don't seem to be menstruating. Or in pain. Hop on the bed my dear, and we'll take a closer look."

"It's not necessary," Bronach edged back towards the door, wondering how a spell was able to detect that she wasn't menstruating. She added it to the list of things to study during Defense. "Really, I just need some sleep."

"Up on the bed," the matron said firmly, her mouth set. Bronach resigned herself to a full examination. There was no arguing with Pomfrey when she had that look.

"Tell me about your symptoms," the witch said as her wand swirled about Bronach in a shower of golden light.

"Just some light cramping," she lied, clutching the strap of her bag. She could certainly stun the witch, and probably modify her memory, but what if Dumbledore noticed? What if Snape noticed?

"That's odd," the matron was glancing at the readout of her spell, hovering between them. "Miss Potter, you seem to have quite a few scars, but they are very old. Far older than they should be. And your scans are not those of a fifteen year old, but closer to those of a seventeen or eighteen year old."

To lie or to tell the truth. "Madame Pomfrey," she said slowly, mind whirling. "What do you think of the Headmaster's assertion that... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?" Using the pseudonym left a sour taste in her mouth, but the threat of the Taboo still felt too real, especially with Riddle alive and well.

The matron blinked.

"It's one of the few plausible explanations," she said slowly, frown spreading across her face. "Mr. Diggory was killed by the Killing Curse, and I do not believe that you are capable of such a callous thing as killing a competitor. When you arrived in my Hospital Wing, you were suffering from several lacerations, magical exhaustion, and the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse. While Miss Delacour also showed signs of it, as did Mr. Diggory, there is a difference in the damage caused by a curse cast by a novice compared to that of a practiced caster. Yours was cast by someone who was a master of using the curse to torment. Theirs was cast by someone who merely wished to cause pain."

She really needed to learn healing. Bronach suspected that no Ministry autopsy was preformed on Cedric's body, or if it had been, the results were suppressed. "What are the explanations?" she asked.

"That there was someone else in the maze, but it would have been difficult with the entire school present," the matron said, casting another spell and drawing the curtains around them. Another flick of the wand, and the sounds from outside the curtain seemed to dampen slightly. "That the portkey did not act as intended and took the pair of you someplace where you were tortured and Mr. Diggory killed. Or that the Headmaster is correct in saying that the war has begun again. Personally, I feel that the Headmaster is not prone to exaggeration."

Bronach let out a deep breath. "Are you a member of the Cult of the Roasted Turkey?" she asked, glancing up at the matron through her eyelashes.

The witch snorted. "Cheeky," she admonished. "No, I am not, but if there is a need I stand ready to administer what healing I can offer. The headmaster does not ask frequently, but it has happened, from time to time."

Weighing her options, Bronach bit her lip. Clearly the matron suspected something was up, and the medical scans wouldn't lie. If she modified Pomfrey's memory now, then she would have to avoid the Hospital Wing going forward, and hope that nobody noticed the modification.

"Madame Pomfrey," she said slowly, measuring each word. "Do you believe in time travel?"

"Of course," Pomfrey sniffed. "Time Turners are not unheard of."

"Not a Time Turner," Bronach said, knowing that she could still change her mind, but there was a certainty in her gut that she needed the witch on her side. "Let's call it a dimensional accident."

"When?" It took a minute for the matron to recover, but when she did, she was as brisk and efficient as ever.

"About thirty years from now, give or take a few," Bronach honestly had lost count over the years. "And longer in the other dimension."

"How much longer?" More spells, the casting increasingly complicated, gold and silver mist resolving into interesting looking readouts hanging in the air around her.

"I think I'm somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred," Bronach admitted.

"And you returned to being fifteen?" The matron studied one of the readings. "No, your body is clearly about eighteen."

"I was cursed with life unchanging a few months before my eighteenth birthday," Bronach said quietly. "The curse is gone, but the magic that allowed my return to this time allowed me to retain the body that I was accustomed to."

"That explains the glamors," Pomfrey muttered. "Off they go, I need to see what we're looking at."

"Metamorphmagus shift," Bronach corrected, releasing back into her natural body.

"How fascinating," the witch sounded distracted as she recast one of her spells. "I was not aware you had the talent."

"Before, it was very limited," Bronach peered at one of the readings, wondering how one interpreted it. "Now...I do not know how much I could do."

"You should talk with Nymphadora Tonks," Pomfrey advised. "She is our only current Metamorphmagus alumni that I'm aware of."

"I have already made Miss Tonk's acquaintance over the summer," Bronach smiled slightly. "But thank you."

"You look as if you've been in a war zone," Pomfrey murmured, pacing a half-circle to squint at one of the readings that hovered just behind Bronach. "The scarring alone...but there is no scar tissue..."

"My body healed in such a way that it did not impede my functionality," Bronach's smile was half-hearted, she could tell. "But it was not without its mark."

"I can see that," the matron swished her wand, dismissing half of the readings. "Now, you are in far better health than you have been historically during our visits. Clearly you've been managing your diet and exercise far better than in the past. Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

"But?" Bronach said, sensing that there was more that Pomfrey wanted to say.

"Your reproductive system," the matron admitted, glancing at her abdomen. "These are very strange readings..."

"Life unchanging," Bronach murmured softly, resting her hand defensively over her womb. "Unchanging."

"Ah." Madam Pomfrey's sound of understanding was sad, but not pitying. "Well, you said that you are no longer cursed?"

"I was assured that it would be removed, as a consequence of the magic needed to return me to this time," Bronach looked down at her knees. "I...I do not feel cursed."

She hadn't before either. But the Hallows no longer seemed just out of reach, waiting for her to reach out and grasp them, so she took it as a sign that Námo's promise had been truth.

"Very well then," Madam Pomfrey conjured a stool and sat down. "Now, do you have any inclination towards childbearing?"

Bronach felt like she'd been punched. "Yes," she managed to say, terrified that the matron was about to inform her that it was impossible, that her barrenness was a genetic thing, not a Hallows thing.

"Very well," Madame Pomfrey smiled at her. "I find nothing in your scans to indicate that you could not conceive and bear a child. However, it does seem almost as if your reproductive system has forgotten to self-regulate..."

She frowned, and then tried again. "Your hormone levels are similar to a witch who has gone through menopause," the matron explained, pausing as she thought over her words. "As if you were no longer preparing to bear children on a biological level. I suspect that we can convince your body to restore your usual cycle with a bit of supplementation. Are you familiar with contraceptive potions..."

An hour later, Bronach trudged up the stairs, a standing appointment with the matron every Saturday evening on her calendar, a promise of a potions regimen to jump start her cycles, and an iron-clad excuse ready if Dolores Umbridge attempted to interrogate her on her medical conditions.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked as she stepped into the dorm room. Lavender and Pavarti were downstairs in the Common Room, but clearly Hermione knew her well enough to assume that she'd retreat to the safety of her bed curtains when she returned.

"Yeah," Bronach dropped her bag on the floor next to her bed and slipped her feet out of her shoes, missing the practical, comfortable ones she'd worn when attending to her partners at court. Her school shoes felt awkward and uncomfortable and she was contemplating transfiguring them. "Madam Pomfrey insisted on doing a few scans."

"Everything alright?" this time, Hermione looked even more worried, glancing at Bronach over the top of her Charms textbook.

"Yeah," she repeated, rummaging through her books until she found her Potions one, intent on turning in bewilderingly advanced essays as part of her campaign to drive Snape crazy. "Well, no, there's something not quite working now, but it's not hurting me and Pomfrey thought it could be fixed pretty easily. She'll know for certain when I see her on Sunday though."

She realized that her hand was resting on her womb again, and moved it, vowing to make sure that the gesture didn't become a tell. The last thing she needed was a pregnancy scandal courtesy of the Daily Prophet, especially if it somehow got linked to Aragorn.

"Let me know if you need anything from me?" Hermione turned a page in her textbook and carefully made a note on the parchment sitting next to her on the bed. Rumor had it (and considering her source was Luna, Bronach suspected it was true) that the Ravenclaw dorms had actual desks, but Gryffindor Tower was sadly missing such luxuries. Bronach had brought a lap desk for her own use, and was privately betting against her partners about how long it would take for Hermione to ask where she could purchase one. Arwen was down at the three day mark, Aragorn had suspected a week, but Bronach's bet was the first time Hermione noticed it.

"Of course," she said, pulling out her lap desk and tapping it with her wand so that it unshrunk and arranged itself for her. With all of her textbooks within easy reach on her bedside table, Bronach picked up her quill and drew out a clean sheet of parchment, writing out the header in Snape's preferred format before starting on her introductory paragraph. "Thank you."

"What is that?"

It was...different being a student again.

Bronach hadn't realized that she would need to account for the distance between her and her peers beyond the gap created by the Prophet's fear mongering. She'd taught herself to assimilate into hundreds of situations, but they'd always been with whole communities, with adults.

Not with several hundred teenagers.

Thankfully, her Occlumency shields helped buffer the worst of it, and keeping her head down and not engaging helped with the rest of it. Homework was awful, but it was fun thinking of new ways to antagonize Snape via demonstrated competence, and at least it didn't take very long to do this time around.

Umbridge seemed to be seething that she hadn't managed to provoke a response out of Bronach yet, nor had she managed to assign a detention, but at this moment her biggest problem was Trelawney. Galadriel's gift clearly had registered somewhere on the professor's radar, and now Bronach had to plot her way around being the focus of attention in the class, especially with how Umbridge was going to increasingly insert herself as the year progressed.

It was also unfortunate that Bronach had basically ignored the study of divination in her incredibly long life. So she compiled a list of references that she wanted from the Black library, asked Kreacher to bring them to her, and sent a vague note to Remus to see if he had any recommendations.

Friday evening she had Quidditch tryouts with the team, so she sat with the rest of the team at dinner, politely ignoring the awkwardness as the rest of the team adjusted to her presence. Fred and George, bless them, helped smooth it over so that by the time they reached the changing rooms it felt as natural as it had always been.

So natural, in fact, that she hadn't been thinking as she pulled off her jumper, laughing about something Fred had said as they separated.

The conversation in the changing room ground to a halt, and she looked over her shoulder in the silence, trying to figure out what had happened. To her surprise, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia were staring at her, looking horrified.

"Um, Harry?" Angelina said, her voice small. "Are you okay?"

Confused, Bronach was about to ask why she wouldn't be, and then she realized that her camisole had stuck to her jumper, and when she'd pulled off the jumper it had ridden up, showing off her back.

In an attempt to remember not to cover her Killing Curse scar, Bronach had been trying to remember to leave most of the others alone, unless they were visible in her clothing choice for the day. She hadn't thought to hide the ones on her back, which she was certain the others had a clear view of, the silvery scar lines intermixed with the ruins of the tattoo she had carried for a few decades before Donnvail. "It's nothing," she murmured, straightening her camisole. It was too late to hide them, and she'd have to remember that the girls knew. She wiggled out of her denims and pulled on her quidditch leathers over the leggings she'd put on, glad that she didn't have to explain any of the scars there.

"Nothing?" Alicia's voice trembled. "Harry, those look like scars. And some of them looked black..."

"A tattoo," she said blandly. Her quidditch leathers were a bit small. She should probably ask Madam Hooch to order her a new set, since she wasn't sure she wanted to advertise her ability to make them herself.

"A tattoo?" Angelina repeated faintly.

"Not all of it," Bronach pulled her robes on over her head. "It's mostly scarring now. But the black was a tattoo."

"How did you get a tattoo during a single summer?" Katie half-shrieked. "Let alone enough scarring to render it barely visible?"

"I was uniquely motivated." She had carried the names of the fallen on her back, stamped in the sigil of her own curse. "And extremely accident prone." That would satisfy them, wouldn't it?

"Uniquely-" Angelina's voice cut off in a frustrated huff. "Potter, has a healer taken a look at you recently?"

"Yeah, I saw Madam Pomfrey on Monday," Bronach did up the laces on her gauntlets wrist guards, they're wrist guards now and adjusted the way they sat slightly. "I'm healed, and nothing can keep me from flying."

There was a noise of protest from Katie and Alicia, but Angelina glared at them as Bronach turned around and nodded shortly. "Then let's hit the pitch," the captain said, yanking on her own gloves. "I don't want to be out here all night looking for a Keeper."

By the time they made it out onto the pitch, there was a small huddle of hopefuls waiting in a huddle on the grass, all clutching brooms of varying quality. In the stands, Bronach could see others waiting for the show to start, and not just Gryffindors if her memory served accurate. Fred and George had just arrived with the equipment box, clearly enjoying the thinly veiled panic on a few faces as it rattled menacingly when they dropped it next to the candidates.

"Listen up you lot!" Angelina shouted, and Bronach noted that Ron's face went several shades paler. "Everyone on your broom and in the air. You've got five minutes to prove to me that you can fly, then I'm letting Fred and George loose."

"With or without bludgers?" someone muttered. Angelina glanced at the twins, and then shrugged. "Without, and then if anyone's left, we'll add the bludgers. Those who survive that get to show me they know how to handle a quaffle. Only then do you get to show me you know what to do when you're put in front of the hoops."

Nobody moved for a long moment. "What are you waiting for?" the girl demanded. "Up!"

Like a flock of frightened birds, the group hurried to get in the air as Angelina rubbed at her temples. "Wait five minutes and then go scare the shit out of them," she told the twins, who looked gleeful. "On my signal you can let the bludgers loose, but try not to send anyone to Pomfrey?"

As the twins nodded, the captain turned to her fellow chasers. "Get up there and watch them fly. Once they're used to the bludgers, add in defensive Chaser. Don't let them get comfortable up there."

"What about me?" Bronach asked, glancing up as Katie and Alicia took flight.

"Terrify the pants of them or something. You're insane on a broom, so just do whatever." Angelina shrugged as she kicked off, rising into the air to bully the candidates into some semblance of order. Bronach glanced at the twins, who waved her off cheerfully, so she mounted her Firebolt and kicked off.

Pure unbridled joy raced through her veins as she cut through the night air. She had contented herself with racing across the plains of Arda on horseback, but there was nothing that could hold a candle to flying.

Overcome, she flattened herself against the handle and rocketed upwards in a tight spiral, just because she could. Several backwards loops and a few other fancy maneuvers later, she had burned off the initial rush and glanced about to take in the state of the pitch.

The twins were in the air, but without bludgers, and seemed to be working on putting the fear of everything into the candidates. Deciding to lend a hand, she started flying increasingly closer to the group, spotting a fun opportunity as the twins armed themselves with bats and bludgers.

She played tag with the bludgers, chasing one until it followed her, and then speeding away until it lost interest, making sure to charge through the other players whenever she had the chance. At least one of the prospects gave up after she got so close to him that she could count his eyelashes. Another got stuck between the Weasley twins and herself as they taunted the same bludger.

When the quaffle came out, Angelina waved her off, and Bronach pulled up until she was drifting just above the stands, level with the staff box. To her surprise, Aragorn was there, clearly more interested in her than the tryouts. She winked at him, even though she knew he couldn't actually see it at that distance, and then pulled off a perfect Wronski Feint through the passing drill Angelina was running just because she could.

"Knock it off Potter!" Angelina finally bellowed after they were down to two options. One was Ron, and the other was an unremarkable seventh year she didn't quite recognize. Clearly whatever had kept Cormac from tryouts in her memory had done so this time around, which was a blessing. Though, she thought as she eyed Angelina, perhaps it was an arranged blessing. Surely Cormac's reputation preceded him?

For the last stage, where the chasers took shots on goal while the Keepers tried to block them, she just circled lazily above the hoops, watching as the three girls savagely put both candidates through the wringer. It was close, but Ron managed to save one more than the seventh year, securing his spot once more.

"Weasley, well done. Your brothers can show you your locker. Practice tomorrow morning after breakfast. Eat well, you'll be there all morning."

Katie and Alicia took the ball crate back to the shed, leaving Bronach alone with Angelina in the locker room. "You're as sharp as ever Potter," the older girl said as they stripped out of their quidditch robes. "I won't be able to face Wood if we lose the cup, so whatever shit you get into this year? Keep it away from the pitch."

"I usually don't choose the shit I get into," Bronach rolled her eyes. "But I'll try not to deliberately get myself benched." Umbridge, of course, would likely zero in on removing Quidditch from her life, but this time Bronach hoped she'd have enough self-restraint not to punch Malfoy in the face in front of the entire school.

She should possibly warn Ron about the song. Maybe.

Mulling over if she remembered enough of it to warn him about specific lyrics, or just enough to warn about Slytherin tactics took her through the rest of her changing and then getting updated measurements to leave for Madam Hooch in order for the witch to order new robes for her. Katie and Alicia came and left as she finished up, so that by the time she'd pinned the note with her request to the Flight Instructor's door, she was all by herself in the gloaming.

"You fly like a maniac," Aragorn said from the shadows under the stands. Glancing at him, she couldn't help but smile faintly at how closely he resembled the Ranger she had met in the taproom of the Pony all those decades ago. "No wonder you took to horses so well."

"Someday you'll understand," she promised, already planning thestral flight, if not broom flight, lessons for her partners, as soon as she could arrange them. "It's like nothing else in the world.

He chuckled, and she wanted to reach out to him, wanted to snog him under the stands in the way that she'd never really managed to get around to doing during her school years, but it was too risky. So she grinned up at him instead. "First practice is tomorrow morning. Is your wife going to come see?"

"Perhaps," Aragorn shrugged. "She's been busy setting up her classroom for the first lecture next week."

According to the student gossip network, Arwen's classroom was one of the large, airy ones on the ground floor, close to one of the courtyards and Firenze's future classroom. It certainly appealed to Bronach's sensibilities, and she suspected that it would remind her partner of Rivendell's workrooms, as well as anything could at least.

"How did you manage to get down here?" she asked as they started up towards the school. "Only Gryffindors should be able to enter this section of the stands. Though I don't know if that extends to staff."

"It doesn't," Aragorn fell in slightly behind her, as if they were only going the same way, not walking together. "But we were introduced to the quaint hat during the first staff meeting. Apparently it's necessary, lest a substitute Head of House needs to be named."

"Well?" Bronach said, drawing the word out leadingly. She'd been struggling to place her partners in houses, and had an active bet with Sirius and Remus about where they would have been sorted. Which, she realized with a scowl, they had probably been cheating on, since they knew about Arwen's plan to become a teacher.

"I was offered choices, but I hope that, should some ill befall Minerva, I will be an adequate substitute."

She owed Sirius money. Bronach had been fairly certain that the ambition and cunning that had made Aragorn a shrewd commander and first king of the Reunited Kingdom would lead her partner to Slytherin, despite his chivalry, loyalty, and wisdom. "And your wife?"

"Much like the badgers that frequent the High Moors, she is a force to be reckoned with."

Well, that made Sirius and Remus owe her money. They had focused on Arwen's wisdom and love of learning, without seeing the steadfast loyalty that it took to bring her to Aragorn's side.

"I will remember not to cross her," Bronach said lightly, and they made their way back to the castle in comfortable silence.

Chapter Text

There was no article about sighting Sirius in London, so Bronach counted her lucky stars that Sirius was proving cooperative.

Unfortunately, Percy's letter Saturday night clearly indicated that Umbridge was still going to be appointed High Inquisitor.

Ron ripped it up and tossed it in the fireplace, glowering at the embers. "He's a right prat," the redhead said after a long moment. "Do I want to know if he ever gets better?"

Bronach swallowed hard, glancing down at her transfiguration essay but seeing Percy cradling Fred's lifeless body. "He'll come around," she managed to say, her mind already starting to spin with plots to mend the rift in the family in such a way that it didn't necessitate Fred's death. "Though he might need a good shake once or twice."

"Three times," Ginny muttered from where she was curled on a chair, flipping through a magazine. "But it hasn't worked yet, since he's always been a prat."

"He's ambitious and has lofty goals," Bronach said, trying to be fair. "It's not a bad thing, but it's different than Bill's cursebreaking, or the twins' shop. And it's not easy to be the butt of everyone's jokes."

Both Ron and Ginny looked outraged for a moment, but traded it for mild shame. "Yeah, that could be it," Ron allowed, sounding reluctant. "Just...of all the things to whinge about, he chooses cauldron bottoms?"

"Different priorities," Hermione offered diplomatically, proving why she had always been the one Percy gravitated to at family gathers. "He wants to be somebody, and he wants to change the world."

"Plus, substandard cauldrons means a lot more potions accidents," Bronach muttered, managing another sentence in her essay. "He'll come around," she repeated as the group grimaced at the thought of even more mayhem in their potions classroom. "Just maybe stop taking the mickey out of him because he's got ambitions, okay?"

"What do you think he meant, about watching the paper?" Ron asked, clearly changing the subject.

"You'll see," Bronach said darkly, refusing to say any more, no matter how they pestered her. But she was glad to see that all three of her friends were up early to join her in reading the Monday Prophet.

"No wonder you didn't want to say anything," Hermione said as she perused the paper that she'd spread out in front of her. "This is bad, isn't it?"

Bronach swallowed a spoonful of porridge, watching Umbridge attempt to hold court at the staff table while Dumbledore cheerfully ignored her. "Absolutely," she hummed in agreement. "No doubt about it."

"How could it get any worse?" Ginny grumbled, glaring daggers at her Defense textbook.

"She'll disband all student organizations, she's going to sack Trelawney and Hagrid, and she'll piss off every staff member but Filch." Bronach let her voice slide under the ambient noise of the Great Hall, her friends leaning in to hear her.

"You're too calm about this," Ron narrowed his eyes at her. "You've got something up your sleeve."

"I've pretty much seen everything she's capable of," Bronach said grimly, thinking of Umbridge in the courtroom, sending muggleborns to Azkaban in sham trials. "Nothing about this hell-year frightens me, at least as it pertains to the school."

She was absolutely terrified that Riddle would escalate before she was ready to end him. Everything else was just details.

Her friends sat silently for a moment. "That's not encouraging mate," Ron said, looking as if she'd just told him they needed to visit Aragog again. "But seriously, what are you planning?"

"We're starting a defense study group," Bronach said, finishing her tea. "And I need to figure out how to get Trelawney not to make a spectacle of me during the inspection of today's class."

"Good luck with that," Ron snorted as he helped himself to another slice of toast. "Clearly she's even more obsessed with you than she was before."

"Unfortunately she isn't wrong," Bronach grumbled. Her extracurricular reading hadn't gotten very far yet, mostly because she was still waiting on resources, leaving her uncomfortably unprepared for this next step.

"That bit about your dream was real?" the boy reared back, aghast. Hermione and Ginny looked highly skeptical as they traded glances.

"Yes," Bronach tried to keep her irritation from slipping through, but she suspected that it wasn't as good a job as she had hoped. Taking a deep breath, she muttered: "At one point, approximately a hundred and twenty years ago, give or take a few decades, a very wise person who was incredibly gifted in foresight managed to kickstart my own latent sensitivity."

The three of them stared at her blankly. "Uh, have you like...prophesied or whatever?" Ron whispered, glancing up at the empty chair where Trelawney usually sat when she deigned to dine with the masses.

"No," Bronach hissed. "I have not prophesied, I have not had visions..." she frowned, remembering her vision before walking the Paths of the Dead, her statement that she would never ride a warhorse of Rohan.

Fuck, she had prophesied. And had visions.

"Look," she said after another deep breath. "I have moments of irritatingly clear foresight and a talent for knowing when things are about to go horribly, disastrously wrong."

Her friends continued staring at her, and Ginny was the one to break the silence this time. "You sure you're okay?"

Bronach felt her eyes drift towards the head table, unerringly finding Arwen's. Her partner winked at her with a gentle smile before turning back to Aragorn. "Yeah," she said, looking away. "I'm pretty damn good."

She'd figured that the best way to keep Divination on track was setting her roommates on Trelawney, and had managed to corner both of them over the weekend to lay out her plan.

Thankfully, it seems that they'd managed to get through to Trelawney. Bronach didn't know what they had said, or how they had said it, but it was a relief to arrive in Divination and find Trelawney waiting with the host of tools that they'd studied so far.

"We will be conducting an accelerated review of all of the methods that we have thus far studied," Trelawney announced, tapping the table in front of her to gather their attention. "If Miss Potter can learn to open her Inner Eye in the course of a summer, there's hope for the rest of you! We start with palmistry. Books away class, and broaden your minds!"

Umbridge appeared shortly after, but the class was dutifully pouring over their own palms and consulting with their classmates. Trelawney floated here and there, answering questions and quizzing them, thankfully not hovering as Bronach stared at the places where scars should have crossed her palms, wondering what could be read from them. By the time class ended, it was clear that the High Inquisitor was seething from the lack of attention anyone had paid to her.

The dream diaries they were being required to keep for the next month were less satisfying, but Bronach would take what she could get.

Defense was as rubbish as she'd expected it to be, with Umbridge dropping barbed comments as they pretended to read from Slinkhard's book. It was fairly useful as a time to shore up her Occlumancy shields, and Bronach contemplated reshaping them into the book itself, just to see the expression on Snape's face if he tried nosing about in her mind.

She was dreaming though, Bronach could tell that much. It wasn't the Department of Mysteries like she remembered though, at least not that she could tell. Every single day, starting after her second Divination lesson they repeated, never exactly the same but never significantly different either.

Her dreams were filled with aged stone walls, tapestries flickering in and out as she glanced at them, and it frustrated her to no end that she never remembered anything more beyond that. It was like no place she could remember seeing in her waking hours, and every morning before her practice with Aragorn and Arwen she dutifully recorded the details in her dream diary.

Trelawney was going to have a field day when she reviewed the journal, but so far Bronach couldn't trace a single useful thing from the dreams.

It reminded her uncomfortably of the days on the Great River, dreaming of the attack that awaited them at Parth Galen, the sundering of the Fellowship and the near-death of Boromir. As she sat, quill resting upon the page, she wondered if Irmo could reach her dreams even here. What would he have to say to her?

She closed her journal with a muffled thump, making for the Room of Requirement. They'd agreed to skip their planned training in deference to Arwen's first day of classes, but Bronach felt in need of beating up some training dummies.

To her surprise, Aragorn was there waiting for her.

"Arwen is busy putting the final touches on her classroom, but I felt like practicing," he explained, letting his sword fall to his side as she entered.

She saw a tightness around his eyes that reminded her of how she felt. "Have you been dreaming?" Bronach asked, picking up her own sword from the rack of practice weapons.

"The way you say that suggests that I'm not the only one," he said grimly.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she retorted, stepping into the ready stance and nodding for him to approach.

"There's not much," he admitted after they'd finished their spar and were sitting on the ground sharing the water that Kreacher had brought them. "A stone-walled room, bare, and an empty chair in a ruined castle."

"I've got the room," Bronach said after a moment. "But the ruined castle is missing, and there might be tapestries in the room."

Aragorn shared a grimace with her before pulling her into his side. Bronach leaned against him, wondering why things couldn't just be easy. All she had wanted to do was make Umbridge's life hell and grind Voldemort into paste. Maybe do a bit of political rearranging, but she hadn't considered doing too much, since the sheer number of people who she intended to have survive would likely change things.

"Shh," Aragorn murmured into her hair. "You're thinking too hard."

"Am not," she mumbled.

"You are," he brushed a kiss across her temple before releasing her. "You also have class to prepare for this morning. I hear the instructor is incredibly strict."

"Oh?" Bronach got to her feet. "Are we getting Queen Arwen, or are we getting Arwen Celebrianiel?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," her partner teased, fleeing the room before she could pin him down and extract a proper answer.

After breakfast, Bronach gathered up Hermione and her stack of reference materials and headed towards the classroom Arwen had claimed, eager to see what her partner had constructed for the students.

They were hardly the only ones eager for the lecture; a crowd was forming outside of the doors that was mixed between both gender and house. There were some faces that Bronach recognized and others that were unfamiliar to her. She didn't have long to dwell on the group, since Arwen opened the double doors with a gentle smile. "Come in, come in," she said. "Robes on the wall by the door, and then gather at the edge of the rug."

Several of the students that Bronach vaguely associated with the more traditional houses hesitated at the command to take off their robes, but Bronach pulled off her own student robe, glad that she had chosen not to wear lounge clothing as she'd been tempted to.

The rug Arwen had mentioned took up about half the room, a comfortable assortment of settees and armchairs grouped in loose clumps on top of it. On the far half of the room were the tools of their trades: looms, spinning wheels, cutting tables, shelves of fabric...anything a threadwitch could possibly want or need. Bronach's fingers itched to explore; it was the type of space that she enjoyed, seeing Arwen's taste and memories of the workrooms in Imladris in the small details.

It took a few tries for everyone to be ready; it was clear that Arwen was trying to eliminate House colors when several students were sent to remove cardigans or ties that they'd been wearing under their robes. But finally she had everyone assembled and waiting for the next instruction. Already Bronach could see the rest of the students were curious about the unconventional space, and equally unconventional demand.

"Those of you who consider themselves to be capable of independent work in at least one craft, gather to my left," Arwen ordered, surveying them. "Those who are familiar with a craft, to my right. If you are a novice in all crafts, please remain in the center."

There was a shuffling, and the students sorted themselves out with a minimum of discussion. Bronach was surprised to see that there were only two students who considered themselves capable of independent work, and unsurprised to see that there were eleven still in the center. She considered joining the seven students on the right, but Arwen caught her eye and tipped her head ever so slightly to the left.

Clearly, mostly-honest it was then.

"Now," Arwen pointed at Hannah Abbott, who looked around frantically to see if there was anyone else that it could be. "Name, preferred craft, and skill you are currently being challenged by."

Bronach listened to the recitation of skills and tried to discern a pattern as Arwen seated the students across the clumps of settees like a hobbit placing plants in a garden. There seemed to be no attempt to group similar crafts together, and by the time Arwen was down to the three of them who professed to be capable of independent work, the eighteen students already seated seemed evenly divided.

"Name?" her partner rounded on the first student, who pulled a cloth bag from his school bag without being asked. "Omar Shaw, professor, and I embroider." Opening the cloth bag, he withdrew an embroidery hoop which contained a half-finished garden scene of intricate detail. Bronach was impressed; few even among the seamstresses who served the court had managed that level of work.

"Excellent work Mr. Shaw," Arwen murmured, straightening from where she had bent over to inspect the work. "Please sit with Miss Runcorn and her companions. Now, Miss..."

"Isabella Tintwhistle," the girl said promptly. "My family has made lace for generations, and I am familiar with a number of techniques." She held out her wrist, and Bronach had to stop herself from moving closer so she could get a better look at the lacework that edged the cuff of the girl's blouse.

Arwen will share details, she told herself, mentally composing her own statement. Or you can always ask Tintwhistle yourself another time.

"Off to sit with Miss Quirke, Miss Tintwhistle, your skill is impressive indeed. Finally, Miss..."

"Potter ma'am," Bronach said promptly. "I've tried my hand at a number of things over the years, and am fairly skilled at many of them." Arwen clearly didn't want her stuck pretending to learn the basics, but Bronach didn't want to reveal that she had far more knowledge than a fifteen year old should have crammed into her head.

"Please join Mr. Dunn and his companions then," Arwen said, allowing her a scant second to follow through before continuing on. "I have little patience for an ancient enchanted hat, and refuse to tolerate such divisiveness in my classroom. Equally so," she swept her eyes over the group, "I will not tolerate divisions based on year or gender, so if anyone feels incapable of interacting peacefully with all of your peers, you may leave now."

To Bronach's delight, none of the students moved. Her partner sat in her chosen armchair as if it was a throne, clearly well in control of the group already. When a moment had passed and it was clear nobody was departing, Arwen continued. "Thread magic is as varied as those of you sitting in this room. It encompasses a number of crafts, and can touch every part of your daily experience in some way, shape, or form if you allow it. There are two expressions of thread magic: enchanting constructed items and laying magic into an item during its crafting. I expect all of you to be capable of the former by the end of the year, however I will not require any of you to accomplish the latter."

"Why Professor?" Hermione asked when Arwen glanced over at her raised hand.

"Outside this room, formalities must be adhered to, but within these walls I see no purpose in needless propriety." Arwen's words were gentled with a smile. "You may call me Arwen."

"Okay," Hermione bit her lip. "Arwen? Why won't you require us to lay magic into an item during its crafting?"

"If you make a reasonable effort, you will pass this class," Arwen waved her hand airily. "I value the effort you put into your work far more than I value a well-fitting garment or a piece with few flaws. If by the summer you have mastered only a single new skill, that is sufficient for me. Laying magic into an item during its crafting requires not only skill in construction, but a sense of your own magic and how it moves into and through your work. Enchanting a created item requires knowledge of its construction and its intended use."

"Will we have homework then?" a girl who Bronach recognized as being Draco Malfoy's future wife piped up, despite an older girl who could only be her sister glaring at her from a different cluster of seats.

"You will be expected to work on your chosen projects, which may require time beyond our scheduled sessions," Arwen shrugged. "It may be that you wish to conduct research on a topic, or simply practice a skill. This room will be open to you at all hours so that you may access the materials and tools within, though I ask that students who are not participating in this time not be welcomed into the room. I will be present often to assist as needed, and if I am not, a house elf will be able to fetch me as needed."

Arwen paused, clearly waiting for further questions, but when none came she began to speak again. "There are two areas of study we will apply ourselves to. One is seemingly mundane, the other seemingly magical."

"We begin where all things must: the tools with which we create. Many of you may know this, but you may learn something new, so listen with an open mind. We are always learning, or we stagnate."

Hermione looked both thoughtful and enraged as they left the classroom, rewrapped in their robes and school colors. "If meditation and self-reflection are the very core of our magical strength, why haven't we been taught that in other classes?"

"Your parents are responsible for teaching you," the elder Greengrass sister said stiffly as she walked by. "Or your close relatives. It is expected that by the start of your first year you have the foundational principles of mental discipline mastered."

"What about orphans?" Hermione retorted with a scowl. "What about those whose parents are unable or unwilling to teach? Should they be punished for circumstances beyond their control?"

"Do you think Hogwarts staff have the time?" Shaw, the Ravenclaw with what Bronach suspected was a natural gift for embroidery, muttered as he entered the Great Hall. They dispersed to their own tables before Hermione could respond, but Bronach could tell that some of the students were considering what Hermione had pointed out about the gap in Hogwarts' curriculum.

"So how was it?" Ginny asked as they sat down. "It sounds really boring."

"It was quite interesting," Hermione said, helping herself to the stew that was in front of them, still sounding vaguely frustrated. "Not like any of our other classes at all."

"Did she assign homework?" Ron asked.

"Professor Telcontar said she wouldn't assign essays, but we'd be expected to practice and research whatever we're working on." Bronach watched as Arwen glided along the staff table until she reached the chair next to Aragorn. Apparently he'd prepared her a plate, since she didn't help herself to anything before she started eating.

"What's your craft going to be?" Hermione shifted to look at Bronach. "You said you were a jack of all trades."

"Not sure yet," Bronach shrugged, watching the other houses interrogate their representatives in Arwen's lecture. "I'll figure it out eventually."

Naturally, the entire school spent the week discussing the class, despite only a small percentage of the student body being actually involved. To Bronach's amusement, the bulk of the gossip she overheard was factual. Arwen's insistence on ignoring House divisions was sparking a fair bit of discussion among the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and the Slytherins could be caught discussing her nontraditional choice to discuss magical theory relating to mental discipline.

Bronach managed to arrive early to the second class, forsaking her usual school robe in favor of a lightweight casual overrobe she'd retailored from one of her old court garments.

"That's from Cennaniel's wardrobe, is it not?" Arwen asked as she entered the classroom, looking up from her needlework.

"I'm flattered you were paying that much attention," Bronach teased, setting her bag down next to the chair she'd occupied during the last class. This time she'd brought the basics from her supplies, since Arwen refused to give her hints about what they were covering. "Considering how unhappy you were with her very presence."

"Only at the beginning, and never with her," Arwen's smile was warm. "I suspect we'll have company in class today," she changed the subject, and Bronach grimaced. It was a fair assumption, Umbridge was hardly going to wait to see what Arwen was teaching. If she was honest, it was surprising that the toad hadn't interrupted the first class.

"Probably," Bronach took her seat. "What are we covering today?"

"The basics," Arwen said cryptically, but Bronach simply raised an eyebrow at her.

"Materials and their origin then." She wouldn't need her kit at all if that was the case.

"Have you considered what you might do for your capstone?" her partner asked her as they waited for the other students to finish with their breakfast.

"Not yet," Bronach admitted. "Any suggestions?"

"For you?" Arwen tapped her finger on the arm of her chair. "For you, a simple mastery of an individual craft would not challenge you," she mused. "I would set you the challenge of crafting three full outfits, from the skin out. One suitable for daywear, one suitable for a formal event, and one suitable for a...high stakes situation. Starting from the rawest of materials available to you, of course."

Bronach grinned as she contemplated the challenge. Certainly it would test the extent of her skills, since she rarely took a garment from its very foundations all the way to its finished state, let alone an entire outfit. "From fibers to cloth, dying done by me, and then weaving?" she asked, just to clarify.

"If it is within your capabilities and you have the resources to do so, yes," Arwen's eyes sparkled with mirth, knowing the challenge that she was setting.

In her trunk were bolts of dyed and undyed silk from Harad. She didn't have the time or resources to obtain unspun silk quickly, so they would have to compromise, but she had plenty of wool, and she was fairly certain she had some cotton and flax from when she had devoted herself to learning how to work with the fibers. Kreacher could likely source what she didn't have.

Raw material for dyes might be trickier to come by, but Bronach had a fair amount saved from when she'd fully harvested her last dye garden in preparation for their departure. But before she could get too lost in her mental inventory, the rest of the class started trickling in, many wearing casual robes, and those that had chosen to wear their school robes leaving them on the pegs by the door without prompting.

"We will be talking about the materials with which we work with today," Arwen announced as the last student took their seat. "Specifically natural fibers, which hold magic better and are easier to enchant, since they contain residual echoes of the magic present within all living things."

"Hem hem."

"Yes, High Inquisitor?" Arwen's voice was the same shade of politely dismissive that Bronach had heard her use for diplomatic meetings with the Haradrim leaders who had waged war against Gondor without remorse. She was glad that her seat didn't face the door, allowing her a moment to compose her reaction. "Is there a reason that you are interrupting my class?"

"Are you saying that muggles have magic?" The disdain dripping from Umbridge's voice made Bronach's amusement die a swift death, and she remembered the fucking trials, the accusations of stolen magic...

"All living things are magic-touched," Arwen replied evenly. "For the purpose of my lecture, I am informing my students that this quality of living things makes natural fibers preferred for those intending to work magic with thread."

"It makes sense, Professor," Greengrass said, and Bronach was curious to see a few of the other students, mostly purebloods she thought, nodding. "Diagon Alley's outfitters exclusively use natural fibers and hides in their wares."

Greengrass was the main stakeholder in magical Britain's wool trade, Bronach remembered suddenly. And she suspected that if she looked closer, most of the students in this class of wizarding heritage would likely have ties to either the outfitters or the agrarian suppliers of raw materials.

"We begin with the fibers," Arwen's voice cut across whatever retort Umbridge might have made, "because they are the foundation of our work, whether we work with threads, yarns, or fabrics. Magical fibers may have similar impacts on your work, but are often ill-suited for some applications due to their inherent magical properties. Non-magical fibers allow you to layer in what magic you intend the finished product to possess, though care must still be taken to balance the work properly."

They spent the rest of class ignoring Umbridge and handling different fibers, but Bronach was only paying attention enough to look as if she was engaged. In reality she was making lists and drafting letters that she intended to send after lunch.

Hedwig was happy enough to have a task to do, carrying several letters requesting subscriptions and the associated fees to a number of fashion publications that she remembered Fleur following. Bronach considered taking her broom out, but instead she knocked out another week's worth of assignments, having begged a list of essays for the term from the professors in all of her core subjects.

It usually didn't take her much time to complete her class assignments, but Bronach preferred working on them in a single sitting, rather than the hodgepodge of assignments given out during the week. Hermione seemed grateful for it as well, using it to better structure her study plan.

McGonagall had started slipping in extra assignments by writing notes on her returned work, clearly deciding that if Bronach was going to prove to be more than proficient at Transfiguration, she was in need of a push. Flitwick also seemed to have picked up that she was beyond OWL standard and was expecting more out of her essays.

If she wasn't set on driving Snape crazy, Bronach would consider asking him what it would take to convince him to act as the supervising Master for her own Mastery project. The literature research was done, the experimental phase had been abandoned in Arda after she'd nearly blown up her tent. With that reaction, she certainly couldn't attempt to brew in Myrtle's bathroom, let alone that the committee wouldn't accept anything that hadn't been conducted under a Master's critical and experienced eye.

She'd figure something out, Bronach promised herself as she started working on a pair of stockings for herself, just to keep her hands busy in the evenings. The Gryffindor common room was homey enough, but she missed her partners' presence fiercely. It was amazing how quickly she'd grown accustomed to having them by her sides.

Chapter Text

"I'm going to run Defense tutoring," Bronach announced as she sat down at her place in the Great Hall.

Hermione turned to look at her with wide eyes. "What?"

"I'm putting together a Defense study group for anyone who actually wants to learn," she elaborated, helping herself to roast and potatoes. Arwen and Aragorn were up at the staff table, talking quietly between themselves. Umbridge was absent, odd, but not unheard of since it was a Sunday. "We'll convene by Myrtle's bathroom in three days."

"You can't just say something like that out loud mate," Ron said, glancing at the staff table. "It's...it's just not smart."

"You know what's not smart?" Bronach said, setting her utensils down. "Children dying because they don't know how to defend themselves." Her stomach turned as she blinked down at the table and saw still bodies for a moment. "I'm not hungry anymore."

Her friends called after her, but she needed air. Sitting in a classroom, learning things she already knew, was frustrating beyond belief, but she'd had a long time to learn how to be patient. Unfortunately, she hadn't had equally as long to get used to the PTSD triggers she now lived among.

It was cool, bordering on cold, but she sat down on the steps leading up to the Entrance Hal and took deep breaths. Clearly none of the staff had noticed her departure, which she was grateful for, but none of her friends had come out after her, which left her feeling lonely.

She'd gotten used to having someone at her shoulder when she was emotionally compromised. It had been her agreement with Daervunn, that she extract herself if she was starting to struggle, and to not go back until she had someone with her to help steady her. Bronach twisted her fingers together as she focused on the chill stone and russet leaves in the distance.

It had been May when she had last been at the castle. The weather had been warming up, the leaves on the trees had been green.

"The trees were young, the grass was green, the hemlock-umbels tall and fair," she sang, taking a breath and letting it fill her lungs. "And in the glade, a light was seen, of stars in shadow shimmering."

Bronach felt the melody buoying her, helping her place herself in time and space. Slipping off her shoes, she stepped down off the stairs and into the dewy grass. The chill made her shiver, but it was a good shiver. "Tinúviel was dancing there, to music of a pipe unseen. The light of stars was in her hair, and in her raiment glimmering."

The song carried her down into the grounds, letting her feet wander where they would go. She was near the forest's edge when Beren looked again upon Luthien, as the spring flowed forth as if commanded by her song. To her surprise, a voice picked up the next verse before she could begin.

"Again she fled, but swift he came," Aragorn sang, mischief in his eye as he stepped out of the shadows. "Ruinil, o Ruinil!"

Taking the cue, she darted off into the fringes of the forest, finding joy in the chase. They had not often been allowed such a carefree moment, too aware of others stumbling across them, but on a Sunday night the students frequented the castle, usually catching up on neglected homework. Hagrid's hut was dark, he would not return until November. Nobody was watching.

She led him on a merry chase, releasing first the spells on her hair, and then pulling out the pins, letting the weight of it flow down her back, unbound for the first time since she'd returned to Hogwarts except for when she washed it before rebraiding it. Through the trees she fled, doubling back and zigzagging, keeping just out of his reach as her limbs burned with pleasant exertion and her chest heaved with the effort. Every so often she could hear him laugh, and it spurred her forward, until they were near the edge of the lake where she had once driven off a hundred dementors to save her godfather.

"Ruinil," Aragorn called as she slowed, "Ruinil!"

And there she halted listening.

He came towards her, and Bronach could see the lively fire in his eyes, the way his chest heaved with every breath, the slight sheen of sweat on his temple. She could run, she still had the energy, but she had always suspected Luthien had allowed Beren to catch her, whether out of curiosity or some sixth sense that told her that this man was worth stopping for.

Aragorn stopped in front of her, so close that she could lean forward and rest her head on his chest if she wanted. Slowly, so slowly that she could escape if she wanted, his arms came up to encircle her, tugging her in so that there was almost no room between them.

"I have not seen your hair fully loose outdoors in a long time," he said, running a hand over it as it tumbled down her back. "Lin Giliath, perhaps?"

"Mm, no," she leaned her head against his chest, appreciating the sound of his heartbeat. "The Eave-mere, at the seven year anniversary."

"That was a good night," she could almost hear his smile. "The three of us, under the stars, in the most ancient joining..."

Her breath, which had started to even out, hitched at the memory. It had felt like a dream, standing under the stars and pledging herself to Aragorn and Arwen, first with words and then with her very body and soul. "It was a good night," she murmured, feeling his fingers slip through her hair, tugging lightly as they caught against a snarl. "A very good night."

"Arwen would join us if she hadn't thought we needed some time to ourselves," Aragorn's voice was rich with amusement. "What do you think we ought to do with this time?"

Oh the possibilities. "I could come up with a few ideas," Bronach tipped her face up, shuffling her feet closer. "How much time do you think we have?"

"How long is it until curfew?"

She glanced up at the stars, trying to guess the time. "Mm, at least half an hour, maybe an hour before anyone will seriously be looking for me."

"Then we'll have to make the most of it," Aragorn stepped back slightly, glancing around. "We're far enough out that we shouldn't be interrupted."

Bronach shrugged out of her robe, a plain black one she'd chosen because it was comfortable, not because it was fashionable. Spreading it out on the ground, she lowered herself to recline on it. "Are you going to join me?"

Aragorn knelt next to her, reaching out one hand to cup her cheek. "Oh, I certainly will," he practically purred, lips curling in a smirk. "Your wish is my command."

She let him lead them through their first kiss in a few weeks, their morning practice sessions too focused for them to make a habit of intimacy, but after a short break to catch their breaths, she pulled him down, pressing her mouth to his.

The stars seemed to spin overhead as they kissed, entwined in each other for the first time since they'd left Grimmauld Place, so wrapped together that it was hard to tell where she began and he ended. She missed Arwen somewhat, but they all knew how important it was for them to have time as couples, not just as a triad. Perhaps once evening this week she and Arwen could get a few moments snatched alone in her classroom, with Kreacher serving as lookout for them.

Eventually they pulled back, and Bronach reluctantly sat up. Aragorn helped her gather up her hair and bind it in a passable interpretation of what she'd left the castle with. Then he shook out her robe for her and held it while she slid into it, pulling it close around her as the chill of the night settled in without Aragorn to keep it at bay.

"Two years," he murmured, pressing their foreheads together. "Two more years, and we'll be together as we should be. No more of this hiding and sneaking around."

"One year, if I am impatient enough," she whispered. Lots of time in the classroom had given her plenty of time to think, and she'd considered how difficult it would be to take her NEWTs at the Ministry at the end of the next year.

Bronach knew it would be controversial, but it was a privilege offered to her as Head of House. It would not be unheard of, as she'd be a recognized adult in Wizarding society as a Head of House who had completed her OWLs. Combined with her status as the last of her Houses, nobody would look twice at her for doing so, especially if she married not long afterwards.

The general misogyny of the Wizarding world worked in her favor sometimes.

"One?" Aragorn's eyes widened. "You're thinking of leaving after next year."

"I'd have to argue with McGonagall, but it's technically not impossible," she confirmed as they started back up towards the castle. Hopefully her shoes were still there, but if not Kreacher would be able to track them down.

"Miss Potter," a voice said, and Bronach reacted instantly, pivoting towards it with her hand outstretched, sensing more than seeing Aragorn fall in at her left shoulder, slightly behind her so that she was the first line of defense. It was a familiar position, familiar stance, one learned after decades of her being their first or last line of defense, depending on the situation.

To her surprise, Snape was there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. Bronach's mind raced. She shouldn't be in contact with Aragorn, not this late at night and certainly not outside a casual interaction in the halls. Add to that the general state of slight dishevelment that she knew both of them wore without shame, having not anticipating running into anyone until they were in the castle proper, and Bronach knew she'd have to work fast.

"Professor Snape," she said calmly, lowering her hand. "Having a pleasant evening stroll?"

"Returning to the castle after being out on business," his voice was frigid. "But it appears that you and Mister Telcontar have been...enjoying the fall foliage."

There were probably leaves in their hair. Along with other forest floor detritus. And her robe was probably dotted with it as well.

She'd planned on disillusioning herself for the walk through the castle and the Gryffindor common room. Umbridge would hardly do something as mundane as walk when she has her own personal Floo connection, and she hadn't considered that Snape wouldn't do the same.

"It's a fair evening," she said, ignoring his commentary on their state. "With the onset of winter, there will be fewer chances for a stroll."

"Your choice of companions is...concerning, Mister Telcontar," Snape said, glancing over her shoulder. "Is your wife unavailable?"

"I felt the need for some air," Aragorn said with a polite tone she recognized from his dealings with irritating courtiers. "Arwen decided to stay in."

"And how did you meet Miss Potter?"

"We happened across each other by the lake shore," Bronach shrugged, as if she hadn't led Aragorn there after a merry chase along the edge of the forest. "It made sense to return to the castle together."

"You may not be aware, Mister Telcontar, but it is considered...unwise, to fraternize with students outside of approved instructional opportunities," Snape's words felt like a coiled snake threatening to strike, but Bronach had never been afraid of snakes. Everything paled in the face of the basilisk, especially once she knew she could speak with them.

"Since when was being escorted back to the castle fraternization, Professor?" Bronach asked sweetly. "In fact, wouldn't it be unwise if you decided to escort me back from here? Or perhaps it would have been unwise when you escorted me to your office three years ago?"

"You skate perilously close to detention, Miss Potter, for one who is already losing points for being outside after curfew," Snape's voice was silky with danger. "Perhaps we should bring this matter to a...higher authority to determine what ought to be done?"

Bronach's mind whirled. She didn't want Dumbledore picking up on her relationship with Aragorn and Arwen. They were already under scrutiny for their clear attachment to her, but so far Bronach didn't believe anyone had picked up on the depth of it. Umbridge was also a dangerous contender, if Snape decided to circumvent his employer in favor of setting the Ministry on Aragorn and Arwen.

"Or we could make a deal," she said.

"Or we could make a deal," Bronach said, and as she faced down the professor whom Aragorn had learned to associate with scorn and impatience, he saw once more the woman who had torn down Carn Dum with her bare hands, who had scoured the Morgul Vale until it bore untainted growth once more.

This was the woman he loved, free of her layers of protection and deception, shining like a burning flame, so hot that you dared not lean too close. There was a reason why the only epesse that had ever stuck to her was Ruinil.

Arwen was his Evenstar, and Bronach was his flame.

"And what could you possibly offer that would be of worth to me?" Severus Snape sneered, cold amusement filling his eyes. "After all, you are attempting to keep yourself from discipline, save his marriage, and his reputation. That is quite a lot that you would have to offer to outweigh what you are protecting."

He could hear the smirk in Bronach's voice as she replied. "Not quite as much as you think, and yet more than you think."

"Riddles do not become Gryffindors," Snape said, voice cutting. "I am fast losing my patience for this farce."

"I will offer you three pieces of information," Aragorn wanted to kiss away the smirk that he knew was curling around her lips, but he held himself still. Things were yet precarious, and they were too close to the castle to risk it. "One for the Headmaster, one for the Dark Lord, and one for you to keep as you will."

It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Aragorn thought he saw Snape's eyebrow raise. "You are very bad at this already."

"A freebie, to bait the hook," Bronach gestured dismissively. "Well, Professor?"

"Very well then," the man conceded. "Three pieces of information, and I will hold my tongue about this incident."

"I am bound to another," Bronach said, sounding amused. "I know the full text of the prophecy that the Dark Lord acted upon. And the four most powerful British wizards of the last century are halfbloods."

Snape was still for a long moment. "You do not know what you have offered," he said coldly, his face concerningly blank.

"Try and find the full text," Bronach's tone filled with challenge as she tipped her head up to meet the man's eyes. "I give you my full permission."

"Gryffindor," he sneered, but it seemed more like habit than actual disdain.

"You aren't trying," Bronach replied easily. "Push, professor."

They glared at each other for a long moment before the professor looked away.

"You are very brave, and very foolish," he said shortly. "And you have given me four things."

"Consider it as a down payment," Bronach tossed over her shoulder as she turned back towards the school.

"For what?"

"For when the Headmaster orders you to teach me, and you agree."

Aragorn let her walk back up towards the school, knowing that they couldn't afford to risk being caught together again. He also wanted to be able to keep a close eye on Snape. Bronach knew what she was doing, but Aragorn hadn't spent over a century pulling together two splintered kingdoms by trusting without verification.

"What do you want?" Snape asked him after a moment.

"Nothing," Aragorn answered with a shrug. "It is best that she goes on alone, and I return in my own time."

"So you were together," Snape's eyes glinted.

"For the walk back to the castle? Yes," Aragorn said blandly. "However, I found her at the edge of the forest. This was no prearranged tryst in the woods."

Snape eyed him, as if he knew how much was being omitted. "Potter lives to break the rules," the man grumbled.

"It certainly makes keeping her safe difficult," he offered. Aragorn had rarely been afforded the chance to protect Bronach. Arwen, yes, but usually it was Bronach standing between him and danger, not the other way around. She had spoken a bit about Snape, saying that the man had been a spy, that he had sworn an oath to protect her for her mother's sake even though he couldn't stand her due to her likeness to her father. Bronach had never said so, but Aragorn wondered if Snape had taught her the first lessons in spycraft, at least from a distance and without meaning so.

"Is Potter a thing to protect?" Snape sneered, but Aragorn thought he heard a falseness to it, or perhaps he was projecting.

"Is she not?" he countered, wondering what the measure of this man was.

"You had best return to your wife," the professor said after a long moment, and Aragorn dipped his head.

"Have a pleasant evening," he offered, and did as the man had suggested.

Arwen was working on a project in their window seat. "Did you enjoy your walk in the woods?" she teased as he shed his cloak.

"Very much so," he smiled as he settled into his favorite armchair.

"You look as if you were practically rolling in the leaves," Arwen set aside what she was working on and leaned over to pick a leaf fragment out of his hair. "Did you trip?"

"I found a crow in the woods, and pursued her," Arwen's eyes darkened slightly as he lips curved up in a slow smile.

"Did you catch her?"

"She led me on a merry chase," Aragorn admitted, thinking of the rush of exhileration as he chased Bronach through the woods, led by tantalizing glances of her pale ankles, her dark hair streaming like a banner behind her. He hadn't had a chance to chase either of his partners through the woods for quite a while, and it had been a quiet thrill to catch up with Bronach on the edge of the lake, crowned by stars and lit by the moon.

Crowned by stars. He frowned, wondering why something about the phrase tugged at him.

"Is there something wrong?" Arwen's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"No," Aragorn said slowly, still trying to parse through the feeling. "Just a stray thought."

"Share it with me?" his wife urged, taking his hands in hers.

"When I caught up with Bronach, I thought her crowned with stars," he said with a shrug. "Something about it that phrase has caught in my mind."

"Crowned by stars?" Arwen repeated thoughtfully. "Durin's crown?"

"It doesn't feel right," Aragorn said after a moment. "How did Gimli's song go?"

"As Legolas would sing it?" Arwen thought for a moment, and then sang softly: "He stooped and looked in Mirrormere, and saw a crown of stars appear. As gems upon a silver thread, above the shadow of his head."

"A metaphorical crown, to symbolize a future crown," the thought sat even heavier in Aragorn's gut. "I don't like it."

"There is no wizarding monarch," Arwen seemed to pick up on his fear, resting a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Bronach was very insistent on it."

"Sirius and Remus said otherwise," he said, remembering how their words had fallen like a heavy weight on his shoulders. He'd put it down to nervousness about their upcoming masquerade at the school at the time, but now it felt...

It felt like standing below the Redhorn Pass and telling Gandalf to beware the doors of Moria. Unwillingly, he shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth.

"Do not dwell overmuch on things that have not yet come to pass," Arwen's voice was steady, but as he looked up at her, he saw the same fear lurking in her eyes. "It may be just a coincidence."

"It may." Over the decades, Aragorn had fund himself wishing for the wisdom of his foster-father, or that of Galadriel, and once more he wished he could speak with them and lay his thoughts bare before them. "Should we bother her?"

"She has complained at length about the gift given by the mother of my mother," Arwen said with a wry smile. "Apparently yours is not the only talent for foresight that has sharpened of late."

"We have both been dreaming," he admitted. "A bare stone room, she says there might be tapestries in the one she sees. I also have dreamed of a glade, and a chair."

"A throne," Arwen murmured, eyes going slightly distant. She shook herself out of it after a moment, and picked up the project she'd been working on. Aragorn found himself staring at the outline of the castle he'd dreamt of intermittently over the last week or so.

"She's going to be furious," Aragorn closed his eyes, but the castle seemed burned into the backs of his eyelids. "If what we fear comes to pass."

"It may just be a warning."

"It isn't," he opened his eyes. "At least, I don't think it is."

"She didn't say that this had happened before," Arwen frowned. "What makes this different?"

"Any number of things," Aragorn sighed and leaned back in his chair. "She is different. We are present."

"There is little use fretting at this moment," she said after a moment. "Tell me more of how you chased a crow through the woods?"

The memory brought a smile to his lips, and he started telling his wife how he'd found their partner at the edge of the woods, singing of Luthien and her Beren.

Once upon a time, Bronach reflected, glancing at the students gathering in Myrtle's bathroom, looking awkward, a group of miscreants met in a bar to plot self-study.

"Thank you for coming," Bronach said as the last students trickled in. It was mostly the same group as before, which she'd expected, though they'd lost Smith, which she was mostly fine with.

Part of her wanted the entire school present, so that they had a better chance of surviving, but she was also happy not to have to deal with Smith's obnoxiousness. Eying Marietta, she noted the girl's nervousness, apparent even now, and how she clung to Cho.

"Why here?" Dean asked, glancing around skeptically at Myrtle's bathroom.

"Because few people come here, and Myrtle won't tell," Bronach said, watching as Myrtle rose up over the stalls, perching on the dividers. "Everyone thank Myrtle for allowing us to meet in her bathroom."

The ghost waved, clearly relishing in the way several of the students jumped. Bronach had spoken with her privately about what she planned to accomplish, and asked if it was okay for her to use the space to gather the DA before setting up the meeting. Myrtle had hemmed and hawed, and had agreed, clearly excited to have a chance to be part of a group.

"Thank you Myrtle," Hermione said promptly, elbowing Ron sharply until the boy muttered his own thanks. The rest of the students followed suit, some with more enthusiasm than others, and then Bronach cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her.

"I plan to start a study group for all years," she announced to the crowd. "Mostly for Defense, but we can cover whatever the group thinks is important. Given that we won't be getting practical experience in class, this seems like a decent compromise."

"It's perfectly legal," Hermione said, clearly anticipating the question. "The school rules permit student clubs and study groups unless specifically banned. And since this would be a study group, we're not required to have a staff sponsor."

"It's perfectly legal now," Bronach clarified, watching as some of the students tensed up again. "Our dear High Inquisitor is likely to suspend all student organizations, even study groups, eventually, but for the moment there's nothing wrong with what we're proposing. We do have to follow a few simple rules though."

"Always a catch," Fred said mournfully, making the group laugh.

"The biggest one is of non-exclusion," Bronach explained as the chuckles died down. "Since this is not restricted to a single house or a single year, we can't discriminate against any particular house or year. That means all students are welcome to participate."

Murmurs started up as the students realized that they'd have to accept Slytherins into the group. Bronach leaned against the sink with the opening to the Chamber and let the group sort through it on their own. "Now, we're not required to publicly register, nor are we required to recruit from all houses," she said, once she figured they'd had enough time. "But we do have to make a good faith effort at accepting any who want to join us. If they prove disruptive, then we can uninvite them since they're not helping us learn, but we have to give them a chance."

"So if Malfoy shows up, you're going to just...let him in?" Ginny looked skeptical.

"If he shows up? Yes," Bronach shrugged. "Now, in order to show up, he'd have to find out where we were meeting and when. Which, hopefully, none of you will tell him unless you think he'll have something useful to add," she tacked on, appreciating the smattering of laughter that it gained.

"Are we really going to practice here?" Cho asked, glancing around the bathroom.

"No, there's somewhere else," Hermione assured the group. "This was just a useful place to meet the first time. If you're interested, I have a sign up sheet. Sign it, and we'll get you the information on where our first review session will be."

"What I feel obligated to mention," Bronach added as people started to shift towards Hermione, "is that the paper is...let's just say it's a variation on a binding jinx. By signing it, you have agreed not to share where the meetings are being held, when they are being held, or who is holding them. If you try, it'll tie your tongue, and I'll know who's telling tales. You'll be able to tell your friends that you're part of a study group, but not what subject. If a teacher asks you, you'll be able to say the same."

It was a nifty runic sequence that she and her Hermione had developed when spitballing ways to have avoided the dilemma with Umbridge and the DA. While Marietta's jinxed pimples were certainly the punishment of a vengeful teenager, Bronach knew that hers was the precaution of a war-general who had been betrayed too many times.

To her surprise, she saw several of the students nodding grimly. Clearly they realized that the jinx protected them as well, since nobody would be able to say who was participating. "What if our friends want to join later?" Hannah asked, sharing a look with Susan and Ernie.

"Then you can send them to me," Bronach gentled her grin so she wasn't showing quite as many teeth. "I'll have them sign the document before they learn anything."

"So you'll be keeping the document?" Justin asked as he picked up the quill Hermione was holding out. Bronach had signed first, then Hermione, then Ron, but the jinx wouldn't activate until she dropped some blood on the parchment.

"It'll be locked away in a place nobody but myself can access," Bronach promised. "I'm not stupid enough to leave it lying around." This time. She could still remember seeing Malfoy come running out with the DA list, and how that had doomed them all.

"Sounds alright then," the Hufflepuff said as he signed, and offered the quill to Susan. One by one, the assembled students put quill to parchment, and then Bronach rolled it up and slipped it up her sleeve.

"One more thing," she said, glancing around the bathroom. "If you're in need of a place to hide, Myrtle says she's willing to cover for you in here."

Aragorn eyed the potion master skeptically as the man settled into the armchair next to him. Normally, Severus Snape stayed far away from the staff room, at least according to most of the staff, but here he was, seeking Aragorn out while most of the rest of the staff was occupied.

"You know what happened to Potter over the summer," the man said, as if they were discussing the paper Aragorn was attempting to peruse. It would be a lot more successful if the Daily Prophet was worth the paper it was printed on.

"I think anyone who was following the Ministry news over the summer heard about Potter's hearing," Aragorn said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug.

Snape snorted derisively. "The Ministry has their heads buried in the sand."

"The sand? I thought they were buried up their asses," Aragorn kept his voice pleasantly confused, getting a mildly amused snort from the spy this time.

Talking with Snape felt like talking with courtiers, or those that Bronach had identified as spies. Every sentence was a battlefield, a carefully chosen collection of words meant to protect his secrets and keep Snape from learning that there were secrets in the first place.

But in a way it was fun, since there was less at stake than there was before, and Snape was a known quantity, with known motivations. It made it easier to map out what to reveal, what conclusions would be drawn and tales carried.

"How can I help you?" he said after a moment of silence.

"Potter is...different," Snape's face twisted in a scowl "since she returned from the summer."

"And you think I would know?" Aragorn smiled. "You give me too much credit. My wife and I are new here, and lucky to have been offered the chance to visit the castle."

"You have a connection to Potter," Snape's lips pursed. "You're a late addition to the staff. And the headmaster doesn't know what your story is, but he thinks it's important enough to keep you close."

"What is it that you want me to say?" he sighed, turning a page in his paper. "Surely, if I were hiding a connection to Potter, you wouldn't expect me to reveal it so easily?"

"She reveals much she doesn't intend to," Snape sneered. "Why should I think her associates, whom she shields, would reveal less?"

"Aragorn," Bronach said from the doorway, halfway across the room before she seemed to realize that Snape was present. "Professor Snape."

"Miss Potter, you seem to have forgotten that this is the staff room," Snape's voice went silky with threat. "Which you are not a member of."

"I just needed to speak with Aragorn for a moment," Bronach said airily. Aragorn eyed his partner suspiciously. Clearly, she'd changed her mind about Snape since they'd last had a chance to discuss the spy. "I'll be out of your hair momentarily."

"How can I help you Miss Potter," Aragorn asked, deciding to let her pass along whatever this message was.

"I've managed to start a study group," Bronach had an excited gleam in her eye.

Aragorn had heard of Dumbledore's Army. Bronach hadn't been clear about whether or not she'd planned to restart it, but here was his answer.

He eyed her. "Are you certain you've thoroughly thought this through?"

Bronach frowned at him. "How so?"

She possibly didn't know. Or at least didn't realize it. But Aragorn watched her from afar, and he could see that her struggles with battle fatigue had gotten somewhat worse since their return, slipping into Waking Nightmares if she didn't rein herself in before they took hold. "Are you certain," he said, choosing his words carefully, knowing what he said was likely to be unpopular, "that teaching these particular children to defend themselves is a good idea?"

Her mouth twisted, and her spine straightened. "If not me, than who?"

He couldn't argue against that. Umbridge wasn't going to teach them to defend themselves, the rest of the staff was too busy or constrained by other concerns. But he suspected that they'd be found out the moment that Bronach slipped into a Waking Nightmare and accidentally injured one of the students when they tried to rouse her.

"I understand," he placated, mind running through opportunities to accomplish her study group without compromising her health and safety. "But would you accept a supervisor and co-teacher?"

It was obvious to him that she was torn, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what made it difficult. And while he watched, waiting, he knew that Snape was also watching and waiting, drawing his own conclusions about what was being said, and going unsaid.

"Very well," she murmured after a moment, producing a sheet of parchment. "Sign here please, for everyone's safety and privacy."

He signed, and a number of names shimmered into view on the parchment. It was a nifty application of magic, one that caught his attention every time he saw it worked. And it was a good thing it couldn't be used to hide an advancing army, or he'd have been tempted to ask her to shield his armies when they were on campaign.

"I'll let you know when the first meeting is," Bronach promised, the parchment whisking up her sleeve. "Professor Snape."

She turned and left, clearly uncaring that she'd practically thrown Aragorn to the wargs.

"These particular children?" Snape asked after the long moment of silence that had followed Bronach's departure.

"You said that Potter is different," Aragorn said carefully, thinking over his options, his word choices. "Since the summer."

"And it has something to do with why she should not be running a study group primarily focused on Defense," Snape surmised. "Or so you intend me to believe."

"Watch her," Aragorn offered, picking up his newspaper once more. "Around the other students. I won't betray her secrets, but for one who knows what to look for, it is visible."

She was very good at concealing her true thoughts, her true emotions, but Aragorn knew her. Was one of the few to peel back every layer that she put between herself and the world, and with that knowledge, he could read her very well. It was often the absence of a reaction that tipped him off, a too-careful approach to something.

It was also possible, he knew, that she was slipping. That the familiarity of being back in this place, among these people, was causing her to loosen her usually rigid control. Arwen had suggested watching her for a bit longer, but if Snape could put it together, it might be worth mentioning it to her, so she knew.

Snape left him alone for a week, but on Monday, he found Aragorn in the staff room once more.

"She suffers from shell shock," the professor said shortly. "It's almost impossible to see it, but she nearly had a flashback when Longbottom melted a cauldron in my classroom this morning."

"With the life she's had, are you surprised?" Aragorn said, knowing that even the first four years of her schooling were traumatic enough to leave lasting impressions.

"No," Snape said after a moment, folding down into his chair. "She has it under control, does she not?"

"Remarkably so," Aragorn allowed. "Potter is only a risk if she is startled by multiple things in succession without a chance to regroup."

"Which is why you're concerned by the unpredictable environment of a study group full of students pointing wands at each other." Snape was quiet. "Are you ready for there to be an incident?"

"Is anyone ready?" Aragorn retorted, and then shrugged. "Potter, much to everyone's benefit, is less likely to draw her wand if provoked into an incident, than she is to use her fists. With myself, or my wife present, we can draw her out, and contain any reaction such that no student is harmed."

"Professor Umbridge will not tolerate such a challenge to her authority," Snape changed gears slightly, glancing out the window towards the cloudy skies. "An injured student would be far too much of a risk to all involved."

"Which is why there will be no injured students," Aragorn murmured, and that was the end of the conversation.

Chapter Text

"Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four," Hermione read off the noticeboard. "All student organizations are henceforth disbanded..."

Bronach gritted her teeth, choosing to walk away rather than continue to read the decree she already knew by heart. Ron and Hermione seemed not to notice her departure, which Bronach was glad of. Nobody had told the woman about the DA, but she suspected Umbridge was trying to provoke her by taking away Quidditch, since nothing else had worked yet.

"I will mind my temper," Bronach told Angelina, when she passed the girl at breakfast. "And do my best not to provoke Umbridge, but she is going to give you a hard time about the team."

The girl seemed confused, but caught on after a moment. "You think this is about punishing you?"

"I am the favored whipping boy of the Ministry, have you not heard?" Bronach asked sardonically, carrying on towards the History of Magic classroom, sick of listening to the other students discuss the implications of the decree. Thankfully, the members of the DA hadn't been stupid enough to try and approach her during the meal, but it had been close. She'd had to practically stick Ernie MacMillan to his seat before he got the idea.

Ron and Hermione caught up to her outside History of Magic.

"This happened before?" Hermione asked, checking the hallway to make sure nobody would overhear her.

"You had us meet in the Hog's Head," Bronach murmured, layering a privacy ward around them with a nonchalant gesture. "A petty criminal sold us out to save his own skin. Nobody overheard us this time, but she seems to be getting desperate to provoke me."

"What are you going to do?" Ron asked, eyes narrowing, clearly seeing the dilemma Bronach had been pondering ever since she saw the decree.

"What can I do?" Bronach canceled the spell as she heard the rest of their class heading down the corridor towards them. "Umbridge is going to continue to escalate until she gets a reaction. It has never been math I have enjoyed solving."

If her friends exchanged a look, Bronach was too far ahead of them to notice it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Arwen asked, when she walked into the Room of Requirement and saw Bronach throwing knives at a suspiciously pink training dummy.

"No,' Bronach said shortly, throwing another perfectly placed knife that sunk up to its hilt in the dummy's chest.

"Very well then," Arwen said, picking up her practice sword and running through a few exploratory motions. Once she'd married, she'd mostly switched to knifework, since it was more easily concealed, but every so often she'd picked up the sword again. "Indulge me in a spar?"

"Not in this mood," her partner said sourly, sinking another knife into the dummy. "I am too likely to lose myself."

"Something you should talk about?" she asked, wondering why Aragorn was hanging back, watching quietly from the bench by the doorway instead of joining her in her practice.

Another knife. "Probably. But you know me, I prefer to run from my problems."

"You run from your emotions," Arwen corrected. "Not your problems."

"Point," Bronach said after a long moment.

"Which emotion is it this time?"

"Which emotion is it not?" the other woman grumbled under her breath.

"Fair enough," Arwen said. "Which emotion aren't you running from?"

"The fact that I love you both," Bronach said seriously. "And the fact that I don't want anything to happen to the students."

"You have spoken a great deal about the Death Eaters and Riddle," Aragorn said, speaking for the first time. "But in all of our time together, you have spoken very little about Umbridge, beyond making it clear that you dislike her."

"What's there to like?" Bronach said lightly, the tone very much at odds with the speed at which her hand flicked out, sending a knife embedding deeply in the dummy's right eye.

"She is certainly foul," Arwen said, setting her practice sword down. "But she is a Ministry worker, not a Death Eater."

"There was not a difference," Bronach muttered.

"Saruman, Wormtongue, or Denethor?" Aragorn asked, and Arwen wondered if she wasn't able to see at least part of the problem. He seemed far more in touch with what was bothering Bronach about this situation.

"None of them," Bronach let out a choked laugh that held not even a shred of actual humor. "You have never encountered a person who was so vile, so desperate for power and control that they sentenced others to death gleefully, someone who signed on with the platform that advocated genocide if it meant they might advance themselves. Be thankful that your reign was not plagued by such a person."

Arwen's stomach turned at the thought. "What did she do?" she whispered into the quiet.

"She sentenced muggleborns to Azkaban without a second thought," Bronach's voice was tight with fury. "She displayed corpse trophies upon her door, and trumped up false charges when it suited her. People died, were set back or damaged for life because of what she did. Entire families, broken. And what happened when we won, and everything was supposed to be over?"

Neither Aragorn nor herself seemed to be able to find the words, but it seemed as if it was a rhetorical question. Bronach answered it herself. "She was admonished, of course, but they allowed her to remain in power at the Ministry despite all of that."

"I am sorry," Arwen crossed the room to rest her hand on Bronach's shoulder, feeling it tremble with rage under her fingers. "We cannot get justice for those people." We cannot get justice for you. "But we can stop her now, and prevent further victims."

"What do you think I have been doing?" Bronach turned on her, fire making her eyes blaze in a way Arwen hadn't seen for a long time. "I have thwarted her attempt on my life. I have played along with her ridiculous games regarding Defense Against the Dark Arts, attempted to prevent the dismissal of school staff, and I have operated further under the radar than I ever did within these walls as I ensure that these children have the opportunity to learn how to protect themselves! Not to mention, providing evidence to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of my truthfulness, corresponding with several Wizengamot members in an attempt to thwart Umbridge's tyranny here, and overall attempting to influence several critical votes!"

The amount of fury in Bronach's voice was nearly eclipsed by the amount of loathing as she spoke about the efforts she'd been making to put the government of Magical Britain into a better footing for the good of everyone. It rose to a fever pitch as she continued.

"And what good has it done?" she snapped. "Even with her meddling focused on the school, critical votes have still passed along the same lines as they once did! No letter that I write can sway the old bigots who have glutted themselves at the expense of others for generations. Neither my fame, nor my persuasive words, nor my century of experience manipulating from the shadows have stopped the Wizengamot from continuing down the same damning path that brought me to you, and I am beyond sick of it!"

"So what are you going to do now?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"Burn the fucking Ministry to the ground," Bronach snarled, her hands curling into fists. It shocked Arwen, the depth of the emotion that her partner was displaying. In general, Bronach was restrained, even when it was just them, only allowing slivers of her emotions to slip out. For her to lose this much control...

Well, Arwen could only count a few times when it had happened.

"There is something about this that reminds you of Bâr Nírnaeth." Arwen glanced at her husband, finding his face blank, as if he was ruling over something both great and terrible from the throne. It was the face of King Elessar, not of Aragorn. "Is there not?

Bronach froze under Arwen's hand on her shoulder. "How do you know that-"

"Faramir did not wish to tell," Aragorn said quietly, a peek of the man under the crown showing through his eyes. "But he felt that it would be doing a disservice to both myself and to Daervunn if we did not know the bare outlines. This was before I spoke to him of our relationship, so he gave me the information due a King, not the information a lover might desire. In fact, I feel that he would have told me less, had he known." There was a weary, wry smile on their husband's face as he looked at them. "I oft suspected he regretted his words to me, when he learned."

"What is Bâr Nírnaeth?" Arwen asked, and the air in the Room seemed to become colder as she uttered the words. Sindarin was her birth tongue, she could translate the name well enough. But House of Lamentation was both incredibly descriptive, and not descriptive at all.

"What do you know," Bronach said, her shoulders rising and falling in a long, shuddering breath. "Of Gothmog, of Mordirith, and of Eärnur?"

Arwen had a sinking feeling that she did not wish to know.

Hours later, Arwen was glad that she had sought out her partner after dinner, instead of during their morning training session.

She lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how she had missed everything that seemed so obvious now that she knew about the House of Lamentation and what Bronach had suffered within its walls.

Selfishly, she was glad that she could no longer set foot in Minas Ithil. Could she truly look upon it with joy, knowing the price paid for its liberation? Could she have passed by the statue of Eärnur guarding the door of the Tower of Ecthelion of and not wished to rip it from its pedestal? Could she have spoken with Éowyn and not dared ask about what the other woman had witnessed?

"I wish I did not know," she said aloud to the room.

Aragorn shifted from where he sat on the broad windowsill, staring out at the stars. "I knew that whatever had happened was terrible," he murmured, gaze unmoving. "But even my darkest imaginings did not bring forth such a tragedy."

"How did we not notice?" Arwen asked, feeling as if she had failed Bronach, despite it being over a century since then. "How did we not see her suffering?"

"Because even though she loved us, she had not learned to trust us with herself," Aragorn said, heartbreak in his voice. "It may be a lesson that she does not ever learn in full, so many have taught her the opposite."

"I had thought I knew all of what she had done for us, for our Kingdoms," Arwen fisted her hands in the linens. "I wish that all knew of what she had done. Of what it had cost her."

"I wish I could speak with Glorfindel, and the father of your mother," Aragorn replied. "From what she did not say...it is clear that we have them to thank for her healing a thousand times over."

Arwen sniffed. "I wish I could speak with them too." She had made her choice long ago, before she knew Bronach, but there would never be a day when she wouldn't miss the family she'd had to part from.

"Perhaps someday, we will find our paths crossing once more," he said softly, leaving the windowsill to join her on the bed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and tugging her into him. She leaned her head against his shoulder and felt fingers comb through her hair, a soothing friction that slowly melted away her anxieties.

"I love that we are so close to her, but it is also terrible," he admitted after a long moment. "Distance made it easier to bear the necessary distance between us, but I find myself wishing for the day when it is no longer necessary."

"I find myself having to restrain myself more than ever during class," Arwen admitted ruefully. "All those years of court, and a few weeks of consistent ability to be with her outside of court and it is like we are sneaking around Lothlórien or Imladris again, trying not to be caught by my father."

He chuckled, and pulled her closer so she could rest her head on his chest. "All we can do is be there for her and do our best to shower her with the love and affection that she deserves."

"Hey Hedwig," Bronach murmured, reaching out to let the snowy owl land on her arm in a flutter of wings and a soft hoot.

It still felt odd, having her owl back. No matter how many birds she used over the centuries, Hedwig had always been the name on her lips when she turned for a bird to carry a message. Having her here now soothed an old ache, the absence of which was just as shocking as the ache had been.

Around her, the perches were mostly empty, the owls out for their nighttime hunting, but Hedwig seemed to have a sixth sense for when she was needed.

With her free hand, she brushed off a windowsill and settled herself on it. "I know that it's normal for people you care about to be unhappy about things that hurt you, but no matter how much I experience it...it remains odd."

Hedwig shuffled on her arm, and Bronach looked out at the moonlit grounds. Unbidden, her mind went back to the play of the moonlight on the stones of Minas Ithil, the memories close to the surface since she'd unboxed them, since Umbridge's cruelty had reminded her of Gothmog's.

"I need a weapon more than I need immortality!" The wraith's voice had come to her clearly as she lay at the roots of the dark tree, her blood mingling with the dark waters that surrounded it. "She is useful, but she could be more."

"Her will is strong," came the cracked voice of her tormentor. "Nearly as strong as yours was."

"I broke," the wraith snapped. "Break her."

"With talents such as hers, she is unlikely to break soon," her tormentor crooned, caressing her hair, no longer bound but flowing freely through the dark waters, matted with blood and filth. "Hers is not a strength of the body, but the spirit."

"Then break her spirit," thundered the wraith.

"I have many means of breaking others," her tormentor said patiently. "But it would go better if you brought me those she cares for. Let her watch what her spirit does to them."

What blood was left in her veins froze. Faramir's White Company had already suffered losses as they had pressed forward to rid the city of the taint of Sauron's influence. And when it became clear that she would not break for any of the Rangers, they would take Faramir.

Gondor would suffer from the loss of its Steward, and she would not allow that, for its sake, let alone for Aragorn and Arwen's. Or the children that were waiting in Ithilien for their father to return.

"No," she had said, prising herself free of the mire. "Do not lay a hand on them."

"You think you may make demands of me?" the wraith had laughed, cold and cruel. "I answered only to the Witch King."

"What must I offer for you to spare the Prince of Ithilien?" she had said, kneeling in the mire, her head bowed and hair cascading around her.

"Submit yourself to the Mistress of Lamentation and be transformed," Gothmog had told her and she bowed her head further.

"As you wish," she murmured. "Master."

Hedwig hooted softly, breaking her out of her reverie. "I had sworn to serve the throne of Gondor," she told the owl, stroking her head gently. "And he perverted that oath."

"Do you know who I was?" Gothmog had asked as she knelt before the Morgul Throne. "Before I was transformed."

"I was born in the north," she had said, her voice deferential. "Those who dwelt in the shadow of Carn Dûm knew of Mordirith, the Steward of Angmar."

"The Mistress of Lamentation tells me that the process is nearly complete," Gothmog had said, rising from his throne. "But there is one thing you will not let go of."

"Oaths I swear are binding," she bowed her head deeper in apology. "I cannot go against them."

"Then we shall make it easier for you," he murmured. "For your oath is to the throne of Gondor, is it not? To the line of kings?"

"Yes," she had said, because she'd purposefully sworn it that way, given that she would outlive any king or queen on the throne. "To the throne." Technically, it was to the throne of Arnor and Gondor, in case the pair were separated once more, but she doubted that the wraith would care about technicalities.

"Then let me ease your mind," his words dripped with poison, and she closed her eyes as his feet drew to a halt before her. "For I am the rightful holder of the throne of Gondor. Before I was Mordirith, I was Eärnur."

She had swallowed down the poison of the truth and let go of her last restraint, the last barrier between her defiance and willing service. The last shred of herself that she had retained. "I understood then, in some hidden part of me, why he had agreed so easily to leave Faramir untouched," Bronach said to Hedwig. "Because he would not need to lay a finger on Faramir, so long as I served him."

"Rise Seregdan, in my service," Gothmog's voice echoed in her ear as she recalled what it was like to let go, to fall, to obey. "I have heard much of what you have wrought with your blood; and am curious to see what you will create for me."

"You had to live it to understand," she told her owl, who was watching her, unblinking, "but there is little difference in my mind between Gothmog and Umbridge. They will take and use until they have glutted themselves on pain and misery, pursuing naught but what they desire, no matter the misery and suffering strewn in their wake. In comparison to the greater evil of Sauron, of Riddle, they are but a shadow, but shadows are dangerous enough."

The owl hooted companionably. "I don't regret my choice," she said firmly to Hedwig. "It saved many, and put me in a place where I could be reclaimed. But my hands shed the blood of my allies, and I regret the necessity of it. And I did not want to burden either Aragorn nor Arwen with the knowledge of what I had done, despite knowing that Elessar, at least, would agree with what I had done."

"So what do I do?" she asked her owl, stroking the soft feathers lightly. "What do I do, when caught between my strength of will and a tyrant who will push and push until they provoke a reaction?"

Hedwig butted her hand affectionately and hooted softly. "The last time I gave myself over, it took intervention from the Valar to bring me back to myself," she whispered to the bird. "I cannot count on that here, and I do not wish to subject Aragorn and Arwen to it."

"She is a lovely listener, isn't she?" Luna's voice said from behind her, and Bronach turned to find the blonde standing in the owlery doorway, hair almost silver in the moonlight. "I often find her here, and she's very good at making you feel less alone."

"Nargles at it again?" Bronach asked, seeing the girl's bare feet.

"Perhaps," Luna said vaguely. "The wrackspurts around you are quite angry."

"My thoughts are quite angry," she admitted ruefully. "I do not see a path forward."

"You see many paths," the blonde corrected, coming over to stroke Hedwig, who preened under the attention. "But you like none of them."

"What would you do?" Bronach was curious how much of her dilemma Luna could see, and how that would influence her recommendation. "If you had my choice of paths?"

"There is no path that could make them stop loving you," Luna told her seriously. "But there are paths that they cannot walk beside you."

"Because they cannot support me betraying myself," she sighed. "I had suspected that, and love them for it."

"But there are still many paths were you walk with them," the girl continued, scratching gently as Hedwig butted her hand in encouragement. "I am not you, and you are not me, so what path I would choose is meaningless to you. There are doors that may open for you that I know will never open for me."

Bronach frowned. That was both more direct and more confusing than she'd expected from Luna. "Does this have something to do with the dreams?"

Luna smiled mysteriously. "Time will tell," she laughed, and headed for the door once more. "You should go to bed, if you want to get enough sleep to not worry them in the morning."

"I am honestly surprised they haven't used Kreacher to track me down yet," Bronach slid off the windowsill and gently tossed Hedwig into the air with a murmured farewell, allowing the owl to return to her perch. "Given the way I left them."

"They understand that you need time to process," Luna patted her arm gently. "And so did they. You'll find your way back to each other when you're all settled."

"Would you like me to do something about the Nargles?" Bronach asked as they reached the entrance to the main castle. "So you do not have to walk about barefoot?"

"That would be lovely," Luna beamed, glancing down at her bare toes, grubby after her walk through the owlery. "Winter is upon us, and the castle is awfully drafty."

"Give me a few days and I will have something for you," Bronach promised, already mapping runic sequences in her mind. She had, in her original plans over the summer, considered any number of spells, but perhaps a runic totem would be better suited for her purposes.

"I'm sure it will be quite emblematic of your skill," Luna told her, and then headed for Ravenclaw Tower. Bronach watched her go, feeling lighter despite not having made a decision about how she was going to face this unexpected setback.

They didn't often carve out time for the three of them to spend together unproductively. Usually it was stolen moments between two of them. Their mornings were for training, for keeping their skills sharp, but there was little enough time for the three of them to simply be.

Bronach hadn't realized, when she'd agreed to go away to the castle, how addicted she'd gotten to having her partners close during the month they'd had together during the summer. It was the longest consecutive time they'd ever allowed themselves, and her bed felt empty without them there, her evenings bereft of their conversation.

With Umbridge on the prowl, and Snape doing his best to figure her out, they couldn't allow themselves much time together, but Arwen had been the one to insist that they tried, at least once a month. This month, it felt even more necessary, after the revelations about her past that they'd been forced to grapple with individually.

So, here they were, on Samhain, occupying Arwen's classroom, the chairs pulled up to the fireplace in the lecture side. Arwen was embroidering as Aragorn read aloud and Bronach knitted away at the shawl she was making against the oncoming chill. It was the kind of peace Bronach had never dared dream of, even if she was alert for the sound of someone coming, even though the wards at the end of the hall would give her more than enough notice.

She was so distracted that she almost missed the world fading out, leaving her in a familiar haze of shadows. Instinctively, she reached out for her partners, and as she felt their hands grasp her own, they came into focus in the shadowy place between worlds Bronach had thought she would never see again.

"What is this place?" Arwen asked, glancing around.

"This is the twilight place," Bronach looked around, wondering if Namo would appear.

"How you walked the Paths of the Dead," Aragorn breathed, eyes widening.

"Welcome, Bronach," Námo said, appearing out of the shadows with a warm smile that she rarely got to see. "Welcome Arwen Undómiel, welcome Aragorn Elessar."

"Lord Námo," Bronach curtsied, seeing Arwen follow her lead as Aragorn bowed. "I did not think we could meet again."

"We are with the children of Eru always," he said, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I am not able to make myself known often, but on this night I will always answer your call."

"Samhain," she murmured, the pieces falling into place. "When the Veil is thinnest."

"Indeed," he said, a half-smile on his face, as if he knew a secret she did not. "The dead of your home, I cannot interfere with, but my brother has many visitors to his garden who think fondly of you."

Arwen gasped slightly, and out of the shadows resolved a pair of figures, one familiar and one unfamiliar. Lord Elrond stood with a elf who could only be Lady Celebrían, who had sailed long before Aragorn or Bronach had seen Imladris.

"Nana," Arwen took a step forward, before looking at Námo, who nodded before fading away. "Ada."

Celebrían met her daughter halfway, sweeping Arwen up in her arms. Bronach watched the reunion, glad that her partner had been offered the chance to speak with her mother once more.

"Estel," Elrond said, and Bronach realized that Aragorn had approached him, the pair embracing with more reserve than the mother and daughter. "It is good to see you well."

Bronach held back, unsure of how to interact with her partners' parents, even if Aragorn had never known Celebrían. But the elf looked up from Arwen and smiled, reaching out a hand.

"Come," she ordered, and Bronach could hear Galadriel in Celebrían's voice. "I wish to meet the woman my daughter holds dear."

"Nana, this is Bronach Ruinil, Thuri of the dunedain, of the Trev Gallorg and of Arnor," Arwen said, grasping Bronach's elbow to steer her forward. "She stood with Aragorn when I could not, and has saved both of our lives many times."

"And you love her, which is more important than any deed," Celebrían said, grasping Bronach's hand and squeezing warmly. "I wish that we had more time to know each other, but Námo could only promise us a single night. My mother has laid claim to next year," she informed them, before reaching out to draw Elrond and Aragorn closer. "Come, beloved of my daughter and son of my husband," she said to Aragorn. "I see Isildur in you, and Elendil as well. Tell me of the High King of Gondor and Arnor."

Somehow, they ended up in a pile on the floor, Elrond and Celebrían leaning against each other, while Arwen sat at their feet, with Aragorn and Bronach on either side. Celebrían coaxed stories from all of them, and told several of her own, speaking of those she had met in Valinor, and of the Valar themselves.

Eventually, Námo returned, Irmo with him.

"Dawn comes," Irmo said, sounding regretful. "I am afraid that you can no longer stay."

"Thank you," Bronach told him. "From the depths of my heart."

"It is our pleasure," Irmo said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Come, Celebrían, Elrond, Galadriel awaits you impatiently."

Celebrían snorted, and embraced each of them one last time. Elrond, to Bronach's surprise, did the same.

When they were gone, the shadows faded, and Bronach found herself lying on the floor before the hearth, entwined with her partners. For a long moment, she took shelter in their embrace, feeling Arwen coming to wakefulness with a hitching breath as she buried her face in Bronach's hair. Aragorn's arms tightened around them, and Bronach wrapped her own around him, unable to reach out and touch Arwen in the position they'd ended up in.

Chapter Text

Arwen allowed Aragorn to help her into the rows of benches, tucking her cloak closer around her as she sat down. She'd deliberately avoided watching Bronach fly, but certainly could do so no longer.

"No guards against harm at all?" she murmured, repeating her biggest concern once more, as if the answer might change if she just asked enough times.

"You have seen her ride," Aragorn said comfortingly, and slightly exasperated. "If she was a natural horsewoman, she is a hawk in flight."

She took a deep breath, and let it out. Arwen knew logically that she had sent both Aragorn and Bronach off to far more dangerous pursuits, but it never made it easier to bear. The Rhûn campaigns had certainly taken their toll on her peace of mind, let alone Bronach's tendency to do things like single-handedly decide to cleanse Carn Dûm and Minas Ithil.

The players filed out onto the grass below as the last of the staff members took their seats, and if she squinted, she could make out Bronach, wrapped in red and gold, at the back of the line of Gryffindor players. There was a brief handshake, and then the players were rising into the air.

For the next hour, she found herself transfixed. If anyone asked about the game, Arwen would have to lie, since her eyes were fixed on Bronach. Aragorn had been correct, as natural as Bronach appeared on horseback, she was even more graceful in the air. If Arwen had to guess, Bronach was showing off slightly, though for whom was the question.

"She is far more exuberant today than I expected," Aragorn said, as Bronach flung herself through a mixed knot of other players, scattering them like water droplets. As she flew by, body almost flattened against the handle of her broom, Arwen thought Bronach grinned at her. "Do you think it could be..."

"It might be," Arwen allowed, reaching out to squeeze his hand. She hadn't been so caught up in her reunion with her mother to miss how Bronach had slowly eased from unsure and hesitant to soaking up the easy affection that Celebrían's parents offered her. So much of the time, Bronach was precise in masking the war-forged orphan who had known too much loss too soon, but during their visit, Arwen had seen her mask slip as Celebrían drew her close, coaxed stories and answers from her. It had warmed her heart, that her parents loved the ones she loved and that they loved her parents in return, but it felt...special, that she could offer to Bronach what had been withheld from her for her entire life, even if it was just for one night.

Bronach seemed to be teasing out the game, just to prolong her time in the air. Arwen cared very little for the strategy or mechanics of the game, but she knew enough to understand that Bronach's sole intention seemed to be causing mayhem. It seemed to be equal opportunity mayhem, though calculated never to cost her side an advantage, given the bewildered look several of the Gryffindor players seemed to give her.

"How many times has she almost led that boy into the ground?" she asked Aragorn as Bronach climbed in a steep spiral, the Slytherin boy who had been on her tail barely managing to pull up in time.

"You would think he would stop falling for it," Aragorn said with a snort.

"The others are wearying of it," Arwen glanced at the score, just visible between the commentator and Minerva's body as they squabbled over something the boy had just said. "No matter what, if it is caught now, they should win."

"She will choose to end it soon," her husband agreed, squeezing her hand before tucking it back into her cloak courteously. The late fall was growing chilly, and she was glad of her well made cloaks and warm woolen gowns. When they had planned this excursion without return, Arwen had chosen to leave most of her Gondorian court apparel behind, choosing instead the simpler fare she preferred for the court at Annuminas when it wasn't in full session. They'd been there more often, in those twilight years, letting Eldarion prepare himself, and prepare their people, for his rule, living out a quieter life away from the pressures of Gondorian nobility.

Arnorian nobility, she thought with a smile, had to be reminded that they were nobility. It was a dress they wore when the southerners begrudgingly made the long trek north during Summer Court, away from the heat of the southlands, but winters in Annuminas were far more like the winters of Imladris or Caras Galadhon in her younger days.

Bronach had been oft away in the south, the only blot on those quiet years. Her talents had been needed to ensure Eldarion's rule was peaceful, that the impending transition would be welcomed. But they were here now, only two more years before they could be openly together as they wished.

"There she goes," Aragorn murmured, leaning forward slightly, and Arwen saw Bronach twist sharply in midair, reversing her direction as she descended rapidly, almost upside down for part of it. The other player didn't follow this time, seeming to learn his lesson, but Arwen caught her breath as Bronach's hands came off the broomstick until her entire upper body was outstretched in midair, reaching for the speck of gold Arwen could just see. Her eyesight had remained a hair better than any of the dúnedain, even after her marriage, and she blessed it now, as Bronach's fingers wrapped around the golden speck, her descent leveling out with a shift of her weight as she brought herself upright and to a halt with her legs alone.

"And I thought our stunts on horseback were terrifying," she said weakly, catching her breath.

The other players landed as Rolanda blew her whistle, while the commentator eagerly announced Gryffindor's victory. Around her, the staff was ribbing each other about the game, and about how Potter had grown even more reckless during the summer. As Arwen got to her feet, she realized that Snape wasn't talking, his expression rigidly neutral and lips thin, and she wondered what conclusions he had drawn from the display. Aragorn had confided his concerns that the man was too observant, and Bronach had taken the general warning that she might be loosening her guard to heart. But Bronach had also confided that she thought she might be able to turn him against both of his masters, with the promise of true freedom at stake.

It was interesting, and something Arwen would be interested to see. Few men that Arwen had met bore such soul deep wounds, to say nothing of the darkness wrapped around his forearm.

As they descended, the first of the staff members to leave their seating, her attention was drawn to the field by a blooming scuffle. She picked up her pace. The Slytherins were heckling, if Arwen was hearing their words correctly, and one of the Weasley twins was being restrained by the three females on the team. Something else was said, and the unrestrained twin was lunging forward, only to be tackled to the ground by Bronach. For a moment, the two rolled around in the frosty turf, but by the time Arwen and Aragorn reached the group, Bronach had come out on top, firmly pinning the boy to the ground.

"Watch out lads," one of the older Slytherin boys said as Arwen came into earshot, a leer on his face, "looks like she's feisty."

"I bet I could tame her," one of the others said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Enough," Arwen snapped, striding into the space between the two teams. "Someone rational, please explain what this is about?"

"Malfoy said some...things..." one of Gryffindor's chasers said, shooting a poisonous look at the blond boy who Bronach had almost driven into the ground several times. "About the twins' mother. And Potter's mother. George lunged at him, but Potter stopped him. And...you heard the rest."

"And what did Potter and the Weasleys say to provoke this?" Arwen turned on the Slytherins, who stared back at her, uncowed. "You there," she pointed at one of the boys carrying a wooden club. "Tell me what was said to provoke that level of retaliation?"

"Uh," the boy said eloquently, clearly not expecting to be put on the spot.

"They didn't say anything," the Gryffindor team captain said, clearly spitting mad. "We landed, and were about to shake hands, when Malfoy started spilling that shite."

"I see," Arwen was aware of Aragorn's restraining hand at her back, but he had no reason to worry. She knew how to handle simple bullying. "Then I believe the solution will be a detention, with me," she announced, eying Malfoy. "Tomorrow night, after dinner. One of your classmates should be able to give you directions to my classroom."

Turning to the Gryffindors, Arwen saw that Bronach had hauled her ginger upright, keeping a firm grip on him. "Weasleys, Potter, you will have detention with me tonight. Potter, you can show the boys where the classroom is."

"Hem, hem," Arwen refused to turn at the sound of Umbridge's sickly-sweet voice. "Do you really think that is sufficient punishment for what seems to be a Quidditch rivalry spiraling out of control?"

"On the contrary, High Inquisitor," Arwen kept her voice polite and even. "Clearly the Gryffindors exhibited significant control, despite being provoked. However, there is room for improvement, hence the detentions. But you are correct, I had neglected part of the incident."

She turned back to the Slytherins, smiling politely in a way she knew didn't meet her eyes. "Twenty points from Slytherin, for the vulgar language I heard when I arrived. That should be sufficient reminder to mind your manners."

Arwen allowed Aragorn to escort her back to the castle, numbly furious at the petty nature of the insults offered to Bronach, and how the odious woman seemed desperate to blame everything on Bronach. She had been warned of it, but seeing it in action was galling.

Minerva came to see her, an hour or two after the game.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that," the witch said, sitting down in the chair Arwen gestured to with a sigh. "Mr. Malfoy is...rather antagonistic in his dealings with Miss Potter and the Weasleys. Had I been closer to the field, I would have intervened, but alas, I was giving Mr. Jordan yet another warning about proper commentary."

"Do you disagree with my punishments?" Arwen knew that as a full-fledged staff member, even one with a contract as a guest lecturer, it was her responsibility to discipline any misbehavior she witnessed, so long as she stuck to permissible punishments. It had been explained to her that senior staff had the power to override her, if they felt she had transgressed.

"Detention is fine," Minerva assured her with a wave of her hand. "What do you intend to have them do?"

"Lines," Arwen said, having considered it on her walk back to the castle. "The Weasleys will be writing There are more acceptable ways to settle differences than brawling for an hour after supper, and Miss Potter will be writing lines about the use of force on her teammates, even if it was for a good cause. Mr. Malfoy will be writing lines about being a gentleman in the face of defeat."

The witch snorted, raising her hand to muffle the sound. "Be prepared for a letter from his father," she warned, a smile playing around her lips. "The last few years, each teacher who dared give Mr. Malfoy a detention invariably heard from his father about their audacity."

"And has that prevented Mr. Malfoy from sitting well-earned detentions?" Arwen inquired, already mentally drafting her response to such a missive.

"It depends on the staff member in question," this time there was a definite quirk to Minerva's lips as she spoke. "He has continued to sit detentions with me, though some of the other staff members have found taking points a more suitable punishment."

They sat in silence for a moment before Minerva continued, the amusement gone from her voice. "I would be wary of antagonizing the High Inquisitor."

"I have been well-informed of what she might do," Arwen said honestly, having listened to Bronach mutter under her breath behind Umbridge's back during the lesson that was inspected. Half of what was said, in hissing Sindarin, was simply vulgar commentary on the witch herself, but the other half was projections of what the witch might do if she was crossed. "Please, be assured that I will do my best to remain out of the High Inquisitor's reach."

"If you have need of me, please let me know," Minerva said after a moment, clearly not fully understanding what Arwen meant, but reluctantly satisfied by the answer. She rose, and Arwen showed her out, wondering who else might come to discuss the altercation.

To her surprise, Snape arrived, shortly before supper.

"Professor Telcontar," he said, glancing around her classroom, where she'd started to set things up for the upcoming detentions. Kreacher had been kind enough to supply her with a trio of student desks that she'd tucked in separate corners. It had taken a bit of rearranging of the furniture, but they'd managed.

"Professor Snape," she returned. "How may I be of assistance?"

"One of my students has detention with you tomorrow night," he said shortly. "Mr. Malfoy."

"He will be considering his behavior as he writes lines about gentlemanly conduct," she said dismissively. "Hardly an inappropriate punishment for the boorish behavior I witnessed."

Truly, few at court had ever been so gauche in their conduct. Oh, the subject of the insults was common enough, but to hear them given so blatantly? It was appalling.

"I see," the professor said, his face inscrutable. "And the points?"

"Were for the other members of the Slytherin team, whose remarks about Miss Potter were vulgar," Arwen sniffed delicately. "While she certainly should not have been wrestling with her teammate, nobody deserves to be discussed in such a manner."

Snape studied her for a long moment, and then glanced around the classroom once more.

"It is not a typical classroom," she said, watching his response, wondering what his true purpose was in coming to see her. "My lectures are more like discussions, and we have progressed to the point where we spend most of our time working on practical applications."

Her classes were an unexpected joy, watching students progress in their chosen craft. Some of them were already knowledgeable, and a small number proficient, but it was a pleasure to watch the novices learn about the different crafts she could teach, and find which one suited them best. And her two master craftspeople...well, she was starting to suspect that they would accomplish a piece with magic embedded into it by the end of the year. They were watching her demonstrations closely, and paying attention when Bronach offered commentary.

"Thread magic is not common in British wizarding society," Snape said. "It has been many years since the school taught it."

"To their detriment," Arwen said lightly. "I have found it most illuminating, and my magical gifts favor it almost exclusively."

"Did you construct this?" he asked, moving to look at a tapestry she'd hung on the wall, void of all magic but the simple charms to keep it from wear and decay, to keep the colors well-preserved.

"That was made by another," she said, thinking of finding it on her bed in Annuminas when she returned, of unfolding it to find a depiction of a raven perched in a white tree as the stars glimmered above. "A master of their craft, who gifted it to me."

"It is far finer work than I have seen before," Snape's praise was almost grudging as he examined it more closely. "Though I am no expert in the art."

"Perhaps one day I will introduce you to the crafter," she said lightly, hearing the bell ring for supper. "If you'll excuse me, Professor Snape, I must be sure to attend supper promptly, as I am supervising detentions afterwards."

While September was a novelty and an adjustment, and October was a roller coaster, November seemed to be settling in as a slog.

Saturday afternoon, a week after the first Quidditch match of the season, Bronach trudged into Arwen's workroom and allowed herself to flop dramatically on one of the couches.

"That bad?" Arwen said, glancing up from where she was working on some embroidery in the window seat.

"I want my reproductive system to go back to normal," Bronach muttered into a cushion. "But I forgot how hellish hormones were."

Madam Pomfrey had explained that she was on high doses of whatever potion she'd prescribed to kickstart her periods, and that as time went on they'd work on decreasing the doses until her body self-regulated, but Bronach was vaguely reconsidering after the morning she'd had.

"I saw a first year and I just wanted to pinch her cheeks because she was so cute," she turned her head slightly so she wasn't chewing on the cushion with each word. "And then I heard the High Inquisitor and had to make myself scarce before I put a knife in her kidneys. Plus Snape is still watching and I know I need to try to be better about baiting him, but it has been so long since I had a chance to test myself against a master spy and also I want to rub his face in....everything."

Her partner, much to Bronach's display, laughed lightly.

"And that's just scraping the surface," Bronach considered staying slumped on the couch for a while longer, but she knew that if she wanted to accomplish Arwen's challenge of three outfits from the skin out with her own twist of having to process as much of the necessary fiber herself, she needed to keep working.

Thankfully, all of the initial fiber prep was completed before she'd put anything into stasis, so all she had to do was blend and spin. She'd decided to use Arwen as her model and muse; since she was accustomed to sewing mostly for herself it made it more interesting. But it still meant she had a fair bit of wool and flax to spin before she could weave anything.

So she hauled herself off the couch and over to the spinning wheel. Kreacher popped in with a basket full of wool for her, and Bronach set to work, complaining to Arwen about the resurgence of her hormones as she did.

"- and your breasts get all tender," she whined, knowing she was acting like a child but unable to help it. "And I know what torture feels like, but the cramps I had last month... and the worst bit is-"

Aragorn came through the small door that led to Arwen's private office, looking as if he'd just returned from a long hike through the castle grounds. He was dressed as a Ranger, and Bronach's mouth went dry at the sight. She swallowed hard, pushing back the urge to bury her face in the join of his neck and shoulder, where she just knew he would smell divine, warm from the exertion but not so much that he'd sweated. Her fingers twitched in the fiber, and she could almost feel the strands of his hair sliding through them as she reached out to pull his head down...

"The worst part is?" he asked, a knowing, teasing, glint in his eye as he turned towards her.

She scowled at him, and studiously focused on her spinning. "Never you mind," Bronach said, affecting an airy manner.

"But I want to know," he murmured, coming to stand behind her. "Perhaps I could make it better?"

Bronach could feel the heat of him against her back, even though they weren't touching. She shifted in her seat, her body tingling at the potential.

"You tease," she grumbled, the wheel still turning steadily. "I am quite sure you know full well what the worst part of my blossoming hormones is."

"Mmm," he hummed, sending a jolt through her. "Do tell?"

"Tease her not," Arwen admonished lightly, though as Bronach glanced at her, she could see the flush on her cheekbones, the curl of her smile, and Arwen's darkened eyes. "It is unkind."

"I suppose," Aragorn stepped back, and Bronach let out a frustrated growl as she resisted the urge to reach for him.

"That is the worst part," she muttered as she pulled herself back under control. Thankfully, neither of her partners teased her further, clearly sensing that if they pushed she might snap.

"Do you have sketches you are working from?" Aragorn asked after a moment, taking a seat in the armchair across from Arwen. "For your designs?"

"I do," Bronach said, drafting out some more fiber. "But they are not for you to see."

He pouted at her, but she ignored him. "Rude," Aragorn muttered, glancing at Arwen. "Do you know what they look like?"

"No," Arwen said, her lips turning down. "Apparently it is a surprise."

"Do not spoil my fun," Bronach kept her treadling steady. "You will get to watch them come together, but until they are finished, you can just keep guessing."

A ward pinged, and she straightened. "Company inbound," she muttered, and Aragorn did his best to exit the room without seeming like he was fleeing. There had apparently been several female students who didn't seem to care that he was married.

Thankfully it was just the younger Greengrass sister, come to work on her project in quiet, but her presence did put an end to the more personal chatter that Bronach had been indulging in.

Bronach wrapped herself warmly against the chill of an early November Care of Magical Creatures class. If she remembered correctly, this was the day that Hagrid introduced the class to Thestrals, which should be interesting enough.

To her surprise, when she, Ron, and Hermione reached the castle doors, Aragorn was heading out to the grounds as well.

"Mr. Telcontar," Hermione said with a confused smile. "Are you going out for a walk?"

"I had thought to get some air," Aragorn glanced up at the sky, which was absolutely suggesting an early snowfall. "Winter is fast upon us, and the snows will begin soon enough."

Not that it had ever stopped him, Bronach knew, hiding a smile. She could distinctly remember the guards complaining about following their king through snowstorms as he pressed on until it was dangerous for man or beast. Arwen was much the same, if Aragorn, Bronach, or her children were waiting on her.

Bronach also knew that she couldn't point fingers, given that she'd absolutely abused the limits of her mastery over death to travel during the worst of weathers.

The Care of Magical Creature class assembled by Hagrid's hut, most wearing cloaks and gloves and several looking profoundly disappointed that Professor Grubbly-Plank was no longer teaching. Hagrid beamed at her though, but was quickly distracted by Aragorn introducing himself.

"Yer welcome t'come along," Hagrid offered with broad smile. "We're goin' into th' forest today."

That sent discontented murmurs rippling through the class, though they soothed somewhat when Aragorn agreed. He and Hagrid led the way into the Forest, while Bronach drew back, keeping a rearguard, remembering that Umbridge was due to inspect Hagrid's lesson that day.

"This way, Professor," Bronach called, seeing the toad huffing and puffing her way across the lawn towards the forest's edge.

"Potter," Umbridge said curtly. "Trying to skip class?"

"No professor," Bronach said politely. "I saw you coming, and wondered if you were going to inspect Care of Magical Creatures today. We are going into the Forest, and it is not safe to wander on your own."

"Do you often go into the Forest?" Umbridge's quill hovered over her clipboard, and there was a nasty edge to her smile.

"Professor Hagrid did not seem to think it was appropriate for third and fourth year students," Bronach shrugged, picking up her pace slightly. Umbridge could deal with not being able to take notes. The last of the class was disappearing into the gloomy trees ahead, but she remembered vaguely where the Thestral herd tended to frequent. "He must have a high opinion of our class if he is bringing us this year. From what I understand, sixth and seventh years often have classes about the creatures living at the edge of the forest. I am sure we will be well-prepared for our exams, having this opportunity."

"Indeed," Umbridge puffed vaguely, trying for menacing, but it was rather defeated by her red face.

"Oh," Bronach said, as they arrived on the edge of the clearing. "It looks like we are to study Thestrals. Can you see them, Professor?"

Umbridge's expression was something Bronach would classify as both revolted and horrified. "Of course not, Potter. Can you?"

"Oh yes," Bronach said, watching as the Thestrals melted out of the trees towards the cow carcass Hagrid dropped on the forest floor, the students staying warily on the edge of the clearing as he explained why they were there. "I did see Cedric die last year, during the third task."

"Cedric Diggory was not murdered," Umbridge snapped, her quill blotting the parchment on her clipboard.

"I did not say he was." She assumed an air of confused politeness. "I just noted that I saw him die, during the third task."

"Deeply unsuitable," the toad muttered, scratching a note on her clipboard.

"Professor Hagrid?" Bronach called, drawing the class' attention to her. "Is it true that you trained the thestrals to pull the carriages? So they are safe for students to be around?"

Hagrid went on to expound upon how well behaved and trained the thestrals were, and most of the students were starting to lose their fear of the creatures, who were gathered around the carcass, devouring it eagerly. Bronach spotted several students describing the thestrals to those who couldn't see them, but her attention was drawn by Aragorn asking Hagrid something, too low for her to hear. To her surprise, Hagrid nodded excitedly, and Aragorn approached the herd, murmuring in low Sindarin.

One of the thestrals broke away from the carcass and bumped its head against his arm, and Bronach saw Aragorn smile. He ran his hands over the skeletal body, gently inspecting the wings. The thestral practically preened under the attention, and Hagrid called the class to order, telling the students who couldn't see the creatures to follow the way Aragorn's hands moved to get a sense for their size and structure.

Obligingly, Aragorn traced the outline of the thestral's body from nose to tail, running expert hands up and down its legs. She saw his lips twist in a grin, and then Bronach ducked to hide her own grin as he pressed himself up onto the thestral's back, sitting as naturally as he always had on any horse. He sat quietly for a moment, letting the thestral accustom itself to his weight.

With a shift in his weight, the thestral started moving, making a slow circle around the clearing. Most of the students were whispering in awe, though Bronach could still see how unnerved a few were. Neville looked sad, but seemed to have mostly gotten over his fears. Aragorn sat deep, and the thestral halted in front of where Bronach was standing with the toad.

"May I touch him?" Bronach asked, and Aragorn glanced at the thestral, which answered the question by turning its head to lip gently at her cloak.

Slipping her gloves off and putting them in her satchel, Bronach gently caressed the thestral's neck, smiling as it arched in satisfaction and pride. Running her hands, over the body, she took great care to avoid touching where Aragorn was sitting, considering where Umbridge was standing. "Professor, if you reach your hand out a few inches, you will be able to touch it."

With a look of disgust, Umbridge's hand darted out and barely brushed the thestral's skin before withdrawing. Aragorn moved the thestral on, before the toad could say anything, completing his circuit around the clearing before sliding off and allowing the thestral to return to the carcass.

"Perhaps nex' time you might be able to take a bi' of a fligh'," Hagrid boomed, as the castle bells could be heard faintly in the distance. "You'd bes' get back up t' the castle though."

Bronach arranged herself so that Umbridge got caught up in the swell of students hurrying back towards the castle, without a way to further question Hagrid, who Aragorn had detained with further questions about the thestrals. By the time Umbridge realized that Hagrid wasn't with them, she was halfway across the lawns, and Hagrid was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Text

Between the DA meetings, which had gone over exceedingly well once she'd introduced them to the Room of Requirement, her ongoing efforts to stymie Umbridge's rise to petty dictatorship, and Arwen's thread magic classes, the first term was a significant improvement over the original.

Bronach made her way into the Room for the last meeting of the term, already planning out her trip to the Department that evening. She had a sword to steal, a snake to kill, and a prophecy to smash. She'd forgotten about Dobby's decorations though.

"Oh dear," Aragorn said, arriving as she was busy vanishing the various ornaments with her face on them. "It looks as if someone went overboard."

"Just a little," Bronach sighed, finding the last cluster and sending them off into nothingness.

"Leave some of that," Aragorn advised, taking a seat in the armchair by the fire the Room always shaped for him as she started in on the mistletoe. She'd explained away his presence as a precaution against getting the club shut down, and the students had come to accept, and even ignore him. He always brought a book and seemed unaware of what was going on, but Bronach wasn't naive enough to believe he wasn't paying attention. "It will be a good distraction for the students."

"Like they need any more distractions," Bronach muttered fondly, leaving a few sprigs in discreet corners. They'd been doing reasonably well, but she had to admit that some of her lessons hadn't gone over particularly well.

Every so often, she found herself treating the students as if they were Rangers that she was training. Or worse, spies. There had been times when she'd say something, and only belatedly realize that it wasn't something a student would say. The students would stare at her, and she'd have to make an awkward joke of it.

"Today we are reviewing everything we have done," she told the group once they'd all assembled, and the initial giggles over the mistletoe were worked through. "Half of you in pairs to work through disarming and shielding, the other half doing speed drills with the dummies. Then switch once you are warmed up."

She walked through the groups of students, trusting them by now to know what they were doing, correcting a grip here and there as needed, but just about everyone had it down. After ten minutes, she switched the groups, and then she called a halt.

"I have a treat for you," she told the group, who had come around to listening unconditionally after the first few meetings. "Dueling, but you can only use the spells that we have learned and practiced."

The room reshaped itself so that a rough arena took the center of it, and wooden benches filled the sidelines like stadium seating, so that you could watch what was going on from above. Bronach counted the students off into groups of five, trying to mix houses and years evenly. "Now," she said, once the groups were set. "Anything you have learned here is fair game, but if I catch any of you aiming a reducto at another student, you will not be coming back. Understand?"

They nodded, and she set the first two groups in the arena, giving them time to orient themselves. "Five minutes, and the group with the most active participants wins bragging rights. On my mark....begin."

To their credit, the groups did fairly well. Not as well as a Ranger squad, but for Hogwarts students they showed a remarkable mastery of not being where a curse landed. It was what she wanted, Bronach had to remind herself. She wanted this group to survive, not to be an actual army.

Defense, not offense, she reminded herself as Colin Creevey walked off the field, shaking the remains of a dancing-feet jinx out of his feet. If they survive long enough to run away, that will be enough.

"Who are we going to go up against?" Padma Patil asked as her group took to the field for the last duels. "The others have all gone already."

Bronach looked around, assessing the groups. Most of them, except for the last two groups, were probably ready to go ahead, but it was Dennis Creevey who piped up: "Why don't you take them on?"

She stared at him in surprise, but the rest of the DA was eager.

"You hardly ever practice with anyone," Cho said, pouting slightly. "We want to see what you can do."

"Are the odds not a bit uneven?" Bronach stalled, seeing Aragorn look up from his book with a frown.

"You survived You-Know-Who," Colin said loyally. "And all that other stuff."

Seeing as how the students wouldn't back down, Bronach took a deep breath and stepped into the arena herself. Only spells that they've covered, she told herself firmly. They're all nonlethal.

There had been a sinking feeling in the pit of Aragorn's stomach ever since he'd noticed there was an odd number of groups.

Bronach had been careful not to duel the other students, mindful of his warnings about her mental state, and her own greater abilities. He knew that even five students were no match for her, but a setting like this was unpredictable.

Hermione started them off, and for the first few minutes everything went smoothly. Bronach moved steadily through the field, casting to disarm only, if he was following the spellwork correctly. She'd managed to get three of them, holding back greatly, by four minutes in, but the other two pulled a flanking maneuver, and a spell splashed across Bronach's back.

She turned in a breath, her wand coming up in a blur of motion as she disarmed and stunned the student. The other had been casting, their spell finishing as she disarmed them, and the impact drove her back into one of the rough walls, her back striking the stone.

The room swirled around her, the students she hadn't stunned hurrying to get their stunned fellows out of the way as the environment shifted and resettled into something Aragorn was unfortunately familiar with.

He'd noticed that the walls looked unpleasantly like those found in several of the Angmarim settlements surrounding Carn Dum, but the scene the room resolved into was certainly one of the squares. A tall stone pillar rose behind her, a rusty iron ring bolted in above head height, and Aragorn was thankful that whatever image was in Bronach's head wasn't one with a gibbet, since he was certain there would be bodies and he didn't want to have to explain that to the students, along with whatever this turned into.

Carefully, he moved down into the arena, watching Bronach warily as she slumped against the stone. From what he had noticed, once she'd been warned that she was slipping, Bronach was usually better at containing her Waking Nightmares, but this had the potential to be bad.

"Do you know where you are?" he murmured, choosing Sindarin to give her some privacy, and hoping to draw her out quicker.

Her lips quirked up in a wry grin. "Donnvail, of course," she murmured back, and the Room provided a sound like the crack of a whip. "Cannot truly escape it, can I?"

"You survived it," Aragorn told her firmly, wishing he dared reach out and touch her.

"Of course I did," she sounded vaguely indignant, and the room shifted once more, until she was leaning against one of Esteldin's stone walls, still the ruined stronghold that it had been until years after Sauron fell.

"This is much better, is it not?" he asked, shifting from a crouch to sit next to her, still not touching.

"Halbarad always said nothing compared to Tinnudir on Loëndë." A tear slipped down her cheek. "He was right."

Another shift, and the familiar outline of Tyl Annun in the distance sent a pang through his heart. The bonfire in the ruined courtyard was blazing, and there were soft strains of music starting to play, tunes he rarely heard after he'd ascended to the throne unless he'd escaped the rigidity of the Gondorian court.

Bronach's head lifted, and she looked at him, still half-trapped in her memory, but a frown crossed her face. "You were never here," she said, glancing from him to the fire. "Not when I was. And after..."

The fire was gone, and so was the sand, replaced by the carpets and stone of Ost Elendil as it had been at mid-year. She was still frowning. "This was never ours either."

Before he could say anything, Ost Elendil was gone, replaced with Rushingdale, the details obscure in the dim light but he couldn't forget the sound of water rushing over the falls, knowing that he had almost lost both of his lovers while he had sat hopeful on his throne, waiting for their return.

"No," he said firmly, and risked reaching out to grasp her hand. "You survived this, and we overcame it."

She squeezed his hand back, and Rushingdale was replaced by the Eave-mere glistening in the sun, the stone wall behind her back now a tree trunk. Bronach looked around, more clarity in her eyes. "Arwen was here."

"In your memory," Aragorn coaxed. "Right now she is in our quarters, safe in the school."

"I made you wait," Bronach's grin was lopsided, almost sad. Then she turned indignant. "You turned it into a song!"

"Seven long years," Aragorn hummed, unable to resist. "But we waited, and we have had many times that now. But I need you to focus."

She blinked several times, and the Eave-mere faded away, along with the last of the Waking Nightmare. "How long?"

"Not very," he told her, releasing her hand. "Are you injured?"

"No," Bronach said, getting to her feet. "Just caught off guard. What did I say?"

"Nothing," he reassured her, getting to his own feet. "We only spoke in Sindarin."

"What did they see?" Bronach's gaze was blank as she glanced at the students.

"The courtyards of Donnvail and Esteldin, and Tinnudir at Loëndë," Aragorn told her. "Then Ost Elendil, Rushingdale, and the Eave-mere. Nothing harmful."

"We shall see," she muttered, and then she drew away to approach the students, who Hermione had gathered well clear of what had started out as their arena.

"I apologize," she said, and he could almost hear the rueful smile she must be wearing. "Given my history...well, those of you with a muggle background may be familiar with the term shell shock."

That brought several looks of understanding and sympathy, several of the students wincing. Bronach shrugged, as if to say what can you do, and continued. "I is something I am working through, but it's one of the reasons why Mr. Telcontar has chosen to sit in on our meetings. He's familiar with my episodes, and can safely bring me out of them."

"Is that what all the different places were?" One of the students asked tentatively.

"He talks me through places I have read about in order to help me determine what's in my head and what's real," Bronach lied smoothly. "But I will work on it over the holidays, so that when we return we can duel without an issue. It is something I need to do," she said, catching the looks on several of the students' faces. "I cannot risk this happening in a real fight."

The mood was slightly more downcast as she dismissed the group, praising the teamwork of the pair that had caught her off guard, but a few couples stumbled into the mistletoe, which helped brighten the overall mood.

Hermione and Ron were the last pair in the room, but Aragorn signaled for them to leave Bronach to him. Once it was down to just the Weasleys and Hermione, she'd taken a seat in his armchair, staring into the fire.

"What happened?" he asked, as gently as he could, kneeling in front of her chair to take her hands in his. "I have seen you take blows far harder, and none of them triggered...this."

He shrugged, unable to convey in words what he'd witnessed, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

"I am not occluding right now," Bronach admitted with a sigh. "My barriers are completely down, my hormones are also running wild because I am supposed to start my cycle in the next few days if my calculations are correct, and I had been thinking about Donnvail, and whether I thought I could use it as the setting for a teaching exercise sometime next term."

"I do not entirely follow," Aragorn admitted, processing most of what she'd said, but not all of it.

"I was considering an exercise in town-based combat, where they were being hunted through the town and had to escape," Bronach lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "It brought up my memories of being hunted through Donnvail, and you know how that ended."

With your back shredded, and your body dumped outside the walls to die, Aragorn filled in with a grimace. "You usually do not react this strongly."

"My occlumancy shields are down," she repeated tiredly. "It means that I cannot compartmentalize anything. Just...feel what I feel." Bronach slumped further in the chair. "And it has been nearly two centuries since I last had a regular menstrual cycle, so I suppose I can be forgiven for forgetting how utterly morbid I get when I am hormonal. Add in teenage hormones in general..."

Aragorn didn't comment, not ever having experienced it for himself. They sat in silence for a long moment before he asked: "Why did you take your shields down?"

"Because tonight is the night Arthur Weasley gets attacked by Riddle's snake," Bronach seemed to struggle with something, and then she slid off the chair and into his lap, pulling his arms around her as she burrowed into his chest. "I need Riddle's possession of her to transfer to me, so I can get there in time to help him and retrieve the prophecy."

Something about that didn't seem quite right. Aragorn thought through what she'd told him about how this night had gone once before. Her plan had never sat quite right with him, but he'd always assumed it was because her plan involved her going alone to fight a large, venomous snake. He ran her words back and forth a few times, and then winced. "The shared vision...does it not depend on your status as a horcrux?"

Bronach stilled in his arms, and then let out a blistering series of curses. "It absolutely does," she groaned before slumping into his chest, causing him to let out a grunt.

She steadied her breathing for several minutes, and then twisted around in his arms, looking far less fraught than she'd been all night. "Thank you," Bronach murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "That was utterly miserable. I am going on birth control as soon as everything evens out, and never coming off it."

"Change your mind already?" he teased, and she froze before letting her head thud into his chest.

"I absolutely hate being a teenager," she grumbled into his shoulder. "Yes, I will come off it when we're ready, if we're ready, but otherwise I like stable hormones."

He smoothed a hand over her back, suppressing his grin. "A discussion for all three of us."

She lifted her head, a glint in her eye and a smile curving around her lips. "You have been remarkably patient with me," Bronach practically purred, arms coming up to twine around his neck. "And nobody will find us in here."

"Oh?" he said, running his fingers down her spine in the way he knew made her shiver, before settling his hands on her hips.

"Mistletoe," Bronach said, glancing above them. "I do believe I owe you a kiss."

"By all means," Aragorn murmured, holding still as she shifted slightly in his lap. "I would hate to break tradition."

She started the kiss off frustratingly light, a gentle press of lips, but Bronach deepened it, tantalizingly slowly until they broke away, panting slightly. Aragorn tightened his fingers lightly, just flexing them to remind her of where they were. "Remind me again why we do not take advantage of this more frequently?" he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

"Because if we are both missing all the time and nobody can get into the room, it would be obvious where we are," Bronach muttered resentfully.

"At least you and Arwen can sneak time in her workroom," Aragorn sighed. "It is certainly much harder to arrange time for the both of us."

"It is only possible to use Arwen's workroom and office because I have that hallway carpeted with alert wards," Bronach groused. "And even then, the number of false alarms..."

With a sigh, she rocked back on her heels. "I am envious of you and Arwen, and I have been strongly considering just...not coming back when this year is done."

"What would you do instead?" Aragorn asked, since they'd delayed making permanent plans until after her graduation, unsure of what changes they'd push through while she was in school.

"Work on our list of things that need to be changed about the wizarding world," Bronach shrugged, tucking an escaping lock of hair behind her ear. "Finish restoring Grimmauld, find us that cottage we talked about and get it renovated or built the way we want it to be."

"Sounds lovely," Aragorn said, meaning it. But a part of him wondered if they'd eventually get bored, living a quiet life. So much of each of their lives had been defined by their duty, by the throne, by the war. Could they really just...stop?

Bronach's breathing had slowed, and she pulled back slightly. "If I intend to prevent a snake attack, I ought to be going," she murmured, glancing around. "Now...how to get the portrait to appear..."

A portrait of a smiling girl, large enough to be a doorway, rippled into view on the wall. Bronach nodded politely at her. "Hello Ariana," she said, rising to her feet. "Is your brother in the room at the other end? I wish to go unnoticed."

"And alone?" Aragorn let out a huff, unable to help himself. They'd been over this already, and she wasn't wrong in saying that his absence, at the same time as hers, would be suspicious.

"I will have Arthur Weasley with me," Bronach squeezed his hand, helping him to his feet. "Now, go be very conspicuous and also go reassure Arwen that all is well."

"Can I take a look at your map?" he asked, and the parchment was produced almost immediately. He studied the movements for a moment, and then glanced around. "If you could make it look as if I have just come in from a walk, and the Room could create an outlet in the Entrance Hall, I could cross paths with both Snape and Umbridge on my way back up to my rooms."

"Good choices," Bronach agreed, as the portrait returned to her frame with a smile and a nod. "Off to kill a snake," she said, and put away the map, withdrawing the invisibility cloak as she did so. A gesture, and he could feel the dampness of melting snow on his shoulders and scalp, and when he looked down, his boots had traces of snow as well.

"Be safe," he said, watching the portrait swing open. Aragorn stayed just long enough to watch it close behind her before he set off down the passage the room opened, already planning his conversations with Snape and Umbridge.

As Ariana had promised, Aberforth wasn't in the room housing her Hog's Head portrait, and therefore Bronach had no witnesses as her invisible figure climbed out of the portrait. From there, it was easy enough to slip down the stairs and out the back door. Kreacher came when she called, and apparated her to the atrium. Years of being an Auror came in handy, and she took the maintenance stairs down to Level 9.

Her detection spell showed Arthur was there, leaning against the wall tiredly. Bronach crept past him, and into the Department, careful to keep an illusion over the door while it opened and closed.

She lengthened her strides as much as she dared, keeping her mind fixed on her purpose as the doors spun around her, the one she needed springing open as it came to a stop. The walk to the shelf that had haunted her nightmares seemed much longer, but eventually she was staring at the prophecy orb that had changed everything.

"If you intend to steal prophecies related to you, there are others you might take."

An Unspeakable loomed up out of the darkness, hands open wide in a calming gesture. Bronach lowered the hood of her cloak to glare at them. She had suspected they would know of her trespass, but given that the Unspeakables didn't operate like the Ministry, it was worth the risk.

"It is not stealing if you would give it to me if I asked," Bronach countered, keeping her senses open, and feeling for the strands of the alert wards that she'd set on the hallway, to ensure she had enough time to reach Arthur before Nagini appeared.

"The Ministry would classify removing it without the proper paperwork to be stealing," the Unspeakable said, mirth in their voice. "But we have enough paperwork without dealing with request forms. Our logs will note the change in custody, which is all that matters."

Logs. That certainly was something she hadn't anticipated. "I was hoping to leave no record of the removal."

It was hard to tell, but she had the sense that the Unspeakable was laughing at her. "There are always traces, no matter how much you attempt to erase them," they said. "But I think few would recognize the significance of Bronach of the Trev Gallorg being the person on record removing this particular prophecy."

"So it tracks the true self, not just the legal name," Bronach murmured, curious as to how the spell had been cast. But time was ticking. "Other prophecies?"

The Unspeakable studied her for a long moment. "No," they said, the mirth in their voice gone and replaced by something that suggested they might be frowning. "I spoke too freely. It is not yet decided, but the potential is there."

Not knowing was going to itch at her worse than the time she'd accidentally camped in poison ivy during a sudden storm. "I would ask for clarification, but I doubt I would get it."

"There are many prophecies without a known subject," the Unspeakable said gravely. "And many of them are...attuned to individuals who might fulfill them. By your return, you have attracted their attention."

Her stomach twisted in a knot, but the first of her alert wards snapped. She had minutes to reach Arthur. "Go," the Unspeakable said, and she lifted the prophecy, cast a cushioning charm on it, and shoved it into the pouch she'd brought for it. "If it becomes necessary...you will know what you seek when you next visit our halls."

"Thank you," Bronach replied politely, figuring that it was wise not to anger someone who had been both helpful and only somewhat cryptic, and then took off back to the entrance, smoothing her features into someone bland and unforgettable as she went.

Arthur startled awake when she pulled the hood back and scuffed her shoe, the invisibility cloak he was wearing slipping from him as he moved. "Who are you?"

His wand was pointing at her; his reflexes were sharp. Good. "A friend of the flaming turkey," she said vaguely, knowing that the Unspeakables were likely monitoring the hallway as well. "Later, I can explain more, but I promise that you can trust me. There is a large, possessed snake coming down this hall in a moment, and I would rather the Dark Lord not discover who kills her."

To his credit, Arthur took all of this in stride. "What's your plan?"

"You distract her," Bronach said, having already planned it out. "Conjure a physical wall here, crouch behind it, and keep a shield up. Shoot off some stunners, make it look like you are putting up a fight."

"And what about you?"

She pulled her hood up, drawing the knife she'd prepared for this moment under the cover of the cloak. Nagini was almost in view. "Putting an end to the snake is my job."

Bronach finished the spells that would hide any noise she made and her scent just in time. Nagini slithered into view, the torchlight playing eerily on her scales as she made her way down the hallway, unerringly fixed on the doorway to the Department of Mysteries. Arthur reacted at the sight of the snake, putting up a physical barrier and casting a shield, just as she'd told him to. As stunners started to fly, Bronach got to work.

She sent tendrils of magic through the floors, chilling them, and Nagini slowed, in a way that could be written off as a reaction to the spells coming from Arthur. More magic, and the temperature of the corridor plunged, frost forming on the walls. Arthur's breath came in visible puffs as he peered over the wall to cast spells at the oncoming snake. Nagini was slowing further, her smooth movements becoming sluggish, and Bronach pounced as the snake approached the wall, rearing up to strike.

Her knife, sharpened that morning and coated in basilisk venom for this very purpose, cut cleanly through the snake, severing her head from her body. Not stopping her movements, Bronach dug her hand into her pocket, casting a binding circle to trap the horcrux emerging from the body, seeing Arthur's eyes widen at the sight of the black vapor. There was no time to talk though, and Bronach reached out and snagged it, drawing it within the circle of salt, iron, and herb that she'd laid, confining it before it could reach him.

Whether it could try to possess him or not, she didn't quite know, but she remembered how painful her encounter with Quirrelmort's wraith had been and would rather not subject Arthur to it if she could avoid it. A few words in Quenya, and she felt the brush of Namo's presence as the soul shard was whisked away, the wind of its passing scattering her circle and breaking the binding.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and then Bronach tugged her hood down once more.

"Well, that is done," she said with a sigh, banishing the remnants of her circle. Arthur vanished his conjured wall, and the door to the Department of Mysteries opened.

"Will you want the corpse?" a new Unspeakable asked, gesturing at Nagini's body.

"If you want to study a snake that's undergone both possession and being a vessel for a horcrux, be my guest," Bronach said, stifling the yawn that threatened to break forth. "Otherwise I was going to pack it up and burn it, just to be safe."

"We'll study it, and then dispose of it properly," the Unspeakable said quickly. "Goodnight, Arthur."

Bewildered, Arthur glanced between the Unspeakable and the snake corpse, and clearly decided not to ask. They watched as the corpse was levitated into the Department, and then the door shut in a clear indication that the Unspeakables wished to have some privacy for the rest of the evening

"The Department is safe for the rest of the night," Bronach told Arthur, and then reconsidered. "Or at least I think it is. He will probably write it off as some defense the Unspeakables have in place, since you were clearly just as taken aback as he was."

Arthur looked even more bewildered, but followed her up the stairs to the Atrium. "Mind side-alonging me to Hogsmeade?" she asked as they came out of the staircase, pulling her hood up once more. It would muddy her trail, if anyone was inclined to investigate.

"Of course," he told her, and she wrapped her hand around his arm. With a crack, they appeared on the outskirts, far enough that nobody should be able to see them.

"Who are you?" Arthur's wand was pointed at her once more.

Bronach took off the invisibility cloak and released her metamorphmagus changes. He goggled at her. "Harry? You're supposed to be..."

"In the castle," she said with a shrug. "But if I was not there tonight, you'd have a nasty holiday in St. Mungo's, fighting off Nagini's venom. And I needed her dead."

"You called her a horcrux," Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Encapsulated soul shard." Bronach yawned, unable to help herself. "Riddle, the Dark Lord, whatever you want to call him, made several of them to prevent himself from actually dying. Nagini was one. Now he is down a tether, and once they are all gone he can die for good."

"That's dark magic," Arthur said quietly. "Very dark magic."

"The darkest," Bronach agreed.

"Shouldn't we tell Albus?"

"He knows," Bronach said, glancing up towards the castle in the distance. "He has known since my parents died. Or suspected, at least, especially after the diary."

Realization dawned in Arthur's eyes. "Another one?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Bronach replied, watching his expression. It cycled through fear, then anger, then settled on weary relief. "Ginny will suffer no lasting effects from the encounter, but it was...very close."

"Thank you," he said, and he hugged her tightly, taking her by surprise. "I'll keep quiet on this. Albus has his own reasons for not telling us, I hope, but I'd like to speak more about this during the holidays. In the meantime, I'll tell Albus that the snake was there tonight, and that she's dead."

"And what about me?"

He grinned at her, and Bronach couldn't help but grin back. That was Fred's grin, when he was up to mischief. "I didn't see your real face, of course, so I couldn't say who you were. But you didn't seem to mean us any harm."

"Thank you," Bronach said, meaning it. "We can talk during the holidays."

"Now, I think it's probably time you get to bed," Arthur said, proving that he was absolutely a father at heart. "Do you need help getting into the castle?"

"No, I can manage," she assured him, pulling the cloak back on. "Thank you Mr. Weasley."

"See you in a few days," he said, and disapparated.

Chapter Text

The ride back to London was reasonably uneventful.

Bronach had dosed herself heavily with Wide-Eye potion to get her through classes on Thursday, but nobody seemed to notice. The DA members seemed to write any oddities off as leftover from her flashback, but none of them seemed overly alarmed after what they'd witnessed. Arwen had held her tightly in the privacy of her classroom when Bronach had taken refuge there after classes had ended, and then let her nap on a couch by the fire, humming as she embroidered.

Both Arwen and Aragorn had taken the compartment across from Bronach's chosen one on the train, and based on the students that stopped by, received many well-wishes from those taking Arwen's classes, or who had come to be somewhat familiar with Aragorn through the DA.

At the station, Arwen called for Kreacher, and he whisked them and their baggage away. Molly and Remus were there for the rest of them, and Bronach put up with the turbulence of the Knight Bus for the short trip to Grimmauld rather than causing a fuss by walking.

Once inside, she looked around, taking in the changes Kreacher had been working on. "Looks good," she told him as he appeared to deal with the luggage in the hall. "How have things been going?"

"Kreacher is making much progress," he assured her, snapping his fingers and sending the trunks to their designated rooms. "Mistress will be very happy."

"How is the conservatory faring?" she asked as they walked up the stairs together.

"Kreacher is taking good care of the plants," the elf said, pausing at the drawing room door. "Is it to Mistress's liking?"

She peered in, taking in the new rug that had arrived since term began, the new furniture to replace what couldn't be magically adjusted to suit. "Lovely work as always Kreacher."

"Will Mistress be wanting tea before dinner?" he asked.

"Mm, no thank you," she said, glancing up the stairs where she could hear the Weasleys and Hermione settling in. "Are they in the suite?"

"Master and Mistress are unpacking," Kreacher told her, before disappearing, likely to put the finishing touches on dinner.

She hurried up the stairs, and found Aragorn and Arwen unpacking as Kreacher had promised. Hanging her cloak on the stand by the door, she pulled first Arwen, and then Aragorn, into a hug. "I missed being able to do this without having to be on my guard," she sighed, when she finally released Aragorn.

"At least we have this time," Arwen said, finishing putting away her clothing. "Would you like to unpack first, or is there something else you wish to do?"

"We will need to decorate for Yule tomorrow," Bronach said promptly. "I cannot be sure of what decorations are available. And the others will likely wish to decorate for Christmas."

"I have been a bit bored lately," Aragorn said, picking up the knife she'd bespelled to cut any creature that might have been breeding in the house. "Do you wish to change before you lead us into the attic?"

"Absolutely," Bronach said, and swapped her robes for Ranger garb. Arwen followed suit, and together they headed up the stairs and into the attic.

"Kreacher has been keeping things neat," Bronach said, surveying the piles of trunks and old furniture. "That will make this easier."

"Spread out, or stay together?"

"I think we can risk spreading out," Bronach said, casting a few charms to make sure that there was nothing living in the attic besides them. "The trunks should be safe to handle, and if we are particularly lucky, they have been labeled."

Tipping her head for a moment, she summoned a ball of light and sent it floating towards the ceiling, where it split into a neat chain that illuminated the space nicely. Then she started poking at the trunks nearest to her, glad that whomever had last organized the attic hadn't left it looking like Bellatrix's Gringott's vault.

"There is a trunk here marked Yule Decorations," Arwen called after a few minutes. "And others marked Christmas."

"Perfect," Bronach said, joining Aragorn as they converged on Arwen. "Why not take a look and make sure we are not dealing with House Elf heads or something equally gruesome?"

By the time dinner was served, they had sorted through the trunks and found non-objectionable garlands of golden chains and some matching candle holders. The Christmas decor was far more ostentatious, but there was a nice selection of baubles for the tree, along with a lovely sun topper.

"We can ask Kreacher to fetch the live garlands tonight or tomorrow morning," Bronach decided as they carried their chosen trunks down. "And the particularly objectionable trunks can be shut in the vault."

Arwen grimaced. "The baubles that depicted cursed nonmagicals were...disturbing."

"Unfortunately, the Blacks of recent generations were quite disturbed," Bronach muttered as they passed Sirius and Regulus's rooms.

When they reached the drawing room, they found the Weasleys and Sirius already present, Hermione quizzing Remus over the expectations for the Defense OWL. Bronach set her trunk by the fireplace, and motioned for Arwen and Aragorn to put theirs, which were full of Christmas decorations, in the corner where she intended to put the tree.

"We will be decorating for Yule after supper," she told the assembled group. "Any who wish to help are welcome, though we will not force you."

"Yule, and not Christmas?" Hermione asked, distracted from her conversation, much to Remus's hidden relief.

"We have celebrated Yule most of our lives," Bronach gestured to herself, Arwen, and Aragorn. "But the house will also celebrate Christmas."

Kreacher chose that moment to announce that dinner was served by striking the gong they'd agreed to put in the kitchen. Magically enchanted, it echoed in every room of the house where there were people, summoning all to dinner.

The dining room was already bedecked in evergreen and holly, much to Bronach's surprise.

"Kreacher remembers," the elf said as he bustled about, putting the last few dishes on the table. "Kreacher has garlands and branches aplenty for the house."

"Thank you," Bronach said, resting a hand on his shoulder before he could remove himself to the kitchen, where he felt more comfortable. She'd broken him of the habit when it was just her, Arwen, and Aragorn, but he clearly wasn't comfortable among Sirius and the others. He nodded, and then vanished.

Dinner that night was a mix of standard British fare and dishes that wouldn't be out of place at an Imladris Yule celebration. Bronach was pleased to see the younger set experimenting with the new dishes, since she had already discussed menus with Kreacher and chosen a selection of Imladris dishes for the main meal on Yule. Arthur Weasley turned up a few minutes after they started, his plate filled and waiting at his place thanks to Molly.

Afterwards, she was pleasantly surprised to see the entire group joining her in the drawing room. With Arwen in charge of the final aesthetics, she doled out decorations and marching orders, and by the time they tucked into bed, the drawing room and stairways were well-bedecked, thanks to Kreacher's handiness with levitation and sticking charms.

She was late to rise the morning of Yule, content to snuggle between her partners. Kreacher made it even less necessary by providing a tray of tea and toast.

It was much later by the time they made their way downstairs, late for them at least. Arthur was at the table reading the Prophet, while Molly perused Witch Weekly, but none of the students were awake.

"We had thought you'd eaten already," Arthur said, glancing at his watch in surprise. "Molly and I had a bit of a lie in; we'd thought we had missed you."

"Turns out we were all thinking the same thing," Bronach said with a sheepish grin as she picked up a plate and served herself breakfast from the warming plates that Kreacher had set on the buffet. "Good Yule to you both."

"Good Yule," they returned, Molly only slightly reluctantly.

"We plan to light the Yule log before supper," Bronach informed them. "But for now we will light the candles and keep them burning all day." She had nice tapers that should last until supper time, and ones to replace them. They'd been made with beeswax from the hives of the Beornings, and gave off a sweet scent, unlike the tallow ones she'd become accustomed to using on a daily basis.

Aragorn had the Prophet first that morning, and Arwen had already claimed Witch Weekly, so she contented herself with reading the post that Kreacher had placed by her plate when she came in. Nothing particularly noteworthy, Yule greetings from several of the families that had been Potter allies in the Wizengamot, a report from Gringotts as to the status of several investments she'd made, and a few notes that made her smile.

"Andromeda, Ted, and Tonks will be joining us for dinner," she told Arwen and Aragorn. "You will like Andromeda."

"But not Ted?" Molly asked, eyes narrowing.

"I could not say," Bronach said, cursing herself for forgetting their audience. "I do not particularly know him well."

"He's a good man," Arthur assured her, patting Molly's hand calmingly. "Very knowledgeable about muggle devices."

"If they are anything like their daughter, I can be sure they are lovely," Aragorn said with a smile before returning to his paper.

When they were finished with breakfast, Bronach went down to the kitchen with her box full of candles, and carefully lit a taper from the hearth fire. Lighting the first candle, she placed it in the center of the kitchen table and drew a rune to ensure that it could not be blown out or tipped by errant movements of the household. From that candle, she lit another, carrying it upstairs to the dining room.

Between her, Arwen, and Aragorn, they managed to place a candle in every room of the house, usually on windowsills if available. With that task done, it was back to decorating.

Kreacher had brought in a lovely fir tree that fit nicely in the corner she'd earmarked for one in the parlor. The students were awake and breakfasted in time to help decorate it, and Bronach smiled as Sirius cavorted through the house singing "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs" at the top of his lungs, clearly infected by the holiday cheer.

Arwen was humming as she hung ornaments, almost harmonizing with Aragorn's chuckles as the twins managed to hog-tie Ron with a bit of garland. Remus chatted with Arthur as they strung dried berries and orange slices onto heavy thread, and Molly carefully created clusters of pinecones to hang from the garlands, and balls of mistletoe for the doors, which they'd decked with holly boughs the night before.

Kreacher set out a cold lunch in the drawing room at noon, mostly sandwiches and hand pies, and the merriment continued. Midafternoon, the Tonks family arrived, and Bronach finally got to meet Ted Tonks, who proved to be as cheerful as Arthur Weasley, if a bit more grounded.

The sight of Andromeda nearly brought a tear to her eye, but Bronach held it back, welcoming the witch warmly. She mentioned that there was an official place in the Black Family for the Tonks', but noted that she understood if Andromeda wanted time to think about it. Andromeda nodded politely, thanked her for the consideration, and went to greet Sirius, who was half-hanging over a banister.

Everything worked out with perfect timing, as Kreacher came to her an hour or so before they'd planned dinner. Bronach dismissed him, and then rang the small silver bell that she'd placed on the mantle.

"Anyone wishing to join us as we light the hearth fire, please come down to the kitchen," she announced, and to her surprise, everyone present followed her.

With Aragorn and Arwen at her side, she made a circuit of the house, extinguishing the stubs of the candles she'd placed until it was completely dark but for the one she was holding. The kitchen looked eerie, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth and the candle she held, but it was enough light for her to navigate safely without stepping on anyone.

"Yule marks the rebirth of the sun," she murmured into the quiet stillness, placing her guttering candle on the hearthstones. Kreacher had already prepared the Yule Log, and they watched as the last of the flames of the hearth fire flickered and died, leaving embers and ash behind.

"To be born again, death must come first, but as the phoenix, from death comes life anew," Bronach said, and carefully cleared a place among the embers and ashes for the log to rest on bare stone, which Aragorn helped her place once she was ready. Kreacher's choice was a stout yew log, wreathed in holly and ivy. Arwen carefully sprinkled first flour, than wassail over the top, and then stood back.

The candle flame guttered out, leaving them in darkness. Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

Traditionally, one had a bit of the log burned the year before, but it had been many years since Yule was properly observed in the house. So Bronach drew magic into her hands, calling forth flames, and as she cupped the handful, she reached forward and poured them on the log, which burst immediately into a warm blaze.

"A good omen," Andromeda murmured thoughtfully, and Bronach had to agree.

A log that was stubborn to light often foretold troubles in the coming year, but a log that lit easily suggested success. Bronach set aside the candle nub and lit a fresh taper from the fire, the beeswax filling the air with a pleasant fragrance. "Let us spread the new light through the house and keep the light to welcome the sun when she appears," she told the group, and Kreacher passed out fresh candles to everyone. Arwen led the way as they lit new candles where the old ones had been burning all day, while Bronach and Kreacher busied themselves with manually lighting the chandeliers in the dining room, entry hall, and drawing room.

When they were all gathered at the dining room door once more, Bronach threw open the doors, revealing the feast Kreacher had been working on most of the day. It was as good as anything Imladris's kitchens could produce, and Bronach gripped Arwen's hand in the bustle of taking seats. Wassail was available to all, the glasses of the students and Bronach's all charmed to neutralize any alcohol, and she couldn't help but smile as she looked down the table, finding old friends and new friends gathered in a way she had never thought possible.

After dinner, they retired to the drawing room for more drinks and conversation, but Bronach slipped out to help Kreacher light the fires in the bedrooms, carrying fresh coals from their fire, lighting fires in the freshly cleaned grates until each room was warming nicely.

"Good omens there be," Kreacher told her as they lit the fire in the sitting room of the Head's suite. "Mistress has blessed the House of Black beyond any that Kreacher can recall."

"I bless only as much as I have been blessed," Bronach responded, getting to her feet. "We will light the bedroom fire when we retire, so that is the last one."

"Next year, Mistresses and Master will not have to hide," Kreacher murmured with a slight scowl. "Not among Mistress's family."

"We will see what the wheel brings us," Bronach told the old elf. "Blessed Yule Kreacher. Take the rest of the night for yourself."

He sniffed, and disappeared, taking the buckets of ash with him. Bronach knew that she should go back down, but something had her lingering in the sitting room, looking at the fire burning in the hearth for a moment.

It happened so quickly that she almost wrote it off as a quirk of the light, but Bronach knew deep down that what she'd seen had been real.

In the center of the flames, resting atop the log, was a circlet.

She hadn't told her partners about what she'd seen, but Bronach knew they suspected something was amiss. None of their houseguests seemed to pick up on it, for which Bronach was thankful.

Dutifully, she wrote down what she'd seen in the diary Trelawney had encouraged the fifth years to keep, along with the fragments of dreams that were coming nearly every night since her journey to the Department of Mysteries. Thankfully, there was no reading aloud of their diaries, but Trelawney collected them and perused them during class as they worked, handing them back with notes as they waited to descend the rope ladder.

This time, Umbridge hadn't found grounds to put either Trelawney or Hagrid on probation, and Bronach had watched the witch grow increasingly frustrated as the end of term neared. Her appointment as High Inquisitor hadn't expanded her power beyond making her an overall nuisance, but Bronach expected Umbridge to descend upon them in the new term with a new ferocity.

"You are thinking heavy thoughts," Arwen chided, gliding by with a wrapped parcel in her hands. "Stop that."

"Tell the Anduin to stop flowing to the sea," Bronach replied automatically, and then straightened. She had been staring into the fire for too long, and Hermione was looking slightly concerned where she was making polite conversation with Andromeda and Aragorn. Making an effort to distract herself, she looked around for a conversational partner, and found Arthur Weasley watching her discreetly as well. When he noticed her attention on him, he tipped his head slightly towards the drawing room door.

Clearly it was time to discuss the Department of Mysteries.

As if she was going to fetch another tray of biscuits from the kitchen, Bronach collected the empty tray and strode out onto the landing, where Arthur was waiting. But instead of going all the way down, Bronach motioned towards the empty wall where the study door lurked just out of sight, waiting for the presence of the Head to reveal itself. Arthur's eyebrows went shooting towards his hairline as she rested her hand on his arm, allowing him to see the door, but he thankfully said nothing until they were both inside, helpfully taking the empty biscuit tray so she could open the door.

Inside, Bronach set the tray on the end table between the chairs set near the fire and tapped the rune that would send it down to the kitchen to be cleaned. Kreacher would refill it, and return it to her when he was ready. Gesturing at one of the chairs, she sat down in her preferred one, waiting for Arthur to speak first.

"I reported the snake's presence and death to the Headmaster, as I told you I would," Arthur said, once he was settled in his chair, still looking around the study in surprise. "He was very interested in the stranger who killed her, but I couldn't give him much information."

"I appreciate it," Bronach said honestly. "What do you want to know?"

Once again, his eyebrows shot towards his hairline, as if he hadn't expected her to offer him answers without knowing the questions. But Bronach wasn't going to keep anything from him, not if she could help it.

"How did you know to be there that night?" Arthur asked after a moment, seeming to turn over questions in his mind before settling on that one.

Bronach drummed her fingers lightly on the chair arm. "Publicly, if questioned, I will claim to have had a vision," she said, making up her mind. "Professor Trelawney can attest that I have been more prone to them of late."

"And the private answer is different?"

She studied him for a long moment, and then nodded. Aragorn and Arwen had talked over what they would disclose, and to whom, but she hadn't anticipated needing to do so beyond her initial disclosure upon their arrival. But it should have been obvious, she realized wryly, with how closed-mouthed Dumbledore had always been, that the story would go no further than its initial listeners and the Headmaster. Yet she was unsurprised to find that Arthur had not been told, at least not all of it.

"Since I arrived at Grimmauld...I assume you have noticed that I am not the same student who you escorted to the World Cup?" Bronach wasn't going to insult his intelligence by assuming that he hadn't noticed. Everyone in residence at Grimmauld, and quite a few people outside of it, had noticed. Most likely had written it off as PTSD, but as far as she knew, Hermione was the only one to know the truth, outside of Molly, Tonks, Sirius, Remus, and McGonagall. Whether any of them had shared the story was yet to be seen, but nobody had cornered her asking for information about the future so far.

"Molly said that you had quite a story, but she seemed unconvinced. Minerva feels that you're telling the truth, and Sirius and Remus seem to know," Arthur said promptly. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

Warmth rushed through Bronach at the familiar understanding. Clearly, Arthur Weasley would never change, and she thanked whomever was responsible for him.

"A bit over twenty years from now, I stumbled into a magical accident that threw me out of this dimension and into another one," she said, deciding to start at the very beginning. "I spent well over a century and a half there, before a chance to return here was offered to me."

"And the Telcontars chose to join you?" Arthur had a slight smile playing around his lips. "Well, I can see why Molly struggles with this. Very practical she is, which is why she and the boys are so often at odds."

"The Telcontars chose to join me, for which I am very grateful," Bronach said, resting her hands in her lap. "And Molly has been very kind, even in light of everything."

"She thinks of you as one of our own," Arthur confided in her, as he had over two hundred years ago in the Burrow's kitchen. "Always has, since that first summer."

"The sweater and fudge she sent me were some of the first Christmas gifts I'd ever gotten," Bronach admitted, something she hadn't done before. There had never seemed a need to, but now, having lived lifetimes thinking about what she would have said, had she the chance to... "Hagrid gave me my first ever present and birthday cake, and if it wasn't for Hermione, Hagrid, and you and Molly, I wouldn't have gotten Christmas gifts that year."

"We suspected things weren't quite right," Arthur blinked rapidly for a moment. "With your relatives, I mean. But Dumbledore was quite clear that you had to stay there, so we did our best to make sure you could always come to us as soon as possible during the summer."

"Thank you," she said, meaning it wholeheartedly. "For everything. It meant, and means, the world to me."

"You are always welcome in our home," Arthur said, reaching out to pat her hand gently. "Now, I assume that things went quite differently a few days ago?"

"Nagini bit you, but Riddle, You Know Who, was possessing her at the time, and that bled through our connection," Bronach said, gesturing at her scar. "I told McGonagall, and she told the Headmaster, and you were taken to Mungo's in time to stabilize you while they worked on the antidote. It was a rough couple of days, but you recovered without any long-lasting effects."

"Then I am very grateful you spared me from such an ordeal," Arthur said, slightly paler now. "Your connection..."

"Is no longer a concern," Bronach saw him floundering for words, and jumped in to allay his concerns. "A price of the method used to return me to this time."

"Good," Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. "So, the snake, the diary..."

"Seven in total, though one was not an intentional choice," Bronach said, surprised by how well he was taking her tale. "There was one in this house that Regulus Black stole and gave to Kreacher to destroy, and I've since destroyed it. Sirius and Remus assisted me with retrieving another, which was summarily destroyed, and I dealt with the one hidden in Hogwarts. That leaves just one, which I had to negotiate with the goblins for, as it was in Gringotts."

Arthur's eyes widened in shock. "To think he had such reach," he murmured absently, staring at the ground for a moment. "Does Albus know?"

"He knows about the horcruxes," Bronach shrugged, having had plenty of time to come to terms with Dumbledore's methods, though she still felt they could have been improved. "However, he is not aware that none remain."

He was quiet for a long moment, and his face tightened slightly. "You did not mention a seventh."

"This was known to very few," Bronach said, choosing her words carefully. "But...the nature of my connection to Riddle...it was not possible to accomplish without a sliver of his soul held within my own." She gestured to her scar once more.

Arthur stared. "Does Dumbledore know?"

"He suspected, I believe, until the night of the Third Task, when it was confirmed for him."

"And he trained you? Removed the shard from your scar?"

"Wizards know only one way to neutralize a horcrux," Bronach said softly, hating that she would likely drive a wedge between the headmaster and Arthur with her words, but not wanting to lie to him. "Rendering the vessel incapable of mending by magical or mundane means. Fiendfyre, basilisk venom...destructive magic or substances are necessary."

"But...how?" Arthur looked taken aback, a curious mix of fury and horror.

"Did you ever read to the children from The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" Bronach asked, wondering if that had been something only Molly had done, or if both Weasley elders had read to the children.

"Of course," Arthur said, eyes narrowing, clearly trying to figure out the connection. "Each of them had their favorite story. I think Fred and George attempted to invent their own version of the Hopping Pot, much to Molly's dismay, but Ginny and Ron very much liked Babbity Rabbity. I can't quite recall what the older boys preferred, but my favorite always was the Fountain of Fair Fortune."

He smiled briefly, but was then distracted by a thought. "Bill was very much enthused with the Tale of the Three Brothers, as odd as that one is for a children's story. He spent a whole summer haunting Xeno's steps for tales of the Deathly Hallows..." Arthur looked up at her, eyes wide. "They aren't a story."

It wasn't a question, but she shook her head. "Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell met Death one night, and were gifted a wand, a stone, and a cloak. It was Iolanthe, granddaughter of Ignotus, who married a man from the Potter family."

"You inherited the cloak, didn't you?" Arthur breathed, eyes wider than ever. "But the wand has been lost? And the stone?"

"The stone was passed through the child of Cadmus to the Gaunt family, where it was taken by the last scion of the Gaunts, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and used to house a soul shard." Bronach couldn't help but grin, knowing it was a shade to savage to be polite. "I do not know if Fiendfyre is enough to destroy the Resurrection Stone, but I am not going to find out. It was enough to destroy the horcrux, I know that for certain."

"How ever did you find the wand?" Arthur asked, clearly not going to ask about the Fiendfyre.

"It passed into the hands of Gregorvitch, the wand maker, some decades ago, but it was stolen. The thief then used it to carve a bloody swathe across Europe, until he was stopped by an old lover of his."

"You can't mean," Arthur stammered, pale once more. "Dumbledore?"

"Indeed," Bronach shrugged, finding wands less of a necessity these days after her experiences in Arda. "I do not intend to duel the headmaster any time soon, though whoever does will find themselves a fine prize should they win. Personally, I would rather wait until he dies, and then snap the damn thing."

"My god," Arthur sat back in his chair. "You've lived quite an experience," he said after a moment. "The legend...it is true?"

"Should one reunite all three, it conveys upon one life unchanging," Bronach felt her lips twist unhappily. "As I found to my dismay."

"No wonder you lasted two hundred years," Arthur murmured, half to himself. "What do you intend to do, since you've gone out of your way to avoid picking up the Hallows?"

"Remove the last horcrux, arrange for the death of Tom Riddle, and settle down for a nice quiet life," Bronach said with a sigh.

Arthur smiled, but there was a glint of the twins' mischief in his eyes. "With your nice new friends, of course?"

She stared at him for a long moment, and then shook her head. "Am I that obvious?" Aragorn had warned her that Snape was growing suspicious, though more about her personality change than her relationship with them, but Sirius and Remus had clocked their ties within moments that first morning.

"No," Arthur said gently. "But I have ten children and you do learn a thing or two about knowing when they're in love with someone. Or, in this case, someones."

It took Bronach a moment to add numbers, but then she understood. "Hermione, myself, and...Lee?"

"In the early years, Lee and the twins were inseparable," Arthur's smile was wry. "Molly eventually had to ban them from gathering inside the house, lest we no longer have a house. His family's been traveling more often during the holidays, so we haven't had to worry about squeezing everyone into the kitchen lately."

"I never knew," she murmured, thinking of how Lee occasionally put in an appearance at Sunday dinners after the war, but there always seemed to be a space between him and the rest of the family. With the benefit of hindsight, she could see that the space was the same missing space she'd already known about, the space where Fred belonged.

"One day, we'll have everyone for dinner in the back garden," Arthur promised her, reaching out to pat her hand again. "You can introduce us to your nice new friends properly."

"They probably are wondering where we are," Bronach said, glancing at her watch. Arthur made a noise of surprise, and she realized that she'd chosen Fabian Prewitt's watch, her favorite despite all those she'd owned over the years.

"I'll make sure you don't get an identical one in a few years years then," Arthur said, rising from his chair. "But for now, let's return to the others, and ensure that Molly and Sirius aren't dueling over the wireless."

Chapter Text

On Christmas Day, Bronach woke curled in Arwen's arms, her back to Aragorn's chest, and everything was right in the world for a long, peaceful moment.

They'd returned to sharing a bed as soon as they arrived at Grimmauld, but she didn't think she'd ever grow accustomed to the easy familiarity of it, at least not for a long time. Arwen seemed to sense her thoughts, the arm slung over her tightening just a hair to draw them closer together.

Aragorn stirred, his breath warm against the nape of her neck where her braid had fallen away during the night. "Good morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," she said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the moment.

"A good morning indeed," Arwen said, pressing a kiss to Bronach's forehead, slow and lingering. They'd been cautious about intimacy, desiring to tell the truth if their relationship was ever questioned, but none of them had been willing to give up this, not behind the best wards Bronach had ever seen.

"The others will be rising eventually," Bronach said after a long moment. "We had best consider rising."

As she said that, the wards vibrated gently against her senses. Someone was approaching the suite door, and she sat up with a frown.

"What is it?" Aragorn shifted, propping himself up as well.

"You feel that?" she asked, glancing at him.

"On the edge of my senses," he said, frowning slightly. "Like someone stalking you through the woods, but not?"

"That's the wards," she said, squirming out from between them as whoever it was drew closer. "Someone's coming to visit us."

"Oh, is that what they feel like?" Arwen said, sitting up and reaching for her dressing gown.

"That you can feel them at all without our bonding being officially complete here is beyond belief," Bronach told them, drawing her dressing gown over her nightgown and sliding her feet into her slippers. "I'll go see who it is."

A light knock came as she made her way through the sitting room, and she waved a hand at the sconces on the wall to dimly light the room before she opened the door a crack.

Sirius grinned back at her, with Remus peering over his shoulder. "Merry Christmas," her godfather said, and brandished a sack at her. "We brought gifts!"

She eyed it warily. "That better not be Buckbeak's breakfast."

"No, no dead rats," he assured her with a grin. "But Remus and I thought we'd do family gifts before the rest are awake."

"Let me ask," Bronach said, and after a moment's thought, she opened the door to let them in. "Wait in the sitting room," she told her godfather sternly as he bounced inside, glancing around eagerly. "Merry Christmas Remus," she said, as he followed Sirius in.

"Are we celebrating early?" Arwen said, coming out of the bedroom. Clearly, she and Aragorn had been eavesdropping, though Bronach doubted that Sirius suspected more than simply being overheard.

"If you wish," Bronach said. "They thought we'd celebrate as a family before the others woke."

"Sounds lovely," Arwen said, crouching before the hearth and stirring up the fire. Kreacher did it if they didn't get to it first, but they'd agreed he was to keep up the rest of the fires first before getting to theirs. Aragorn came out, dressed in a pair of loose pants and a linen shirt, taking a seat on the settee. Sirius set his sack at his feet and took the other settee with Remus, leaving Arwen and Bronach to debate over who got the armchair and who sat with Aragorn.

In the end, Bronach curled into the armchair, while Arwen joined Aragorn. Bronach wondered if Kreacher had already distributed the gifts she'd left for him, or if the ones for Sirius and Remus were waiting for them at the foot of their beds.

"Now, I'm playing Santa Claus," Sirius said, digging in his sack. "What was it Lily said he always said? Ho- something?"

"Ho Ho Ho," Remus provided, and then added under his breath: "James always thought that was particularly appropriate for you."

Sirius burst out laughing. "He did, didn't he?" Setting down the parcel in his hands, Sirius wiped away the tear that slipped down his cheek, either from laughing too hard or from the memory. "Just because I wasn't fixated on a single bird..."

Bronach snickered herself. It was easy to see how Sirius might have been fond of dating around, based on what she knew of him, and he certainly was easy on the eyes, if the pictures were anything to go by. Aragorn and Arwen were clearly missing the joke, but Arwen's eyes were warm and happy when Bronach caught them.

"Moving on," Sirius wheezed, going back to the parcel he'd set down. "I made Moony get his gifts so we could all open everything together. So, first gift is for..." he made a production of reading the tag on the parcel: "Arwen, from Moony."

Arwen graciously accepted the parcel, setting it in her lap as Sirius dove for another one. Bronach glanced around, decided they were going to be there for a while, and called for Kreacher, who appeared promptly. "Would you mind bringing a tea tray and then coming back to join us?" she asked the elf, who nodded before disappearing again.

Sirius continued to pass out parcels, dramatically announcing the recipient and giver, and Bronach set herself to passing out tea. Kreacher settled himself on his preferred hearthside stool with his own mug of tea, something he rarely allowed outside of Christmas. Despite having almost two centuries of their unconventional partnership, he was stubborn about what he considered proper behavior.

When the sack was empty, Sirius gestured broadly. "Okay, no standing on ceremony, just rip into everything."

Presents from the Weasleys and Hermione weren't in the sack, so Bronach assumed they'd been left for the group present session later. That still left her gifts from Aragorn and Arwen, plus the ones from Sirius and Remus piled on her lap and around her feet.

The topmost gift was from Remus, and she unwrapped it curiously, not having received anything from him previously. Once the paper was removed, she realized that it wasn't a book like she had expected from the size and shape, but a journal.

Opening it, she found pages of handwritten notes in an unfamiliar hand. As she peered closely at the name inscribed on the inside cover, she caught her breath.

Property of Lily Evans Potter
Journal #8

"Your mother kept any number of journals," Remus said as she traced the writing. "Starting from her fourth or fifth year I think. Spell modifications and ideas, potions ideas, pretty much anything she wanted to research or develop. I don't know what happened to the others, but she'd loaned me this one because it has some notes on wards that she'd played with. A few years ago, I found it when I was cleaning out my suitcase."

She couldn't help but run her hands over the paper, wondering what else her mother had written about in the other journals, wondering what had happened to them. They'd likely been in Godric's Hollow that night, at least some of them, but had there been others stored away somewhere? Had Petunia thrown some out?

"Thank you," Bronach remembered her manners after a moment, but Remus looked as if he understood her distraction. Carefully setting aside the journal, she picked up the next parcel, which seemed to be from Aragorn.

They'd exchanged their proper gifts at Yule, in the privacy of their suite, but agreed to get small tokens for appearances on Christmas. When she unwrapped the parcel, she found a lovely, hand carved drop spindle that he must have been working on during his free time.

"I love it," she told him, meaning it. Most of the spindles Bronach had were ones she'd used when she'd first learned to spin, among the Trev Gallorg, but she had barely touched them once she'd learned how to wheel spin. But now that she was limited in the amount of time she had to spend at her wheel, she'd mentioned having to find her drop spindles for between classes, in classes, or evenings in the common room.

"Arwen provided a fair bit of commentary," he said, and Arwen snickered. Resolving to get the story later, she tucked the spindle into her workbasket and reached for the next parcel.

Arwen's gift was a lovely new workbag, and even more enchanting once Bronach realized that it was actually enchanted.

"Did you do this?" Bronach said, running her fingers through the bag as she felt the magic in the seams and stitching, every so often coming across an embroidered rune.

"It's a successful experiment," Arwen said. "I wasn't sure how successful, but it seems very spacious, and highly unobtrusive."

"Same effect as an undetectable expansion charm, but much more subtle," Bronach said after a moment, feeling out the bounds of the magic. "Better, in a way, since it adapts to the need of the carrier, not simply providing a bottomless pit."

"You crafted it?" Remus eyed the bag curiously. "As an experiment?"

"Magic was far more limited, where we came from," Bronach explained as she offered the bag for his inspection. "Arwen had as much training as was needed, but we haven't tested the extent of her ability in this dimension."

"Fascinating," Remus said, sticking a fair bit of his arm into the bag. "I'd love to learn how you managed such a thing."

"We can discuss during the holidays," Bronach promised, and then took back the bag. Only one parcel was left, and she could feel Sirius's eyes on her. Feeling an unknown sense of anticipation, she carefully lifted the paper away in order to reveal what was underneath.

Cautiously, she picked up the thin slate practically covered in runes, feeling the magic sparking where her fingertips brushed the stone. "Why this?" she asked, not taking her eyes off it. They weren't standard runes, not the Futhark that most of the wizarding world preferred. This was something completely different.

"I was working on clearing out the storage in the cellar, and...something called to me." Sirius looked unusually serious, frowning in discomfort at the memory. "There was a panel behind an old storage cabinet that was behind more, older magic than I'd ever seen before."

Bronach wanted to protest, she'd cleaned that storage out before and never found such a thing, but she'd known far less about magic when she'd done so, and the house continued to surprise her these days. That it called to Sirius was surprising, but he was the heir to the house for the moment, based on her declaration to Magic and her paperwork submitted to Gringotts. Family magics would impact him more than the rest of the family.

The runes wavered a bit before her eyes, but she blinked and they settled. Turning the slate over, she noticed the runes continued, so that the whole slate was covered in them.

"Why me?" she asked absently, still trying to make sense of them. They weren't familiar, but at the same time there was something about them...

"You're going to think I'm crazy," Sirius said, making them all snicker. "Well, crazier, at least. But when I picked it up...it didn't feel right. I thought about showing it to Dumbledore, or Bill, but it burned my hands until I thought about you."

She frowned, and focused harder on the slate. "For the head of the House?' she murmured, tracing her finger over one of the runes.

"For you," Sirius said, and she looked up in surprise at the emphasis. "Look, this house has seen some weird magic, and even weirder artifacts, but all I can say is this is the weirdest of them all."

Setting it aside, Bronach tried to move on and think about other things, but all day her mind kept wandering back to the slate, which she'd left on the desk in their sitting room.

"You might as well," Aragorn said, and Bronach looked up from her spinning. He gestured at her desk. "It's obvious that you want to figure out what's going on with that slate Sirius gave you."

"I'm slipping again," Bronach said, winding more yarn onto the cop. "If you can tell that easily where my thoughts are straying."

"We know you better than anyone," Arwen said, glancing over from where she was working on an embroidery piece. "And you know your secrets are safe within these rooms. Don't be too hard on yourself."

"But please do satisfy your curiosity," Aragorn added with a smile to show he meant it in jest. "Else you're going to be distracted all holiday."

"You have other plans for me this holiday that I don't know about?" she tossed back reflexively, and then winced. They'd been sharing a bed at Grimmauld, but were all too mindful of the potential ramifications of doing anything beyond some light making out.

Her partners smiled regretfully at her, and Bronach decided to abscond to her desk instead of following that painful train of thought. Settled in her desk chair, she was surprised to find the slate empty of writing, until she ran her fingers over it.

The runes rippled out of the slate, and she set it down once more, just to confirm that they disappeared.

"Would you come hold this?" she asked Aragorn, pointing to the slate. Obligingly, he set aside his book and came over to pick the slate up from the surface of her desk, frowning slightly.

"What is it?"

"I see what Sirius means," he said, handling it carefully. "There's a distinct sense of not for my hands that I get when I handle it, thought it doesn't feel violent in its rejection. And it's almost as if I can see something written on it, but it's just out of reach, no matter how I hold it."

"Curious," Bronach murmured, accepting the tablet back. Once it was solely in her hands, the writing blossomed over it once more, still in unreadable runes. Setting aside her curiosity about the language, she let herself pick apart the magic, more interested in the conditions required to bring for the missive.

"It's almost...attuned to people," she murmured after a thorough examination. "Much like the wards on the house. But it's not tied to blood, only character."

"So one of your ancestors designed it to only reveal its secrets to a person of the right character, regardless of blood?" Arwen asked, setting aside her stitching. "How curious. I did not get the impression that the Blacks were ones to share their hoard, be it wealth or gold."

"They weren't," Bronach agreed, still sending tendrils of her own magic wrapping around the slate, trying to determine the requirements. "Which makes the lack of blood binding on this even more curious."

Blood. There was something about that thought that made the hair on the back of her head stand up, but she followed the instinct.

In the top drawer of the desk, she had placed a thin blade, for opening correspondence primarily. Now she withdrew it, sanitized it with a pass of her hand, and nicked her index finger, drawing the bloody finger over the surface of the slate, along the first line of text.

Much like Tom Riddle's diary had absorbed ink, the slate absorbed the blood, and the text rearranged itself into a single line, shining in crimson blood.

The crown calls to the worthy.

Chilled to the bone, Bronach watched as the letters faded, and she let the message sink in for a moment.

There were too many references to crowns turning up in her life these days. Her dreams, though not of a crown, were suggestive that there was something greater at play here. And the sign in the fire at Yule...Aragorn had told her, reluctantly, of thinking her crowned by stars during one of their walks by the lake.

Moving by rote, she repeated the gesture, watching as the blood rearranged itself into a new message.

If you have to ask, you already know.

There was only one crown in Wizarding Britain. Only one mark of the monarch, one she hadn't known about until September first when Sirius and Remus mentioned it.

Bronach closed her eyes, but the message seemed burned into the back of her eyelids. When she opened them again, there was a new message on the slate.

In life, I thought myself worthy. In my arrogance, I sought to create a record for those who would follow, but the journey is yours alone.

Swallowing hard, Bronach set the slate back on her desk, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall. It explained so many things about the slate: clearly a Black had thought to test themselves against the crown, and set the slate to act as a record of the process, but Merlin's magics, whatever protected the crown, had warped it into whatever the slate was...

A guide, perhaps, but a very unhelpful one. More like a weather vane, to identify potential, which explained the lack of blood-bindings on it.

"You look as if you have encountered something unpleasant," Arwen murmured.

"I want to live my life in peace," Bronach said, her voice hitching. "I don't want this."

"Is this some sort of fate-telling device?" Aragorn asked, looking over her shoulder. "What did you see?"

She took a deep breath. And, for good measure, another. "What it was meant to be, I can only speculate, because the creator encountered a magical force that warped it. But it only responds to those who have already felt a calling."

"Arthur's crown," Aragorn said evenly, resting a hand on her shoulder. Somehow, it felt more real, hearing in his voice that he'd suspected the answer.

"You knew?"

"You and I have been dreaming of a stone-walled room, with a plinth that would be the right size to hold a crown," Aragorn said, gently turning her chair so they could be face to face. "And my dream of a castle, with a single chair...like a throne. Your encounter with the Unspeakable, the crown of stars..."

"It was not so much a knowing," Arwen added as Aragorn found himself short of words, "but a suspicion. One we did not wish to burden you with."

"It is a calling," Aragorn said after a long moment of silence. "And like all callings, the choice is yours whether to answer or not."

"I spent my childhood trying to fix the world," Bronach whispered, staring at the flames in the hearth. "And then much of my adulthood serving you as you did the same. I had hoped..."

"You still can," Arwen said fiercely. "There is no Sauron to cast the entire world into darkness here. You are already working to overcome the Ministry's shortfalls. Nothing you wish to do requires the burden of the crown, only what effort you choose to sacrifice towards it."

Bronach glanced at Aragorn, who met her gaze steadily. "It is a heavy burden, to willingly choose the crown," he said, and she knew that of all people, he would understand the best. Arwen came to her crown through love of Aragorn, but he had chosen to pursue his birthright, despite the monumental task before him. One that, despite the absolute nonsense the Ministry was up to, was far more burdensome than the task of reshaping Wizarding Britain.

"But," he continued, reaching out to clasp her hand. "We cannot make your decision for you. I suggest that you find the only solution that allows you to live with yourself. We will love and support you regardless, but I would not have you unhappy, crowned or uncrowned."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bowed her head to hide them, ashamed of how much she did not want the burden. She wanted something like Molly had, spouses and family and comfortable home where she could pursue whatever she wanted in peace. Not a crown and a kingdom that bore jagged fault lines.

Remus did not expect to find someone standing at his window when he let himself into his room after dinner.

For a moment, he drew his wand, a spell on his tongue, but then they turned, and he recognized Bronach, looking far more distracted than he'd ever seen her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, putting his wand away.

"Physically, yes," she said, and he let some of the tension ebb away. "I have two questions for you Remus."

"Of course," he said, taking a seat on his bed and gesturing for her to take the chair by his desk. "Anything for you."

She smiled, but there was no emotion in it. "What do you know of Arthur's Crown?"

"It's a legend," Remus told her with a shrug. "Most people don't know about it, but I read too much as a kid because of...well. Anyway," he cleared his throat, "the legend says that after Arthur's death, Merlin took his crown and placed it on a plinth in a grove in Wales, near Celliwig, where Arthur's court was located. The druids presiding over the grove swore to watch over it until the next ruler came to claim it."

"And what happened to it after that?" Bronach asked, her hands folded primly in her lap. "The muggles certainly don't know where Celliwig is, and I doubt the magical population knows either."

"It was destroyed," Remus said ruefully, remembering how disappointed he'd been when his father had informed him that even if Remus had been normal they couldn't go. "Somewhere around the Norman Invasion, if I recall correctly. The druids had protected the grove for as long as they could, but the magicians who came over with the Conquerer were determined to stamp out any traces of a king who might reunite the various magical groups against them."

"The crown?"

"See, that's the interesting bit," he leaned forward, wishing he'd had the chance to tell her the stories as a young child, instead of the mature woman who sat before him. "The crown was said to only allow a rightful heir to handle it. Legend say that many a claimant came to the grove, and some passed the druids into the clearing where the plinth stood. But none could lift it from the stone. But it wasn't lost with the grove. It somehow came to London."

He saw something flash in her eyes. "The Department of Mysteries."

"Precisely," Remus didn't think he wanted to know why she had cottoned on so quickly. "According to my father, deep within the Department of Mysteries, there is a room that only shows itself when a potential heir is active. Nobody has figured out how it senses potential, only that it appears during times of great turmoil, when a witch or wizard who might be able to pick it up is waxing in their strength. There are several accounts of seekers coming to the door, only to be turned away by the magic of the room. Few have made it beyond the door, and those that have returned from it are unable to account for what is inside."

"Unable, or unwilling?"

"Both," Remus shrugged. "Most are driven mad, but there's one account of a witch who went in and came out fully sane, but refused to say anything other than I changed my mind."

"How do these people know?" Bronach asked softly.

"Nobody has figured out what the crown requires of a potential heir," Remus told her, remembering what his father and his books had said. "Apparently, even during the rise of Grindelwald, which threatened not just Britain but the entire wizarding world, the door to the room didn't appear. Nor did it appear during the last war, as far as I know. So it's not triggered by instability."

Bronach had a look on her face like she disagreed, but said nothing. Remus wondered if anyone else would have seen the subtle disagreement, or if it was just him, used to James and Lily, that was able to pick up on it. He continued: "It's not required to be a member of the current government, though a few accounts exist of heirs that were members of the Wizengamot or the Ministry. Nor is it clear whether or not blood status matters. But the crown seems content to keep its own counsel, and none who have been called have written any account of their calling for public consumption."

A thought occurred to him. "Why do you ask?"

She glanced at him steadily.

"Is it something to do with Sirius's weird slate?" he said, wondering what had brought this on.

"It appears that the slate is a warped magical device, created by one who sought out the crown," Bronach said after a long moment. "How it was warped, or what it was intended to be, I cannot say for certain, but I do not think it is a threat to any who reside in this house."

A sinking feeling started to form in the pit of his stomach. "You said you had two questions," Remus said slowly. "What was the second?"

"What would you tell me, if I told you that I could fix everything for werewolves?" Bronach whispered, rising to stand at the window, looking out into London once more. "Not the curse itself, but the laws, the Ministry-sanctioned bigotry?"

"At what cost?" he asked warily.

"Nothing so dangerous as what you're thinking," she told him solemnly. "I need not give over my soul."

"But your freedom?" he guessed, seeing an unfortunate conclusion in the questions she'd asked him. "Your privacy, your right to make a life free of any responsibility but that what you take on?"

"I suppose you could describe it like that," she said, tipping her head contemplatively. "But think about it Remus. One person's sacrifice, and you would no longer have to worry about being sacked for a condition you did not ask for. No more laws restricting your rights until there is nothing left but the hatred of Fenrir's packs. Stability, easy access to healthcare and the Wolfsbane potion. The abolishment of the Werewolf Capture Unit."

It sounded ideal. He looked at Bronach's straight back and wondered if her thin shoulders weren't carrying too much already, without even considering what this would add to them. Sirius would help, he would help, Aragorn and Arwen would help but...in the end, they could not also carry the burden of being the wizarding world's first monarch since Arthur.

"I would not ask what you are thinking of, not of anyone," he said. "All I would ask is that those who can drive change in the existing system do their best to press forward."

She laughed. "You are kind," Bronach told him, and as she turned he could see the corner of her lip curling in a smile. "But I suspect that you are swayed by your affection for the daughter of your friends. For Sirius's goddaughter. Would you say the same if it was Dumbledore?"

Her words pierced through him, and he hung his head. "I would ask him to consider it, at the very least," he murmured. "But...for what you have done already, it feels like you have already borne much for everyone's sake. Let someone else carry it for a while."

"Sometimes Remus," she whispered, passing him on the way to the door. "There is nobody else."

Chapter Text

"Well, Miss Potter?" Snape said as he opened the door to his office. "Inside."

She obediently entered on his heels, taking the chair she'd taken a lifetime ago. He took his own place behind his desk and studied her from across the barrier. "The Headmaster informs me that the mutt told you that you were to study Occlumancy with me."

"That is what Sirius indicated," Bronach said blandly, leaving out the various uncomplimentary things her godfather had muttered until she reminded him that she wouldn't tolerate his old grudge. "As such, I had several days to determine what books on Occlumancy the Black library possesses." And offer them to my partners. She was fairly certain that the pendents she'd made each of them as bonding gifts were stronger than any Legilimans attack, but it was still worth attempting Occlumancy lessons with them. When she had time.

"Then I will not waste either of our valuable time with trivial explanations," Snape said briskly. "Your little...demonstration...last term shows that you know the basics. Legilimans."

She had a moment to smile, and then sunk into the depths of her mind.

"What is this place?" Snape asked suspiciously, glancing around at his surroundings.

"This is the ruined city of Dolindîr," Bronach said, perching on a bit of stone that was a popular resting spot for those observing the archery range. "By the time I came to it, it was called Esteldín, and it was a bastion of hope against the darkness."

He eyed her warily, still glancing around. Bronach wanted to roll her eyes. She'd refrained from populating the courtyard with the Rangers and refugees of her memory, just to prevent any mishaps caused by a spy's paranoia. "You are familiar with Occlumancy, I see."

"No thanks to you," she told him bluntly. "I assume that the headmaster has not reported what I made known to members of the Order this summer upon my arrival in Grimmauld Place?"

"No he has not," Snape looked frustrated.

"Time travel," Bronach said, jumping to the relevant part. "I believe myself to be a bit over two hundred years old by now."

He scowled. "Impossible."

"Magic," she teased, unable to help herself.

"And the Telcontars?" Snape glared at her. "What are you going to tell me about them? That they're also two hundred years old?"

"Aragorn, yes," she smiled. "Arwen is nearly three thousand years old."

"Absolutely impossible," he said flatly. "No wizard or witch has ever achieved such."

"Then it is a good thing Aragorn is not a wizard, and Arwen is not a witch," Bronach shrugged. "And it is a good thing for you that they have decided to allow you into our confidences."

"What an honor," the professor drawled sourly. "Truly, I am flattered."

"I know about the vow you made to the Headmaster," Bronach told him. "I know about your childhood friendship with my mother, I know about the incident after your Defense OWL, I know that you carried the prophecy to Riddle, and I know that you told the Headmaster that Riddle had chosen me as the subject of the prophecy."

Snape paled slightly.

"At this point in time, I have had two hundred years to come to terms with my incredibly complicated feelings about you," she returned to bluntness, not wanted to sugarcoat anything. "You were, effectively, a wizarding Nazi until the cause threatened the one person you gave a damn about, and the Headmaster used that to manipulate you into dancing to his tune."

"And now you use it to manipulate me into doing your bidding," Snape said curtly, his shoulders tense.

"Not particularly," she said with a shrug. "I am capable of managing my own protection, and Riddle will be dead for good by the start of summer. What I am offering you is liberty."

"Nobody offers true liberty," he snapped. "Just the illusion of it."

"You did not swear service to the Headmaster, but protection to me," Bronach laid it out for him, wondering if he was smart enough to follow the breadcrumbs. "The Headmaster leverages it to position you as his spy in Riddle's camp, in the name of my protection. I will ensure Riddle, and his Death Eaters, are no longer a problem. My protection is in my own hands; I dismiss you. Do with that what you will."

"You speak as if it is as simple as that," he hissed, raking a hand through his hair. "That you can just speak the words, and it will be done?"

"Your vow created a binding between us, one that has likely driven you subconsciously to act in my protection." She and Hermione had tossed theories around until they settled on this as the most likely, which she'd verified over the summer while she was setting her mindscape to rights with the increased sensitivity to magic that she'd developed in Arda. "It is passive, unless I am in danger, and it then activates to direct you to where it seems most effective for you to act. For instance, I suspect that it would have directed your gaze to my cursed broom during the first match of the 1991 Quidditch Cup."

He scowled darkly at her, clearly unhappy with the revelation. She didn't particularly care about his delicate sensibilities, given his general disregard for hers, and those of the non-Slytherin students. "Regardless, by the time I release you, the binding will be gone."

"By the time you release me?" he scoffed, glancing around. "I entered of my own free will."

"And you won't be exiting until I'm finished," she replied calmly. "Now, are you going to sit down, or are you comfortable standing for the entire conversation?"

Reluctantly, he sat down on a nearby chunk of fallen stone that made a particularly good gathering point for patrols, so it hadn't been moved until the restoration of Esteldín. Bronach settled herself a bit more comfortably and waited him out.

"You mentioned a conversation?" he said, affecting an air of boredom.

"This is the chance to ask all the questions you've been sitting on," she told him. "Ask away."

"You said you were over two centuries old," Snape said slowly. "What-?"

"The war ended on the second of May, nineteen ninety eight," she told him, guessing at what he wanted to ask. "Please, only ask about your own fate if you are prepared to know. If you react badly I will be taking the knowledge back."

He thought about that for a long moment, and then nodded. "I wish to know."

"You committed an act that solidified your position in Riddle's circle while simultaneously burning all bridges with the Order. While Riddle controlled the Ministry and the school, you were at the very least permissive of atrocities conducted against the student population if not participatory based on the accounts of those who were present. During the final conflict, you were killed by Nagini for something you actually hadn't done." She eyed his reaction and decided he could stand a bit of needling. "Your name was cleared posthumously, and I believe they decided on an Order of Merlin, Third Class, though it was rather controversial."

As she had suspected, the dour man scowled at news of the award. In a way, that had been part of the reason Bronach had agreed with it, even while Ginny was furious with her over what the redhead had considered condoning his cruelty. They'd stopped speaking for almost a year, and their relationship hadn't really been the same after that.

"And you?" he asked, clearly diverting from his own fate. "What happened in the next two hundred years?"

"Well, a bit over twenty years after Riddle's war ends, the Ministry decides I'm his heir apparent or something," she shrugged, picking illusionary dirt out from under her fingernails. "I never found out who started it, but I strongly suspect dear Dolores. A small army of aurors arrived at my residence as I was attempting to depart it for good, and in the ensuing fight...well, it's unclear what happened, but whatever the combination of spellfire and an activating portkey did, it's not something I've ever been able to replicate."

"And you ended up here?" Snape gestured at their surroundings. "Esteldín?"

"Not for years," she said fondly. "I arrived in a treacherous bit of mountains north of here, and found my way to a people called the Trév Gállorg. They took me in for a while, taught me all of the basic lifeskills we no longer learn from the cradle, and I came into contact with a company of Rangers that disobeyed orders to stay out of Angmar, where my people lived. After the company was killed, and the survivors lost to us, I behaved in a very Gryffindor manner and woke up here."

"This is not anywhere we can reach, is it?" the professor said suspiciously. "Ancient history?"

"Different dimension, I'm fairly certain," Bronach said with a shrug. "Anyway, I was in and out of Esteldín for quite some time, going where I was most needed, until I was rather infamous and they sent me south to lie low for a while. It worked, until those Gryffindor tendencies reared their head, and I tacked myself onto a desperate gamble regardless of anyone else's opinions on it. That's how I met Aragorn, and indirectly Arwen."

He eyed her warily, as if he was considering stunning her and taking her to Madame Pomfrey's. "And who are they, truly?"

"Aragorn Elessar of the House of Telcontar, King of the Reunited Kingdom and Second of His Name," Bronach couldn't help but feel the old burst of pride as she listed off his titles. "And his Queen Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Peredhel."

"How does a misplaced Gryffindor end up spending time with royalty?" Snape asked, clearly skeptical. "And how does royalty end up teaching schoolchildren?"

"Well, he wasn't king when I met him in the taproom of the inn," Bronach shrugged, feeling a bit cheeky. "Though she was queen when I officially met her. And as for your second question, you'd have to ask Remus, because it was a surprise to me as well."

"Your level of familiarity with both of them suggests that you were not merely a subject," he snapped. "Answer the question."

She rolled her eyes. "As a spy that survived nearly to the end of the second war, I would think you'd be a bit more patient," Bronach sighed. "I don't get to have nearly as much fun now that I'm retired; dealing with you is sometimes the highlight of my day."

Now he was eying her like she was something scraped off the bottom of Hagrid's shoe. "You. A spy."

"And very good at it too," she nodded. "Managed to foil several assassination plots, even if one was unwittingly provoked by me, spearheaded the flow of valuable information from behind enemy lines in two wars, ripped down and cleansed several bastions of foul magic...it was quite the eventful century before things started settling down and leaving me with the mundane court dramas."

Snape looked as if he wanted to wake up. Bronach privately admitted that his reaction was the primary motivator behind her proposal to let him into some level of their confidences.

"For the moment, let us assume that I believe this asinine story," he said slowly. "That still explains nothing about your impossible time scale."

"Arwen was born to Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel of the House of Finarfin and Celeborn of Doriath, and Elrond Peredhel, son of Elwing of Doriath and Eärendil of Gondolin. That makes her approximately..." Bronach thought for a moment, "nineteen percent human."

The wariness did not abate. "What is the other eighty-one percent?"

"Well, she's seventy-eight percent eldar, but if you break that down a bit, she's mostly Sindar, with the rest split between Vanyar and Noldor," Bronach said contemplatively. "And you can break the Sindar portion into Doriath and Teleri if you really want to get that specific. Honestly, it's a wonder that she is such a well-adjusted person, given all the family drama in her bloodlines."

"What is the other three percent?"

"Oh that?" Bronach shrugged. "Maiar. But it's dilute enough that it's not particularly noticeable to the average person."

She couldn't help but grin, seeing how absolutely lost he was. Evil, perhaps, but she owed him for six years of hell and a year of assuming he'd murdered the Headmaster in cold blood.

Also the plunge in a frozen pond.

"In this dimension, there are more races than simply humans," she said, finally taking pity on him. "The Ainur, the Valar, sang the world into song, and the Maiar served them. Of the races that came to populate the world, the eldar, the elves, awoke first, and were called from the land of their birth to Valinor. Depending on when they came, and if they came at all, you get the Vanyar, the Noldor, the Teleri, the Sindar, the Silven, those that dwelt in Doriath...it is all very complicated and rooted in ancient history. Next to awake, at least according to the eldar, were the dwarrow, and even the dwarrow do not contradict this, as much as they loathe it. After the dwarrow...it is hard to say, but perhaps the Ents? Their history was rarely recorded. But generally, the next accepted race to appear were the edain, or men."

"Were interracial marriages particularly common?" Snape said, looking poleaxed as he processed the information. "Particularly with the Maiar?"

"Oh absolutely not," Bronach laughed. "Only Melian the Maia chose to bear a child with the King of Doriath, who lingered in the Outer Lands for love of her, and Luthien was...well, she reshaped the world. Her child, Dior, was less obvious about it, but the granddaughter of Luthien, Elwing married Eärendil, the son of the human Tuor and the eldar princess of Gondolin, Idril. They changed the fate of the world with their actions, though it broke apart their family."

"Arwen's father," Snape said slowly. "Elrond Peredhel."

"Peredhel translates to half-elven," she supplied. "He chose to be eldar, when the opportunity was offered, but his twin brother Elros chose edain and became the King of Numenor, or Westernesse as it was sometimes called. Aragorn is descended from that line through many, many generations."

"That sounds...less complicated than wizarding family history," the professor muttered, looking as if he wanted to back out now, but Bronach wasn't finished. This was entirely useless information, given that none of it mattered here, and she reveled in dumping it into his lap for him to sort out later.

"Oh hardly," she said airily. "Now, Celebrian, Arwen's mother, is the daughter of Galadriel of the House of Finarfin, and Celeborn, who is a relative of Thingol's. But the brother of Thingol is the father of the mother of Galadriel...it is a marvel that eldar genetics are less susceptible to inbreeding, though there wasn't a particularly broad choice of partners for several generations. Relations aside, the cousins of Galadriel through her father participated in the kinslaying that murdered many of the people her mother came from, let alone the attack on Doriath after Dior ascended to the throne. That was complicated."

"Please." Snape said shortly. "Stop."

"And I didn't even have to pull out the heart-fathers of Elrond," Bronach pouted. "You never would have lasted a day in Hobbiton."

"I don't want to know," he muttered, letting his face fall into his hands. "Truly."

"Either way, I served the King and Queen, and they honor me with their assistance now," Bronach said truthfully. "I do not know where I would be without them."

She was fairly certain that Snape muttered something uncomplimentary, and rolled her eyes. "Unless you have more questions, I can show you around, since I need a bit more time to untangle the binding."

"Anything but family histories for people who do not exist," Snape ordered, and stood up. "You called this place Esteldín?"

"Last bastion of the dunedain in the North Downs," she said, rising to look around the courtyard. "Strategically placed to intercept any army moving through the Ram Dúath into the Downs towards Annúminas or Fornost, and able to send word if the army veered east, towards Rhudaur."

"It looks destroyed," he said, glancing around. "Not a fortress."

"Apparently, Dolindîr was sacked before Fornost fell," Bronach shrugged, running her hand over the old Arnorian star in the wall next to her. It had a large, weather-worn gouge in the stonework, likely a result of combat. "The survivors, led by the chieftain since Arvedui fell and took Arthedain with him, retreated here to hide and regroup. They used it as a refuge for over two thousand years before Aragorn claimed the Sceptre of Annúminas, and with it the kingdom." With a shift, she altered their surroundings, recalling how Esteldín had looked during her last visit. "It was a proper duchy when I left." The stonework was new or repaired, all three courtyards bustling with activity...

Snape flinched as an ambiguous guardsman walked by, carrying the hefty spear that was part of his uniform. "You mentioned Annúminas, and Fornost?"

"Fornost Erain," she said, calling forth the memory of the Fields of Fornost as they had been when she'd faked her death during the Third Age. "Or as the hobbits called it, the King's Norbury. It fell in nineteen seventy-four, Third Age. Nobody dared linger for long, as the land was haunted by those that died here, and the sorcery that sacked it."

The fields were particularly eerie, and she saw Snape shudder at the effect. Good. A twist, and they were standing in the market during the Fourth Age. "It was reclaimed, though I put a good year into cleansing it. I learned a lot from the attempt though, which made everything else go easier once that I knew what I was doing."

"Fascinating," Snape drawled, glancing at the stalls and the wares on offer. "It looks fairly medieval."

"It was," she sighed. "I missed modern plumbing."

Deciding he'd seen enough, she changed the scene, gripping his elbow as he wobbled at the sudden change of location. "Behold," she gestured with her free arm. "Annúminas, capital of Arnor."

"You couldn't have picked a better place to view it from?" he complained, glaring at the stone head he stood atop.

"High King's Crossing holds the best view of the city," Bronach released his elbow. "And you are in my mindscape, so you won't fall unless I let you, and if you do you won't suffer damage."

Obligingly though, she changed to the throne room in Ost Elendil. Snape gazed around, expression blank as she drank her fill of the familiar surroundings.

"This is quite a lot of glass for a medieval society," he said, gesturing to the windows that filled the north and south walls.

"The sands of the river that flows out of the lake are quite valuable for glassmaking," Bronach said absently, making her way up to the thrones, recalling how she'd stand in the shadows while one or both of her partners held court here. "It was quite a lucrative industry for the kingdom, and made trade with Gondor viable."

"You have shown me all of these places," he said, turning to look at her as she stood at the foot of the thrones. "But where did you call home?"

"We are most certainly not there yet Snape," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Now, the binding is dissolved, you are a free man once more, and I will see you on Wednesday for Remedial Potions."

Because Bronach was over two centuries old and in control of her reactions, she didn't incinerate the Daily Prophet she held.

"Uh, Harry?" Ron said, edging away from her. "You're sparking a bit, mate."

"Wicked," Ginny said, leaning forward. "How did you manage to do that?"

"Harry stop please," Hermione tried tugging the paper out of her hand. "Harry, Umbridge is going to see."

Taking a deep breath through her nose and letting it out through her mouth, Bronach surrendered her copy of the paper to Hermione. She knew well enough what it said.

Ten familiar faces stared up at her from the various copies of the Prophet up and down the house tables. Students discussed the escape in whispered tones, glancing up at the staff table, where the staff was also discussing the escape. Snape was particularly thin-lipped, occasionally glancing between her and her partners, as if attempting to figure out what she had known.

The answer was, of course, all of it. She'd even gone so far as to read the scant report the Auror department had filed on the affair, once she had the authority to do so. Which was why she'd been harassing Amelia Bones, Rufus Scrimgeour, and anyone else at the Ministry who she thought might listen to her via post, trying to get them to up security at the very least. She'd been doing so for months.

Clearly, they'd chosen to ignore her, or were blocked from acting by the rest of the spineless cowards in the Wizengamot.

"Right," Hermione said, staring down at the ten familiar faces depicted on the front page. "This is...not good."

"Absolutely not good," Bronach muttered, recalling the word Mudblood carved into Hermione's arms, the sound of her screaming, piercing even despite the distance between the dungeon and the drawing room. "Tremendously not good. But something that can be dealt with." After all, she didn't need the Cruciatus to make Bellatrix feel pain. Not anymore.

"Mate, you're honestly starting to scare me a little," Ron told her seriously. "I mean, that's the kind of face that suggests you're plotting a murder."

"Would not be the first one," she said absently, glancing at her half-empty plate and deciding she'd eaten enough. Then she realized that her dining companions had gone silent.

"That's not really something that you should be saying out loud," Hermione said, chewing on her lip in distress. "Even if it's not true."

It is. "Sorry guys," Bronach said, standing up. "I am afraid that I have lost my appetite. Sorry to ruin your breakfast."

She left, finding the Entrance Hall empty of all other students. Stepping into a hidden passage, Bronach allowed herself to massage her temples in frustration. "You are not among spies and Rangers anymore," she muttered to herself, hoping saying the words out loud would cement them in her mind. "You cannot just be flippant about that."

"You are still able to be flippant about something?" Aragorn said, and she turned to see him entering the passage. "I saw the paper. Are you well?"

"Was I ever?" she asked rhetorically, letting her head thunk back against the wallstones. "Clearly the Ministry continues to be incompetent, which likely means something given our holiday revelations, I now have to move forward what I had hoped were contingency plans because of that incompetence, and to top it off, I made a comment about murdering people that absolutely freaked out Ron, Hermione, and Ginny."

"Ah," he winced. "Yes, there is a shocking distance from death among your peers, isn't there?"

"Most of them will never kill anything in their lives, beyond plants," she closed her eyes. "A few of them may kill a chicken or something. I'm sure there is at least one criminal among the group, statistically, so someone is probably going to manage murder, but compared to me...?" Bronach felt like baring her teeth, but she didn't. It was only Aragorn, the person who would likely understand the most. "My hands are dripping with blood."

"Daervunn did not know, but I picked the lock on his files and read all your reports," Aragorn said, and she heard him lean against the wall. "And I continued to do so, until we left. Assuming you left nothing out, any of your reported kills were justifiable, necessary."

"Oh, the ones in your name always were," she opened her eyes and watched his face carefully for a reaction. "I went off script once."

"Ah," he said quietly after a moment. "I had wondered, when the report on Tûr Morva came."

"Regretting me?" she asked, ready to push off from the wall and leave him there, not wanting to see the emotions she feared on his face. "Sorry I did not tell you until now, sorry I dragged you both along here on false pretenses."

"You think I did not want to, when Daervunn and the others explained what had happened there?" Aragorn's laugh was mirthless. "But I did nothing, only because I did not wish to fight another war. I was glad when the report came in, and told Daervunn that if he ever discovered that one of mine was responsible, I did not want to know, and I would pardon them if it became a necessity."

She froze, staring at him. "What?"

"The few reports from the survivors spoke of a figure robed entirely in black who told them that only the guilty would die, but Tûr Morva would not be habitable until the weregild owed was paid. From what I gather, many of them felt it was only right, and quietly relocated without complaint, much as many had in the days immediately following the war. Only those who were bound there by some obligation stayed, and your work freed them of that."

"All this time you suspected, and you never asked?" Bronach whispered.

"If you had wanted us to know, you would have said so," he said simply. "And it wasn't as if we had no inkling of what you did in the destruction of Carn Dum. That was far greater than Tûr Morva, if the reports were accurate."

He reached out and drew her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We knew who you were when you asked," Aragorn whispered in Sindarin. "Do you think any less of me, knowing that I routed Umbar twice in my lifetime? That I led the Rhun campaign from the front, or the Harad campaign? I am no stranger to war, or to death, and you have the capacity and the intent to limit unnecessary bloodshed. And you have always done so. The Falcon Clan elders in Tûr Morva would have threatened us, had they been given the chance. You simply followed the oldest laws we had: blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," Bronach echoed, and then pulled away. "Classes will start soon, and we'd best be in a less compromising position."

He smiled, and left the passage the way he entered, leaving her to make her way up to the Divination classroom alone.

"You are unsettled today," Trelawney said, as Bronach settled onto her poof the next day. "And fate lies heavy upon your shoulders."

"For once in my life, I would prefer it to choose the shoulders of someone else," Bronach grumbled, taking out her dream diary. "I think I know what I have been dreaming of."

She offered the professor the book, but Trelawney gently pressed Bronach's fingers around it, refusing to take it.

"I too have seen much," the professor said gently, patting her hand. "The time has not yet come that you will have to make a decision, but it draws ever nearer."

"What if I do not want to make a decision?" Bronach asked rhetorically, tucking her journal away. They were reviewing divination using entrails, though only on a theoretical basis, given the general aversion most of the class had. There weren't many more methods left to cover before their exams, but the professor had promised extra time to review and practice in whatever time they had to spare.

"You can choose that path," Trelawney said softly, her eyes looking misty behind her glasses, "but I do not think that you will. It is not in your nature."

"Ugh," Bronach groaned, letting her head fall into her hands. "Being responsible is exhausting."

Trelawney laughed, and then her smile slipped. Bronach straightened. "What is it?"

"You will find out soon enough," the woman said after a long moment. "The High Inquisitor has no patience for those with the proper Sight."

"She put you on probation," Bronach deduced with a scowl. "I assume she will be inspecting your lessons?"

"That is what the notice informing me indicated," Trelawney said sharply, tossing her head with a disdainful sniff. "As if the Inner Eye could See upon command!"

"There is scrying," Bronach felt compelled to point out. "Or reading tea leaves."

Trelawney made a disgusted sound. "You know as well as I do, at least now, that tea leaves only speak when they have a mind to; the rest is human interpretation, like seeing pictures in clouds. And scrying tells only what is unless one has the gift for it and there is something you must see."

"And your talents are not in scrying," Bronach sighed, hearing the sounds of approaching students. "I never cared much for the subtleties until I gained my gift, but the the way the course is structured is misleading at best."

"Until the Divination curriculum is rewritten, my art will not be given the respect it deserves," Trelawney hissed before turning in a whirl of shawls to disappear into the shadows before the first student arrived.

All through the lesson, Bronach was only paying half attention, her mind instead wondering how much she'd overlooked in her first go-round. Trelawney, she was coming to find, wasn't half as bad at the subject as Bronach had believed, hampered more by the ministry-mandated curriculum than by her Gift or lack thereof. She was, certainly, an unenthusiastic and vastly uneducated in the mechanics of effective teaching, but on an individual basis, Bronach was finding Trelawney reasonably helpful in managing the surges of Galadriel's gift.

"You seem distracted," Hermione asked at lunch. "Is everything okay?"

"Well, there's ten Death Eaters who've broken out of Azkaban, I don't think everything's okay," Ron said, rolling his eyes at her.

"It is not that," Bronach said, poking at her lunch, not really feeling hungry. She thought her period might be coming; the last time she'd felt this bloated and sluggish her cycle had started a day or two later. "There is something...well, I was doing some research over the holidays, and I do not like the conclusions I am drawing."

Ron and Hermione stared at her, and then Ron shook his head. "Absolutely mental," he muttered. "You're really starting to take after Hermione, aren't you? Research over the holidays."

"That is what the holidays are for, are they not?" Bronach said, affecting her best deadpan expression. Ron's look of horror distracted her enough to make her smile.

Chapter Text

"You should tell McGonagall," Bronach heard as she crossed through the Gryffindor Common Room on her way to the DA meeting. "It's not right."

"She can't do anything," one of the first years said miserably. "Remember, Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five?"

"No?" the other first year said. "What was that one?"

"The High Inquisitor has control over all student punishments," the first student said, and then hissed in pain. "Stop touching it."

A cold feeling growing in her stomach, she changed directions. "Show me your hand," she demanded abruptly, watching the pair pale under her gaze. "Show me your hand," she repeated, when neither moved.

One of the students, looking frightened, extended their hand. On the back of it, there was a familiar redness.

"She makes you write lines, correct?" Bronach said, feeling strangely distant. "Over and over again, without any ink and with a black quill? Until it sinks in?"

"Uh, yeah," the first year sniffed warily. "How do you know?"

"It does not matter," Bronach said, knowing that if she'd release her metamorphmagus shifts, the stark white scars would be standing out on her clenched fist. "When is your next detention?"

"Tonight," the first year's friend said. "He's supposed to leave in a minute."

"What did you do?" Bronach asked.

"He was late for class today," the friend volunteered, getting a swift kick for their troubles. "That was all."

"I will take care of it," she promised the first years. "You do not have to go to your detention."

"But-" the first year said, voice panicky. "I can't just skip! That'll make it-"

"She is already torturing you," Bronach said flatly. "There is no worse."

Ignoring the stammered protests, Bronach turned on her heel and strode out of the Common Room. She'd let herself get complacent, certain that Umbridge wouldn't bother tormenting other students this early in her regime, not when she had Dumbledore still positioned in the school. In her memory, only Lee had managed a detention with the quill, and that was for pointing out the woman's hypocrisy, something Umbridge certainly would have taken personally.

Fool, she seethed as she swept down the stairs towards Umbridge's office. Thrice-bedamned fool. How many students have suffered without your knowledge?

"Miss Potter," Umbridge shrieked as Bronach slammed the door to her office open. "What is the meaning-"

The quill and parchment were already laid out on the desk. Bronach ignored the toad's outraged shrieking and sat down, picking up the instrument she'd learned to hate in this very room. She set the tip against the parchment, ignoring the familiar burning, and wrote.

I, Harry Jamie Potter, magically recognized Head of House Potter and House Black do hereby declare that all of the students currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are under the protection of my Houses until such a time as this protection is revoked or the first of July nineteen ninety-six.

Dolores Umbridge, as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Hogwarts High Inquisitor, and any other title she is given or claims, is prohibited from punishing students without the direct permission of the Heads of House Potter and House Black. All other staff members are permitted to issue what punishments they feel appropriate, within the bounds of the school's rules unless otherwise notified.

Signed this day, the sixteenth of January nineteen ninety-six by Harry Jamie Potter.

As she put the last flourish on her signature, Bronach looked down at the words glistening in her own blood, and then up at the professor. She knew her grin had too many teeth to be friendly. "You cannot put a single student in detention anymore, Dolores," she said, watching the woman inflate with anger as she read the words. "If you try, I would be well within my rights to stand in, if I did not simply decide to make it a dueling matter."

"You can't do this!" Umbridge shrieked. "It isn't allowed!"

"It is absolutely allowed," Bronach said, rising from the desk, her hand stinging with the echo of her written words. "In fact," she watched the parchment rise from the desk, glowing golden, duplicate itself until there were four copies, and then have three of the copies vanish. Bronach collected the final copy herself, rolling it up and tucking it into her sleeve pocket. "In fact," she repeated, eyes fixed on Umbridge's face. "It is something that the Ministry cannot interfere with."

"We'll see about that!" Umbridge leveled a stubby finger at her. "You get ahead of yourself, Miss Potter, putting on airs above your station! Mark my words, this will not stand!"

"As magically recognized Head of my House," Bronach retorted, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that displayed the family rings she usually kept invisible, "I am entitled to make whatever declarations regarding my house as I see fit." It was a guaranteed right, she knew, one essential to the formation of the Wizengamot. A concession to the families of the time who did not want to surrender their own power which the Wizard's Council had allowed them to keep and build. House matters were untouchable by law, something the vast majority of Fudge's supporters would not allow any hint of interference with. "These students are under my protection, and I declare you a danger to them. No longer will you be allowed to torture them and call it discipline!"

"I will have order!" Umbridge bellowed. "And if I must start with you, than so be it!"

"You will not be torturing me either, Dolores," Bronach whispered, feeling the room grow colder around them. "Setting aside the fact that I wouldn't allow you to lay a finger on me, as Head of House, I answer only to magic, in matters of House discipline. And I have broken no laws of the Wizengamot by declaring that I will not let you torture underage students."

"You can't threaten me!" the toad's voice trembled. "You can't be a Head of House so young."

"Magic declares otherwise," Bronach said, feeling the family magics rising within her, spreading to each of the students in the school. "The most essential of magics, which cannot be gainsaid by any human institution. I was found worthy, and so I am tasked with the care of my Houses."

"Lunacy," the witch said, but her eyes were darting back and forth. "Utter tosh."

"Old magic, Dolores. As old as magic itself." Bronach eyed her. "You would do well not to pit yourself against it."

"You cannot lecture me!" Umbridge snapped. "I am a Ministry official!"

"Magic does not answer to any Ministry," her tone was scornful, but Bronach didn't care. She was intrigued by the feel of the students that she was experiencing as the family magics connected, creating an intangible bond between her and them. "People answer to a Ministry."

The bond was soft, like a gossamer cobweb, a simple connection between herself and the students. Nothing at all like the richer ones she had with her partners, or the surprisingly thicker ones she shared with Hermione, the Weasleys, and Luna. It was overwhelming, the feeling of so many souls connected to hers, but it settled after a moment and she felt it retreat to the place under her breastbone where her family magics rested when not in use.

She turned to leave, ignoring Umbridge's outraged shrieking behind her. Bronach considered going to find her partners, but there was someone she ought to speak with first.

"Miss Potter," Professor McGonagall's eyebrows rose in surprise. "It is rather late."

"I have to provide you with a notice regarding the students," Bronach said, with a grim smile. "May I come in?"

Once she was seated before the Professor's desk, Bronach withdrew her copy of the statement she'd written. "I am sure the headmaster will note his copy in the morning, and copies have been sent to the Ministry and Gringotts as well, but as you handle the day to day running of the school, I feel it best to notify you in person."

The professor accepted the statement, lips thinning as she read the short document. Carefully, she set it down, fixing Bronach with a stare. "This is an incredibly dramatic escalation in your campaign to thwart the High Inquisitor."

"Do you know what she has been forcing students to do during detentions, Deputy Headmistress?" Bronach asked quietly, tamping the rage down, pushing away the guilt. How many students did Umbridge torture before she'd overheard the first years tonight?

Professor McGonagall shook her head sharply.

"I overheard a pair of Gryffindor first year students discussing one this evening," Bronach said softly. "She was making a first year write lines with a Blood Quill."

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't."

"Where do you think I got the quill for the statement?" Bronach asked, and then released the shift on her hand. "She would, and she has."

As if she'd thrown a gauntlet down, McGonagall stared at the back of Bronach's hand, now resting atop her desk. Despite her pale skin, the stark white scars shone distinctly. I must not tell lies.

"How?" the word seemed gritted out.

"I did not know how to mind my temper," Bronach said, withdrawing her hand. "Once, I spent much of this year in detention."

"Did you not come to any of the staff?" McGonagall sounded furious.

"You told me, before my first detention with her, to not antagonize Dolores Umbridge," Bronach shrugged delicately. "When I discovered what she was doing...well, I did not want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she'd gotten to me. And later, it was clear that if any member of staff had spoken against her, they'd find themselves sacked for their audacity."

A string of blistering curses left McGonagall's mouth, and Bronach chose not to let on that she was somewhat conversant in Scots Gaelic. When she subsided, the professor said: "And this was the only way you feel the situation could be resolved?"

"The Ministry cannot overturn this," Bronach said, rescuing her copy of the statement. "It's written into the foundation of their right to govern. In order to put students in detention, she would have to dissolve the Ministry she idolizes so much. This is nonbinding, as it expires at the end of the school year, and I require nothing in return. Any student may petition me about what they feel to be an unfair detention, but I won't interfere with school discipline unless I feel it is detrimental to their wellbeing. The only professor who will find themselves limited by my actions is Umbridge, as she is the only professor torturing students."

"I hope you know what you're doing," McGonagall said after a long moment. "This is a risky gamble."

"It will stop her from torturing more students," Bronach said firmly, rising from her chair. "And if you'll excuse me, I have inquiries to make."

Arwen looked up as Aragorn entered their quarters. "Is something wrong?"

"Bronach did not attend tonight's meeting," he frowned. "And I felt something...odd."

"I felt it too," Arwen rested her hand over her breastbone. "A tugging on my fea."

"That is what it felt like," Aragorn agreed, brushing his hand against his chest. "But I do not know what might have caused it."

"There is not child in my womb, nor in Bronach's," Arwen assured him. "We have taken precautions."

"The students were alarmed, but with Hermione and the Weasley's assistance, we distracted and ran them through their usual exercises," Aragorn glanced at the door, clearly considering whether they could risk a search for their missing partner.

"We could ask Kreacher to look for her," Arwen proposed, and then the door to their quarters opened again.

Bronach strode in, looking ruffled in a way Arwen knew few would notice. She set aside her sewing, rising from her chair.

"Are you well?" Aragorn said, reaching her in a few long strides, hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "Your DA was concerned by your absence."

"Ah," she said, and then sighed. "I was delayed by a conversation I overheard."

"Bad?" Arwen asked.

"The High Inquisitor has tortured fifteen students," Bronach said, and Arwen shivered at the ice in her voice. It had been a long time since Bronach had been this angry. "I took offense."

"Do we need to hide a body?" Aragorn asked.

"No," Bronach said, covering his hand with hers. "I refrained from murdering her. But she can no longer punish Hogwarts students without my express permission."

"You placed the entire school under your protection?" Arwen breathed. They had spoken about the possibility of putting students under House Potter or House Black protection if Umbridge seemed to be targeting individuals, but for Bronach to put the entire school under her aegis...

"Only until the end of the school year," Bronach assured them, hand coming up unconsciously to rest on her breastbone.

"So that was what I felt," Arwen said, touching her own breastbone in understanding.

"You felt it as well?" Bronach asked, glancing at her in surprise.

"As did I," Aragorn said, capturing Bronach's free hand and placing it on his chest. "A tugging on our fea."

"If you feel this now," Bronach murmured thoughtfully, fingers curling into Aragorn's shirt, "I wonder what you will feel once we have reestablished our partnership in the eyes of magic?"

"Is it not already established?" Arwen asked, glancing at Aragorn.

"It is, and it is muted," Bronach explained, glancing up at Aragorn, her cheeks pinking slightly. "I cannot say what it should be, but it seems as if an equal partnership should allow you greater access to the family magics than you currently enjoy. So I suspect that we will need to establish the bond fully, when the time comes."

Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, and glanced at Arwen, her eyes so full of longing that Arwen found her breath catching in her throat. They had all agreed on the necessary boundaries, much as they'd minded them for their entire relationship, but the prohibition on even moments when they were guaranteed privacy chafed more than she'd expected. If they'd been in Bronach's cabin along the Greenway, or one of the many hideaways they'd created across Gondor and Arnor, she would have gone to Bronach and-

"I should go," Bronach whispered hoarsely, eyes flicking between Aragorn and Arwen, her tongue passing nervously over her lips in a way that only made it worse. "I should not have come."

"No, you should have," Aragorn said, his voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver through Arwen. "We needed to know."

Bronach's intake of breath was barely audible.

"You make things," she began, her voice unsteady, "very difficult."

"No more than you do," Arwen countered.

"This is not helping," her partner groaned, and reluctantly, she took a step backwards. "I need to go. We should discuss this tomorrow."

"That is probably for the best," Aragorn admitted, running his hand roughly through his hair. "I am glad to see you, even if you try my resolve."

"The feeling is mutual," Bronach grinned swiftly, and then let herself out the door.

Arwen let out a long, frustrated sigh. "I adore being so close to her, but I cannot wait for the years to pass quickly."

"Perhaps we should not have made efforts to teach at the school," Aragorn sunk down into his chair. "I am glad that we are close, but it does make things more complicated."

"Fifteen students though," Arwen pulled her mind onto more serious subjects with difficulty. "She stopped it before it became more, yet she will feel as if she failed each of them."

"It will be difficult," Aragorn agreed. "No matter what anyone says to her, she will bear the guilt of it forever."

"Good thing she has us," Arwen said determinedly. "I believe I will go to Poppy in the morning, to see what might be done. You might as well."

"And I will also make sure she has plenty of outlets to whack me with a wooden sword," the corner of Aragorn's mouth quirked up in a grin. Arwen took a deep breath and did her best to release the myriad of emotions plaguing her. Life seemed destined to never be easy, but she wouldn't trade it for anything.

"Why do you insist on continuing this farce?" Snape asked irritably as he looked around at the mindscape she'd created for him.

"Because the Headmaster will throw a tantrum if we don't appear to be dancing to his tune," Bronach shrugged. "So until he is no longer able to control your employment, or make my life further misery, I intend to pretend to be learning Occlumancy from you."

"Where are we today?" he sighed, glancing around. "This does not look like anywhere you have shown me before."

"I am feeling a bit morose, I suppose," Bronach said, glancing at the moonlit walls of Minas Ithil. "Welcome to Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon."

"A fitting name," Snape allowed, walking slowly along the plaza. "But, morose?"

"It was once a place of great darkness," she murmured, tipping her head back until she could see the top of Barad Cúron. "And much was given to cleanse its stones."

"That is incredibly explanatory," he said shortly.

"You are incredibly entitled, to think yourself deserving of an explanation," Bronach retorted.

"I safeguard a quarter of the school in which you currently dwell," the professor narrowed his eyes at her. "Given what little you have revealed to me, I find myself concerned for their wellbeing if you appear to be out of sorts."

"One of your fellow educators has tortured fifteen students for petty offenses," she snapped. "I find it hard not to find myself morose."

Snape stared at her for a long moment. "Given that I am not currently suffering, may I inquire as to what Dolores Umbridge is accused of doing?"

"Students in her detentions have been writing lines," Bronach took a deep breath, making sure to stabilize the projection so as not to hurt Snape. "With a Blood Quill."

She was gratified to see that Snape's lips thinned to almost nothing. "How crude," he said after a significant pause. "How did you know?"

"I overheard a pair of first years," Bronach gritted out, wrapping her fingers around the edge of the fountain. "But I should have known."

"I know that the school gossip has you developing a Divinatory talent, but I doubt even you could be all-knowing," Snape scoffed.

Her fist clenched, and the glamor flickered. The words she resented were visible for a long, accusatory moment. Grinding her teeth, she dragged the glamor back up, staring at the water in the fountain.

"I do not claim to be all-knowing," she muttered, breathing deeply. "But I am displeased to see history repeating itself."

There was an even longer moment of quiet. "You suspected she would do this, because she has done it before, in your memory."

"I only knew of two," Bronach told him, still staring at the water. "One who could not control their temper, and another who pointed out her hypocrisy."

"Fifteen this time though," she could feel Snape studying her, even with her head down. "What has changed?"

"Possibly nothing," Bronach said bitterly. "I was...a rather self-absorbed fifteen year old. The concerns of my peers meant little to me."

"What will you do, now that you know?" Snape asked, his robes whispering against the stone as he circled the plaza. "Or rather, what have you done?"

"The entire school is now under the protection of House Potter and House Black," Bronach bared her teeth at the water, wishing she could do so to Umbridge, and the Minister. "She cannot lay a finger on a student without my permission. No student will serve detention with her while I live."

"I will endeavor to discover what the betting odds are on the House Cup and ensure that my galleons are on Gryffindor finding themselves bereft of House Points by the end of the week then," Snape said, a bit of levity in his voice. "A cunning solution, if I may say so."

"A necessary one," she muttered. "And you can stop prying. I will tell you willingly enough that the Sorting Hat was debating between Gryffindor and Slytherin, but an unfortunate meeting with Draco Malfoy made the latter significantly less appealing."

"How...curious."

"We would have likely spontaneously combusted, had you been my Head of House," Bronach informed him dryly. "It would have ruined your spying cover, your credibility with the Slytherins, and you would have resented my very existence more than you currently do."

She couldn't see him, but she was certain he was making a face. Tired of staring at the fountain, instead of the looming specter of Barad Cúron, she twisted the threads of her mindscape until they blurred, coming back into focus in the lush pastures of the Entwash Vale.

"How quaint," Snape said, glancing at the thatched cottages barely visible on the horizon. "It's amazing you survived."

"One of these days, I will leave you alone in the Ram Duath," she threatened, flopping down on the illusion of a sun-warmed hillside. "I would like to see you adapt."

"So where are we this time?" he asked, raising his eyebrow as he loomed over her in vague disapproval.

"The Entwash Vale," she gestured broadly. "In the middle of the Kingdom of Rohan."

"Not Aragorn's kingdom?"

"When I first beheld it, Théoden, son of Thengel was King of Rohan. He died at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and his nephew, Éomer son of Eomund took the throne, as Théodred, son of Théoden, had fallen at the Fords of Isen a month or two earlier." Bronach sighed. "King Éomer and his queen, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, did much to aid Gondor, and there was a close kinship between King Éomer and Aragorn. Éomer's sister, Éowyn, wed Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor."

"You keep throwing these people at me as a smokescreen," Snape said irritably. "They matter little to anyone but you."

"But they were real," she said, sinking back into the grass. "I fought with them, and bled with them. Drank to their health and their marriages, and mourned their deaths. And now only three recall them."

"Can you show them to me?"

She considered it, and then drew forth a gossamer thread of memory, the pastures of the Entwash Vale adjusting to a spot slightly further north of where she'd settled.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

Aragorn appeared from the tall grasses, and her heart gave a pang of regret as Boromir rose behind him, Legolas and Gimli on his heels. Snape glanced at her, clearly curious.

"Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Woodland Realm," she said, gesturing at the Elf. "Silvan heritage, out of Doriath, if it means anything to you."

"Like Arwen's grandfather, and her father's mother," Snape said after a moment's thought.

"Gimli, son of Glóin, born in Thorin's Halls in Ered Luin, but of Ereborian stock. At this time, he is of Erebor, but he will become the Lord of Aglarond soon enough." Perhaps someday she would show the surly potions master the Glittering Caves, they were harmless enough.

"That is Aragorn, clearly," Snape tipped his head towards her partner, "but who are the others?"

"That is the brother of Faramir, Boromir, son of Denethor," Bronach said softly. "I knew him before I knew Faramir, and they were both very alike, and yet very different. We...held different opinions, but had come to find common ground by this time."

"Is that you then?" Snape glanced at the second shortest figure, and raised his eyebrow.

"I spent much of my time using my slight metamorphmagus talent to appear unassuming, and often male," Bronach said fondly, catching a glimpse of her androgynous features as she broke off from the main group to go gather information among Éomer's éored. "That is Éomer, when he was heir apparent to the throne, but not yet confirmed."

Snape studied Éomer for a long moment. "Aragorn and...Boromir are dark, but Éomer is fair."

"A regional trait," she explained, gesturing at the blond visible among the éored. "The Rohirrim are sometimes, unkindly, known as strawheads for the color of their hair. Boromir and Aragorn carry the blood of Númenor, which tended towards darker coloring."

Considering the scene before them, she released the memory, and then drew forth a different one, the Entwash Vale disappearing entirely until she was standing on the docks, salt spray in her face.

"Dol Amroth," she explained, watching the ship come in from the Seagate. "Birthplace of Lothíriel, and one of the ports of Gondor. Not it's main port, but as the fleet intended to dock at Pelargir, and Lothíriel had been visiting her brothers...a change in plans was in order."

Around them, deckhands hurried too and fro, and Snape glanced at the bustle. "You are obviously here, as it is your memory, but I do not see you."

"We were keeping a low profile," Bronach grinned, watching him narrow his eyes as he looked over everyone that was near them. "After all, two kings and a prince would be a handsome target, let alone two queens and a princess."

"Surely you had guards?" Snape sniffed distrustfully as a burly dockworker shouldered by.

"Oh no," Bronach smiled. "It took some work, but I was there, Arwen was talented enough in a pinch, and Éowyn proved herself on the Pelennor. Nobody liked it when things like this happened, but given that nobody wanted to tell off any of the ladies and their husbands weren't inclined to chide them for it either..."

"Don't tell me," Snape muttered, watching the group starting to disembark. To a casual viewer, it was just a group of Ithilien Rangers, but Bronach could pick out the Star of the Arnorian Rangers on Aragorn's cloak, half-hidden by the drape of his cowl, and the white horse head broach on Éomer's, worn only by the guards assigned to the king. Faramir's was less obvious, considering the Ithilien Rangers routinely wore the moon brooch, but in the company of the other two?

"Aragorn, Éomer, and Faramir," she indicated one by one. "Fresh from liberating Umbar from the so-called Heirs of Castamir."

"Faramir does look much like his brother," Snape murmured.

"Have you spotted us yet?" Bronach asked cheekily.

"They're very good disguises," Snape grunted, glancing at the huddle of fisherwomen pulling in their nets from boats that had just docked. "Were you all skilled on the water?"

"Lothíriel most of all," Bronach said, watching as Arwen accidentally bumped into Aragorn with a basket full of fish headed for the waiting cart at the end of the dock. "Éowyn never managed more than barely proficient with a boat, no matter how hard she tried, and Arwen, while decent, was always wary of the ocean."

"A strange fear to have."

"Not when you know the implications," Bronach said softly, watching Éomer sweep Lothíriel off her feet. "For the elves, there was no permanent death. Those whose spirits were unhoused from their bodies on these shores awoke in the Halls of Mandos, in Valinor, and were reembodied. But for those who simply grew weary of these lands...it was as simple as sailing west. A time would come, for all of the eldar, when the sea called to them, and they could no longer be content with their life in Arda. Her mother sailed many centuries before, and her father several decades. Someday, unless they chose otherwise, her brothers would sail. Arwen feared that she might someday feel the sea-longing, which would have meant that she had not truly taken on mortality, as she had chosen through marriage to Aragorn."

"I do not understand," Snape said quietly after a moment.

"It is unnecessary to," Bronach returned, watching Faramir nearly fall into the harbor with the force of the 'friendly' bump Éowyn gave him. "It means nothing, not anymore. But I doubt Arwen will ever be fond of the sea."

Chapter Text

"You look like..." Hermione bit her lip. "Like you've got something important to do."

"I do," Bronach said shortly. "But don't worry, I will still make the appointment at the Three Broomsticks that you've arranged."

Hermione stared at her for a moment, and then shook her head. "I take it that you're well aware of my intentions?"

"And who you're meeting with," Bronach helped herself to more tea. "I will cooperate, of course, and so will the others. But I might take things in a slightly different direction than you intend."

"I'll trust you," Hermione said firmly. "You know best."

"I know one path," Bronach said, her hand tingling under her glamor. "But I am not all-knowing, and neither was my knowledge omniscient. And I have changed things, so it is hard to say what will remain the same."

Her friend simply hummed and applied herself to her breakfast. Bronach drank her tea and did her best to focus on her talking points.

The trip to Hogsmeade was familiar, despite it being the first one she'd made all year. However, the similarities ended when she pulled the hood of her cloak up and wove a notice-me-not around her, entering the Three Broomsticks as unobtrusively as she could.

"I am here for the meeting in Room Three," she told Madam Rosemarta, deepening her voice slightly.

Rosemarta passed her a key, distracted by the Hogwarts students starting to flood through the door. "You're first to arrive, you can order off the menu and it'll be delivered to the sideboard."

Thanking the woman, Bronach slipped into the passage and made her way down to Room Three. It was reasonably simple and somewhat timeworn, but it would suffice. The fire was lit and warming the collection of armchairs and sofas that sat around it. She investigated the menu and ordered a pot of tea and a plate of tea cakes. When it arrived, she carried the tray over to the coffee table between the assorted seating and poured herself a cup. Once she'd arranged herself in the best-positioned chair, the only thing left to do was wait.

Thankfully, none of her visitors were inclined to tardiness.

Precisely at the time she'd set for their meeting, there was a rap on the door. "Enter," Bronach called, resettling herself in the chair and setting down her teacup.

Amelia Bones was first through the door, eyes narrowed in suspicion, followed by two other cloaked figures. Bronach rose gracefully, smoothing the front of her robes as she did so.

"Madame Bones," Bronach said, holding out her hand to shake. "Thank you for coming."

"Our correspondence has been to intriguing not to," Madame Bones said, her grip firm as they shook hands. "Head Potter."

"I intend to clarify momentarily," Bronach promised, turning to the other figures. "Thank you both for coming."

"Charmed," squeaked the first figure, who drew their hood back in a hurry. "I'm Lucretia Fawley. As you know."

"I am pleased to meet you, Madame Fawley." Bronach inclined her head politely before turning to the last. "As I am you, Master Unspeakable."

"Head Potter," they said, leaving their hood up. "As you have asked us here for business, I will not be able to provide my name."

"I understand," Bronach said, gesturing to the seating. "Can I interest you in tea? Something else?"

"Tea is fine, thank you," Madame Bones said, and Madame Fawley nodded vigorously. The Unspeakable, who Bronach suspected was the same one that confronted her outside the Department and took Nagini's body, declined, so Bronach set about preparing tea before she sat down once more.

"Thank you for your patience with my deception," she said, reaching up to her own hood and dispelling the notice-me-not on her face, which she'd stitched into the cloak's collar. "As you might be able to understand, I am in a rather delicate position these days."

"I had suspected, but it is nice to have confirmation," Madame Bones said with a slight smile. "You are rather young, Lady Potter, but unfortunately that is the way of war orphans."

"Isn't it lucky for me that I was emancipated by my participation in the Triwizard Tournament last year?" Bronach knew her smile was more of a grimace, but Madame Bones seemed to approve.

"Why didn't you use this defense at your hearing?" Madame Fawley blurted out.

"Because that wasn't a hearing, it was a sham," Bronach said shortly. "There was no interest in justice, only a, pardon the phrase, witch hunt. Minister Fudge is content to vilify teenagers for his own political gains."

"It was very nearly a miscarriage of justice," Madame Bones said quietly. "Your aunt was rather spirited in your defense."

"She was, wasn't she?" Bronach said, wondering if she'd ever be able to tell Madame Bones who had actually been sitting beside her in the courtroom. "But I have asked you here not to discuss the Ministry's vendetta against me, but to discuss the Ministry's ability to serve the Magical community."

"What a strange question," Madame Fawley looked confused. "Of course the Ministry is able to serve the Magical community."

Bronach saw Madame Bones' lips purse, but turned to the Unspeakable, who had been quiet since declining refreshments. "Master Unspeakable, would you say that the Ministry currently works in the best interest of all of Britain's Magical community?"

"The Department of Mysteries is not interested in governance," they said, their voice bored. "Our interest, and our duty, is Magic."

That tracked, both with her knowledge of the department, and her experience with them. "Madame Bones, what is your opinion?"

"I am struggling to find appropriate resources for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in light of the current situation," the woman said shortly. "The Wizengamot seems disinclined to allocate further resources despite the recent escape, which was something the Department had been made aware might occur, and we were not able to raise security to stop it."

Madame Fawley looked surprised. Bronach was only surprised that Madame Bones was giving away that much information.

"And how does the Ministry serve its halfblooded citizens? The muggleborns? House Elves, Werewolves, Centaurs, Merfolk, Veela..."

"It doesn't," Madame Bones said, looking slightly frustrated. "There is unequal enforcement of the laws, and what is permitted for those whose families are old, or well-connected is not permitted for a muggleborn student."

"In your opinion, what would it take for the Ministry to be adequately reformed so that it serves all? A proactive Minister? Adjustments to the laws? I am interested in anything you can think of." Bronach asked, curious as to what all three of them would say.

"Impossible," Madame Bones said curtly. "The amount of overhaul, in positions and in laws...entire departments would have to be restructured let alone the fact that you'd have to suspend the Wizengamot in the process."

Madame Fawley looked uncomfortable. "Are you so certain that the Ministry is irredeemable?"

Bronach fixed her with a raised eyebrow, but the woman didn't quail as she expected. "Madame Fawley, as the new head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, can you truthfully say that the British Ministry of Magic suffers from no serious institutional problems compared to its international counterparts?"

The witch's lips pursed, and she shook her head. "No, I cannot. But all that we can do is work towards the future and try to make it better."

"With the Ministry's current trajectory, Tom Riddle, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Voldemort, will control it within two years," Bronach said quietly. "One of the things he will implement is the Muggleborn Registration Committee. Even if it does not last more than a year, the repercussions will damage Magical Britain for decades, let alone international relations."

"You are quite well informed on his plans," Madame Bones eyed her through the ever-present monocle.

"Lady Potter is being quite modest," the Unspeakable said quietly. "She is not a Seer, but she has traveled in time."

"I assume the Time Room has mechanisms for determining such things?" Bronach sighed at the slight nod of the head she received in answer. "As the Master Unspeakable said, I have experienced this timeline before, but as I have already been making changes, there is no guarantee that my experience will be repeated."

"What is it that you want from us?" Madame Fawley said, the most brisk and to the point that she'd been during the entire meeting.

"I need the Ministry to stand strong," Bronach told her firmly. "You are each well-positioned to effect change in the Ministry, and influential enough to succeed. If there is any hope in the Ministry, it is anchored in you."

Madame Bones studied her for a long moment. "If we are to become allies, call me Amelia."

Bronach considered it. "Call me Bronach. And it is not only House Potter that I am the Head of."

"Lady Potter and Lady Black," the Unspeakable sounded smug. "The winds are changing."

"I assume you have a plan of some sorts that you want us to follow?" Madame Fawley said with a sigh. "And you can call me Lucretia."

"Not a plan," Bronach said, withdrawing a sheaf of parchment. "But an analysis of the weaknesses I see in the current Ministry and suggestions for how they can be addressed."

"In order of least difficult to most difficult, I see," Amelia said, perusing the parchments that Bronach handed her. "Efficient."

"There is no time to waste," Bronach sighed. "No time at all."

"What will you give to know his name,
To know his name, to know his name?
What will you give to know his name?
A dúlsaí, dólsaí, daéireó."

Bronach eyed Arwen as her partner's eyes sparkled with mischief. They were in Arwen's classroom, everyone working on their own projects, and conversation had died down in favor of working songs.

They'd introduced the group to singing while working sometime before Christmas, first whenever they were working outside of class, and then when they weren't engaged in discussion or lecture during class. It made the Sunday morning pass quickly, and seemed to draw the group closer together.

As Arwen continued, her song setting a steady rhythm for Bronach's weaving, Bronach wondered how she'd twist the lyrics to suit her purposes. The other students joined in, familiar with the song even if nobody had ever dared aim it at Bronach yet, and Bronach let the rhythmic passes of the shuttle ease her mind.

When her verse came, she continued weaving, seemingly fully focused on the movement of her hands, but out of the corner of her eye she watched Arwen for her reaction.

"It's Estel of Imladris, the fine young man,
The fine young man, the fine young man
It's Estel of Imladris, the fine young man,
A dúlsaí, dólsaí, daéireó."

Her partner's lips curled up in a smile, and they finished out the song with the rest of the class, moving into the next one without anyone commenting to ask who Estel was or where Imladris was. Bronach found that she much enjoyed this class, far more than she'd ever enjoyed a class at Hogwarts. Probably because the teacher wasn't attempting to kill or suppress her, she was good at it, and there wasn't additional homework.

The wards reverberated in the back of her mind as someone crossed them.

Her hands did not falter as she cut a glance towards Arwen, whose mouth tightened in understanding. Rising from her seat, Arwen moved around the room, as if she was checking on everyone's work, but Bronach knew that her partner was positioning herself between the students and the door, specifically the younger, more vulnerable ones.

It wasn't Umbridge, Bronach knew, since that specific ward hadn't been tripped, but that still left a castle full of occupants that may or may not intend harm. As the door swung open, allowing everyone else to hear the sound of running feet that Bronach had been tracking for the last minute, she twisted in her seat, ready to call up whatever magic was necessary.

To her surprise, it was only Ron.

"New...Educational...Decree," he gasped out, clearly having made the trip at speed, likely from Gryffindor Tower. "Thought...you might...want to...know."

"What is this one?" Isabelle Tintwhistle asked with a sigh.

"All further Hogsmeade visits are canceled," Ron said, having caught his breath. "No student is allowed to leave the castle without the express permission of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor. All mail entering or leaving the castle is to be reviewed by the High Inquisitor, and all parcels will be searched."

Bronach scowled. She could send mail with Kreacher, but it would tip her hand, and possibly provoke Umbridge if she realized there was an alternative way around the screening. This certainly seemed targeted at her, and her meeting in Hogsmeade. Someone had talked, or had been observed.

"She can't do that," someone was saying when she refocused.

"She is the High Inquisitor," Arwen's lips were thin with disapproval. "And if this Decree has Ministerial approval...there is little that can be done."

"Signed and stamped," Ron confirmed glumly.

"Well then," Daphne Greengrass sniffed. "I'm sure it won't alarm anyone's parents at all when there's a delay in letters, if letters make it through at all."

"I have no doubt that your letters will be unhindered," Hermione said coolly. "So long as you write nothing about this latest decree. It will be those of us whose families are powerless to complain that will truly lose access to the outside world."

"I don't know what you're accusing me of," Greengrass began stiffly, but Hermione cut her off, eyes blazing with temper.

"In second year, I was petrified. Can't write letters home when you're lying still as stone in the Hospital Wing, right? My parents worried about why I wasn't responding to their letters, but because they don't have their own owl, and because they didn't have anyone else to ask, they didn't find out about what happened to me until I told them about it after coming home. Colin Creevey, who spent nearly the entire year petrified? His parents were terrified that they'd sent him away to be kidnapped because the letters just...stopped."

Greengrass opened her mouth to say something, but Hermione wasn't finished. "If you don't believe me, there's a simple way to test it. Write two letters to your parents this week. In one of them, tell them about the Educational Decree. In the other, just stick to harmless school stuff. See which one they respond to."

The Slytherin shut her mouth and nodded shortly. "I will."

"Thank you for telling us," Arwen said to Ron, who was still standing in the doorway. "You're welcome to join us for the morning if you wish, under no obligation to participate beyond your presence."

"Uh," Ron floundered, only to be saved by Hermione.

"Sit here and hold my yarn," she told him, pointing at the empty seat on the couch next to her. "My tension's all wrong and it's driving me mad."

Slowly, the class settled back into their work, but the comfortable peace from before was lost. Bronach weaved steadily, turning over the implications of the newest, and changed, Educational Decree in her head.

It was certainly a significant overreach, and one that would make the entire school incredibly unhappy. She wondered if it was because of her meeting with the Ministry Department Heads, or if it was due to her interview with Rita Skeeter. The woman was certainly recognizable enough.

Educational Decree Twenty-seven was...the Quibbler ban, she thought as her hands worked. But that wasn't until March. If this was prompted by Skeeter, she's trying to find out what publication will carry the article, and if it will be damaging. This new decree...it reeks of damage control, of closing the stable after the horse has bolted.

She had no doubt that Umbridge would prevent any of the subscribers of The Quibbler from receiving the March edition. Bronach mulled over the ways she recalled students disguising their copies the first time this happened, and went to find Luna after lunch.

"Umbridge cannot stop your father from publishing the March edition, but the Ministry might," she said, finding the blonde perched in a windowsill, sketching something unfamiliar. "And Umbridge will prevent anyone from getting a copy inside the castle. Can your father transfigure the copies to look like Witch Weekly or something equally innocuous?"

Luna blinked slowly at her. "He might," she said thoughtfully.

"Or can he print a special run for those inside the castle, one that has Nargles as the cover story, and no mention of the interview on the front?" Bronach's mind was whirling. Umbridge, like most, would likely disregard The Quibbler unless given reason to search it. "And in any copy, could he direct all comments on the article to be delivered to my account manager at Gringotts?"

Luna smiled gently at her. "Don't forget to breathe," she patted Bronach's hand gently, packing up her supplies. "But how am I supposed to warn my father if the mail is being censored?"

"I can have a message passed covertly to him, but it's not something I can risk using frequently," Bronach said, not willing to explain further in the corridor. Thankfully, Luna had picked a window in an out of the way corridor without any nearby portraits, but it was still too open for Bronach's preference.

"Then I will have a letter for you tomorrow, after breakfast," Luna said with a warm smile. "Keep hope, Bronach."

"Closer than any other," Bronach replied automatically, the old joke slipping from her lips unheeded. But Luna only smiled broadly.

"You deserve something good," the girl said before she skipped away.

Bronach pulled herself from sleep like a drowning man pulled himself ashore. In the privacy of her bedhangings, she gasped for breath, hands fisting in the bedcovers as if she could anchor herself through them.

The dreams had been getting worse as she watched the signs of the Ministry crumpling. Amelia Bones and her allies had clearly not realized the censorship happening at Hogwarts, and Bronach dared not send word, unsure as to how they had been discovered. The Quibbler had been banned, but the students were talking about it anyway. Umbridge was cracking down harder, though she didn't dare put a single student in detention, not after Bronach had turned up for the first five the woman had tried to issue.

She stared down at the tangle of bedcovers in her lap, wishing desperately for the comforting warmth of her partners. From under her pillow, Bronach withdrew the slate she had received from Sirius, something she hadn't dared to leave behind but didn't trust to the safety of the dormitories.

The Unspeakable had spoken of multiple people who might be called. Does Merlin's enchantment require the magical world to be at a crossroads? She thought as she ran her fingers over the surface of the slate.

Unsettlingly like Riddle's diary, words bubbled to the surface. There is power in magical numbers.

Which number, Bronach thought, though she had a sinking suspicion that she already knew, and that she knew who the others were.

Tall ships and tall kings bloomed on the slate, though jaggedly, like television static, as if the slate was having a hard time conveying the answer, or reading her history.

Three then, Bronach thought, and the slate stayed blank this time. Are all affected equally?

To each their own, the slate replied unhelpfully. There is a preference, there always is, but an individual must act.

A preference?

Merlin had his preferences, and they influenced the spell, how could they not? But the spell is mostly impartial, and cares little for notions of human rights and wrongs. It calls to those with potential, regardless of how they will use it.

Unease curdled in her gut. Riddle and Dumbledore would be the likely other two, and she had the sinking feeling that the strength of her calling was due to the preference the slate referenced. The longer she delayed, the more likely it would be that the calling for the other two would strengthen, and she shuddered to think of a world under Riddle's rule. Dumbledore was less outwardly fearful, but she knew what he had once desired, knew the harm he had done to her and to many in the name of the greater good.

I do not wish to choose, she thought, gripping the edges of the slate so hard she felt it digging into her palms. I do not wish for this.

Perhaps that is why you will succeed when I failed, the slate mused.

I have not decided yet, she frowned down at the slate.

You will, soon enough. The calling will not go away until you have.

Bronach closed her eyes, but the images from her dream were there waiting for her. I cannot, she thought, and even to herself it sounded weak.

You will, the slate read when she opened her eyes, and Bronach couldn't help but feel as if it was sad, understanding of her inner turmoil.

As the slate had promised, the dreams did not go away.

March was over halfway through, and they had increased in frequency and urgency. Aragorn had mentioned that his own dreams were fraught with fragmented visions, the latent divinatory talent he had displayed in Arda blooming in the magic-rich environment they'd been transplanted to. Even Arwen was feeling the reverberations of it, her needlework often reflecting bits of what Bronach had seen, though they rarely spoke openly of it.

None of them talked about what decision lay before her, and Bronach was grateful for it. It was hard enough to debate in her own mind, let alone discuss with the two people she valued most.

Her head ached, and she poked listlessly at the stew that was being served for dinner. Hermione had given her the gimlet eye when Bronach had sat down without serving herself anything, but her head ached too much for food to be appealing. Still, she'd put a serving onto her plate and spent most of dinner rearranging it, aware that Hermione was not the only one watching her with concern.

She'd dreamed of what she assumed was the chamber in the Department of Mysteries where the crown was kept: eerie gray walls with tapestries that flickered in and out of sight, and the empty pedestal in the center of the room that never failed to fill her with dread.

There was a DA meeting that night, but she was considering canceling, and possibly giving in to the urge to hide herself away in Aragorn and Arwen's quarters with a warm rag over her face and her head in someone's lap while their fingers ran through her hair. It wouldn't stop the visions, but it would likely be far more restful than any of her nights had been of late.

Even Snape was starting to pick up on the oppressive weight of the visions. During their latest Occlumancy lesson, he'd been particularly acerbic about her lack of witty commentary. She'd let him stew in the Malenhad for the rest of their session while she watched the stars above Nenuial from the Evenrills.

Hermione was opening her mouth, likely to say something about the lack of actual eating Bronach was managing, but it was lost as a feeling like a staff-blow struck her, sending her swaying sideways. But, before she could fall into whomever was sitting beside her, Bronach's hands and knees hit gray flagstones. Around her, walls of similar stone rose up, but the tapestries were no longer flickering in and out of view.

She knew the motifs, even if she wished she didn't. The Cauldron. The Ship. The Fortress, gray-blue stones whole and new, and then in ruins, the bodies of many scattered around it. The Sword, bright and terrible as it hung before waters shrouded by mist.

Before her was the empty plinth, but behind it was a tapestry blank of any image, devoid of any magic. She straightened, rising up off her hands and back onto her haunches, but before she could do much more, the plinth was no longer empty.

Blood flowed sluggishly down the sides, thick and coagulated, pooling on the floor under the bones, white and stripped of all flesh, that were now gathered at its base.

The ones who failed, something seemed to tell her, devoid of any emotion about those who had died in the attempt to answer the call. But you will not be one of them.

I have not chosen, she tried to say, but her voice wouldn't work.

You will, whatever it was said to her, sounding almost proud, and more than a little smug.

You can't make me, Bronach's hands curled into fists as she glared at the empty plinth.

I won't need to, the voice said, amusement nearly tangible as it seemed to curl around her. You will come yourself.

You are not the only Called.

Bronach swallowed hard. Clearly, the forbearance permitted by Merlin's preference was wearing thin. How long would it take for Dumbledore to discern the nature of the dreams that would begin? How long would it take for Riddle to descend upon the Ministry and take the crown, and the magical world, by force?

You see? The voice crooned. Why need I make you, when you shall come?

As suddenly as it begun, it was over, and Bronach was panting as she stared at her plate, vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the tops of her thighs. Hermione was looking at her with concern, but Bronach ignored her friend, instead looking to the Head Table.

Dumbledore looked unaffected, talking quietly with McGonagall as he often did these days, but she only paid him a passing glance. It was on Aragorn, and to Arwen, that her eyes landed, and her heart seemed as loud as a drum as Aragorn looked up, pale and shocked, Arwen's hand on his shoulder steadying him as he wavered.

For a long moment they stared at each other, and she knew in her bones that he had seen what she had, the vision traveling along the bonds that lay dormant between them. He must be more susceptible with his own divinatory talent. Arwen seemed less disturbed, more concerned by what her partners were undergoing than by anything she had seen.

Something seemed to snap within her, and Bronach shoved back blindly from the bench, her fingers feeling as if they were burning with power. The vision of the empty tapestry hovered before her eyes as she fled the Great Hall, heedless of the protests and calls of the other students.

She was running, running through the halls that had once shuddered and broken around her, and for a long, terrifying moment she couldn't center herself in reality. Students had died in these halls, the stones splashed with spellwork and blood alike, and as she ran, the image of what had been seemed overlaid with what was, until she stumbled, half-blind, through the doors of the workroom.

To her surprise, it was not empty.

Sybill Trelawney rose from the chair by the fire, the only light in the room beyond the moonlight pouring through the windows. It was the only time Bronach had seen her out of her tower, save for Christmas Dinner during her third year and the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Things are afoot this night," Trelawney said quietly, her eyes knowing. "The loom is warped."

Bronach hesitated, glancing at the loom she usually used, one of her own, and finding that the professor was correct. Trelawney must have done it herself, since Bronach had finished the last of the weaving she needed to do at the end of February.

"Center yourself, and take up the shuttle," Trelawney urged, and Bronach felt the magic in her fingers burn stronger. Stiffening her spine, Bronach turned away from the loom and towards the cubby she used when she visited.

Methodically, blindly, she disrobed, hanging and folding her garments until she was skyclad. Arwen had added a curtained alcove to the classroom at the start of term, and the basin waiting there was already full of clear, cool water. Uncaring, she splashed it against her skin, washing the traces of magic from it until there was only what was left in her hands waiting to be expressed, her hair coming down and unbound to release the magic she used there.

Once she was clean and empty of stray magic, she reached for the undyed shift hanging on a peg and slipped into it before stepping beyond the curtain and facing the loom once more.

It was warped in white, the shuttle waiting innocently on the bench, and she hesitated.

"Take up the shuttle," the professor murmured, and Bronach closed her eyes and gave in, feeling the magic in her fingers burn as she picked up the shuttle, and then she consciously knew no more, the magic overwhelming her until there was nothing but the movement of the shuttle and the loom.

Chapter Text

Aragorn had not stopped to smooth ruffled feathers as he followed Bronach's departure from the Great Hall. He had hurried, as best as he could, but he was shaky on his feet, caught unawares by the potency, and the implications, of what he had just seen. By the time he, and Arwen who had supported him, reached the doors of Arwen's classroom, Bronach was disappearing behind the curtain where he knew a basin and shift waited.

It is to be a great working then, he thought with resignation as they entered the classroom. But his attention was caught by the woman standing by the fire, watching the curtain Bronach had disappeared behind.

He had been aware of the Divination Professor, Bronach having described her over the course of their time together, but he had never met the woman in person. Tonight though, she had come to Arwen's workroom without alerting Bronach, who he knew had laid wards around it to tell her of the comings and goings, and seemed to know what had transpired.

"Come sit," she said, gesturing to the chairs gathered before the fire. "It will be a long night."

Sinking into the chair, Aragorn wondered when he had last felt as unsteady as a new colt. "Did you See?" he asked, wondering what had brought her here.

"Fate moves tonight," she said, her eyes remaining fixed on the curtain. "Those who can feel it, know so."

Bronach emerged, and at the prompting of the professor, sat at the loom, seemingly unaware that he and Arwen had followed. He had not seen her this consumed in a magical working...ever.

"It will be a long night," the professor repeated, returning to her chair and holding out something to Arwen. "You may not have Seen, but your hands seek an outlet nonetheless."

Arwen looked startled at being addressed, but took the basket the woman offered. His wife made a small noise of surprise as she withdrew a fresh cloth in a frame, clearly waiting for her.

"Work your stitches, and see what they tell you," the professor said before turning to Aragorn. "You and I, we will discuss your visions. Miss Potter and I will have to have a discussion regarding her silence on your gift."

His stomach churned at the memory of the vision, and he closed his eyes, trying to ignore how it looked for a moment that instead of a rug, the floor was covered in blood.

"Tell me of it," the woman said softly. "What did you See?"

"A stone plinth in a stone room," he whispered hoarsely. "Old bones and old blood."

"I knew that she bore a burden of Fate," Trelawney said after a long moment of contemplation. "I did not know that it was such a Fate."

"The calling has been growing worse," he admitted, recalling his fragmented dreams, and the haunted look in Bronach's eyes when she thought nobody else was paying attention. "I see it in my dreams, the what ifs and could bes."

He hadn't said as much to Bronach, not willing to burden her, but the dreams had changed after Yule. Aragorn had seen the crown, something he wasn't certain Bronach had, had seen Bronach wearing it despite the bloody smudges left on the metal. Had seen her throwing open the doors of the Great Hall even as her hands and feet left bloody marks on the wood and stone. And in the distance behind her, there had been a throne.

The night before he had dreamed of the throne in the greatest detail yet. He had seen Bronach perched upon it, wearing robes as rich as any of her court gowns, the crown gleaming upon her brow. Arwen had stood to her left, a step behind, and Aragorn had stood on her right, the place where Faramir had stood for him, where Daervunn had.

They had dreamed of quiet retirement, of small cottages and a family shared entirely, of their own desires above duty, but it seemed as if that could be stolen away at the whim of a long dead wizard and a crumbling society. The worst of it was that he knew Bronach, knew Arwen, knew himself.

None of them would put desire over duty, not when duty called and there was nobody else to answer.

A hand patted his own, startling him out of his thoughts.

"We will take tea together," she said firmly. "We will take tea, and I will share with you how those gifted with the Sight might manage it."

"And what about them?" Aragorn asked, looking from Arwen, absorbed in her needlework, to Bronach, completely overtaken by whatever working she was caught by.

"They will finish when they are finished," Trelawney said firmly. "Now, call for your elf, and we will have tea."

Obediently, Aragorn called for Kreacher, who looked just as unnerved as Aragorn felt, but willingly provided a tea tray. The tea in the pot was familiar: Bronach's self-proclaimed Bender Tea, and Aragorn found it settling his nerves as he sipped, as wholesome as athelas to his disturbed spirit.

Arwen finished sometime in the wee hours after midnight, her embroidery falling from her hand into her lap. Aragorn did not look at it as he tucked it into her workbasket; it was not his to view, not without permission, and Arwen looked drained. He coaxed her into eating a bit of dry toast that Kreacher brought, even as she drank the cup of tea he pressed into her hands. Then he settled her on one of he couches and covered her with a blanket, knowing she was too exhausted for much more.

The weariness hung on him as well, but he pushed it aside. Already, the Headmaster had stopped by several times to inquire after Bronach's strange actions, and Aragorn had practically thrown Umbridge from the room as the witch demanded answers and punishments. Minerva's inquires as to Bronach and Arwen's wellbeing were far more welcome, especially as they stopped after curfew, and to his surprise, Snape also had visited to inquire after their health.

Bronach had been developing a type of camaraderie with the man, he knew, in a way that seemed inscrutable to anyone who wasn't a spy, but Aragorn hadn't realized that she was on her way to winning the man's loyalty.

Trelawney kept vigil with him through the night to the hour before dawn when Bronach's hands finally faltered, the break in the rhythmic sound of her weaving enough to startle Aragorn from his doze. As he sat up, he watched her hands slow and stop, and then he hurried to catch her as she toppled slowly off her bench, clearly exhausted.

"Are you well?" he asked as he cradled her gently to him, uncaring of what the professor might think. She looked unharmed, but equally weary.

"Drained," she said, her voice scratchy as she blinked up at him. "Just...drained."

Kreacher brought a fresh cup of tea, and Aragorn helped her drink it, steadying her hands as they shook. He offered toast, but she shook her head, eyelids drooping.

"Let her rest," the professor advised from the chair by the fire. "She has worked a great working, but needs only to rest and recover the strength she has spent."

So Kreacher laid a pallet of blankets on the floor by the fire, Aragorn unwilling to let either of his partners out of his sight for the moment. As he settled Bronach, she made a soft protest.

"I should," she began, but he shushed her gently, brushing her hair out of her face.

"You should rest," he murmured as he pressed her gently back into the blankets and pillows. "It will be here when you wake, unless you wish me to destroy it?"

"No," she protested weakly, eyes already fluttering shut. "No, that...would be...bad..." Her voice trailed off, and he was glad to see that she had fallen into sleep.

"They will be well when they have rested," Trelawney said, rising from her chair. "And now it is time for you to rest as well. Let your faithful servant keep watch while you sleep."

It made something in Aragorn burn with shame to admit it, but he was nearing the end of his strength. His own vision had wearied him in a way that naught but wrestling with the palantir ever had, and he felt in sore need of rest. This time, at least, there was not a harrowing ride and promise of war before him, and he could rest and recover as he ought to.

Kreacher appeared before him, looking stubborn as he laid out a blanket and pillow on the other couch near the fire. Taking the hint, Aragorn stretched himself out and got as comfortable as he could, vaguely aware of Trelawney departing and Kreacher taking up the watch.

When she woke, it was not to peaceful silence or the singing of birds, but the irritating sense that something was amiss and the echoes of distant shouting.

"Mistress should not be awake," Kreacher muttered, rising from where he'd been crouched by the fire. "Mistress should be asleep yet."

"Too late," Bronach said, finding her voice raspy and hoarse. Her body obeyed, but creakily, as she pushed herself upright. Aragorn and Arwen were sitting upright on the couches, clearly also awakened by the clamor.

"How long?" she asked, clearing her throat in an attempt to make her voice work better.

"Not long," Aragorn assured her, looking weary. "It just started."

Kreacher pressed a mug of tea into her hands, and she sipped it automatically, unsurprised to find the familiar taste of her Bender Tea. The warmth of it was soothing, both to her troubled mind and to the ache in her hands that spoke of a great magical working. The shouting increased in volume once more, and she heard running feet in the hall as the wards twanged.

It was one of Arwen's students, so Bronach didn't bother attempting to make herself presentable. They'd all come to an unspoken agreement not to discuss anything that happened in the classroom outside the classroom or other secured space.

Hermione burst through the door without knocking. "She's trying to sack Trelawney!" her friend gasped, hanging onto the door knob. "I don't know what's going on, but Umbridge is in the Entrance Hall with a warrant of dismissal."

"Absolutely not," Bronach snapped, setting her tea aside. Previously, she'd been fine letting the woman get sacked, but now that she understood a bit more about Divination, and about the Professor herself, it was impossible for her to stay silent. Especially since it was likely in direct response to Trelawney's assistance the night before.

"Can you stand?" Aragorn asked, swinging his legs over the side of the couch he'd been resting on.

"Time to find out," she said grimly, pressing her hands on the warm stones of the fireplace and levering herself up. Her legs shook, but held, and she took an experimental step away from the supporting wall. Then another, and another.

"You'll want an overrobe," Arwen said, reaching for one of her own robes, draped across a chair near the couch where she was sitting. Bronach wrapped it around her, feeling slightly more tethered by the weight of it.

There was no time to dress her hair, or even to find shoes. As she hurried after Hermione, cold stone under her bare feet, Bronach dug deep into her connection with the castle, asking for it to lend her strength.

As Hermione had described, Umbridge and Trelawney were shouting at each other in the Entrance Hall, surrounded by curious and frightened students. McGonagall was also there, looking frustrated, but Dumbledore was absent.

"You will not turn me out of this castle like a beggar!" Trelawney shouted as an Auror walked down the stairs, conducting a train of trunks in his wake. "And I did not give you permission to touch my things!"

"Under Educational Decree Twenty-Nine, I have the sole authority to dismiss staff who impede the High Inquisitor's work," Umbridge said, face red as she gestured with a scroll she was holding. "And by your own admission, you interfered with my efforts to punish Miss Potter for her behavior last night."

"She was a student caught in a Divinatory event!" Trelawney snapped, shawls and necklaces swaying wildly. "To disrupt it as it peaked would cause damage!"

"There is no such thing as a Divinatory event!" Umbridge shrieked. "Too long have you, and other members of staff, enabled Miss Potter's poor behavior! This ends today!"

"You can dismiss a staff member, High Inquisitor, but you have no authority to remove one from the castle," Bronach interjected, and the students parted to let her through. "That authority is reserved for the Headmaster."

"You will not lecture me on the rules of this castle Miss Potter," the toad snarled, rounding on her and pointing a stubby finger in her direction. "And I would be more concerned about the consequences of your actions."

"The school cannot punish a student for a magical outburst which harmed nobody and could not be interrupted without risking damage to the student," Bronach said coolly. "As I, quite literally, would have suffered severe backlash had I been interrupted or stopped last night, there can be no punishment, even if you were allowed to punish members of House Potter and House Black."

"Be that as it may," Umbridge's voice was practically a grown, face purpling as the students watching began to whisper, "as I am currently the Headmistress of this school, due to Professor Dumbledore's dismissal last night, I do in fact possess the authority to remove Madame Trelawney."

That Dumbledore had been removed shocked Bronach, but she had also been expecting it. Idly, she wondered if one of the portraits in the Headmaster's office could be convinced to describe the scene, assuming it had taken place there. "Congratulations on your appointment, Headmistress," she said, not bothering to hide her scorn.

Ignoring Umbridge, she approached Trelawney, now surrounded by her trunks and under the watchful eye of the auror that Umbridge was clearly using as her enforcer. Casting a privacy ward with a wince, Bronach murmured. "Request sanctuary from House Black."

Trelawney's eyes were wide, but she managed to make the request. Bronach granted it, feeling the magical link form between them. "Call for Kreacher, a house elf of House Black, and request that he collect your belongings. Then, go to the school gates and call for him again. He will take you to safety. I will send a message as soon as I can, explaining as much as I can, but it is imperative that you remain inside the place that he takes you."

"Thank you," Trelawney whispered, clasping Bronach's hands with her own shaking ones. "We did not see eye to eye in previous years, but I am glad that you have found your Sight."

"I am grateful for your protection while I was caught by it," Bronach said truthfully. "I would not have been able to protect myself."

"You are a good girl," Trelawney said, patting her hand once before dropping it and calling for Kreacher as Bronach had instructed.

Umbridge fumed as Trelawney's luggage disappeared, but could say nothing as the woman marched out the door with her head held high. The auror followed, when Umbridge glared at him, but Bronach knew that Kreacher would ensure that Trelawney safely reached Grimmauld Place and the shelter of its wards.

"Now, Miss Potter," Umbridge said, as the doors closed behind the pair, "there is the matter of your discipline to attend to."

"You have no authority to discipline members of House Potter and House Black," Bronach said quietly, turning to face her. "Not without my direct and explicit permission, and not unless they have breached the original charter of this school. As I have not breached the charter, you cannot punish me."

"You are not legally the Head of any House!" Umbridge snapped.

"I was emancipated by the Ministry when I was allowed to participate in the Tournament last year," Bronach's voice was short. "And magical recognition, particularly in Houses where there are no members of legal age, trumps all. As the last blood member of House Potter, and one of the last eligible members of House Black, I am the only candidate, setting aside the magical recognition."

She looked at Umbridge, who was clearly livid. "If you insist on proof, I will go to the Ministry and I will sit in the seat of my Houses and you will see the truth of what I have declared."

"You will not leave school grounds," the toad squawked, stamping her foot. "I forbid you!"

"Then we are at an impasse, Madame Inquisitor," Bronach murmured, dipping her head a fraction. "As there can be no further discussion, I must attend to my recovery."

She made her way out of the Entrance Hall, ignoring Umbridge's shouts for her to return, and the exponential docking of House Points. Around her, the students were staring, and whispering, but she didn't care. Her eyes were fixed on Aragorn and Arwen, waiting in the shadows of the corridor leading to Arwen's classroom, and her mind was on the loom, waiting for her.

Neither of her partners said a word, simply falling in behind her. It was comforting, but terrifying. For so many years, it had been her place to be a step behind them, deferring to their leads, and while they'd known that would shift in this world, her home territory, it now seemed like an extension of her vision, the prospect of a future which terrified her.

"Where did you send her?" Aragorn asked quietly as the doors to Arwen's workroom closed behind them.

"Grimmauld," Bronach rubbed her face, giving in to the tiredness. "She'll be safe from all sides there."

"What now?" Arwen sank down onto one of the couches.

"I suppose we should talk about last night," Bronach caved and settled herself in the armchair closest to the fire. "As little as I desire it."

Her partners snorted in unison, and Bronach smiled briefly. "What did you see?"

"Shards," Aragorn said quietly. "A stone plinth surrounded by old bones and old blood."

"I saw nothing, but I felt it move through you," Arwen said, and reached for her workbasket, on the floor next to the couch. She withdrew an embroidery frame and gazed at it for a long moment, lips pursing.

"Do you wish to share?" Bronach asked softly.

"Wish to?" Arwen laughed, though there was no humor in it. "It is not a matter of my wishes, I think."

She passed it to Bronach, and the feel of her partner's magic against her own was so jarring that Bronach nearly dropped the frame to the floor. Not even since they'd arrived here had Bronach felt something this imbued with Arwen's power. Even Aragorn's standard hadn't been this dense, and that was the most magical object Bronach knew Arwen to have crafted.

With trembling fingers, she examined the piece. It was simple, but she could feel the weight of it in her bones.

A black crow on a red background, crowned, perched on crossed staves.

It was so very close to the heraldry she'd used as the ambassador to the Trév Gállorg, which had been a crow on a red background, but the staves were new, to say nothing of the crown. The sinking feeling in her gut intensified as she passed it to Aragorn.

"I do not wish to look," she said, looking down at her own hands, "but I believe I know what I wove last night."

"I will look for you," Aragorn said, passing the embroidered piece back to Arwen.

He was not gone long before he returned, a grim look on his face.

"You have no need to make another standard it seems," Bronach told Arwen tiredly.

"What is it that you want?" Arwen said softly. "You need not accept this, if you don't want it."

"Three is a magical number," Bronach murmured, leaning her head back against the chair. "And there is apparently some level of preferential treatment involved. If not me, it will be Dumbledore or Riddle, and with those choices..."

Both of her partners grimaced. "We cannot make this choice for you, but we will support which choice you make," Aragorn said, reaching out to rest his hand on her knee. "No matter what."

"Even if we leave here and go into hiding in the middle of nowhere?" Bronach asked, half serious.

"Then we would gladly go into hiding with you," Arwen assured her. "We came here because we would not be parted with you, and that has not changed."

"I do not know my own mind on this matter," Bronach admitted.

Aragorn shrugged. "It matters not. Where would we go in the meantime?"

All three of them shared a tired laugh, and Bronach let her head lean against the side of the chair back. "Mistress should drink more tea and rest," Kreacher said, appearing suddenly. "Mistresses and Master. The Seer is in a guest room and comfortable," he informed her, a pot of tea materializing in his hands.

"Thank you Kreacher," she said, accepting the cup that he pressed into her hand. "Please let me know if anything changes."

"Kreacher will," the house elf assured her. "Rest," he ordered, and then popped away after seeing that Aragorn and Arwen each had a cup of tea.

"I refuse to argue with him," Bronach told her partners as she sipped at her tea, feeling some of the strain ease. "Not when I'm this weary."

"You won't hear me complain," Arwen yawned and finished off her tea before stretching out on the couch.

"If you sleep like that, you'll hurt tomorrow," Aragorn chided Bronach lightly.

"Fine," she muttered, and eased herself into the nest of blankets by the fire. Their warmth helped lull her to sleep, and mercifully it was without dream or vision.

"We know what she will do, do we not?" Arwen asked Aragorn as he readied himself for bed.

He glanced at her, pulling his robe over his head. "She does not yet know."

"She knows," Arwen corrected him. "She has not accepted it yet. Like you hadn't."

Her husband tried to protest, but Arwen shushed him. "When you came away from my father's house after asking for my hand, you knew what you must do to win his approval, but you were not resolved to it. Not then. Bronach is the same. She knows what she must do, to prevent the future she lived, or worse, becoming our reality. But she does not wish to accept it. Not yet."

"We cannot make the decision for her," Aragorn sat down on the bed next to her. "Nobody can."

"I am not saying we should," Arwen leaned into him. "But there are preparations to be made."

"A queen must have her steward," Aragorn said thoughtfully. "I will serve, until she appoints another."

"More importantly, she must have her regalia," Arwen called for Kreacher, the house elf appearing promptly. "Kreacher, I would like you to bring me all of Bronach's court finery, and the armor best suited to her unique mix of magical and non-magical combat sometime tomorrow. Additionally, while I know that you cannot keep this from her if she asks, I ask you not to mention my request to her."

"Mistress is going to do something with Mistress's clothing?" Kreacher looked skeptical.

"Kreacher, what do you know of the choice before Bronach?" Aragorn asked softly.

The house elf looked grim. "Old magics," he said unhappily. "Very old magics. Kreacher hears the call echoed in Mistress's bond."

"Then you can guess why I wish to assess her wardrobe," Arwen said grimly. "And I would also ask that you bring whatever court regalia that I brought with me."

"Kreacher will do as Mistress asks," the house elf said with a low bow before he disappeared.

"You intend to tailor her a wardrobe befitting of a queen in an unknown amount of days?" Aragorn brushed a kiss over her forehead. "Let me handle her armor. That was never your strong suit."

"Gladly," Arwen snorted, remembering the last time she tried to mend something of Aragorn's that had worn during battle. "I would not ruin it with my ill-suited hands."

"She would love that you thought of her," Aragorn leaned back into their pillows, taking her with him. Arwen rested her head on his chest, feeling Bronach's absence like a gaping hole. "Though she would wish that you hadn't felt the need to do so."

"I wish that this was not set before her," Arwen admitted. "Not because I do not wish it for myself, but because this world has never stopped asking of her. So much so, that when she came to our own, she threw herself into our battles."

"She chose it," Aragorn said bitterly. "She learned to love the Rangers, and through that love, rode to battle with them." He paused for a long moment. "Did either of us ever tell you of our conversation on the banks of the Anduin, before the Fellowship was broken at Parth Galen?"

"No," Arwen said, shifting so that she could look at him. "I assume this was not a simple conversation about watches or rations?"

"She told me that she could see the conflict between my desire to go with Frodo, and my desire to hasten to the aid of my people." Aragorn's eyes were distant. "She called herself a weapon of the Free Peoples."

Arwen hissed in indignation on Bronach's behalf, and much desired to hunt down each and every person who had ever made her partner feel that way.

"I can still remember her words," he admitted, tone full of grief. "I was forged for a war my people fought, and when I had survived against the odds, I found there was no further use for weapons. A sword does not cease to be a sword when the battle ends, and it was too late to reforge myself."

Umbridge and appearances bedamned, Arwen was half a breath away from breaking into Gryffindor Tower and spiriting her partner away from this place, from these people. Aragorn seemed to sense her mood, and his arm tightened around her.

"I do not like that magic itself continues to reinforce this perception," he said sourly. "And I dislike that I can feel the hand of fate moving in her life, ever since we returned."

"There was never going to be a quiet cottage in a forest, was there?" Arwen asked, heart breaking for the dream of peaceful retirement they had all shared.

Aragorn was quiet for a moment. "No," he said heavily, with the same certainty she had known from his occasional brushes with foretelling. "Not unless we all betrayed ourselves."

A tear slipped down her cheek, grief for the lost dream. Arwen's mind went back to the first morning, waking up in Grimmauld Place. Of Bronach's hesitant, mention of bearing a child, of the creation of a family that had been denied to her by the magic which had prolonged her life.

There would always be a gap in their family where the lost members would have stood: her parents, Aragorn's parents, her brothers, the children she had borne Aragorn, but they could have made a family as a triad, something Bronach had always been excluded from by necessity.

She had been Queen and mother, had seen the courtiers observing every minute of her pregnancies and every choice she made. Had watched her children grow up under the scrutiny of the court, shielded as best she could but never completely. And that was as the wife of the King, not as a ruling Queen.

Bronach, should she choose to bear a child, would face far greater scrutiny, for all that their children would not be bound to the crown as those that Arwen had borne would have been.

"And will we stand openly with her, as consorts?" Arwen asked, wondering what Aragorn thought. They could certainly shield the depth of their relationship, to protect Bronach and themselves, as Bronach had for them. It would be a sacrifice, but one Arwen would make for Bronach, who had already sacrificed much for them.

"That will be up to her," Aragorn said, but she could tell from the inflection of his voice that he didn't relish the thought. "She will have my steadfast support in whatever I may offer."

"Of course," Arwen rolled her eyes.

"It is not what I would wish," he admitted quietly. "I would desire to stand openly by her side, to share both mourning and celebration, to lessen an already heavy burden by not adding to it with a secret bound to the very core of her being."

"It is not what I would wish either," Arwen said, a yawn interrupting her. "But as you said, I will follow her lead."

"Oh will you now?" her husband teased, and she swatted him tiredly. "I have never known you to blindly obey."

"When there was a danger to my life?" Arwen tucked herself closer to him, feeling sleep settling heavily over her. "I would obey immediately. But I said nothing of obedience, merely following."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "A semantic matter, but you are indeed correct."

"I always am."

Chapter Text

"You look like shit," Sirius muttered, wrapping her in his arms.

"Nice to see you too," Bronach complained, but she leaned into his embrace, seeking comfort. "You look good."

"Been out riding my bike, since the weather's gotten better," Sirius drew back to study her. "Not sure how a few months at Hogwarts made you look like..." He waved his hand at her whole body. "This. I don't remember even our NEWT years being that bad, and they were the worst of our school years."

"It's not a school, it's a fascist state," Hermione muttered as she started up the stairs. "Can I use the library?"

"It should be safe," Bronach told her. "I will send Kreacher to pull you out for meals though."

"Thanks," her friend called, already distracted. Bronach had seen the study schedules Hermione had written, and appreciated that the girl was willing to leave behind the castle's library, even if the Black library was open.

"Did you have to tell her that?" Ron asked as he dragged his trunk up the stairs after her. "Now we're never going to escape from her schedules."

"It will be good for you," Bronach shrugged. "Think of what your mother would say if you brought home poor grades."

"Don't even dare," Ginny threatened her brother. "If I have to listen to you getting yelled at all summer, I'm going to murder you myself."

"Charming family, aren't they?" Fred commented to George, who stroked his chin. "Truly, you can feel the sibling love."

"Begone you two," Sirius laughed. "Your mother said she'd come over when your father got home from work."

Bronach had wondered why it was just Moody, Vance, and Remus waiting for them at the station, but she was glad not to be hovered over.

"Come have some tea," Arwen said, opening the dining room doors. "I am sure Kreacher will have dinner ready soon, but you need a cup of tea."

Remus and Sirius followed them into the dining room, settling in their chairs as Arwen fussed about making Bronach a cup of tea. It did not escape Bronach's notice that it was her Bender tea.

The first sip soothed a ragged edge inside her that she hadn't realized was growing. There was an unfamiliar flavor to the tea, and she took another sip, trying to puzzle it out. By the third sip, she had it. "Vale Honey," Bronach glanced over the top of her cup to Arwen, who had settled with a cup of tea of her own.

"It is fortifying," her partner retorted.

Not able to argue against the need for it, Bronach simply took another sip. "What do you want to know?" she asked Sirius and Remus, who had been watching the conversation with curiosity.

"What happened?" Sirius burst out, leaning forward slightly. "You look like Mooney leading into the full moon."

"Thanks Pads," Remus said dryly. "But truly, you look rather ill."

"I have not been sleeping well," Bronach admitted with a sigh.

"Dreams?" Sirius and Remus shared an alarmed look.

"They are not from Riddle," she said, wondering what Dumbledore had been telling the Order about her previous horcrux-created connection with the dark lord. "They are something else entirely."

Remus narrowed his eyes at her. "Does this have anything to do with what you asked me over the Christmas holidays?"

"What did she ask you over the holidays?" Sirius whipped his head around to look at his friend.

Bronach shut the dining room doors with a wave of her hand and warded them. "I have it on very good authority that the Crown is calling out to me."

"The Crown?" Sirius looked puzzled, and then his face cleared before darkening. "Oh. That Crown."

"That Crown indeed," Bronach knew her chuckle was humorless. "It is getting rather insistent, especially as things continue to deteriorate."

"There haven't been any attacks though?" Remus said with a frown. "Truth be told, it's rather quiet."

"The Ministry continues to destabilize, between the paranoia of Fudge and the facisim of Umbridge." Bronach rubbed her temples. "Already, the situation is at least as bad as it was previously, and the situation at Hogwarts has gone further than that."

"You haven't said much in your letters lately," Sirius scratched his head. "Actually, I can't recall the last time you sent a letter."

"Umbridge is currently censoring all incoming and outgoing mail," Aragorn said flatly. "There is no safe way to get information out of the castle, beyond house elf, and we are trying to avoid using that too often lest she notice."

"What about Hogsmeade visits?" Remus said. "I could meet you there, collect letters?"

"There has not been one since Valentine's," Arwen told him. "Quite frankly, it amazes me the students were allowed to return home for Easter."

"If she could have restricted everyone to the castle, she would have," Bronach said glumly, finishing her tea. "I think, if she was not concerned about what the other students would say to their families, she would have attempted to prevent me from leaving with some trumped up rule."

"How could she be allowed to do that?" Sirius's face was dark with anger. "That's blatant Ministry meddling in the school!"

"The Board of Governors is impotent and follows the Minister. Fudge managed to write his laws and decrees in a way that just slides around the Charter-imposed limits. I had to declare the entire school under the protection of House Potter to stop her from torturing students with a Blood Quill."

They looked at her, aghast. "She was...with a...?" Remus seemed at a loss for words.

"If you murder her, you'll go back to Azkaban," Bronach told Sirius, who looked a hair away from jumping out of his seat and going up to the school.

"Worth it," he said after a moment.

"No," she told him coolly. "It would not be. And she is mine."

Aragorn winced. "I would not challenge her on that," he told Sirius, who sat down mulishly and crossed his arms. "Besides, whatever she ends up doing, it will be fitting."

"You act as if I commit revenge frequently."

"You do not," Arwen assured her. "But when you do, it is both just and well-deserved."

Bronach wondered if Aragorn had told her about Tur Morva, and decided she didn't want to open up that subject now. "Setting aside Umbridge's well-earned future, the long and short of my current condition is due to the nightly calling that I have not yet decided whether I will pursue or ignore."

Both men stared at her, and then looked at each other. "Will Dreamless Sleep help?" Remus asked, looking as if he was girding himself for some struggle. "We can obtain it, if it would."

"I have a stock," she told him, suspecting that his method of obtaining it would be groveling to Snape. "It will not work."

"So what's your plan then?" Sirius asked, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "If Dreamless Sleep won't work, and the calling won't go away until it's answered..."

"See how long I can wait until I have to decide or break," Bronach shrugged. "It is my only option, truly."

"So what's actually going on?"

Arwen looked up from the bush she was inspecting to see Sirius and Remus entering the indoor garden Bronach had created for her. "I am not entirely certain what you are referring to?"

Sirius draped himself on the nearest bench, but his eyes were too sharp for him to be as lazy as he seemed. "With my goddaughter."

"She is attempting to prevent the Ministry from destabilizing to the point where a monarch is the only solution," Arwen said with a sigh. "Unfortunately, it is going incredibly poorly."

"Did this happen before?" Remus asked curiously. "For her, at least."

"This is entirely new to her," Arwen bent to smell one of the flowers just starting to bloom. "She is understandably reluctant to discuss the matter, but from what I understand this is a situation that was created by her very existence."

Whistling lowly, Sirus leaned forward. "Because she came back with you?"

"Because she came back with two hundred years of knowledge, experience, and a better grasp of her magical abilities than any witch or wizard currently alive," Arwen took a deep breath. "From what I understand, it has something to do with threes."

"Three is a very powerful magical number," Remus said thoughtfully. "But I don't see how it impacts the Crown."

"You need three viable candidates to trigger the call, I bet." Arwen looked at Sirius when he spoke, surprised that he'd made the logical leap. Bronach had shared that tidbit with them, but Arwen and Aragorn had promised to keep it to themselves, knowing that certain elements would likely push Bronach to accept the call just because she was the best option. "And I have a feeling I know who the other two are."

Remus's eyes widened as he looked from Sirius to Arwen. "She's the neutral point, isn't she? I know she's not siding with Dumbledore, and I know her opinions on You-Know-Who..."

"Fuck," Sirius summed up, running his hand over his face. "And she's too much like her parents to not think about answering it, not with those options."

"She is too much what this world made her," Arwen retorted sharply, recalling her conversation with Aragorn the night after Trelawney had departed. "You, it...all anyone ever did was ask and take."

For a moment, she considered stopping there, but she considered the two men in front of her, and what she knew of them, what she knew of Bronach, and decided that there was more to be said.

"I tell you this because you are the closest thing she has ever had to adults that cared for her and only her," Arwen said quietly, straightening from her perusal of the bushes to look each man in the eye. "Nobody has ever put Bronach first in her life. Not since her parents died."

Both men looked as if they were about to protest, but she held up a single finger. "If either of you set foot in that...that house," she said, recalling her brief trip to Privet Drive, "you would have known that she was unwanted and mistreated there. And when she came to Hogwarts, she was the savior, the hero. Minerva and the other teachers are overworked and under-supported, and none of them chose to take her under their wing. To this day, Minerva regrets ignoring Bronach when she and her friends warned her that the Philosopher's Stone was in danger at the end of her first year. She knows exactly why Ron and Bronach did not seek her out during the Chamber of Secrets incident the year after."

Raising an eyebrow at Sirius, she continued. "Did you not stop to consider why a girl who had presumably spent twelve years knowing nothing of you but that you were a murderer, an escaped convict, agreed to live with you shortly after learning of your innocence? That is not the choice of a child who lives in a safe, comfortable home. And both of you left her once again, at the end of that year, keeping in minimal contact and offering minimal support. And again, last June, when she desperately needed someone on her side, neither of you were there."

Sirius protested. "Molly was there."

"Molly Weasley is a kind woman with a large heart, but she has seven children who are her direct concern, and no time to adjust for a child unused to relying on adults or answering to authority figures in personal matters." Arwen truly appreciated the woman, for what comfort and love she had offered per Bronach's tales, but it had always, always been clear that her judgment about Bronach the child was tempered by what Dumbledore thinks best. "All of the adults around Bronach have put the wishes of Albus Dumbledore above the needs of Bronach. It created a young woman who did not know how to prioritize herself, did not know how to ask for what she needed..." she blew out a long breath, controlling herself. "Bronach will sacrifice her personal happiness for the needs of the many. That is the pattern that she has had literally beaten into her, and some of that lies at your feet."

They both looked shocked and slightly nauseous. Arwen continued, not particularly caring for their delicate sensibilities. "She trusts you, and your opinion means a great deal to her. If you wish to support her, wish to truly take up the roles you should have played in her life, you can do your best to lighten the burden that she will take on."

"How are you so certain that she's going to answer the calling?" Sirius challenged, swallowing hard. "She could leave it to Dumbledore."

"There are skeletons in the headmaster's closet that will come out one day," Arwen said vaguely, not wanting to delve too deeply into the life and lies of Albus Dumbledore. "Needless to say, she will not let Dumbledore accept the Crown, nor will she let Riddle. Her heart is decided, it is her mind that has yet to come around. So consider this, as you wait. What is it that you can offer the Queen?"

Much as she recalled not wishing to return to Hogwarts after the winter holidays in her first go-round, Bronach wished she could remain at Grimmauld instead of returning after the Easter holidays.

Sirius and Remus had been steadfastly supportive, helping to distract the Order members who came in and out of the house and diverting Mrs. Weasley. She had even found time to take tea with Trelawney, who was, to her bemusement, thriving in the confines of Grimmauld Place, happily terrorizing its occupants with her eccentricities.

Dumbledore, who had swept through once, had complimented her on her quick thinking in relocating the Seer, but had said nothing else before exiting through the front door.

Aragorn and Arwen had split their time between the library and wherever Bronach was spending her day, but they had made a point of retiring to the Head's suite after dinner and coaxing her into joining them in relaxation. Bronach went willingly enough, glad to read from her textbooks in some light studying or listen to one of her partners read as she rested on the couch.

Curled up between her partners in their bed, she found the dreams sent by the Crown less potent, though her sleep was hardly restful. Still, any respite was welcome, and by the time she boarded the Hogwarts Express she felt better prepared to finish out the term.

"Hey, what's that?" Ron asked, squinting at the noticeboard.

"Career Advice," Dean said from the armchair he was occupying as he read through what looked like a sheaf of notes. "We've all got meetings with McGonagall."

"Really?" Hermione asked, clearly about to go off in a flurry of panic about not having prepared. Bronach tuned it out in favor of checking the time of her own appointment.

It was during the time period which should have held Divination, though no professor had been appointed since Trelawney had been sacked. Umbridge clearly didn't hold with the art, and had assigned the classes self-study using what could only be the dustiest, driest text the Ministry could dig up. So, after lunch, she skipped going to the library in favor of waiting outside McGonagall's office.

The professor gave her an approving nod when she opened the door. "Come in, Miss Potter."

As Bronach recalled, Umbridge was perched in a chair in the corner, ever-present clipboard in her lap. While Bronach and McGonagall were going through the social pleasantries of seating and offering refreshments, the toad was scribbling something on the parchment, clearly finding fault with punctuality or politeness.

"Now, Miss Potter," McGonagall began, plucking a file out of her drawer. "Have you taken any time to consider what careers you might be interested in?"

"I have," Bronach answered, wondering if she could count an entire lifetime's worth of experience. "However, I do not believe I will be pursuing a career immediately after graduation."

"Is there any particular reason?" McGonagall looked slightly concerned, and she thumbed through the parchment in the file. "Your grades for the previous four years are reasonable, and this year you seem to be putting extra effort into your work..."

Umbridge coughed, but McGonagall ignored the attempted interruption. "This year, your work has been quite good. Your professors have been very impressed with you."

Another cough. "Would you like a cough drop Dolores?" McGonagall said with a thin veneer of civility.

"No, Minerva," Umbridge tittered lightly. "I was simply surprised that you would say such a thing."

"Miss Potter has been achieving excellent grades this year," McGonagall said shortly. "I have notes from all of her professors saying as such."

"It appears you have misplaced mine," Umbridge said, slipping a slip of pink parchment out from under the stack on her clipboard and passing it to the professor, who accepted it with a minute wrinkle of her nose. Bronach couldn't blame McGonagall, even from across the desk she could smell the horrid floral perfume emanating from it. "You'll find that Miss Potter has been doing quite poorly in my class."

"I see," McGonagall put the parchment at the bottom of the file. "Well, with the exception of Defense Against the Dark Arts, there appears to be no limitations based upon your grades."

Yet another cough. "Are you quite certain, Minerva, that Miss Potter's purported academic excellence is truly deserved?"

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "Are you accusing Miss Potter of academic dishonesty?"

"It seems obvious to consider it," Umbridge smiled sweetly. "After all, a student, who by all reports has preformed no better than the average, suddenly rises to the top of their class after a...traumatic experience? You must admit, it seems suspicious."

Bronach wondered what it had cost Umbridge to refer to the Third Task as a traumatic experience. Or perhaps she was referring to the dementor attack on Little Whinging? Either way, it hardly mattered.

"I suppose we shall see what my measure is after the exams have been graded," Bronach said, keeping her voice placid. "After all, it is my understanding that the test materials will be spelled to prevent all forms of cheating, and the exams themselves are graded by Ministry-approved experts. It would be hard for false success to prevail under such conditions."

Umbridge let out a sour hmph, but McGonagall cut in before the toad could say anything else. "You are correct, Miss Potter, but is your desire to delay seeking out a career based on your expected marks?"

"No Professor, not at all," Bronach murmured. "As I am sure you are aware, I am the last of my family." Pausing a moment, Bronach waited for the slight nod of acknowledgment. "Therefore, it falls to me to manage House Potter's affairs. After my participation in the Triwizard Tournament, I found that I was magically recognized as the Head of House Potter. Over the summer, Gringotts reached out to explain my responsibilities, and I have been conducting my own research. Given the fourteen years between the death of my parents and my ascension to Head, House Potter is in a state of disarray."

She ducked her head, as if ashamed, and she heard Umbridge scoff lightly behind her. Think what you wish, Bronach thought savagely. She'd spent the summer dragging her Houses into order, at least financially, and once her investments started to pay off she'd restore the wealth of House Potter and House Black. Not that it had significantly diminished in the first place. But it had been forgotten, the vaults useless with nobody to use their influence.

"So you intend to spend your time immediately after graduation tending to your family affairs," McGonagall said, eyes narrowing. "I see. Certainly a respectable and admirable trait. But I would ask you to consider what career you would wish to pursue when your duties allow, as to help guide your NEWT selection."

"I understand Professor Snape only admits NEWT students who achieved an Outstanding at OWL level," Bronach said, rearranging her hands in her lap. "My past potions work has been below that level, but I hope that my exam marks will qualify me for a place in his class. Herbology, I think, as it compliments potions, and Charms. I'm not sure what other classes I might take. It would depend on my marks."

"Very well," Professor McGonagall sighed. "I do urge you to consider specific careers, though if you find yourself lacking the appropriate NEWTs, it is possible to take the exams with the Ministry in the future, though you would be required to self-study or hire a tutor. I will set up another appointment for us after the exams, so you can discuss anything you've been researching before the term ends. Unfortunately, I do not have time to meet again before your exams."

"Thank you for your time, Professor," Bronach inclined her head politely. "And for your commentary, Acting Headmistress."

Umbridge clearly seethed at the reminder that the castle would not accept her fully, but Bronach didn't particularly care, after the accusations she'd vomited.

She'd lied about her career plans, but she'd apologize to McGonagall later. It wouldn't do to warn Umbridge that House Potter and House Black were about to reenter the political scene and do their very best to destroy everything that Umbridge had worked for.

That is, if the Ministry pulled itself back enough for the Crown to stop calling.

She was peering into her telescope, noting down the position of Mars, when her vision blacked out.

When she blinked, instead of the familiar lens of her telescope, she saw an unfortunately familiar stone plinth.

This time, there was a wizened figure stooped behind it.

"It is time to make a decision," they said shortly. "I have delayed and stalled for long enough."

Bronach studied the figure. "A memory impression, woven into the spell?"

"You are quite intelligent," the figure cackled. "A good choice, the spell finds you."

"And if I refuse to make a decision?" she asked, suspecting the answer but needing to ask nonetheless.

"There are others with the necessary vision," the figure shrugged. "Can you live with yourself if you do not at least attempt the test?"

"We can always find out," Bronach said grimly, fisting her hands at her side.

Another cackle. "This," the figure said, pointing a gnarled finger at her. "This is why you are best suited. We shall see if the test thinks as much of you as the seeking spell."

"It has always been my dream to impress the seeking spell," she said dryly. "Now, if you do not mind, I was in the middle of an Astronomy lesson. And considering my marks on my original exam, I clearly need the review."

"What need has a queen of marks and exams?" the figure asked scornfully.

"The kind that feels the need to be educated enough to serve their people." Bronach gritted her teeth, feeling for the threads of the vision, trying to see if there was a way to disrupt it. How long had it been? Was it noticeable to those in the real world?

"Very smart, very cunning," the speaker said contemplatively. "Just and hardworking as well."

"If you are going to just repeat Hogwarts House attributes at me, I will be going."

"Be off with you then," the figure grouched. "But remember, if you do not make a decision, the decision will be made for you."

"Cryptic bastard," Bronach muttered, and then she blinked and was staring down at her star chart again. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have noticed that she had been swept up in a vision, so she bent her head over her work and pushed on. The figure's words rattled around in her head.

I have delayed and stalled long enough.

There are others with the necessary vision.

The decision will be made for you.

On the top of the tallest tower, she could feel the currents of magic rising. All day, she'd been vaguely unsettled, but now she understood why.

There was a point coming, a point where change was inevitable. Decisions, choices...the time to shape the future was here. She could no longer run from it, no longer put off making the decision that had been weighing on her for months.

What if I do not want to make a decision, she'd asked Trelawney months ago.

It is not in your nature, the witch had responded, and Bronach had conceded the point.

As the Astronomy lesson continued, she felt the magic rising steadily higher. It flooded her senses, until she felt as if she could hear the music of the Ainur echoing around her, the strains which shaped the world. As if she could reach out and touch them, the melodies filling and reverberating around her until it was becoming difficult to tell the difference between the magic within her and the magic of the world beyond her.

When Professor Sinestra dismissed the class, Bronach lagged behind, carefully packing her telescope away while the other students hurried and stumbled, anxious to get to bed. Hermione looked as if she was going to linger, but Bronach waved her friend on.

At last, she was the only one on the Tower, the place where she had watched Snape kill Dumbledore, the place where the last feeble remnants of her childhood had died.

"If I do this, there is no going back," she said into the empty air.

If you do this, there is a future you can find a home in seemed to echo from all around her.

For the first time in a very long while, she wished she had the Resurrection Stone. Bronach felt like the frightened seventeen year old who had walked into the Forest, ready to die to end Riddle but needing the reassurance of her parents.

If she turned it over in her hand now, she wondered as she pulled herself away and towards the stairs, who would she call? Who would come to her, of the hundreds of ghosts she had left in her wake?

Her steps took her down the curving stair and she found herself staring at the door to Arwen's workroom, though she didn't quite recall the path she'd taken to get there. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the doors, glad for the lack of noise as they swung open.

In the cubby that she'd claimed at the beginning of the year, Bronach placed her school bag. Her outer robe hung from the peg below it, and she set her shoes under that. With the ease of long practice, she stripped herself until she stood bare of everything and then started in on her hair. Pin by pin, braid by braid, she continued until none of the magic she used to tame her hair remained.

The basin of cool water was still in the curtained alcove, and she shivered as she used it to clean herself of all outside influences. Arwen had replaced the plain linen shift on the peg in the alcove, and Bronach tugged it over herself. She took a deep breath, and pushed back the curtain only to stop as she saw a figure in the open doorway.

Severus Snape looked like a figure from a nightmare, wrapped in his black robes with the moonlight at his back.

"Another vision?" he asked quietly.

"Something like that," she said as she lifted her chin. "Move aside."

"I saw the door open and came to investigate," he said, not moving. "It is late, even for Professor Telcontar's open door policy."

"I needed the cleansing," Bronach took a step forward. "Move aside."

"If you tell me where you intend to go," Snape argued. "Time travel or not, Head of House or not, you are a student at this school."

"Give me detention if you must," Bronach said stubbornly. "But you will not hinder me this night."

He studied her for a long moment, and nodded. "Very well," Snape said softly. "Go and do whatever it is that you must. But your absence will be noted if you do not return by breakfast."

She walked past him, ignoring how his head dipped in a respectful nod as she passed. Under her feet, the stone was cold and smooth.

Nobody else stopped her on her way to the Entrance Hall. Filch and Mrs. Norris were absent as she pushed the doors open and made her way down the stairs. Hagrid's windows were dark as she crossed the lawn towards the gates.

Bronach could feel the presence of the thestrals that came out of the Forest as the road curved around its edge. But she knew, somehow, that they weren't her means of accessing the Ministry this night. They followed her as she continued down the road, a silent, eerie honor guard.

The gates swung easily open as she approached, and Bronach felt the magic swell. As soon as she crossed the wardline, she pivoted, and the magic swept up and swept her away towards her destination.

Severus closed the doors of Professor Telcontar's workroom. By the time he turned around, Lily's daughter had turned a corner and was out of sight. He pitied anyone who tried to stop her; the forced Occlumancy lessons had taught him that the woman hiding in the body of a fifth-year Gryffindor was not someone to cross.

It was the easy way she manipulated her mindscape, showing him only what she wished to share. The way she seemed perfectly at ease within it, and without it, moving with unconscious grace. Once she had announced herself as a retired spy, it was easy to see some of the same mannerisms he himself had adopted over the years, and part of him wondered how much she'd learned from six years of having him as a professor.

With a shake of his head, he focused his thoughts. Harry Potter was abroad, and there was magic at work this night. He'd learned to sense the currents of magic to better understand brewing, but this was the first time he'd felt it so obviously away from the cauldron. It had driven him from his office, where he'd been marking papers that had gone neglected due to Death Eater meetings, and led him on a patrol around the school until he'd found the door of Professor Telcontar's workroom ajar, and the girl stepping out from behind a curtain with the same expression she'd worn the night she'd had a vision at dinner.

Only a fool would have stopped her, he thought as he turned to make his way down the halls. And only a greater fool would inform the Headmistress. Dolores Umbridge had made it very clear that she wanted to know of any transgression committed by Potter, but Snape was disinclined to bow to the whims of a petty tyrant, not when he was already dancing like a puppet on a string to the tune of two opposing masters.

Still, he thought, stopping at an unassuming portrait of a rural landscape. There is someone who ought to know.

What exactly Potter's relationship to the Telcontars was, Severus was choosing not to find out. It was clear that they were more than lord and vassal, but discretion was the better part of valor in his opinion. Still, the way they had reacted while Potter had been caught in the throes of her vision...

He knocked lightly on the portrait frame, hoping that he would not be waking them up. Even after fifteen years of teaching, he had not quite recovered from seeing Minerva McGonagall in her dressing gown after having to wake her to deal with a student issue. A moment after his knock, the portrait swung open, revealing a grim-faced Aragorn Telcontar.

"What is it?" the man asked sharply.

"May I come in?" Severus asked delicately, sweeping his eyes around the hallway at the portraits hanging there. Most of them appeared to be asleep, but he hardly trusted the appearance after having seen the portraits in the Headmaster's office feign sleep in order to effectively eavesdrop.

Without saying another word, the man swung the portrait open further, just enough to let Severus pass.

The quarters assigned to the Telcontars were lit by the banked embers of the fire and a candle on the table set between the pair of armchairs. A folding screen partially blocked off the bed, but from what Severus could see it looked untouched. Arwen Telcontar sat in one of the armchairs, and it seemed that her husband had been in the other, before he had come to see who was knocking.

"What is it?" Telcontar repeated, once the portrait door had been shut again.

From the looks of both Telcontars, they had also sensed that something was afoot this night. "I thought you might wish to know; I came across Harry Potter leaving your workroom, attired as if she intended to conduct a ritual."

Arwen Telcontar closed her eyes for a long moment before sharing a look loaded with meaning with her husband. "Were there any designs on her shift?"

"The fabric was unadorned," Severus said, confused as to why that was the first question.

Another look shared. Aragorn heaved a sigh, running his hand through his hair. "At least she's not off to tear down and purify a fortress."

"That is not particularly encouraging," his wife said, rubbing her temples. "Have you seen?"

Severus was confused, but the question was apparently not meant for him.

"The crossroads is upon us," Aragorn said after a moment, his eyes somewhat unfocused. Then he shook his head, and his eyes sharpened. "There is nothing more."

"On a scale of choosing a route over the mountains to marching on the Black Gate, what is the magnitude of this crossroad?" Arwen asked.

Aragorn's mouth thinned. "Sammath Naur."

That meant something to the pair, and they shared another wordless look before Arwen turned to Severus.

"Thank you for informing us," she said, and Severus could see echoes of the queen she had been. "Unless there is something else you wish to share...?"

"That was all," he said, resisting the urge to incline his head. "I appreciate that you took the time to speak with me."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, and Severus found himself shown out into the hallway once more.

Turning towards the dungeons, he took the shortest route back to his quarters. With the magical energy at work, Severus was unsure if he would be able to sleep, but at the very least he would attempt to rest.

Chapter Text

The world resolved around her into the black stone of the Department of Mysteries.

Unlike the first time she'd entered the department, there was no hesitation as she strode across the entry, ignoring the doors spinning around her as the department's security measures activated. The one she needed aligned with her path, springing open as she reached for the door handle.

Onwards she walked, ignoring the quiet stares of the Unspeakables present. She couldn't explain the pull she felt, but Bronach knew that it would lead her to wherever she was supposed to be.

As she went, the black stone changed to something less refined, less polished. Then it became gray, older, until she felt as if she were walking through the very bedrock of London.

At the end of her path was a simple stone arch, darkness behind it. Unlike the arch that Sirius had once fallen through, she felt no malice, no draw to it, only a sense of watchful anticipation.

"Only those who have felt the Call have passed beyond that Gate."

She didn't turn, recognizing the voice of the Unspeakable who had confronted her after she stole her prophecy at Yule. They continued, as if she'd acknowledged them in some way. "Even fewer return, and fewer still...undamaged."

I know what it is I face, Bronach wanted to say, but held her tongue. She knew, of course, that she would be tested. It was the nature of the test that remained a mystery.

The consequences of failure, of course, were also well understood.

"We will await the judgment," the Unspeakable said quietly, and she felt them take a step back. The pull surged, and she staggered a step forward before she started walking. It was clearly unwise to dally further, not when she had made up her mind.

As she stood before the doorway, she could see the bare stone room of her dreams. The walls, the empty plinth...it was all there. Taking a deep breath, Bronach stepped forward, and the world spun once more.

She found herself standing in an ancient grove, magic singing around her at a strength that nearly sent her reeling.

"Welcome to Celliwig," a voice said, and she saw a figure step out of the trees.

"Celliwig, or the memory of it?" Bronach found her voice.

"Does it matter?" the figure asked, pausing in the middle of the small clearing, where a stone seat rose up out of the grass. "You are here and it is here."

"What is it that I must face?" Bronach asked, watching as the figure settled themselves on the seat.

"Many are eager to face a test," the figure said with a shrug. "They wish to prove themselves worthy."

"I know not if I am worthy or unworthy," Bronach shrugged. "I merely wish to be judged."

The figure laughed. "An interesting sentiment," they said with a grim smile. "Many have come here asking to be tested, but I do not believe any have come asking to be judged."

"A test implies that there is a way to pass and a way to fail," Bronach murmured. "A judgment...it is a measure of both the judge and the petitioner. Should it go against me, that does not necessarily mean I have failed, only that I am not what the judge sought."

"A curious petitioner," they said, studying her. Then their voice dropped, low and quiet. "You know what success here means."

"If I am found worthy, I will bear a burden I never wished for," Bronach said quietly. "I come not for myself, but for those who would suffer under another's hand."

"Curious and curiouser," the figure murmured. "Your reluctance is not an art to misguide me. You truly believe in your purpose."

"If you see the truth in my words and in my heart, then you know what I long for most desperately," Bronach retorted. "Were I to look in the mirror of desire, I would see no burden upon my brow."

"And yet here you stand, bandying words with me," they said. "Denying with each breath what many have died grasping for."

"Do I wish for it?" she shook her head sharply. "I would find ten thousand other ways before I came here of my own desire. I come only in answer to the summons, because I have seen enough of what mischief might be wrought by hands that would seek this eagerly."

"A true champion of the people." The voice seemed as if it should be mocking, but could find nothing to mock. "Tell me your name."

"I was born Harry Jamie Potter," she answered slowly. "Since then, I have borne many names, but the ones gifted to me, those that I hold closest to my heart, are Bronach Ruinil."

"They have meaning, do they not?"

"I earned Ruinil on the battlefield, where my grief manifested as red flame that slew my foes," she closed her eyes, remembering Halbarad, Golodir, the many who had fallen on the Pelennor. "Bronach was bestowed upon me by the hillfolk who adopted me. It is derived from their word for Sorrow, as I bore many griefs by the time I came to them."

"Sorrow's Red Flame," the figure smiled. "Much more poetic than my own."

"Bear Man?" Bronach dared, and was rewarded with a laugh. "Or was it Bear King?"

"Does it matter?" Arthwys asked, his smile genuine as he looked up at her.

"Not particularly," she said with a shrug. "Though I could certainly attempt to educate the scholars, should they listen."

He laughed again, and then sobered up. "I am neither judge nor test," he said, rising from his seat. "Merely the echo of one long gone, a memory captured by magic. It is my purpose to speak with those who dare, to take something of their measure."

She looked past him at the seat, and knew what she must do.

"I assume that if I am judged suitable, sitting down will not be painful?"

"Oh, it will be painful," Arthwys assured her. "But you will survive it."

"I have survived any number of struggles to come to this place," Bronach muttered as she looked at the seat. "I will survive this one."

She slowly crossed the distance to the seat, pausing next to Arthwys to consider it one last time. "There is no going back, should I sit down," she said, not really expecting him to answer. It wasn't really a question.

"There is not," he confirmed anyway, and a touch on her shoulder made her turn towards him. Bending a bit, he brushed a kiss against her brow. "My blessing upon you, however small it may be, Bronach Ruinil."

She bowed politely in thanks, and then summoned her courage. Carefully, she turned and lowered herself onto the seat, her hands coming to rest upon the armrests.

For a brief moment, she felt the weight of magic bearing down on her. Then, her mind went blank.

She had been queen too long to allow herself any noticeable tells. Still, Arwen glanced at her fork and resettled her hands in her lap.

Next to her, Aragorn was more permissive. Pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index, thumb. One after another, laid down on the table in quiet order. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky. Lifted again. He'd picked it up from Bronach, she knew, having seen her other partner use it to ground herself in difficult moments.

"Are you well?" Minerva asked quietly, leaning over to keep their words private. "You look as if you haven't slept a wink."

For a moment, Arwen could do nothing but stare mutely at the witch. Minerva McGonagall was a renowned master in her field and Deputy Headmistress. Could she not feel the weight of magic, the way it had been restless since the night before?

More importantly, as Gryffindor's Head of House, did she not know that one of the students under her care had not returned to her bed that night? Did she not realize that Bronach was no longer within the castle?

"We did not," Aragorn answered for her, eyes roaming over the student body. Arwen had watched Hermione and the Weasleys realize that Bronach was nowhere to be found, but they were keeping their own council on the matter. Did they know that Bronach had been absent since the night before, or was it only when Hermione woke this morning to find Bronach absent that they began to worry?

"Is there something in particular you're concerned about?" Minerva pressed gently, though the scathing glance she threw at the witch sitting in the headmaster's throne-like chair was anything but. "If it is the recent turbulence in staffing, I can assure you, your contract as a guest lecturer has specific clauses that prevent early termination."

"Do you not feel it?" Arwen managed to find words. She knew that, compared to the castle's population, she and Aragorn were less magical. But how did nobody but Snape sense the swirl and ebb of magic that had been growing since the night before? It would have been enough to rouse her from sleep, had her worry allowed her to get any.

"Feel what?" the Deputy Headmistress looked confused, and Arwen wished that Sibyl was there, or that Severus was seated closer. They felt the magic as she did, and would surely be better at explaining it.

"Change," Arwen tried, feeling the magic building under her skin, like pressure before a storm. "The world we will bid farewell this night will not be the same as the world we awoke to this morn."

"To the ashes the leaders have fallen, as Merlin before had forseen," Aragorn said, unseeing eyes fixed on the doors to the Great Hall. Arwen felt the pressure intensify, and then ripple out in waves from an epicenter somewhere to the south. "Three shall hear the calling, yet crowned anew is a queen."

Arwen felt her breath catch as a thrill ran through her, followed by a rush of magic swirling down the bond she shared with Bronach. She turned to Aragorn, resting her hand on his own. He came back to himself at her touch, but she could see the echoes of distance in his eyes, as she had seen it in her father and the mother of her mother during their moments of foresight.

"Whatever could you mean?" Minerva was asking, but Arwen's focus was on Aragorn.

"Do you recall the words you spoke?" she asked as she gripped his hand. "Or have they slipped through you?"

He shook his head, so she repeated the words back to him, each one etched into her brain as if put there by magic itself. Aragorn shifted, and gripped her hand strongly. "Crowned anew is a queen," he repeated, awe in his voice.

She nodded, relief bubbling over and stealing her voice.

"Do you need to visit Poppy?" Minerva persisted, but Arwen shook her head, focusing her gaze on the doors of the Great Hall. The ripples were still spreading, but she could feel the epicenter moving. They had passed the crossroads and change was coming.

By the time breakfast was over, Minerva had given up trying to engage either of them in conversation. Arwen sat gripping Aragorn's hand as she stared at the doors, uncaring of how the rest of the staff was glancing at them with poorly disguised concern. Given the lack of commentary from Umbridge, Arwen could only assume that the Headmistress was otherwise distracted, which she was distantly grateful to whichever staff member had sacrificed themselves for.

There was a muffled scrape of wood against stone, and she found herself smiling slightly. Familiar magic reached out towards her, warm and comforting as it blanketed her in a way Arwen rarely had a chance to experience. Beside her, she heard Aragorn's breath catch in his throat as his hand tightened around hers.

The students closest to the Great Hall seemed to notice something, but before they could react, the doors swung open.

Bronach looked as if she'd been dragged backwards through Mordor. Her shift was wrinkled and marked with what could only be dried blood, and her hair tumbled loose and wild down her back. Her face was marked with grime, streaked through with tears. Tears of her own sprung to Arwen's eyes as she beheld her partner, alive and unbroken, but she pushed them away as she rose to her feet, Aragorn by her side, moving around the staff table to reach Bronach.

She was vaguely aware of the students murmuring, but her focus was entirely consumed by Bronach's passage down the center aisle towards them. They met at the foot of the dais, and Arwen's heart ached at the signs of dried blood on Bronach's hands, clenched around an unassuming pewter circlet.

Without speaking, Bronach looked up and met her eyes, knowledge and grief so heavy in her gaze that Arwen nearly bent under the weight of it. But she stiffened her spine and met it head on, refusing to buckle or bow. Bronach had sacrificed the quiet, unassuming life that Arwen knew the woman longed for, but they were all well familiar with duty to a cause greater than personal happiness.

Arwen nodded in agreement, bending slightly to kiss Bronach's brow, uncaring of the sweat-damp hair sticking to it in places. She had resolved months ago to support Bronach should this day come.

With Arwen's agreement collected, Bronach turned to Aragorn, and Arwen watched the same conversation play out silently. Once Aragorn had kissed Bronach's brow, she offered him the circlet in her hands before kneeling and bowing her head.

With great care, Aragorn took the circlet, almost weighing it in his hands. Arwen could see him noting the places where Bronach's blood smudged it. She wished that she could rest her hand on her partner's shoulder, offering what support she could, but this was a moment for Bronach alone. They could not stand with or for her, but they would always stand by her.

Gently, Aragorn lowered the circlet onto Bronach's head, moving as if it weighed far more than its simple appearance suggested. Unsurprisingly, it fit as perfectly as if it had been made for her.

"All hail," he said quietly, his voice ringing in the silence, "Harry Potter, Queen of Magical Britain, called by magic and judged worthy."

"Hail Queen Harry," Arwen said, raising Bronach to her feet. "Hail the Queen."

She knelt, Aragorn following suit.

There was a rustle from the student tables. Luna Lovegood came forth and knelt. "Hail Queen Harry," she said clearly, her voice carrying.

"Hail Queen Harry," Hermione said, coming out of the throng of staring students to kneel, dragging Weasleys in her wake.

"Merlin's crown," Filius murmured behind her, voice filled with amazement. "My goodness."

"Preposterous!" Umbridge's shriek echoed off the walls. "This is a nice bit of dramatics, of course, but Wizarding Britain does not have a monarch. A bit of metal shaped like a crown does not make one a queen."

Bronach looked up, her face remote and cold as she studied the witch. "This is no mere bit of metal," she said, her voice hoarse as if she'd been screaming. "A crown does not make a monarch, but this crown is no mere crown."

"It's the crown of Arthur Pendragon," Filius sounded awed. "Kept in the Department of Mysteries against the day when the magical world would need a ruler. Many have tried, but none have ever been able to lift it from its plinth, let alone discover much of the enchantments surrounding it."

"I'm sure it could yet be stolen," Umbridge hissed. "Or copied."

"Speak with the Unspeakables, Madame Undersecretary," Bronach rasped flatly. "They will attest that I entered the Chamber of the Crown last night and emerged less than an hour ago, crown in hand. The plinth lies empty; magic has chosen."

Someone from the Slytherin table shouted: "Potter, always making up lies for attention. Why would it choose you?"

"The crown is said to choose one who it judges will best protect the magical world," Filius said sternly. "Clearly, it has examined Miss Potter, ah, Queen Harry, and found her worthy of it."

"And what about them?" Umbridge redirected her anger as Arwen and Aragorn stood, taking their place on either side of Bronach. Her stubby finger shook as she leveled it at Aragorn. "Co-conspirators in this attempted coup? Do not think I did not notice your involvement!"

"They are my valued advisors," Bronach's voice was dangerous, and Arwen could see the red sparks leaping from her fingertips to scatter against the flagstones underfoot. Ruinil. "Should anyone threaten them, my retribution will be threefold."

"The Minister will deal with you," the toad snarled. "We shall see what he has to say about this obvious treason."

"The Minister serves at my pleasure," Bronach turned away from the table, students shifting out of her way. "And I find myself very displeased."

The Great Hall seemed to chill almost instantly. Bronach was clearly at her limit, and Arwen reached out to brush her partner's sleeve. "My queen," she murmured. "Would it not be best to clean up before you pursue any further tasks today?"

Bronach sighed. "Very well," she said. With one last icy glance at Umbridge, she left the Great Hall, her steps firm and sure as if she wasn't running on the last dregs of adrenaline. Arwen and Aragorn kept pace a step behind her, the doors of the Great Hall swinging shut behind them as soon as they crossed the threshold into the Entrance Hall.

Ignoring the excited chatter that erupted, audible even behind the closed doors, Aragorn stepped forward to catch Bronach as she swayed. Without another word, he set off towards their quarters as Arwen went ahead to open the door.

"Kreacher," Arwen called as she entered their quarters, the elf appearing promptly. "Please run a bath and prepare a light meal for Bronach."

Kreacher nodded, and a moment after he disappeared, Arwen could hear the bath filling. She activated the extra runes that Bronach had put on the inside of their door, preventing anyone from gaining entrance without the express permission of someone inside.

Aragorn had laid Bronach on the bed and was bending over her, examining her hands.

"No magic," Bronach croaked. "They must heal naturally."

"We will still bandage them after you are clean," he said, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Nothing sleep and some tea will not resolve," Bronach chuckled wryly. "It was more interested in picking me apart and trying to wear me down than it was with truly causing injury. I think it liked me."

"Be that as it may, it does not appear as if it went easy on you," Aragorn told her. "As soon as the bath is ready, we are getting you clean."

"Potions will have to do instead of sleep." As Arwen opened her mouth to argue, there was a knock on the door.

Palming the knife she kept easily accessible in her sleeve, Arwen crept to the door, watching Aragorn and Bronach for their agreement. Bronach nodded, reaching casually under Aragorn's pillow, while Aragorn slipped two knives out of their hiding spots under the bedframe.

With everyone as prepared as they could be, Arwen undid the warding and opened the door a crack.

To her surprise, it was Madame Pomfrey.

"I'm here to help," the matron said, holding up what could only be a healer's emergency kit. "May I come in?"

Arwen glanced at Bronach, who nodded. Stepping aside, she opened the door further, replacing the knife behind the shield of the door. Once their guest were inside, she locked and warded the door once more before turning to watch.

Madame Pomfrey was casting several spells over Bronach, who was griping good-naturedly.

"No magic can be used to treat any wound I have," Bronach told the pair firmly. "Even a an Invigoration Draught or Wideye Potion is pushing the bounds of acceptability, but needs must."

"You're not injured more than exhaustion and those cuts on your palms anyway," the matron said, rummaging in her bag. "I assume you'll be cleaning those out soon?"

"Mistress's bath is prepared," Kreacher announced, appearing in the bathroom doorway.

"Up we go," Aragorn said, scooping Bronach up and carrying her into the bathroom. She protested, but he ignored her. Arwen chuckled, and moved to stand at Madame Pomfrey's side.

"Do you have the potions she mentioned in your kit?" she asked.

"She can take the full vial if she wants," the matron said, placing two vials down. "One only, and she'll need to sleep in twelve hours for at least eight hours."

"Understood," Arwen picked up the vials and moved them to the bedside stand. From the bathroom came the faint sound of splashing as Bronach cleaned up, and the soft sounds of her partners conversing.

Madame Pomfrey studied the closed door. "Things are beginning to make more sense," she murmured, but before Arwen could ask for clarification, the witch closed her bag and gathered herself up.

"You may tell Queen Harry that neither of these will interfere in the regimen she is currently taking. If she failed to take any doses in the last few hours, she should take them as soon as she can, taking no more than two doses at each time." Arwen let her out the door and then replaced the wards, just in time for Aragorn to come out, carrying Bronach wrapped in a towel.

"I heard what she said," Bronach told Arwen as Aragorn settled her in one of the armchairs. "Hopefully, Kreacher will be willing to fetch my morning dose. I took the night dose before I went to Astronomy last night."

As if he'd been there listening, a vial popped into existence on the side table next to her chair, along with a bowl of broth and a cup of tea. Ignoring the broth for a moment, Bronach uncorked the vial, drank down the contents in a single swallow, and then chased it with a healthy sip of tea, grimacing as she set the cup down.

"I know full well why these things can't have their taste improved, but that does not make them any more palatable," she grumbled, taking another sip of tea before picking up the broth.

Leaving her to her meal, Arwen busied herself in laying out fresh garments, glad that she'd dutifully applied herself to the business of amending Bronach's wardrobe. Aragorn had also managed to come up with an adjusted set of armor for Bronach, should her first act be to storm the Ministry.

"You have been plotting," Bronach said quietly from the armchair.

"A gift, for you," Arwen said, turning with an overgown in her hands. She'd carefully stitched each bit of protection into the gown, along with a few little boosts to help impress upon Bronach's audience that she was the rightful queen and worth listening to. "We did try to keep in mind your preferences."

"Thank you," Bronach said softly, setting the empty bowl down and rising to come look at the garment in Arwen's hands. It was clear that she'd noticed the runework by the look on her face, and Arwen set the gown aside in favor of wrapping her arms around her partner.

In the deepest, darkest moments the night before, she wondered what would happen to her, to Aragorn, should Bronach fall during her test. Though they had spent little consecutive time together, they had decades of assurance in their partnership, once they'd reassured Bronach that she was welcome in the marriage of Arwen and Aragorn. If he had similar thoughts, he hadn't voiced them, but Arwen had seen similar thoughts in his eyes as they passed the endless hours.

"What are your plans?" Aragorn asked, causing them to separate slightly. Bronach certainly seemed steadier on her feet, but less so than usual. Arwen looked around for the vials that Madame Pomfrey had left and picked them up.

"The Invigoration Draught," Bronach said, taking one from her. "I will take it right before I leave, to make it last longer."

"Where will you be going?" Arwen asked briskly.

"Sorting out the castle, first," Bronach frowned. "Hogwarts is not the seat of the monarch, but it is the last refuge. The Hornburg of Wizarding Britain, if you will. And given the state of war we may yet see...this castle is too unprotected."

"And," Aragorn said cheerfully, "there is Umbridge to manage."

"Indeed," Bronach's smile had a few too many teeth to be harmless. "But wards, treaties, and other such niceties first, then we may deal with Ministry stooges."

"Battle dress it is then," Arwen said, returning her first choice of gown to the wardrobe in favor of another. Bronach stood and reached for the stockings that had been laid out and started dressing. Together, they managed to get her laced comfortably into an overgown fit for a queen who had a busy day planned. Then, Bronach sat at Arwen's dressing table as Arwen brushed and braided her hair into an elaborate crown that would only accentuate the true crown Aragorn was waiting to place on her head again.

"Once more into the breach," Bronach murmured, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"But never alone," Aragorn reminded her, reaching out to help her to her feet. Arwen nodded, and as Bronach turned towards the door, she fell in beside her husband, a step behind Bronach as she planned to be for the rest of their lives.

Severus Snape watched the Great Hall descend into utter chaos.

Filius was excitedly discussing the legends surrounding the crown of Arthur Pendragon with anyone in listening range while the students gossiped freely at the house tables. Those who had risen to pledge themselves to the new Queen had returned to their seats, though he saw them glancing at the closed doors to the Great Hall every so often.

Umbridge had crawled off, likely to go shout at Fudge, so that left Minerva to restore order, which she achieved with a few bursts of noise from the tip of her wand.

"Attention students," she shouted as the noise subsided. "I am not entirely aware of what the crowning of a new monarch will change, but in the interest of ensuring minimal disruptions to your education, classes will proceed as scheduled today and until the end of term, unless otherwise announced. If, for some reason, your professor is unable to supervise your class, alternate supervision will be provided."

"What if we show up to class and nobody's there?" a student shouted from the Gryffindor table. Severus saw Minerva take a deep breath, likely drawing upon her patience.

"If your professor is more than ten minutes tardy, you may report to the library and Madame Pince will supervise quiet study," Minerva told the students firmly. "Fifty points will be deducted for each student caught skipping classes without an acceptable reason, and that includes not reporting to the library for quiet study. If I find out that students have conspired to avoid notifying Madame Pince or another staff member of a teacher's absence, each house involved will lose all of their points."

He wasn't entirely certain that it would be as much of a deterrent as Minerva thought. His Slytherins would happily sell out their Gryffindor counterparts, not realizing that they would also lose their collective house points in the process. Severus also couldn't see Granger holding her tongue, even in the face of the collective disapproval of her entire house.

"Please finish your breakfasts and report to your first classes," Minerva said before she sat down and glanced up and down the table. "Are any of you intending to miss your first period classes this morning?"

Heads shook up and down the table, and Severus held his tongue. He had no class first period Thursday morning, but for once he had no intention of grading papers.

As soon as it was discreetly possible, he left the Great Hall by means of the door leading to the adjacent chamber used for the occasional pre-meal staff meeting. From there, it was easy to access the staff-only passages, ignoring the fastest route to his quarters and instead seeking out the bedamned gargoyle.

"Mars Bars," he told the gargoyle, which nodded and shifted aside, just enough for Severus to slip onto the staircase. He didn't bother to let it carry him up, taking the steps two at a time until he reached Albus's office.

It had been put to rights after the chaos of Albus's departure. Severus hadn't heard the full account, but based on what Albus had alluded to at the next Order meeting, it had been rather messy, with spells coming from the aurors and Umbridge. None of the portraits bothered with him as he crossed to the Floo and took a pinch of powder from the gaudy container Albus preferred to keep it in.

Umbridge had made it clear that she was monitoring all of the Floos, but it was in the agreement with the Ministry that she couldn't monitor Albus's Floo. Severus remembered the tantrum that she'd thrown when that was mentioned at the staff meeting, and had since used the Floo in the headmaster's office whenever he needed to respond to an urgent summons. Otherwise, he'd just walked to the gates and apparated. But he didn't have time for that now, nor did he want to risk being noticed leaving the castle in broad daylight.

"Grimmauld Place," he said, stepping into the fire as he cast down the powder.

A dizzying moment later, he was stepping out into the kitchen. The house elf was missing, surprisingly, but the creature rarely bothered with the Order members these days. Black swore that it was devoted to his goddaughter and there was nothing to be concerned about, though that had hardly quelled the mutters from some of the more flighty members.

"Black! Lupin!" Severus called, hoping the pair weren't still abed. "I have need of you!"

Both failed to appear, and there was no indication that either had heard him. Sighing, Severus went up the stairs to check the dining room, which was also empty and showed no signs that anyone was expected for breakfast. The drawing room was similarly unoccupied, and when Severus tried knocking on the door bearing Black's name, he got no response.

Unease and irritation curdled in his gut. Black wasn't supposed to leave the house, as he was still considered to be an escaped convict. Lupin, while often assigned missions for the Order, was also expected to be at Grimmauld when he was not on a mission, mostly to mind Black.

Returning to the kitchen, Severus was surprised to see the house elf at work. A pot boiled on the stove, while knives chopped vegetables and the elf conducted dishes onto a tray.

"I am looking for Black and Lupin," he told the creature. "Are they in the house?"

"The mutt is not being in the house," the elf said shortly, sending the vegetables into the pot with a wave of its hand. "Nor is the wolf."

"Do you know where they are?" Severus controlled his irritation. Getting shirty with the elf would do him no favors, not if Black was correct and the elf answered to Potter.

Queen Harry Potter, Aragorn had announced, but it had not felt as if that was her rightful name, even if it had been the name Severus had always associated with her.

"Mutt and wolf be in Edinburgh," it said with a shrug. "They not be telling Kreacher when they return, but did not ask for breakfast."

Fabulous. "Are you able to take a message to them?" Severus asked, hoping that he would not have to wait for the fools to return.

"Kreacher be seeing to his mistress," the elf said coolly. "Kreacher has no time for mutts and wolves."

"Thank you," Severus gritted out. "I will be waiting in the dining room for them, if that is allowed."

The elf waved its hand dismissively, and Severus took himself away to the dining room, hoping that the idiots had chosen to depart using the front door.

Luck was on his side, as the pair came in half an hour after he had arrived. Banishing the essays he'd summoned to grade while he waited, Severus replaced the stopper on his bottle of ink and tucked it and his quill into the pocket he'd charmed to protect anything stored inside it. "Black," he said as the pair passed the door he'd left ajar. "Lupin."

"Severus," the wolf said, sounding surprised. "Don't you have classes? It is Thursday, isn't it?"

"I do not have to teach Thursday first period," Severus said stiffly. "Which allows me to seek the pair of you, only to find that you were not present."

"You needed us?" Lupin's eyebrows raised, and Black came to stand behind him, looking surprisingly unsettled. Similarly unsettled, Severus realized, to Aragorn and Arwen Telcontar at breakfast. As if he could sense what they had sensed when Potter had left the castle and returned a Queen.

"It is not I who need you," Severus said, suppressing a shudder at the thought, "but Miss Potter."

"What's wrong with her?" Black demanded, stepping forward past the wolf's shoulder. "I thought something was off, but I didn't realize it was her..."

Curious, Severus thought, and tabled the questions he had for another time. "Last night, Miss Potter left the castle for a destination unknown. She returned this morning during breakfast."

To his surprise, both Black and Lupin paled, exchanging a look fraught with meaning. "You have an idea of where she went."

Lupin took a deep breath. "We knew that she'd been...called." He made a face, as if the word was unpleasant. "Or rather, that she was being called."

"Is she all right?" Black said, sounding frantic. "I know the legends, barely anyone survives..."

"Our new Queen is unharmed, at least as far as I can tell," Severus said, watching Lupin close his eyes as if struck, and Black flinch at the title he had bestowed upon Potter. "The Telcontars whisked her away to freshen up."

"We're going," Black said, turning to Lupin, who looked torn. "Remus, she may be queen, she may be two centuries older than us, but she needs our support."

"Arwen did take us to task," Lupin said quietly. "Very well then." He turned to Severus. "How did you arrive here?"

"The headmaster took steps to ensure that I would always be able to access his Floo, the only one with unmonitored access in the castle," Severus said, wondering how much the pair had known, and what Arwen Telcontar had said to them. It was clear that they knew of Bronach's tale, and if he liked them, he'd almost be tempted to exchange notes. "You will be able to come through, though once you are in the castle you are on your own."

"That won't be a problem," Black said, reaching for the pot of Floo powder. "Hogwarts Headmaster's Office!"

To her surprise, the hallway outside Aragorn and Arwen's quarters was not empty when she opened the door.

"You..." are not supposed to be here, she almost said, but it didn't need saying. Sirius and Remus clearly knew they had no business being in the castle. They hadn't even bothered to disguise Sirius any more than changing his hair color. "Did you need something?"

"Your majesty," Remus said, bowing politely. "We're here to assist in any way we can."

Her stomach churned at the sight of Remus bowing to her. Bronach had known, when she had made the decision to answer the call, what it would mean to wear the crown. How it would change the way people were allowed to interact with her. The distance it would create, at least in public and often enough in private. But it still burned to see it in action, to see the man who had made her his son's godmother bowing to her like she had watched so many bow to Aragorn and Arwen.

"You do not have to do any of that in private," she told the pair firmly, wanting to set the expectation for their behavior early. "You are practically family."

"How can we help?" Sirius asked, surprisingly blunt.

"I alone can raise the wards on the castle, in the absence of a properly named headmaster," Bronach sighed. "This castle needs to be impregnable, before I confront Riddle or the Ministry. The children will not be pawns in anyone's game."

"We can help though," Remus said firmly. "Staff members can help with the wards, I remember that from my time teaching here."

"Very well then," she wasn't going to say no to willing help. "Add whatever you can that will keep the children safe while I work on the main array."

The pair nodded and set off towards the passage leading to Honeydukes, clearly planning on dealing with the secret passages. Bronach turned back towards the most direct route to the Great Hall. Where the actual wardstone for the castle lay, she had no idea, but it was clear that the Great Hall was the spiritual and magical center of Hogwarts, and therefore the best place to access the wards.

"It is going to be a lot of sitting and staring into space," she warned her partners, who had fallen in behind her.

"It is a good thing we're used to maintaining composure during long waits," Arwen returned with a slight toss of her head that made it clear Bronach wasn't going to convince them to leave her. Their devotion warmed her heart and steadied her still raw and turbulent emotions.

Pausing, she reached back to squeeze both of their hands, hoping that it expressed at least a little of what she was feeling. If the answering squeezes were any indication, her partners felt the same way.

Chapter Text

"That is the twelfth Howler today," Arwen commented as another flaming envelope fell into a pile of ash as soon as it encountered the ward connected to the talisman on Bronach's belt. "I assume the Minister is losing his patience."

Snorts echoed up and down the staff table. "Minister Fudge has never had much patience," Pomona Sprout said disdainfully. "Particularly when he feels threatened."

"He should feel threatened," Bronach murmured darkly, pouring gravy on her roast. "I fully intend to sack him."

Murmurs of agreement came from all members of staff, including a particularly fervent one from Remus, who had been conscripted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts after Dolores Umbridge found herself unable to pass through the new ward scheme. Bronach hadn't shared exactly which part of the wards had taken affront to the woman, but Arwen had a bet going with Aragorn that it was just about all of them.

Padfoot, sitting patiently at Remus's feet, whoofed in approval. He had taken to shadowing Bronach, when she allowed it, which let Arwen supervise her class when necessary, secure in the knowledge that Aragorn and Padfoot would be able to assist Bronach should it be necessary.

"I intend to begin my work with the Ministry this afternoon," Bronach said, sipping her tea. "Hopefully that will cease the Howlers."

"Or increase them," Aurora Sinistra muttered. "The man will have nothing better to do with his time once he's been sacked."

Filius laughed so hard he nearly tipped off his chair. Steadying him with a hand, Minerva said: "Your Majesty, is there anything we should be aware of while you are away from the school?"

"The wards will hold regardless of whether I am present or not," Bronach told the Acting Headmistress, another appointment Bronach had suggested when the wards had refused Umbridge. "You may carry on your day as planned."

"Very well then," Minerva dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "Please do let us know if there is any way we might assist you."

"I will be borrowing Mr. Telcontar," Bronach glanced at Aragorn, who nodded in agreement. Arwen was less pleased by this, but they'd argued the subject to death the night before and she couldn't disagree with Bronach's reasoning. "However, Professor Telcontar will remain to supervise her students."

"Take Padfoot with you," Remus urged, and the hound gave a firm nod.

Bronach looked as if she was going to argue, but Arwen placed a hand on her knee under the cover of the table. With a sigh, her partner nodded. "I will, thank you Professor Lupin."

Lunch finished not long after, and Arwen walked with her partners and Padfoot to the castle steps, wishing she could go all the way to the gates with them. Bronach adjusted her cloak and glanced at Arwen, apology in her eyes.

"Your Majesty," Arwen dipped a slight curtsy. Bronach had officially allowed her to take control of the royal wardrobe, and Arwen was quite proud of the effect. Despite being wrapped in silk and wool, there was no doubt that Bronach was just as deadly as she was when she was in full armor. Intimidating and regal was what Arwen had been hoping for, and Bronach was certainly achieving. And, Arwen knew, it hid the true armor under the surface layers.

"Guard the castle well," Bronach said quietly. "I trust nobody else."

"Guard the queen well," Arwen told Aragorn, who nodded and rested his hand on the pommel of the sword he'd taken to carrying openly since Bronach's return as queen. It was not Anduril, left for Eldarion and his descendants, but one forged for Aragorn the man instead of Aragorn, Isildur's Heir. Padfoot woofed in agreement and the trio set off down the sloping lawns towards the distant gate, leaving Arwen watching on the stairs.

"Professor?"

She turned, finding, to her surprise, most of her assembled class. "Do you not have classes at the moment?"

Hermione looked vaguely mulish. "There are some things more important than classes," she said, the others nodding in agreement.

"And what would that be?"

"Teach us how to lay magic into items," Daphne Greengrass said, crossing her ams over her chest. "We're ready."

Arwen studied the group, thinking about their request. They were doing quite well, surpassing most of the expectations she'd had for a group trained as Bronach had described, and they were all past the point where any attempts would be dangerous to the castle if they failed.

"Very well then," she said, stepping back into the castle and closing the doors behind her. "If you wish to learn, come to my classroom. You will not practice this without my supervision. Is that understood?"

Agreement came from the group, and they all turned towards her classroom. Minerva passed them on the way, raising her eyebrow at the collection of students but saying nothing. As she passed Arwen, she leaned in to murmur: "At least they're supervised, even if they're not in their proper classes."

That was probably all the blessing she was going to get for aiding and abetting the skiving happening. If the students felt any shame at being caught, they didn't show it, piling into the workroom and shedding their house markers until there was no way to distinguish which house anyone belonged to. They'd taken surprisingly well to her insistence on breaking down those boundaries, and she rarely had to enforce them these days.

Once everyone was settled on their favorite chair or couch, Arwen pulled her workbasket closer to her, seeing the students all reach for their own work.

"It is best to begin with your primary craft," she told the students, extracting a spare embroidery frame and a bit of linen from the depths of her basket. "Take out what you might need in order to start a new project, but a small one."

There was a rustling, but soon everyone was prepared. Glad of the distraction, Arwen withdrew needle and thread. "The most fundamental way to lay magic into crafted items is to channel it into your work. You can also work runic patterns to reenforce your will and stabilize the magic, but general spells can be sufficiently worked without added runes..."

Madame Rosemarta didn't look twice at Bronach as she entered the Three Broomsticks, her hood pulled up over her hair and crown, a similarly cloaked Aragorn trailing in her wake with Padfoot. This early in the morning, the public Floo was free, and Bronach dropped the fee into the jar on the mantle, getting the Floo Powder in return.

Aragorn and Padfoot drew closer to her, and she linked arms with Aragorn, grabbing Padfoot by the scruff as they stepped through the flames, calling out "Ministry of Magic Atrium!"

A dizzying spin, and she stepped out onto the familiar polished floors of the Ministry Atrium. It was bustling with employees arriving for the workday, and she could see the hideous golden statue in the distance. Aragorn glanced around, taking in the crowds, and nodded at her.

With a deep breath, Bronach drew back her hood. They'd gone over how to present her to the Wizarding World at large, and this was the best way any of them could come up with. On their way to the Minister's office, too many people would see her and word would spread too fast for Fudge to hush up.

Already she saw heads turn and murmurs rise. A flash of red hair caught her eye, and she saw Arthur Weasley staring at her, eyes wide.

The crowds parted as she took careful, deliberate steps down the center of the Atrium, the sound of her steps drowned out by the murmurs. Aurors were conferring, clearly unsure of what to do. Padfoot growled at those who didn't move out of the way fast enough.

"Uh, you need to-" the wizard at the wand check desk started, but Aragorn silenced him with a glance. They made to join the queue for the lifts, but the line parted, allowing her to walk directly to the golden grates unhindered.

"Minister's office," she told the wizard manning the lift in the cool, reserved tones she'd perfected in Gondor's court.

"Uh, yes ma'am," he stammered, pushing the button rapidly. "Right away ma'am."

When the lift arrived, its occupants spilled out into the Atrium, wide eyed and curious. Bronach stepped onto the lift, her companions trailing her, but nobody else dared join them. That was fine, she wanted the gossip to spread.

The occupants remaining in the lift gawped at the three of them as they entered. Bronach lifted her chin, studying the grate that slid over the door. Aragorn casually rested his hand on the pommel of the sword in a blatant threat. She glanced at him, considering whether or not she should tell him to knock it off, and decided that watching him scare wizards who carried wands that could blow up entire streets was more amusing than not.

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, the Minister's office was the first stop after the atrium. Bronach stepped out onto the purple carpet, lip curling as she looked around at the hallway lined with gleaming mahogany doors. She remembered finding Umbridge's office, in nineteen ninety-seven, the plaque on her door reading Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. Moody's eye had been affixed below it.

Now, the office was assigned to a Special Adviser for Magical Mishaps which hadn't existed when she'd worked for the Ministry. Presumably, there was a level of independent judgment involved in the Minister's choice to appoint support staff. She passed several doors with equally useless titles, most closed but several partially open with noise spilling out of them to indicate that the occupants were present. Umbridge's door was closed, but Bronach had no doubt the woman was around somewhere.

At the end of the hallway, the corridor widened into a reasonably proportioned antechamber held two desks and a small sitting area for guests to wait in. Both desks were occupied, and Bronach watched with amusement as Percy Weasley raised his head from the stack of parchment he was scribbling on to gape at her, face turning as red as Ron's when he was in a strop.

"The Queen, to see Cornelius Fudge," Aragorn announced blandly to the secretary sitting opposite Percy, who was also gawping at them. He waited a moment, then cleared his throat pointedly, tipping his head towards the door. Neither moved. After another moment, Aragorn marched forward as they'd discussed, heading for the closed door of the Minister's office.

That sparked a reaction from the secretary. "You cannot go in there!" she shrilled, leaping to her feet. "Visitors for the Minister must wait until they're called for."

"The Minister is very busy," Percy snapped from his desk, clearly seething as he looked at her. "You won't be able to see him without an appointment."

Aragorn ignored both of their protests and put his hand on the doorknob. It didn't budge. Bronach had expected this, having been fully briefed on the security procedures for the Minister's office as an Auror. Either Percy or the secretary had likely triggered the alarm, which would seal the Minister's door until the alarm was canceled. Sirius looked up at her and she nodded in permission.

Trotting off, he nudged the secretary away from her desk, the witch protesting all the way as the hound herded her up against the wall. Bronach sat down at the desk once the woman was clear of it, fingers feeling for the rune that acted as the alarm trigger. Most Aurors didn't know how to deactivate it, but she had been one of the most senior Aurors before her resignation. Beyond that, Kingsley had quietly informed the Order members within the Ministry on the off chance that Death Eater sympathizers would stage an insurrection. It was child's play for her to deactivate the alarm before she rose from the chair and returned to the center of the room.

Trying the door again, Aragorn shook his head. Sirius barked at the secretary in a clear command to stay put, and then trotted over to Percy, who was handling things far better than the secretary. He had his wand out and pointed at Sirius as the animagus approached.

"If you cast at the hound, it will go very badly for you," Bronach broke her silence to warn him. They'd created a collar for Padfoot with runic shields against casual spellfire, but they functioned by reflecting the spells back at the caster. Percy, thankfully, had the sense to allow himself to be herded away from the desk without protest, and Bronach deactivated the alarm there.

The aurors are taking quite a while to arrive, she thought as she rose and returned to her place in the center of the room. Either they're seriously underprepared, or Amelia Bones has succeeded in clearing her department of the untrustworthy. Bronach had been writing to the head of the DMLE since she had returned to Hogwarts with the Crown, but the witch had been unsure of her ability to fully flush out those in the department who would pose...problems. She had delayed as much as she dared, but she could not hide behind the castle's wards for much longer without addressing the Ministry.

Aragorn twisted the handle; it turned easily this time. He swung the door open, and Bronach allowed him to step inside before she followed, Sirius falling in at her heels as she passed.

Unsurprisingly, Fudge and Umbridge were cloistered in the office, clearly scheming by the looks of their faces and the parchments all over the Minister's desk.

"Queen Harry," Aragorn announced as she entered. The pair looked absolutely furious as they rounded on her.

"I don't know what you're playing at-"

"This upstart, arrogant-"

Bronach held up her hand, enforcing a nonverbal silencing spell with the movement. "As is my right as Queen, designated by Merlin himself and witnessed by the Unspeakables, I am here to assume control of the Ministry of Magic. Cornelius Fudge, you are dismissed from your position. Dolores Umbridge, you are dismissed from your position. Please vacate the building promptly."

"You can't fire me!" Fudge looked as apoplectic as Vernon Dursley managed on a bad day. "I'm the Minister for Magic!"

"The Queen has relieved you of your position," Aragorn said coolly. "Depart. Now."

Umbridge leveled a stubby finger at Bronach. "You have no power here," she seethed. "I don't know what you think you accomplished at Hogwarts, but you'll find that the real world is quite different."

"I am quite aware of the differences between school and the government," Bronach told her. "And you are suited to neither. Leave, before I have you removed."

At that moment, Amelia Bones and several Aurors arrived in the outer office. Bronach was pleased to see Kingsley and Tonks among them. Hopefully that meant the department was sufficiently under control. They would be needed, with her plans for the rest of the day.

"What appears to be the problem here?" Madame Bones asked, glancing at Bronach.

"Mr. Fudge and Ms. Umbridge have been informed that they are no longer needed or wanted by the British Ministry of Magic," Bronach said, silencing the protests that rose behind her. "They are to leave now, or be escorted out."

"Very well," Madame Bones gestured to two of her aurors, who stepped forward. "Do you intend to leave or must we escort you?"

Fudge and Umbridge blustered, but when it was clear that the aurors were not there to back them up, nor were they in any way averse to levitating stunned individuals through the public Floo, the pair stormed out, vowing that this would not be the end of matters.

It would not be. Bronach had enough evidence from Remus's search of Umbridge's office and quarters, documented by Auror-certified spells courtesy of Sirius and Minerva, to put the woman in prison for life. And, if she was truly lucky, the woman would do something else to land her in prison before Bronach handed the evidence to Madame Bones. Hopefully a similar search of Fudge's office, when she had time, would reveal enough rope to hang him with too, or at least disgrace him in the public eye.

Bronach swept the office for listening magics and other unpleasant surprises before she took Fudge's seat behind the desk. A wave of her hand swept the desk clutter into a box she conjured, leaving the surface bare of parchment or trinkets.

Madame Bones eyed her through her monocle. "How may I serve, your Majesty?"

"Please assemble all of the department heads as soon as possible," Bronach said, though she and Madame Bones had covered how Bronach intended to ensure a smooth transition between the Ministry of Magic and her own rule in the last few days in their correspondence and what Madame Bones' role would be.

"Of course, your Majesty," Madame Bones glanced at the remaining aurors. "One to each department, quick now."

They trooped off to the lift, leaving Madame Bones behind with the secretary and Percy Weasley. The secretary looked quite upset, and Bronach turned her attention to the woman. "What is your name?"

"Eloise Deverill," the woman squeaked. "Er, your Majesty?"

"Ms. Deverill," Bronach said, fixing her with a firm stare. "I will not be eliminating your position, as I will need a secretary for the foreseeable future. However, I do not currently have time to hire one. If you are amenable, you may retain your current position for the time being, but there will be expectations and conditions."

Some of the color leeched back into the woman's face. "What...what kind of conditions?"

"I will expect total professionalism," Bronach explained. "You will act under my orders, and my orders alone, in my interest and not in the interests of others, and you will not betray any of what you witness here to anyone by any manner of communication or sharing. We will work out a secrecy contract as soon as I have the time, which will explain things in more detail. But needless to say, Fudge, Umbridge, and likely several others will no longer be employed by the Ministry after today nor will they be welcome to its operations and secrets. If you have more loyalty to them than to the Ministry, you may leave now."

The woman trembled, but shook her head. "I'll stay, if you please, your Majesty," she managed, stepping up to her desk. "Not a word past my lips unless you tell me so."

"Very well," Bronach turned to Percy, who was still rather red. "Mr. Weasley, the same offer is extended to you with the same expectations and conditions."

She could see him doing the mental calculations, and hoped that she was catching Percy closer to where he was in nineteen ninety-eight than where he was in June of nineteen ninety-five. The Percy she'd gotten to know after the war had been someone she could work with.

A Percy who was still willing to lick Fudge's boots was another matter entirely.

"I will remain in my position," Percy said stiffly. "Your Majesty."

"Then it is settled," Bronach turned to Madame Bones. "Is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement clear of those with dubious loyalties?"

"For the day," Madame Bones grimaced. "Those I couldn't remove conveniently had the day off, or are out of the building for the day. It's not a long term solution."

"But now that I am present we may arrange one," Bronach sighed. "We will need to change all emergency protocols over the next few days. Too many who I do not trust likely know of them."

"It will be done," Madame Bones promised, as the lift bell sounded in the distance, announcing the arrival of the first of the Department Heads. "Your Majesty."

A patronus burst through the doors of the Wizengamot chamber, interrupting the furious arguing that Bronach had been tolerating by means of covert conversations with Aragorn. He'd offered to draw his sword and threaten beheading three times now, and if Lord Selwyn and Lord Abbott didn't stop shouting at each other she was beginning to consider taking him up on the offer.

She watched as the patronus, a small bird that she thought looked like a sparrow, shot through the doors and made straight for Madame Bones, its message either spelled to be heard only by the recipient or drowned out by the din in the chamber. Bronach signaled to Aragorn to be on his guard, finally tiring of the pointless floor debate and sitting up straighter in the chair which usually held the Chief Warlock but had been claimed by herself when she entered the room.

"Enough," she said, pitching her voice to carry. Much as she had seen when she watched Aragorn and Arwen hold court, the room settled, stilled, and fell silent. Sweeping her eye over the assembly, Bronach continued: "My ascension to the throne is not up for debate. As of Thursday morning, the twenty-fifth of April of nineteen ninety-six, Magical Britain has a queen. If you have a problem with this, perhaps you should consider who exactly failed to govern sufficiently to prevent Merlin's failsafe from being activated?"

Not giving them a moment to collect themselves, she pressed on. "You have been called her because, up until now, you were the legislative branch of Magical Britain's government. Whether that continues or not will be dependent on your behavior going forward. Now, on to my first order of business, which should have been attended to half an hour ago when this meeting was first opened. As of right now, all those members whose original appointments were made by Cornelius Fudge are no longer appointed to their seats. Will you please rise and vacate the chamber?"

Another storm of outrage swelled up, a good portion of the chamber on its feet and shouting. She let it sweep over her, unflinching as the noise and aggression spiked. It was certain to be an unpopular opinion, Bronach had known it from the start. But she knew the type of wizards, because of course they were all wizards, not to mention white and British, that Fudge had appointed. And because Magical Britain was run on old money and bigotry, you held your seat until you died or your appointment was revoked.

Originally, or so she had been told by Hermione centuries ago, the Wizengamot had been roughly equally divided between legacy seats given to prominent families, elected positions, and Ministry Department Heads. Unfortunately, as family lines died out, the legacy seats had shifted to be majority appointment-filled, a "perk" of being the Minister. Which turned into a "perk" of having enough money to buy the Minister. Combined with the Ministry's general bigotry and nepotism and there being no limits on the number of Departments sitting on the Wizengamot...well, the elected seats were limited in their power, and typically just another expense for the holder.

A number of families had lost their appointed seats during the Death Eater trials after the first war. The imperious defense was enough to keep you out of Azkaban, but not enough to qualify your character. There were a few suspected Death Eaters that had clawed their way back into public favor and regained an appointment in the years since Bronach had started Hogwarts, but mostly it was those whose bigotry had not extended to taking the Dark Mark or public alignment with Riddle's cause.

"Enough!" she repeated, using a wandless, silent sonorous to get her point across, but not strong enough for it to be obvious that she was using magic. "Those who were appointed by Cornelius Fudge, you will leave this chamber or you will be escorted out. You have exactly two minutes to begin moving towards the door."

"Your Majesty," Amelia Bones said quietly, under the cover of a fresh wave of outrage. "There's been a development."

"Tom Riddle has decided to appear," Bronach guessed, exchanging a look with Aragorn, who looked longsuffering as he dug out a galleon and passed it to her. "Very well then, what is the situation?"

"Riddle brought a full compliment of Death Eaters," Madame Bones's mouth twisted as if she'd bitten into a lemon. "My aurors claim to be penning them in the Atrium, but apparently they're being outflanked by Death Eaters who are entering through the private Floos."

"Excellent," Bronach grumbled, taking a quick headcount of the aurors in the room. Amelia had posted a full six aurors, anticipating the problems they were facing getting Fudge's appointments to vacate, but those would hardly be enough to shore up whoever was on duty. "Do we know what departments are compromised?"

"The Department of Mysteries is locked down," a cool, familiar voice said, and Bronach looked over to see the Unspeakable who had come to the meeting with Amelia Bones sidling up next to Aragorn. "Nothing in or out. We're dealing with any...problems... internally."

"Understood," Bronach nodded, mind whirling. With a gesture, she conjured a model of the ministry and started marking off known points. The Department of Mysteries was marked off as secure, and the Atrium as a combat zone. Amelia thankfully started filling her in on what the auror's patronus had reported, but that left too few details for her to be comfortable.

"We cannot evacuate the chamber," Bronach said after a moment of studying the model. "Half of the members are not adequate duelists, and a decent portion I do not trust. We will need to secure the chamber, taking only a few volunteers, since I refuse to wait penned up inside."

Another patronus zipped in, this one familiar. The lynx opened its mouth, and Kingsley said. "Sorry boss, but I called in some help. They're arriving in the atrium, but the Death Eaters have broken the line and gotten into the stairwells."

"The Order of the Phoenix," Amelia sighed, sounding irritated. "I need all the wands I can get, but I wish I didn't have to deal with the fallout."

"With the auror line broken and the Order arriving in the atrium, we are going to see the Death Eaters flooding the building," Aragorn said, pointing at the stairwells, which Bronach had change color so that they were more easily visible. "Which offices have Floo connections to the outside?"

"All of the major offices," Amelia and Bronach said in unison. "Outgoing, at least. As an escape route."

"So we need to take the office Floos to lock them down and prevent any escapes," Aragorn said, his face as serious as if he was on campaign again. "The Death Eater threat needs to end today."

"String out a cordon and work towards the atrium, pinning them between us and the Order," Bronach said, grasping his plan. "We lock offices down as we go, making sure that there is no place anyone can be hiding."

Amelia looked between them, starting to understand what was about to happen.

"Absolutely not," she said firmly, leveling a glare at Bronach. "Your Majesty, I cannot allow you-"

"You will find," Bronach said, shucking her outer robe to reveal the underdress beneath, cut to allow combat movements and embroidered with protective wards, "that as Queen, I determine what is allowed and what is not."

"Surely you understand," Amelia tried appealing to Aragorn, who shook his head.

"I would be a hypocrite if I did not agree with her," he said with a wry smile.

Arwen had words with him about some of the stories that had come back about the Rhun and Harad campaigns. Bronach had words with him about some of what she'd witnessed on the Rhun and Harad campaigns. But neither of them could deny that his habit of leading from the front hadn't been effective, both in boosting morale and in achieving their goals.

Bronach summoned her own patronus. "To Arwen Undomiel, for her ears alone," she instructed the crow that appeared. "Snake and firebird on site, but remain vigilant. Will contact when secure."

The crow winged its way through the door, catching the attention of those who had been arguing. Slowly, all heads turned towards her.

"Is that what it takes to get your attention?" Bronach asked, feeling amused in spite of herself. "I have been informed that there is currently fighting in the Ministry. This room will be secured, but before we seal it, I will lead a party to aid the aurors in driving back this incursion. Any who wish to join me, please make yourself known."

Unsurprisingly, Arthur Weasley was first to rise from his seat. "I will join you, Your Majesty," he said.

"As will I," Rufus Scrimgeour growled, wand in his hand. A few others put themselves forward, but Bronach dismissed most of them, either due to Amelia's subtle head shake or due to her own personal knowledge. In the end, it was Scrimgeour, Arthur, and the lead Hitwizard who made the cut, joining Amelia, Aragorn, and herself.

"Two aurors with us, the rest secure the chamber," Amelia said, and the aurors all seemed to play a game of rock-paper-scissors before two detached themselves from the red robed huddle to join Bronach's group.

"Senior Unspeakable, I leave the room in your hands," Bronach told the figure, who had been watching the proceedings quietly. "Nobody in or out until I return."

"As you command, Your Majesty," the figure said, inclining their head politely. Bronach led her party out of the Wizengamot chambers and turned to face the doors as they were closed by the aurors inside.

She'd learned the spells needed to seal off the chamber from outside access, all who reached Head Auror did. It was a designated fallback point, should the Ministry ever be invaded. A low incantation and a sweep of her hand, and the wards fell into place. As a precaution, she wove several extra spells, ensuring that the doors would refuse to open to anyone but herself.

"Now," she said, turning to Amelia Bones and Aragorn. "Let us secure the Ministry."

Amelia Bones watched as Harry Potter, newly crowned queen of the British Wizarding World, took out Death Eaters as if she'd been doing so her entire life and wondered: Who the hell is teaching this child?

Susan had the same Defense professors, but her niece certainly didn't have this level of skill. Harry Potter practically danced through the halls, light on her feet and always moving in coordination with Aragorn Telcontar and the hound that refused to leave her side. Spells flicked from her wand faster than Amelia could track and most of them were unfamiliar, but all of them were devastatingly effective. It left Amelia and her aurors feeling extraneous as they trailed in the young woman's wake, tidying up piles of bound and incapacitated Death Eaters, sleeves neatly peeled back to show the damning mark.

If Harry Potter led, then Aragorn Telcontar was only half a step behind. Without a wand in sight, he defended Potter, using the shield that Potter had pulled out of one of her pockets after warding the doors of the Wizengamot chamber to reflect spells back at the Death Eaters they encountered, an honest to goodness sword in his other hand, ready to leave the enemy bleeding. Amelia hadn't seen him cast a single spell, but his effectiveness, for all that his methods seemed antiquated, couldn't be denied.

Floor by floor, department by department, the pair and their hound led the way through the Ministry, rooting out pockets of resistance and supporting Ministry employees who had been caught unawares by the incursion of Death Eaters. They had picked up a few helpful hands, but most of the Ministry's staff Amelia wouldn't trust not to accidentally stun themselves in a combat situation. Those they left sheltering in cleared departments, behind wards that Potter promised would not go down until it was safe.

"That is the last of it," Potter said, once they'd cleared the floor which held the Minister's office and the offices for the support staff. "Just the Atrium left, where everyone else should be."

"What are we waiting for?" one of the aurors behind Amelia muttered, a recent Hogwarts graduate who was clearly unhappy at the lack of opportunities to distinguish himself in front of his boss.

Whether she'd heard or not, Potter started off towards the Minister's office, opening the stairwell that emerged in the outer waiting area that the maintenance team used to access the bulk of the floors without tying up the lifts. They'd been making use of the maintenance passages for most of their journey, ensuring that their movements went unnoticed and unimpeded. It was a tactic Amelia would have to remember to train her aurors on, because she'd just had an object lesson in its effectiveness.

"Why is it that whenever we end up fighting together, it is always taking back populated areas?" she heard Potter murmur to Telcontar, who laughed softly as they climbed the stairs together. "No, I mean it," Potter laughed as she continued. "Any time we fight side by side, it is always in a city."

"That is because your talents are better suited for this than a cavalry charge," Telcontar's voice suggested a smile. "Which I think is probably for the best, given how absolutely terrifying you are on the ground. If we put you on a Rohirric war horse, I do not think there would be a single kingdom you could not have conquered without any help at all."

"I would need a mearas for that," Potter retorted, bumping her shoulder into Telcontar's as they both laughed. Amelia, not for the first time, wondered who Aragorn Telcontar was. The pair were more in sync than some of her best auror pairs in a way that suggested both natural charisma and learned familiarity that Potter should not have.

Briefly, she remembered what the Unspeakable had said, a month ago in the private room at the Three Broomsticks, about time travel. She'd written it off for the most part, letting it slide without further interrogation because she needed the alliances that Potter had been reaching out to form. When she'd attempted to speak with the Unspeakable about it after their return, they'd been illusive and refused to explain further. But now that she was watching Potter in action...it was difficult to deny that there was no explanation for Potter's skills that didn't start and end with time travel.

She watched quietly as the pair conversed in a foreign language, heads tipped together in a way that suggested long familiarity. Telcontar's wife taught at Hogwarts, or so Susan had reported. Amelia desperately wanted to watch the three of them interact, to see what other pieces of the puzzle she'd glean from those observations.

"We do not know what the situation in the Atrium is," Potter said, stopping a landing below the door that opened behind the security desk. "We do know that the bulk of the Death Eaters are likely there, pinned between the aurors who responded first and any who came to help from the Order of the Phoenix. Before you curse, make sure you know who your target is, and identify yourself if you must in order to ensure nobody is cursed by the members of the Order. At this time, do not concern yourself with the fact that responding members of the Order are technically breaking the law; we need all the help we can get. Most likely there are downed aurors, Death Eaters, and Order members alike out there. If it is safe, triage them. Anyone that will not survive even if they get to a healer, leave behind. Anyone that needs immediate attention gets it if it is safe. Those who can wait, wait. But we cannot bring in healers until we get the Death Eaters subdued, so that is our main focus."

Everyone, Amelia included, nodded at the succinct briefing, and then Potter and her companions were on the move again, making the last climb quickly. "Disillusionment charms everyone," Potter ordered quietly, disappearing from sight a moment before Telcontar and the hound did, and then the door opened quietly, letting the noise of battle echo through the stairwell.