Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Cobblestones echoed with the sound of hoofbeats as the white mare was led to meet its destiny. If it weren’t for the promise of magic, he wouldn’t have borne the cold of early twilight, but Draco was determined to get what he came for. For too long the town had been on hard times, ready to cling to any promise of hope no matter how empty. Now they needed something real.

The street past the Three Broomsticks would usually be bustling, but his coming must have been expected as hurried footsteps and closing doors left the street bare. As he turned down a side alley, his gaze trailed down the well-travelled road towards the abandoned castle, watching silently from its place on the hilltop.

Lights snuffed out in the windows lining the alley, yet the shadows of faces filled the frames. A faint child’s voice asked in mingled wonder and fear if there was about to be magic, and his mother quickly hushed him. 

Draco’s gloved hand tightened on the horse’s reins. There would have been a time when every child in this town had seen magic, but that time had long since passed.

Fortunately, the boy had asked the very question that Draco had intended to strike the hearts of Hogsmeade. A trick would take place here tonight—magic of a sort—and as long as he could get the right people to believe, he’d set in motion the gears of a much bigger plan. To drive his point home, Draco looked up at the offending window, tipping his hat up on his forehead so all could see his face. 

This was not just a man and his horse, this was Peaky Flinder business, and by morning, all of Hogsmeade would know what had taken place. 

The window shut with a bang, but the boy’s peering eyes remained on the horse which tossed its head and nickered in agitation. From the end of the lane running footsteps could be heard, and Draco stayed the horse with one hand, uttering a quiet command. The animal calmed instantly. A young girl, draped in purple and blue scarves, emerged breathlessly into the lamplight, pulled by her eager mother. 

“Is this the seer girl?” asked Draco.

“It is, sir,” said the woman, thrusting the girl towards him. 

Draco looked her over and handed a folded note to the mother, who snatched it up. “Get on with it then.”

In the ring of light, the girl stretched out her hands, glittering with gems of painted glass. She spoke in a voice too low to hear, and the horse took a step closer, nuzzling its nose into her outstretched fingers. 

Draco moved away to leave room for the girl’s “magic,” but it was easy for him to see the hidden apple slice in her hands. 

Standing on tiptoes, the girl whispered something into the horse’s ear. The watchers in the alley were silent as the grave, and Draco could feel the weight of their eyes through the falling darkness. She reached into her pockets with the stealth of a practised charlatan and blew hard into her fist, splashing the horse with a stripe of bright blue powder straight down the nose and sending it rearing back in fright. 

The light from the lone street lamp flickered overhead—a nice touch, Draco thought—and muffled noises of astonishment were quickly shushed behind windows with their curtains yanked closed.

“It is done. The horse will win,” said the woman as the girl ran back to her, clutching her skirts, her job complete. A cloud of powder still lingered in the air, spun into spiral shapes by the Horse’s frantic breathing.

“Excellent.” Draco regained the reins, pulling the horse back to face him as he channelled a calming spell and touched its neck, wordlessly. The frightened creature steadied, though its breath continued to come in huffs of pale blue mist in the winter air. 

He pulled himself onto the horse’s back facing the darkened windows and the shadows inside. 

“This horse is The Andromache, and she’ll be racing this Monday at Armadale.” His voice carried effortlessly down the cold stone street. “You good people have a bet yourselves, but don’t tell anyone else. By order of the Peaky Flinders.” 

Like a spell itself, the name carried enough force for the last faces to disappear from their windows. The street was now as dark as the castle on the hill, overseeing the dealings like a shadowy sentinel. 

Satisfied, Draco tugged the reins and carried on through the town, where activity resumed just one street over. In some ways, it felt cheap to bend to such a scam to draw in the bets, but he wasn’t too proud to do it, knowing that the money earned off the Andromache’s race would finance the next steps of his plan. Plus, if the venture he had in mind brought in even half of what he was anticipating, the whole town would benefit – and they sorely needed it.

In the evening light, Hogsmeade could be mistaken for a happy town, full of bustling shops and pubs with crackling fires, but Draco knew better. The once vibrant shopfronts were cracked and weathered. These people were barely scraping by. It had been in even worse shape when the territory was split across the control of gangs, but since the Flinders had taken charge, life had started to return to these old streets. Draco felt a certain responsibility to keep it that way. 

Hogsmeade was a wizarding town once, a place where magical folk could practise the arts openly. But in all his years of being raised here, Draco had never seen more than a sliver of the old ways. A door opening itself here, a shattered glass repaired there, but nothing to call attention to itself, and certainly nothing that would defy the Dark Lord’s longstanding ban on magic in any form – Nothing on the surface, anyway.

That was all about to change. 

Draco absently touched the brim of his hat as he drew up in front of a narrow grey street lined with narrow grey buildings. Grimmauld Place sat at a slight tilt like it had been dropped in place, causing all the doors and windows to lean to one side. In truth, Draco had no idea how the ancient house-elf and caretaker of his mother’s ancestral home had managed the move from London, only that when Sirius had come into her care after the war and needed a safe place to recover, he had managed to move it with little difficulty. Draco had never underestimated a house-elf since. 

As he made his way through a wrought-iron gate, the front door cracked open and a small leathery face with a long nose poked out at knee height. From behind, the raucous noise of the Black family betting den could be heard at a fever pitch. News certainly travelled fast in small towns. 

“Master Sirius is displeased. Very displeased!” croaked the house-elf. 

“When is Sirius not displeased, Kreacher?” sighed Draco, shrugging his coat onto a peg by the door and feeling instantly warmed by the fires of Grimmauld Place. The house-elf harrumphed and scampered up the stairs.

Instead of following, Draco took a few steps into the parlour. Once a garish old thing of navy brocade wallpaper and cursed portraits of disapproving ancestors, the sitting room had many years since been transformed into a private gambling operation, with stripped back walls and a collection of old furniture hobbled together from the rest of the house. Now it seemed every inch was filled with people shoulder to shoulder, waving Muggle notes and handfuls of sickles alike. 

Blaise sat in the thick of it, gathering bets and scribbling furiously in a ledger. 

“How are we looking?” asked Draco.

“How do you think?” Blaise gestured to the name The Andromache, written in a fine blue ink. To the right, a long list of bets were tabulated by hand, summing to far greater than the last three races combined. 

Draco dared to let himself sigh a small measure of relief. The first steps were falling into place nicely. If the rest of his plan went this smoothly, he might buy himself out of the horse racing game for good by summer.

“Looks like we’re in business.” Draco clapped his friend on the shoulder but kept his expression neutral. Best not to let the punters know how pleased he was with their takings.

“You better take care of Sirius, though. He’s in a state,” said Blaise, waving Draco away as the men in front of him demanded his attention. “Alright, you lot, one at a time!”

“Of course he is,” Draco muttered as he scrubbed a hand over his eyes. The last thing he needed was another one of Sirius’s episodes, not when he had a town to run and a new business venture just blossoming to life. “Any idea what it’s about this time?” 

Blaise’s hand stilled on the ledger, and he turned fully in his chair to cast Draco a look of incredulity. “Mate, I’ll give you one guess.” 

He pointed over Draco’s shoulder to the chalkboard on the far wall, where the name Andromache had an angry scorch mark next to it. 

“Right, I’ll handle it,” Draco said, straightening his shoulders and heading for the stairs, knowing it was better to face his cousin than let it simmer. His hands were itching for a cigarette.

Even from outside the library, Draco could hear his cousin’s angry pacing. 

“Unbelievable!” said Sirius. “We enter his horse into one race, and already he thinks he runs the place.” 

“To be fair, Draco knows the racing business as well as any of us,” said Tonks. She could always be relied on to play the voice of reason in the room. 

“That’s not the point, is it Tonks?” said Sirius. “The last thing we need is a bunch of superstitious muggles running to the bookies, skewing our results. I say we take a vote to pull the horse altogether.”

“We will not be voting on anything without Draco,” said Narcissa in a smooth voice. “This family does everything as one.” 

“Well I don’t give a damn about the horses. If I give up my vote, can I go? I have places to be,” said Pansy in an unamused drawl.

“Pansy, I swear to Merlin–” started Sirius, before Draco thought better of it and let himself into the room. 

“Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?” he said as he slid into the old library, immediately warmed by a fire crackling in the grate. 

Sirius was pacing by the window, with Kreacher following at an even clip. Tonks was splayed out on the chaise with the day’s paper folded to the football results, and Pansy sat next to her with her legs crossed in an emerald green evening gown. In the armchair closest to the fire sat his mother, dressed in black and flashing him a look of reproval over her teacup. 

“About bloody time,” snapped Sirius, his dark brows fixed in a scowl. “Word on the street is you performed the powder trick on the Andromache. Bets have been flooding in.” 

“I didn’t realise it would cause such a stir,” said Draco, crossing the room to his mother’s armchair to give her a kiss on the cheek which she accepted with an eye roll and a smile. “We did it last year with the filly”

“Last year we agreed on it. Since when are you fixing races without consulting the family?” Sirius crossed his arms.

“Since I’m responsible for bringing in new business.” Draco took off his hat to push the blond hair out of his eyes, tucking it under his arm. “I told you I was kicking off a new project, remember? The race is just a minor part of that.” 

“I’m all for it, but toying with magic is risky when the cops have been sniffing around,” said Tonks, tossing her paper to the side. “As long as we’re sure she was just a muggle, I don’t see the problem.” 

“I still don’t understand why you do it at all,” said Narcissa tartly.

“Because it helps the Muggles believe,” said Draco. “The punters lay their bets, the police have nothing on us, and our name remains on everyone’s lips to keep this town in order. No harm done.” 

“This is getting tiring,” said Pansy, inspecting her nails. “Obviously Draco knows what he’s doing.”

Sirius let out a long sigh. “Look, I have no issue with your little side ventures, but fixing races is Mundungus Fletcher's game. If we make enemies of him and his men, we’ll be back to battling for the territory we’ve worked so hard to gain. I don’t think I need to remind anyone we already have the Goldsteins and the Weasleys itching for a fight.”

Draco nodded, feeling the eyes in the room turned to him. 

“You’re right, I wasn’t thinking about the territory because I know you have everything covered,” said Draco, and he could see the fire in Sirius’s eyes abate. “I was thinking about business. Legitimate business. Earning enough that we never have to worry about staying on top again.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?” 

Draco laid a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “Let me worry about that. If it all falls through, I’ll clean up my own mess, alright?” 

Sirius raised an eyebrow and shot a look in Narcissa’s direction. “Can you believe this? Sometimes I forget it’s not Lucius I’m talking to.” 

Draco felt his neutral expression crack at the mention of his father’s name, but Sirius didn’t notice. Pansy, however, did. 

“Give it a rest Sirius,” said Pansy, rising at last and straightening the creases out of her dress. “If the results are anything like Blaise says they are, we should be celebrating. Does anyone need a drink? I, for one, am parched.” 

“Definitely,” said Tonks, hopping up after her as they both headed for the door. Pansy threw a smirk over her shoulder, which Draco acknowledged gratefully. She was a master of getting him out of sticky situations. 

“Right, you’re to tell me if you plan to fix anymore races, otherwise Zabini will up and quit on us if he has to manage that sort of mad rush alone again,” said Sirius, clapping Draco on the shoulder and following the others. “Meet us at the pub later, we’ll celebrate this new venture of yours!” 

When all three had left and even Kreacher scurried out after Sirius, Draco turned back to his mother. She sat sipping her tea, framed by the faded blue velvet of the chair. 

“Seems like a lot of trouble just to get into bookmaking. Especially now that we’ve finally got the town under our thumb,” she said, as Draco approached, hands in the pockets of his coat. “What’s this really about?”

“That’s really what it is, mother,” said Draco. She raised a single eyebrow in response. It was very difficult to keep secrets from someone with the Sight. “At least to get us started. I was just waiting for the right time to put the wheels in motion.” 

“I see, and something has convinced you that now is the time. A sign perhaps,” she said, her voice trailing off. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the rumours of Aurors in town from London?”

Draco took a seat on the chaise across from her, his expression controlled through years of practice. 

There had, in fact, been a sign. A sign so enormous that it was impossible to ignore. 

A wayward shipment, dropped in their laps by the grace of fate: A crate of a thousand wands, five hundred with dragon heartstring for explosive spells of ground forces, three hundred phoenix feather for tactical operations, two hundred unicorn hair for battlefield healers, all bound for the borderlands. It had been unexpected, but the acquisition of such a significant bargaining chip could not be ignored. 

Somehow, the winds of fate were blowing the family Black back on course, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to hasten their arrival. He only hoped he could hold onto the secret for a little longer, once he’d figured out what to do with the damn things. 

“Aurors in town are nothing new, and fixing races may even bring some unwanted attention. There may be some heat for a few weeks, but it will pass.” 

“I worry,” she muttered under her breath, gazing into her teacup before tilting it towards him. A cluster of jagged leaves clung to the side, like a tree branch or a strike of lightning from a thundercloud. “A cloud of danger is nothing new for this family. Still, this feels closer somehow.” 

Daco accepted the teacup to inspect it. It was made of fine china with a clover pattern around the rim, and a small chip on one side. Just like everything in this house; tarnished finery. 

“Could be nothing,” said Draco, turning it in the light from the fire as Narcissa sat back, a worried hand coming to rest on her chin.

“Strong words for someone who has benefited from my visions,” she replied. “Still. There is something more to this. Pour me another, will you dearest?”

Draco reached for a silver teapot on the coffee table, tipping it gently into a fresh cup with a creeping ivy motif. The aromatic scent of bergamot floated into the air on a wisp of steam. 

“I’ve never doubted your sight, Mother. It’s just that when you’re starting a new venture, some things are bound to go wrong, but that doesn’t mean–”

A resounding crack broke their easy conversation. 

Perhaps the delicate porcelain had been too cold for the hot tea. Though the way Narcissa’s forehead creased into a deep frown as she beheld the shattered cup told him that was not what she believed. 

“Here, let me.” He reached to clear away the broken shards, but Narcissa got there first. The moment her hand touched the pieces, she sucked in a sharp breath and her hand clenched into a fist around the china, her head dropping back. 

Draco dashed to her side, propping her shoulders up. “Mother!”

Her eyes fluttered open and she dropped the pieces of the teacup, her cut hands flying to her temples. All of their magic had suffered in the years that they’d had to stifle it, but hers had been the most difficult to contain.

“Someone is coming,” she said, her fingers pressing into her temples. 

Draco tried to clasp her hand as he held her propped up with one arm. “You’ve had a fright–”

“Destined to cross your path,” she continued, her eyes locking on his, her brow furrowed uncharacteristically. Draco could feel her magic grow weak, frightened. “I have seen this shadow once before. The night that–” She winced, her eyes scrunching in pain. 

“Don’t force it,” said Draco, despite the voice crying out when? in his mind. He knew the visions took a lot out of her, but her ability to recover was definitely getting worse. 

“Yes, I think you’re right,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I need to rest.” 

“Let me take you to your room.” Draco rose, lifting her to her feet. She came willingly, her thin form lighter than he remembered.

Harry stepped off the train at Hogsmeade station picturing a quaint village with thatched roofs and curls of smoke rising from chimneys. He’d been told of the cobblestone streets and the quirky shops that were frequented by eclectic townsfolk, and after a lifetime of being passed around in foster care where he had to hide his true nature outside of home, he was excited to finally be in a wizarding town. 

But whatever Harry had been expecting, this was not it.

The few people that got off the train alongside Harry were wearing cheap Muggle jackets and scowls. Harry tried to help one old woman get her luggage off the train car, until she snapped at him not to touch her things, her small white dog barking angrily. 

Harry came out of the station at an intersection that looked nothing like the hand-drawn map he consulted. Shoving the paper into his pocket, he took the first right and headed down a thoroughfare. The streets that led away from the station were littered with rubbish, and appeared to be partly paved over with asphalt, as if a great concrete disease had spread over only half the town. 

Shopfronts showed the remains of the stores they had once been—Now the hand-painted sign of Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop was plastered over with printed stickers in fluorescent colours proclaiming Sale! TVs and VCRs 20% Off. Despite the glaring electric lights from the store windows, the street was dark and run down. 

As he passed by a dentist’s office advertising annual checkups that promised to “Feel Like Magic,” he caught sight of a flyer taped to a lamppost. Torn off paper tabs fluttered in the breeze and Harry flattened them out with his hand to read: Are you a wizard who wishes for the old ways? Are you a Muggle who’s wondering what magic can do for you? Do you believe in equal opportunity access for all? Join us at Tomes & Scrolls on Wednesday, Jan 7th to join the Equalist movement. 

Harry tore off one of the paper tabs that read “I believe!” alongside the event details and tucked it in his pocket. He’d have to meet the locals one way or another. That is, if he could find a place to stay. 

“Are you lost?” asked a voice from behind him. 

He turned and adjusted his gaze down to the sidewalk, where a young boy stood with his hands in the pocket of a hoodie. The boy was so small and the jumper so big that it went down to his knees, where Harry could see a pair of tattered jeans and worn-down trainers that sent a pang of sympathy through his heart. 

“I think I might be,” said Harry, pulling the drawn map out of his pocket. “Do you know which way to the Three Broomsticks?” 

“Maybe,” said the boy, with a shrug of feigned innocence. “I’ll tell you for a sickle.” 

“Steep price,” joked Harry, reaching into his pocket. He remembered what it was like being a kid on his own. Sometimes you had to make your own adventures. 

“Well, would you pay me for a magic trick?” The boy smiled widely, revealing two missing front teeth. 

“Sure,” said Harry, kneeling till he was eye level and holding out a sickle. 

“A magic trick is two sickles,” said the boy, holding his hand palm up. 

Harry laughed and pulled out another, depositing both into the boy’s hand. The kid flashed another toothless smile, and from inside the pocket of his hoodie he pulled out three cups and a ball. He crouched down to set out the cups, holding them up for Harry to see them empty, and placing a ball under one. “You have to guess where the ball is, and I’ll give you back one sickle.” 

“Right,” said Harry, furrowing his brow to pretend to concentrate on the cups. 

As the boy swirled the cups across the pavement, Harry spotted a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye. He could feel the presence getting closer and clenched one hand, channelling a wordless stinging jinx as a hand came in contact with him. 

There was a yelp of pain and Harry saw a second boy in a faded Chudley Cannons jersey snatching his hand back from the pocket where Harry kept his wallet and rubbing it tenderly. He sighed, not because he was surprised at the pickpocket, but because he was disappointed to see what Hogsmeade had become. 

“Careful,” said Harry, fixing both boys with a reprimanding gaze. “It’s not safe to practice magic in the open.”

Eyes wide, the boy with the missing teeth nodded and hurried to gather his cups. “It’s on the next block to the left,” he called over his shoulder as he and his friend disappeared into the alley.

The directions to the Three Broomsticks turned out to be more trustworthy than the boy’s magic trick, and Harry was soon checking in at the bar with a boisterous woman called Madam Rosmerta. 

“My stars, we hardly see travellers around here anymore!” she said, pulling a dusty ledger off the shelf behind her and creaking it open to a blank page. “What brings you round these parts, love?”

“Just looking for a change of pace,” said Harry, taking in the cheery surroundings of the pub, from the overstuffed armchairs to the rough hewn benches. “The man who raised me spent a lot of time here as a boy. Though I daresay it’s changed since he lived here last.” 

“You can say that again,” Rosmerta stopped her bustling and leaned forward on the open book, peering over her spectacles conspiratorially. “Bloody magical sanctions are still throwing this place for a loop twenty years on or more. And the Muggle re-homing projects are going just as badly as I’m sure you can tell. But then again, there’s still plenty of charm for a newcomer, to be sure. Where did you say you were from, dear?”

“Er, Dublin, most recently. But I’ve lived all over.” 

“Right, right,” Rosmerta nodded, gazing at Harry with a faraway look as though he reminded her of someone. “Well, keep your wits about you, love. Strange things happen in these streets after dark.” 

“Really? I’ve heard—that is, well, I’ve been told,” Harry shifted on his feet. “That there’s an old pureblood family that has run of the town. The Blacks. Are they dangerous?” 

Rosmerta threw her head back in peals of laughter. “Mercy me, no. It’s not the Peaky Flinders you have to look out for. It’s the devils they keep at bay, mind you.” 

Harry could barely disguise a look of surprise. A pickpocket on the street was one thing, but the atrocities committed at the hands of the Black were another altogether. “So they’re not the criminals the rumours make them out to be.”

“I can’t speak for the rumours, or what they do to keep the proper order of things. But before the Flinders came back from the war, this town was on its last legs,” said Rosmerta, repositioning her spectacles on her nose and turning to scrawl in the ledger. “Tonks has been an angel with the young ones whose parents have disappeared. Sirius still comes round to check on me since the break-in last year. And Draco has been keeping dirty cops from collecting on businesses. He won medals in the war, you know. For bravery.” 

“You don’t say.” Harry realised he was gripping the edge of the bar so tightly his fingers had turned white. He let go, forcing a laugh. “Goes to show, you can never trust the rumours.” 

“Exactly right, love. Sure, we’ve got our share of bad men, but they’re our bad men,” said Rosmerta, pushing the ledger across for Harry to sign. “You can stay as long as you like, though the rooms might need a bit of dusting. I serve coffee here at the bar from half seven.”

She opened a small cabinet that held a series of keys, and Harry could have sworn he saw one summoned into her hand from a short distance away. Smiling, she held it out to him. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, accepting an antique brass key with a plastic keychain that read 10% off at Bangkok Bites for guests of the Three Broomsticks. 

Harry hiked his backpack up on his shoulder. “If I wanted to keep an eye out for the Black family, where should I avoid?” 

Rosmerta’s jovial smile pursed into a look of warning. “My advice? Don’t go looking for them, and they won’t go looking for you.” 

She hummed a noise of hostly satisfaction and turned back to the bar, leaving Harry to make his way up to the small (and very dusty) rooms on the top floor. 

It wasn’t until he was sitting on the creaking bed, shoes tossed onto the green carpeted floor, the door locked with the ancient key, that he finally relaxed. He pushed his glasses up on his head to rub at his eyes. After a lifetime under a perfect vision charm, the round frames of his Muggle disguise had been giving him a headache all day. Despite the headache and the pickpocket and the dirty streets, Harry felt that the day had been a roaring success, and his work was only just beginning. 

He placed his glasses back on his nose and tipped his backpack out on the floral bedspread. As his hand closed around the willow wand, he sighed in relief, letting its familiar magic wash over him. He pushed the shimmering fabric of an invisibility cloak to the side, drawing the wand down the cover of his Sightseeing Scotland travel guide, opening it to reveal the dossier he had been sent to Hogsmeade with, full of mugshots, scrawled notes, and witness statements. 

On the top of the pile, the stationary picture of a blond man in a soldier’s uniform was clipped to a file Harry had read a hundred times. His high cheekbones cut him as one of noble blood, but the dark expression in his eyes betrayed his true nature. The photo of Draco Malfoy stared back at him, as unfussed about his impending doom as you please. 

It was a relief to be back in the night air after the chaos inside Grimmauld Place. The betting had died down, Narcissa was sleeping soundly, and even Kreacher had been convinced to keep his grumblings to a dull murmur. Still, the agitation which had been wound tightly in Draco’s chest all day had not dissipated. 

He took a deep breath, looking up at the sliver of moon overhead, and let it out as a wisp curling away above him. Sometimes, if he focused, he could keep the sounds of the battlefield from creeping in. Other times, it was all he could do to keep the family—or his own head—from imploding.

Whatever had happened with the teacup, Draco had to admit didn’t seem like the fortuitous vision of his business to come that he’d hoped for. Still, it didn’t deter him from the plans he had laid out in his mind. The horse racing had to work, and once they were in a comfortable position, he could finally, finally, relax. 

They needed a win, and they needed it soon, or else the whole thing might come crashing down around Draco’s head. 

As the worry seeped in, a far away ringing sound started in his ears. Draco leaned against the bannister, snapping his eyes shut. He didn’t have time for damn war memories to come creeping in. He refused to let his own weakness be what derailed his plans.

He strained against the memory gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, the sound of far off explosions reverberating in his head, and sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. A crisp breeze filled his lungs and he forced his eyes open, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a pack of Muggle cigarettes, appalled to see his hand shaking slightly as he withdrew it. 

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he attempted to light the tip with a wordless spell, but his magic was temperamental when he was agitated. He swore under his breath and whispered “Incendio,” as a small flame burst to life on the end of the cigarette, shielding it from the wind with his hand as it turned to smoke. 

No sooner had Draco stepped onto the path in front of Grimmauld Place than a familiar blue uniform of a cop had sidled up next to him. 

“Be careful where you light up like that,” said Officer Diggory. “Smoking kills, you know.” 

“If only it were that simple,” sighed Draco, taking a long drag of his cigarette and ignoring the thinly veiled threat. Openly practising magic was an arrestable offence, but Cedric was too smart to try it. “Nothing better to do than linger around residential streets these days, Diggory?”

“Good evening to you too, Malfoy,” said Cedric. “Mind if I walk with you?”

“Why not,” sighed Draco. Cedric was a good cop. He cared about keeping the streets clean and looked the other way at just the right times to keep the peace. Sure, he hated Draco and his family, but he was pragmatic. He knew that a wolf in the house was better than a wolf at the door. 

“Thought you might be interested to know about a newcomer to the precinct this afternoon,” said Cedric, matching Draco’s long strides. 

Draco rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a stack of Muggle notes, peeling off 50 quid and holding it in the cop’s direction. 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” snapped Cedric, smacking his hand away. “I’m telling you this for your own good. We’d been told all week that a senior official, some high ranking Death Eater, would be sent to the department to investigate the robbery.”

Draco could tell Cedric was waiting for him to bite. “What robbery?”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Cedric shook his head and cast a glance over his shoulder, but stayed in lock step with Draco just the same. “You know perfectly well what robbery. Let’s just say it was a shipment bound for the front lines. That ringing any bells for you?” 

He did, in fact, know exactly what Cedric was talking about. It couldn’t be anything but the crate of wands which had at first seemed like such a lucky break. Draco knew full well that luck always came with a price, he’d only hoped he’d have a little more time to figure out what to do with it.

Draco stopped on a corner far enough from the pubs to not be overheard by any passers-by and breathed in the sweet smoke of his cigarette. “Get to the point, Diggory.” 

Cedric huffed an incredulous laugh. “The point is, this is no small horse race. This is a crime of national significance—one that Voldemort himself has sent an emissary to solve. All eyes are on Scotland, including the Dark Lord’s, and I’d recommend if anyone knew anything about the missing shipment, they ought to turn it over post-haste. The man they’ve sent is no joke.”

“Point taken.” Draco threw the cigarette on the ground where it smouldered out. It was getting to the point he couldn’t even enjoy a smoke without a new disaster popping up. “Anything else?”

Cedric shifted his weight, his hands deep in the pockets of his uniform. Draco had never known him to be so uneasy. “This man who’s arrived—he’s more than just a cop. He knows things about the people here, and my guess is he won’t be operating within the bounds of the law. From what I hear, he’s put down more rebellions single-handedly than entire armies have.”

“You make it sound like the Dark Lord himself is coming,” said Draco, eager to put an end to the conversation. 

“It might as well be. It’s Severus Snape.” 

Draco felt a chill creep down his spine that he couldn’t attribute to the cold. Snape was well known as one of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and one of his most ruthless lieutenants. 

It had been nearly twenty-five years since Lord Voldemort assumed control of the United Kingdom and over two decades since the Muggle and magical police had been combined into one department to keep the peace and squash the flames of rebellion against the new regime. In all that time, petty crime in Hogsmeade had been allowed to go unchecked. This would be the first time a top-ranking official had been sent to the old wizarding village, and to find a single crate of wands, of all things. 

Perhaps this was the man his mother had foreseen. Someone is coming. Destined to cross your path.

Draco nodded to Cedric. “For your sake, I hope he’s less of an arse than the papers make him out to be.”

Cedric snatched the 50 quid out of Draco’s hand and pocketed it before turning on his heel. “That’s the last thing I’d be worried about if I were you.”  

Draco watched him walk away, shaking his head as Cedric disappeared down a dark street, then pressed onwards to the Hog’s Head, out of the frigid cold of the night air and into the familiar cacophony of the pub. The din dampened as he entered, but once he headed to the bar, it resumed merrily. Several of the men in here had just been at Grimmauld Place, making bets on the Andromache and probably already spending their wished-for winnings. 

Draco took off his hat and laid it on the bar, glancing around the room where he spotted Sirius already too far gone, Blaise with an equally sloppy grin, and Tonks, with a young woman on her knee, also looking like she’d been influenced by her cousin to have a big night. He figured he might as well let them have it. Once Sirius heard Snape would be coming, he’d be a nightmare to deal with. 

“What’ll it be tonight, Malfoy?” asked a gruff voice as Draco’s vision was obscured by the hulking form of the half giant bartender and his massive black beard. 

“Just a pint, Hagrid,” said Draco, tossing a few sickles on the bar. 

“It’s on the house, o’course.” Hagrid filled a frothing mug and set it down before him, where it sloshed over the sides. He grinned through his beard, wiping his hands on the towel at his waist.

“A pint for me too please, Hagrid,” said a voice at Draco’s right, and he found himself face to face with Neville Longbottom. The taller man quirked a smile as he leaned, arms folded, on the bar, waiting for Draco to acknowledge him. 

“Longbottom,” he said at last, taking a drink from his glass. 

“Malfoy,” said Neville, accepting his overflowing pint from Hagrid and pushing Draco’s sickles across the bar towards him. “Thanks for the drink.” 

“Anything for an old friend,” said Draco drily, his eyes darting to the side of the bar as Sirius let out a howl of laughter. 

By the time he looked back, Neville was inspecting Draco's discarded hat on the bar, turning the brim inside out, where shards of wood could be seen sewn in between the layers of the cap. A single strand of silver unicorn hair was the one thread that tied together the shattered remains of a hawthorn wand that had once been Draco's weapon on the front lines in France. 

Neville scoffed incredulously when he saw it. “Crown of a prince.” He tossed the hat back in Draco’s direction and focused his attention back on his beer. “Tell me, what do you have in mind for this town of ours, now that you run the damn place? Shall I assume the other gangs have taken the message and turned tail, or should we expect another incident like the one at Goldstein’s Tailor’s a few weeks back?”

“Tell me what you want, Neville,” said Draco impatiently. He had enough on his mind to not have to worry about old wounds reopening. Their friendship had been dashed to pieces just as their wands had been after the war. 

“There’s a rumour going around. They say there’s a senior Death Eater coming up from London on the matter of a robbery.” He paused, eyes darting to scrutinise his old friend. “Something the Dark Lord himself has taken an interest in, which tells me it’s something significant.” 

Draco let his eyes wander to the portrait of Lord Voldemort which hung over the bar, shifting slightly in its frame and blinking infrequently. It had the feeling of a magical portrait, but it was merely a replica, and one of thousands at that. Just another stamp that the Dark Lord had placed on the old wizarding establishments, reminding them he was always watching. 

“What does that have to do with me?” Draco pulled his gaze away and took another drink. 

“There’s a list of names. Suspects, more like. I’m told you and I are both on it,” said Neville, finally standing up to his full height a few inches taller than Draco and leaning into his space. He had been a good fighter once, a hell of a duelist, and wand or no wand Draco didn’t want to come to blows with the man. “Now why would they have the name of an Equalist and the name of a gambler side by side?” 

“Maybe they’re looking for who to blame for the town’s misfortune,” sighed Draco. “The only difference is at least sometimes, people walk away from my door with a little more fortune than when they arrived.” 

Neville slammed his beer down with a thud and he leaned in to whisper harshly in Draco’s ear, “There are days I hear about the devastation brought by your hands I wish I’d let you take that curse in France.”

“Believe me, there are nights I wish you had.” Draco tried to make it sound like a joke but there was a hollowness to his words that betrayed their truth. He felt his jaw tighten with the strain of maintaining composure.

A bang at the front door startled everyone in the pub as the doors flew open and Theo Nott blew in with a harsh wind. He looked like he’d just been to hell and back, his eyes wide and white, his mouth open, gasping. He stumbled a few steps into the bar, his glance darting from face to face, seeing but not recognising.

Without hesitation, Draco and Neville dashed towards him, pushing patrons out of the way before they found themselves in his path. From the corner of the bar, Draco could see Sirius spring unsteadily to his feet as well, though as he tried to rush over, Tonks held him by the arm. 

“They’re here! They’re after me!” wailed Theo, his hands balling into fists as latent, wordless magic swirled around him.

A consequence of the boys who had gone to war, trained in the arts, and had to come back to a magic-less existence was that sometimes their magic got backed up. Untempered, there was nothing it could do but explode, and Theo looked like a time bomb. Draco shot a warning glance to Tonks, who was getting a dazed-looking Sirius back into his seat before he could do the same. 

“It’s alright, Theo, we’re home now,” said Draco, approaching with his hands raised as with a skittish horse. 

Theo moaned in confusion and clamped his hands to his head. 

“Theo, mate, everything will be alright,” said Neville, inching closer to get a hand on him and attempt to diffuse the magic. 

But Theo could sense them closing in, and he darted away, knocking a table over and sending glasses crashing to the floor. Now even Sirius and Tonks were reaching for their hats, much use they’d be. 

“Easy does it,” said Hagrid, ducking behind the bar for a pink umbrella he sometimes used to break up fights. 

Draco held up a hand. “Hagrid, wait–” 

With a painful cry, Theo erupted. A burst of magic ripped through him, careening with the edge of the bar and shearing chunks away into splinters. A dozen bottles of whisky exploded with the force, sending a sparkling hail of glass across the bar as people screamed. 

In the fray, Draco and Neville both dove for Theo, knocking him to the ground as the charge left his body and holding him there. 

“You’re alright, you’re alright now, Theo.” Draco’s words were more of a command than a reassurance.

Theo blinked dazedly, but his expression changed to one of sorrow as soon as he realised his surroundings. His body went limp as he stopped struggling and tears welled helplessly in his eyes. “Fuck. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” 

“You have to get this under control,” whispered Draco, his voice tinged with a plea. If only he could will his friend back into his right state of mind.

Neville sighed and clapped Theo on the shoulder, rising to his feet. “I’d expect more from the Peaky Flinders for what they’re charging you for protection, Hagrid.” 

Draco rose to his feet as well, brushing glass and debris from his shoulders and pulling Theo up roughly. 

“Tonks, sort the bill for repairs,” said Draco in his cousin’s direction. She nodded and headed for the bar towards Hagrid, who was picking shards of glass out of his beard. “And the rest of you, back to your drinks. Next round on the Flinders.” 

There was something strange about the derelict castle to the west of town. Harry felt his eyes lingering on it as he finished a slice of toast with jam, drained a cup of instant coffee, and thanked Rosmerta. He felt a pull towards it he couldn’t quite describe, almost magnetic. But he quickly shook it from his head, reaching instead for the scrap of paper in his pocket that he’d got off the Equalist flyer. Unless the castle furthered his investigation, he had little reason to go there. 

The bookshop called Tomes and Scrolls was a cluttered space stacked floor to ceiling with impossibly high, tottering book towers. As Harry entered through the glass-paned door, a bell tinkled overhead and a mousy woman at a desk waved him through as he held up the flyer scrap. He wound his way under two towers of books stacked together into a low arch, and could just make out the heads of a crowd gathered between shelves at the back of the store.

Harry made his way through the rows, adjusting his glasses to read titles on the flaked spines. Once he thought he saw a title marked 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi, but when he looked again, it was actually called Vegetable Gardening and Me, and held a rather strangely staged photo on the cover of a portly woman holding a giant radish up by the leaves. 

As he crept farther back, he could make out the faces of a few dozen people huddled together. Some sat on tottering book pikes, some stood, but everyone had their eyes glued on a tall, athletically-built man with sandy brown hair, cheeks flushed with excitement as he spoke. 

Harry recognised him immediately from the picture in his dossier. The man was Neville Longbottom; the last of an old pureblood line who had fought in the Borderland Wars. He had been a pacifist and a philanthropist before the Battle of Lyon, but in the years since, he’d been marked as an Equalist dissenter, and a dangerous one at that. 

“That rush you feel with a wand in your hand. It’s unlike anything I can describe,” said Neville, raising his hand in the posture of holding an imaginary wand. “And you, all of you with magic, deserve to feel it. Not just those who are tasked with destroying the Dark Lord’s enemies.” 

Since his return from the front, Longbottom had been arrested many times for inciting riots under the guise of advocating for equal treatment for magical and non-magical folk alike and demanding the right to practise magic openly for the good of the masses. His strikes had brought the automotive industry to its knees, and at least one of them had ended in bloodshed. 

That’s just what these fanatics were like, Harry had been told.

“I can’t tell you how much it pains me that the one time in my life that I’ll get to experience magic was for the sake of the destruction of our fellow man.” Neville’s hand dropped, and he gazed darkly off into space. “Someday, there will be no one left to remember that magic was once a force for good. Unless we act.”  

There was a murmuring of agreement in the surrounding crowd, and Harry pressed in closer to get a good look at the man. He was a captivating storyteller, his hands gesturing and his face animating as he carried on with a story of learning destructive spells before he was sent to the front lines. 

In the crowd, an older woman wrapped one arm tightly around a teen girl that stood next to her. In a few years, she’d be old enough to be drafted. Harry’s heart dropped with the realisation.

Harry knew he was one of the few fortunate enough to receive a full magical education. Under the secrecy of the Order of the Phoenix, he’d had a wand in his hand from the time he was 11. Passed around every few months to various magical families loyal to the cause, he’d been taught piecemeal from a few dozen guardians or more, each one with their specialty, and all of them willing to train him despite heavy penalties if they were ever discovered. 

The way Neville was describing it didn’t even begin to cover the heart-bursting joy of casting your first Patronus, or the soft contentment of a warming spell on a cup of hot cocoa. But then, Neville never would have learned those things. On the battlefield, Voldemort’s warriors were taught spells that would pack maximal damage. They were aiming to kill. 

Still, the way Neville’s eyes lit up at the description, Harry knew that he too had found something profound in his own magical ability, just as Harry had. 

Neville’s voice rose to a challenge. “How many here have fought for our Lord in the borderlands?” 

Several in the crowd raised their hands as Neville nodded with pride. “We sacrificed for his cause, and what is our reward? Wands snapped, thrust back into a life we hardly recognise, in a town crying out for help. What we need isn’t more cops or more rules. What we need is magic and the freedom to practise it openly!” 

The crowd cheered, the small space of the bookshop ringing with their response. 

“It is time to stand up for our rights! Muggle and magical, together we must unite if we want to bring balance to our lives!” 

The cheering was infectious and Harry had to slip to the back to avoid being caught up in the heady buzz that surrounded the group. 

“Go now and spread the word. Pass on what you’ve heard here. The old ways belong to us and they are meant to be shared.” 

The crowd dispersed quickly, pulling scarves up around their faces and hoods down over their eyes as they headed for the door, weaving expertly through the tottering stacks. Harry lingered, pretending to be interested in a book, and waiting for an opportunity to approach. 

“You’re new in town?” asked Neville, before he got the chance. Bright brown eyes were fixed in his direction, towering over Harry with an inquisitive look.

“Er, yeah, just came in on the train.” Harry shoved it back onto the shelf and thought he heard a small mutter of annoyance from the book as he extended a hand. “Harry.” 

“Neville,” said the Equalist, accepting his hand in a warm shake and returning a smile easily. “Bit of a shock hearing all this talk of magic, I’ll bet. We’re a small but growing faction.”

“Yeah, we don’t have anything like this where I’m from,” lied Harry. “I’ve only heard stories.” 

“You’re from a wizarding family?” asked Neville, tilting his head as if looking more closely would help him see Harry’s latent magical ability. Harry shifted uncomfortably. For some reason, he felt offended by the implication that Neville knew more about magic than he did. He knew he had to maintain his cover, but it was harder to do when someone was staring you in the face. “Squib?” 

“Muggle,” Harry snapped. 

“Ah.” Neville nodded, gesturing to his glasses. “No chance you fought in the war, then.” 

“No. But I would have liked to.” Harry adjusted the glasses absently.

Neville let out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms and leaning back on a nearby book stack. “Trust me, you’re better off without. If it’s a place among our ranks that you’re worried about, don’t trouble yourself. You’re welcome among the Equalists, magic or no.”

“Sounds pretty incredible the way you describe it. A world with magic and all that.” 

“It could be, but a lot would have to change. Most of the knowledge of the old ways is gone and without a way to channel our powers, they’re pretty much useless.”

“But you can still channel magic, can’t you?”

“Unless I’m on the battlefield, you and I are the same; magic-less,” said Neville with a shrug. “Here, take this.” 

Harry felt a warm coin pressed into his palm, but when he looked, it was just a regular galleon. 

“Oh, that’s alright. I’ve got some savings to tide me over till I get a job here.” 

“No, it’s not for spending,” said Neville with a chuckle. “Our next meeting is at Dervish and Banges in a few weeks. Now that you’re one of us, just check the coin for the time and date. I hope to see you then, Harry.”

“I’ll be there.” Harry pocketed the coin and wondered whether it was confidence or arrogance that enabled Neville to be so open with a stranger while so blatantly disregarding Voldemort’s law.

Harry was halfway through the door, about to head back to his quarters to update his notes on Longbottom’s gathering, when a woman in a fur coat pushed past him. With the tips of her dark black bob poking out from under her beret and her red lips pressed into a pout, she was an unmistakable match to another file of the dossier, Pansy Parkinson. 

Mentally cursing his own stupidity for not bringing the invisibility cloak, he could only cast a backwards glance through the glass shop front as he headed back to the Three Broomsticks. Between the stacks of books, Harry could see that Pansy and Neville had found each other and to Harry’s surprise, he leaned down and kissed her, drawing her chin up ever so slightly with a gentle hand. 

An Equalist and a Flinder together? One of them was bound to know something about the missing wands. 

Sirius slapped a flyer on the dining room table in front of Draco, startling Tonks out of her morning coffee. 

“Blaise got this off a man who was in town for the races,” he said, rubbing a hand across his chin, the stubble of the morning still on his thin face. “They’re recruiting cops from neighbouring towns. Now, I think it’s in our best interest as a family to figure out what the hell this is all about.”

“They’re probably just sending someone to pretend to clean up the town for election season,” said Narcissa, not looking up from the Prophet as she stirred her tea. 

“Won’t be the first time they tried it,” said Tonks, massaging the hangover at her temples. 

“This is different,” insisted Sirius, jabbing the flyer with a finger as Kreacher appeared at his feet, holding out a steaming coffee cup. “Rumours of something big. The Dark Lord himself is sending someone.”

It wouldn’t be long now until the whole family knew the situation had escalated. Draco might as well control the narrative while he could. 

“It’s true, they’re sending a senior Death Eater. Severus Snape,” he said. 

All eyes in the room flashed to him. Even his mother stopped stirring her tea and raised an eyebrow in his direction. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Sirius drew himself up to his full height, the tendon of his jaw pulled tight. 

“Cops on our payroll.” Draco shrugged.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“I’m telling you now.” 

The tension in the air hung thick, broken only by a small clatter as Kreacher placed the mug and a plate with buttered toast up on the table in front of Sirius and turned to smile at him. 

Sirius sighed and sank into his chair, accepting the cup which had Kreacher beaming and scampering off in a pitter patter. 

“That’s a name I’d hoped never to hear again.” Narcissa folded the paper crisply. “Why is he here?”

“From what I can gather, Snape has spent the last few years breaking up MRF factions around the territory,” said Draco. “He’s the Dark Lord’s top pick when it comes to stifling rebellion, and he’ll go to any length to do it.”

This wasn’t entirely a lie. Snape’s efforts in squashing the Muggle Revolutionary Force were numerous, brutal, and well documented. His presence probably wouldn’t be altogether bad news for the family; at least it might keep the Muggle precinct in order while he was in town. 

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Tonks stole the toast from the plate in front of Sirius and looked around at the others. “If they’re here for the MRF, maybe they’ll leave us alone.” 

“Exactly. It’s just scare tactics.” Draco tried to maintain a neutral expression but he could feel his mother’s eyes boring into him. “My guess is, they’re here to break up Longbottom’s little rallies, check the Muggle quarter for any MRF nonsense, and they’ll be on their way.”

“That’s a relief,” said Tonks, finishing the toast in a graceless chomp. “Now are we about finished here? I have work to do prepping Andromache for the race tomorrow.”

Without waiting for an answer, Tonks scraped her chair back and departed, playfully punching Sirius’s arm on the way out. Sirius didn’t stir from his spot or snap at her like he sometimes did when she got too rough. Instead, he stared into the distance, lost in thought. 

He was probably searching the broken pieces of his memory for any recollection of Snape. Draco knew Sirius had been in school with the man, one of the last graduating classes at Hogwarts before the war. But the extent of the Obliviation he suffered at Bellatrix’s hands was extreme. Sometimes Sirius barely remembered who he was himself. 

“Agreed, best to get on,” said Narcissa, rising. “Sirius, do you have things in hand with Blaise for the lead-up to the race?”

Sirius waved her away half-heartedly, and she directed her attention to Draco. “A moment alone, if you would.”

Draco nodded and followed his mother out of the kitchen, as Kreacher scurried back in. He thought he might have heard Sirius ask where Pansy was to no one in particular.

By the time he turned into the library, Narcissa was nowhere to be seen and a fire was crackling in the grate. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

He really didn’t have time to be speaking at length about family affairs, but he knew she meant business if she was taking him there. He approached the fire, grabbed a small amount of green powder out of a jar and tossed it in the fire saying “The Castle!” as flames roared up around his ears.

As he stepped out into the small dungeon that the fire always deposited him, he saw his mother waiting across the room standing at an ancient mahogany desk. Her eyes were fixed on the wall behind it, where the portrait of an old man with a dark, pointy beard slumbered softly. 

“Why do you still come to this old place?” asked Draco, though he knew perfectly well why. 

The air inside the old school crackled with a tangible magic, which made him feel instantly at ease. He had come here less and less over the years, but it would always be something of a childhood home to him.

“You know more than you’re saying,” said Narcissa, taking a seat at the desk and turning to face her son. “Speak. Salazar and your mother are listening.” 

Draco sighed and made his way across the dusty classroom, sitting at the chair opposite the desk and suddenly feeling very much like a child under his mother’s piercing gaze. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes flicking to the portrait to ensure it was still sleeping.

“We’ve had a stroke of luck,” he said. 

Narcissa tilted her head ever so slightly, but remained silent. 

“A few weeks ago, I’d organised the interception of a shipment of apothecary supplies meant for underground potions rings farther north. Nott and a few of the others found the crate easy enough, but when they brought it back, we realised they had picked up the wrong shipment.” 

“And?” 

“And… It was a thousand wands. Five hundred dragon heartstring, three hundred phoenix feather, two hundred unicorn hair. All in mint condition, never been used.” 

Narcissa let out an agitated breath and rose to pace the length of the dungeon. 

“Think about it, mother. We could do so much more with true magic in our hands. Not all bad either. We could shut down some of the other revenue channels if we had more certainty in our protection. I’m talking legitimate business–”

“Draco, you’re a brilliant strategist. You’re a bookmaker, a fighter.” She wheeled on him and Draco could have sworn he saw the glint of a tear in her eye. “But you are not a fool. If you put those wands in the hands of anyone who knows how to use them, there will be nothing I can do to save you from his wrath.” 

“I’m not planning a rebellion.” Draco rose to meet her. “Think of how much the old families would pay for just one of these. We’d be set for life.”

Sure, the wands were a dangerous asset to have on hand, but like the rigged horse race, they were a means to an end. A window of opportunity to live a life out of crime. 

Narcissa resumed her spot at the desk and stood, glaring across at him. 

“No amount of gold is worth that risk. You’re to return them at once.” She laid a cold hand over his own and her tone softened. “Please, my love. I can’t lose you too.” 

Draco looked away. He couldn’t bear to lie to his mother, even if he knew she was wrong. There was plenty in life that was worth a bit of risk. It was the people that didn’t seize the risks life presented them with that were left behind.  

“Promise me, Draco,” insisted Narcissa. “Promise me you’ll do the right thing for the family.” 

“I will,” said Draco.

“We’re not open yet,” said the barman in a thick West Country accent, not looking up from the pint glasses he was washing. 

In his massive hands, the pint looked like a juice glass, and Harry was struck with the realisation that the man in front of him might be the largest person he had ever laid eyes on. He was at least 8 feet tall with a bushy tangle of a beard that extended over his broad chest. His stature was made even more comical by the tight quarters behind the bar, clearly designed for a person half his size. 

Over his shoulder, the piercing eyes of an unmistakable portrait of the Dark Lord watched Harry’s approach. The high cheekbones and dark swoop of hair over his forehead cast an eerily youthful look for someone who was almost 80 years old. 

Though if the rumours were to be believed, Lord Voldemort hadn’t aged in decades. He was, after all, immortal—or at least that’s what he would have his followers and enemies believe. Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he tried to avoid looking at the austere expression he had seen so often in his training. 

“I’m here about the job, actually,” he said, taking a few steps over the threshold. “This is the Hog’s Head, right? You’re looking for a bartender?” 

The barman looked up from his washing, took one glance at Harry’s slight frame and the backpack dangling off his shoulder and said, “Already been filled.” 

“It’s still posted on the window.” Harry gestured over his shoulder to a piece of paper taped in place. “You must be Rubeus.”

The barman sighed and placed the glass down with a thunk. “Call me Hagrid. But don’t expect to be stayin’ long. I tell ye we’re all staffed up.”

“If it’s experience you’re worried about, I’ve got references,” said Harry, approaching the bar and rummaging around in his backpack for the stack of letters which he placed on the gleaming wooden bench top. “Five years at the Blind Friar in Dublin, and another two before that, back in London.”

“Ye’ve got no idea what kind of place ye’ve walked into.” Hagrid looked at the stack of references and back at Harry. “Believe me, I’m doing ye a favour.” 

“I’m not looking for favours, I’m looking for work.” 

Hagrid tossed down his towel and Harry could tell he was about to be thrown out when his eyes fell on a dusty piano in the corner of the bar. He gestured to it. “Do you have live music here?”

The barman blinked in surprise at this turn of events and glanced at the piano as though he’d forgotten it was there. “Not since the war started…”

Seeing his opportunity, Harry crossed quickly to the piano and took a seat at the bench. “That’s a shame; we used to have music all the time at the last pub I worked at and it always cheered people up. Even folks who had just returned from the front.” He ran his hands across the keys, a few of which were fiercely out of tune. 

“Ye play?”

“Against my wishes, really. Kind of a sheltered upbringing,” said Harry, tossing a smile over his shoulder. “Will it help or hurt my chances at the job?” 

“Well, er, it couldn’t hurt,” said Hagrid, unable to hide a spark of interest that lit his eye.

Harry dropped his backpack at his feet, trying to channel whatever power he could to will the piano into a semblance of tune, and set into the first few bars of an old favourite. 

“Your hills and dales and flowery vales, that lie near the Moorlough Shore,
Your vines that blow by Borden’s grove, may I never see you more.” 

It had been a couple years since he’d had a chance to play, not since he’d started running supplies for the Order, but the feel for it quickly came back. The hammers’ felt was dull on the old piano and the tone was mellow and nostalgic, nothing like the old upright he’d played when he was fostering with the Thomas’s, or the synthetic keyboard at Mrs Figg’s.

The familiar feel of the cold keys pressing into his fingertips reminded him of one of the earliest melodies he could remember.

“Last night I went to see my love, to hear what she might say,
To see if she’d take pity on me, lest I might go away,
She said I loved an Irish lad, and he was my only joy,
And ever since I saw his face, I have loved that soldier boy.”

He had a memory—a distant one—of someone playing piano to him when he was very small. He had dark hair and a low voice, but Harry couldn’t make out his face.

A breeze blew through the draughty bar, ruffling the hair across his forehead. If he closed his eyes just for a moment, he could even pretend that he was home, in the earliest home he could remember, sitting at an old piano with worn-down hammers. 

“Well, if my Irish lad is lost, he’s the one I do adore,
And seven long years I’ll wait for him by the banks of the Moorlough shore.”

As he played the final cords and opened his eyes, the breeze seemed to settle around him. He withdrew his hands, feeling the tingle of magic fade away, and for a moment he’d forgotten why he was playing, until he heard an indelicate sniff from behind him.

Harry noticed Hagrid rubbing at his eyes with the dishcloth on his shoulder. His beard creased into a sorrowful smile. 

“That was bloody beautiful, that was!” he said with a great sigh. “Ye remind me of my da. Mind you, he couldn’t play near half as good as you, but he could always make it seem like ye were somewhere else. Your troubles forgotten.” 

“I’ll throw in a few songs every night after my shift if you like?” Harry collected his things and bounded back to the bar, but Hagrid’s smile had faded by the time he arrived.

“Look, ye seem like a nice enough kid, but what on earth do ye want a job here for?”

“Parents died in the war,” said Harry with a shrug. It wasn’t a lie exactly. “Have to make my way somehow, don’t I?” 

“Well, I can’t refuse ye that. And I could use the help,” said Hagrid, scratching at his great beard and looking thoughtfully at the delicate glassware and low cabinets under the bar. “I can’t promise you won’t have to break up a scrap or two, and you’ll have to learn the townsfolk. There’s some you don’t want to go messing with, mind.” 

“I’m sure I can handle that. I’ve had to look out for myself all my life.” 

Hagrid peered at him thoughtfully and, having made up his mind, extended a handshake so rough it nearly knocked Harry off his feet. “Alright, you’re hired. And not because of your sad story neither, so don’t go letting people think it’s because I have a heart.” 

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “When can I start?” 

At that moment the door slammed open on its hinges, rattling the glass in its panes as a tall man in a black duster and cap sauntered in, his boots tracking mud across the floor and one arm slung over a man not much older than Harry. They were laughing drunkenly already, and the unmistakable crackle of magic blew into the pub in their wake.

Harry recognised the dark eyes and the scraggly shoulder length black hair. He had seen the older man’s face alongside his parents’ in newspaper articles about their murder and had vowed to even the score since before he even began working for the Order. The dossier file hadn’t told Harry anything he didn’t already know about the leader of the Black family. It had only deepened his resolve that this was the man to blame.

Even though he had known that he’d see Sirius Black in Hogsmeade, even accepted the mission with a thread of revenge in his mind. The urge not to break his cover and hit him with a curse right then and there was nearly unbearable. 

“We’re not open yet, Black,” said Hagrid, crossing his arms but looking like he knew it wouldn’t make a difference just the same. 

“Two whiskeys in the snug for me and Blaise, Hagrid!” said Sirius, pointing a wobbly arm in the barman’s direction. “Tout suite.” 

The two men headed towards a wooden door to the small room at the end of the bar without even noticing Harry. It was only once they disappeared into the snug that he let go of a tenseness he hadn’t realised he was holding, unclenching his hands that had balled to fists. 

Harry had known coming to Hogsmeade he would have to face the man that had betrayed his parents, but he hadn’t expected him to be so… unimposing. His eyes held none of the deranged anger Harry had expected. In fact, he looked as run down as the town itself. 

Remembering where he was, Harry turned back to Hagrid and noticed he was being studied. 

“Not easily frightened, are ye?” 

“Of what?” said Harry. “I’ve seen a lot worse than a couple of drunks.”

“What did you say your name was again?” asked Hagrid, studying him through his bushy eyebrows.

“Harry,” he replied. “Harry Evans.”

If Hagrid had suspected anything, the name had well enough thrown him off. He tossed his dish towel over one shoulder and pulled up the bar top to let Harry through. 

“Well Harry Evans. Looks like you start right now.” 

Only a few days out from the race, and The Andromache was looking in fine shape, which Draco took to mean that something was about to go very wrong. No one ever stayed at the table too long without a bad hand coming up, and by all accounts, the deck was getting increasingly stacked against him.

“Beautiful, sir. Master has chosen a fine horse, very fine,” said the house-elf, scampering around its feet. “Dobby thinks Master Draco’s horse will be a winner!”

“You’re not here to think, Dobby. You’re here to make sure she’s in top shape.” Draco raised an eyebrow in amusement. There weren’t many who would risk working with house-elves after the magical sanctions came into place, but Draco found them to be invaluable.

“Absolutely, sir!” pipped Dobby, snapping to attention. “Dobby is very careful, sir. Only feeding master’s horse the very best. And taking extra care with her shoeing and saddling.”

“Good man,” said Draco, stepping forward to pat the horse on its neck. 

He was about to ask Dobby about her recent rides when there was a scuffle at the stable entrance and the sound of heavy footfalls. Draco wheeled around to see Tonks running full pelt at him.

“Draco! Come quick,” she called, skidding to a stop in front of him and sending a pile of hay cascading to the floor to Dobby’s displeasure. “It’s Sirius.”

“Merlin, what now?” muttered Draco, as they took off together back in the house’s direction, leaving Dobby to the mess. 

“He was out in the Muggle precinct and they took him.” 

“Took him where?”

“For questioning. They’ve banged him up pretty bad. Looks like they were desperate for answers.”

“Bloody cops should know better. Diggory can–”

“No, it wasn’t the cops. It was the new one. Snape.” There was a hint of fear in his cousin’s voice that Draco was not used to hearing. 

He cast a sideways glance at her as they turned down the street where the house came into view. Her eyes were wide, and a shock of hair poking out from under her cap was a violent shade of blue. 

“Careful. Your hair,” he said, fixing his eyes on the house. She jammed her hair under the cap, forcing it to its normal brown shade, as they barged through the front door and straight up the stairs. 

Sirius was in the library, sprawled out on a wingback armchair with Pansy knelt beside him, applying dittany to a nasty cut across his forehead. He hissed at the sting of it. 

“Thought these Aurors were just here for the MRF,” Sirius muttered, once he was able to force an eye open.

“How bad is he?” asked Draco in Pansy’s direction, ignoring a scowl from Sirius that could boil water. 

“Plenty of cuts and bruises.” Pansy tossed a bloodied cotton dressing to the side. “And a broken finger or two by the look of things.” 

“It’s fine,” insisted Sirius, jerking his head out of the way as she reached up with a fresh dressing. “The damage hurts less than whatever the hell you're doing to it.”

“Does it?” She sat back, tossing the bandage to the floor and crossing her arms. “Well I’m the closest thing you’ll be seeing to a healer, so I’d cut back on the snide remarks if I were you.”

“What were they after, Sirius?” Draco approached, coming close enough that he could push the hair back from Sirius’s forehead and get a good look at the gash running across it, before Sirius brushed his hand away. 

It was sizable, but not deep. He’d have that black eye for a while, but Draco knew how these sorts of wounds would heal. He’d seen enough of them on the front lines when potions were in short supply. It might take weeks, but it’d fix itself, eventually. 

“It was Snape. He wanted information about a load of missing wands. He said that the Dark Lord himself is looking for them.” Sirius eyed Draco with suspicion. “And he knew about us. Knew all the time each of us had served in the war. He said since we’d fought for the Dark Lord, that we were on the same side. Acted like he knew what I’d done.”

“He was just trying to get inside your head,” said Draco, stalking to the other side of the room where a marble fireplace sat dormant. He leaned against the mantle to hide any flicker of concern on his face. “Tell me you were smart enough not to give anything away.” 

“Of course I didn’t give anything away,” Sirius snapped. “I don’t fucking know anything about missing wands, do I?”

“Draco, maybe we’d better go to the potions cupboard for this. It could be serious,” said Pansy, from her spot at Sirius’s elbow. 

Pansy knew as well as Draco did that the wounds were not serious, and they didn’t have the potions to spare. But she also knew what Sirius was like when he got to his boiling point, and it was better for everyone to diffuse him early. 

“Only for emergencies, Pans,” he said, turning to her and casting a silent look that told her not to ask questions. “I’ll find something else for you, cousin. You’ve done well.” 

“He said we could help him,” continued Sirius, his forehead resting in his hand and his brow furrowed together like he was trying to remember something long forgotten. “I told him we’d take a family vote.” 

Draco saw the uncertain glances between Pansy and Tonks, and decided not to press things further. They couldn’t risk an episode from Sirius with the Aurors in town.  

“Right,” said Draco, clapping Sirius on the shoulder and heading to the door. “Let me see what Hagrid has to ease your pain, and we can discuss it later.”

There was something comforting in regular shifts at the bar. Despite the Dark Lord’s painted eyes peering over his every move, Harry found the atmosphere in the Hog’s Head to be homey. 

Hagrid brought his own charm as well. He loved suggesting songs for Harry to pick out on the piano when things were slow, and Harry had quickly found his niche, tackling any task that was better suited to a man smaller than Hagrid -- which was most things. 

The afternoon crowd was just turning into the evening crowd when the door opened and a thick beam of sunlight spilled across the bar. Harry looked up to see the outline of a square shouldered figure in a black woollen coat. The bar patrons that noticed his arrival immediately busied themselves looking elsewhere. 

Harry stepped up to the bar just as he approached, taking off his hat and tucking it under his arm to reveal a head of pale blonde hair, made golden by the sun from behind. He glanced down the bar and then back at Harry, a look of annoyance spread across his features.

Harry felt his breath hitch in his chest as grey eyes locked on his own and he realised he was face to face with Draco Malfoy. 

The file in his dossier had informed him that the Malfoys were once nobility; members of the inner circle of the Dark Lord before his father’s fall from grace. Harry could have guessed this himself based only on the crisp cut of his clothes and the beauty that so arrogantly graced his features. 

What was harder to believe was that this man, not much older than himself, was the strategist of the underside of town, and a heartless monster.

“Bottle of rum,” he said. 

“What kind?” asked Harry, knowing full well that the bar stocked rubbish for the regular patrons and a special stash of top-shelf bottles for the Flinders.

“Doesn’t matter.” Draco pulled a stack of notes from his pocket and flicked through it without looking up. 

Harry turned to the bottles at the back wall, avoiding looking at the ever-present portrait. 

“Whatever it is, Harry, it’s on the house,” said Hagrid from the other end of the bar. As Harry looked at him, he nodded curtly, eyes sharp.

Selecting a bottle of clear rum that looked to be decent quality, Harry strided back to the bar and placed it in front of Draco. Draco held out a folded up note.

“Hagrid says it’s on the house,” said Harry, without reaching out to accept it. 

Draco huffed a laugh under his breath and shoved the cash back in his pocket. 

When he looked back up, there was a strange glint in his eye. 

“Are you a soldier?” he asked. 

“I’m not.” Harry could feel Hagrid tensing as he watched the exchange.

“No, right,” Draco shrugged and gestured to Harry’s glasses. “You don’t have the look of someone who’s put his life on the line for our Lord.” 

Harry’s fists clenched reflexively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco blinked, brows flicking upwards, taken aback by Harry’s response. His lips quirked into something that could almost pass as a smile, but there was something malicious around the edges.

“It means you’re either a Muggle who thinks he has something to prove, or a wizard who’s too much of a coward to go to war. Neither of which I have much use for in my pub.” 

“I am a Muggle,” snapped Harry before Hagrid could intervene with an indiscreet clearing of his throat. “But I don’t have to prove anything to y–”

“Unless,” Draco interrupted, his face turning serious as he looked Harry up and down. He leaned on his elbows over the bar, his eyes finally coming to bore into Harry’s. This close, Harry could see they were like mercury and it somehow sent another bolt of rage through him, hitching his breath. The silver eyes narrowed. “Are you a whore?”

Harry felt himself take a step back as though he’d been dealt a blow. Whatever resolve Harry had against the Flinders immediately hardened. He’d come to Hogsmeade thinking Sirius would be his most despised target in the House of Black, but this prick was quickly rising in the ranks.

“Did you hear me? I asked if you’re a whore.” Draco waited patiently, watching him squirm for an answer. 

“No,” Harry replied through gritted teeth. 

Draco beckoned him closer, and Harry felt his face burning as he leaned in a fraction of an inch. 

“Then you’re in the wrong place.” 

In one motion, Draco grabbed the bottle off the bar and turned to the door, disappearing in the billowing of his coat. 

“Harry, listen,” said Hagrid in a hushed voice once the door had closed and the volume in the bar resumed as normal. “When I tell ye it’s on the house, don’t ask questions and don’t go talking to them you’re serving.”

Harry pushed back from the bar, glaring at the door Malfoy had disappeared through. He had met half of the suspects in his dossier so far, but none of them had been as tangible a threat as this one had. 

“He’s one of the ones you warned me about?” Harry asked, coming to stand next to Hagrid.

“He wasn’t always like that. Merlin knows those boys what went to war never came back the same. But aye.” Hagrid shook his head, his great beard wagging back and forth. “Best keep yer distance. If one of the Peaky Flinders decides they want ye, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.” 

Once his wounds were cleaned and bandaged, it only took a bit of the rum to put Sirius to sleep. Even in slumber, his dark eyebrows were creased in a frown, his eyes darting around under closed eyelids as if witnessing some unseen horror. 

“I’ll stay with him,” said Pansy, her eyes lingering on his face. “In case he wakes up confused.”

“Kreacher will stay with Master Sirius,” said Kreacher, pulling a stool closer to the armchair Sirius was reclined in, and slightly in front of Pansy’s own seat.  

“Are you sure?” asked Tonks, ignoring the house-elf, who was busy tucking the quilt up under Sirius’s chin. “Maybe a couple of us ought to stay. He can be unpredictable when he gets into one of his… states.” 

“We’ll be fine.” Pansy smiled faintly, the light from the fireplace catching in her eyes. “Sirius would never hurt me. And besides, I can take him.”

She pulled the splintered half of a wand with its exposed dragon heartstring core from the small purse at her wrist and gently laid it over her lap. 

“He knows better,” agreed Draco as Pansy pretended to point it at Kreacher while he fussed about with the covers. 

“Alright,” said Tonks, as she and Draco retreated to the hallway. “Tell us if any–”

“Out, out, out!” Kreacher flapped his hands in their direction. “Master will get no rest with all this noise.” 

Pansy hummed a quiet laugh, and her eyelids drooped sleepily. “You tell ‘em, Kreacher.” 

As the door closed behind them, Draco could see Pansy lay a gentle hand on Sirius’s. It had been years since the family had taken her in, and though Sirius would never admit it, Draco knew she was like a little sister to him. 

When she first came back from the war, there was no one that could temper her rage. Sirius and Pansy would have explosive fights that had the entire house shaking. But in the end, she had needed someone who would tell her when she crossed a line, and he needed someone who didn’t pity him for what he’d become. Unfortunately, two broken halves did not make a whole in this family. 

“You really think Snape is only after the MRF, after all this?” Tonks lingered at the door to her own room. “I mean. He knew things about us. That has to mean something.” 

“We’ve always known the two of them had a past.” Draco tried to play his suspicions off casually, but Tonks crossed her arms. “I agree, though. This is starting to feel personal. We should set extra protection around town, and keep Sirius close to home for a few days just in case.”

“You’re just like him sometimes,” she said, her expression melting into something like concern. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.” 

“There’s nothing to worry about, cousin. I have it under control,” Draco turned towards his room, his mind already drifting to the dried leaves and rolling papers that would help him find his own sleep tonight. 

“Have it your way,” she sighed. “There’s something else.”

“Of course there is.” He stopped in his tracks. The eyes of a few old portraits blinked back at him in the low light of the hall. 

“It’s Theo.”

“What’s he done this time?”

“He’s killed someone.”

Draco’s shoulders dropped. His head tipped forward and he brought his hands up to his temples, willing the battle sounds to keep from rushing in. Somehow, he had always expected this to be the outcome of Theo’s untempered magical bursts. He had only hoped that his friend could heal his mind before it became an actuality. 

“It was one of Goldsteins,” Tonks continued. “Theo was all the way across town in the market by the river. He must have been lost and got himself confused. Can’t say what triggered it. It could have been someone unlucky just stepped in his path, you know how it goes.” 

Despite his best efforts, the ringing noise started in Draco’s ears. He clenched his jaw, trying to concentrate on what Tonks was saying. He couldn’t end up like Theo — he had too many people counting on him. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his hair back out of his face, turning to face Tonks, and knowing that there was no chance of finding sleep tonight. 

“Where is he?” 

“Blaise and a few of the boys calmed him down and took him home, but Draco,” Tonks shifted from one foot to the other. “You know they won’t stand for it.” 

“I know,” said Draco, pulling his hat on and heading for the stairs. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to go over there now. It’s the middle of the night!” Tonks put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from passing. She was stronger than she looked. “At least let me go with you.”

“I’m not going there now. I have other business to take care of.” Draco pulled her hand off of his coat. “But I will need your help to deal with things when the time comes.”

She nodded curtly and retreated into the darkness of her door frame. 

Outside, Draco made his way around to the stables. First Snape, then Longbottom, and now Theo—he knew the wands would throw things off course, but it seemed like the whole town was going mad. 

Turning the corner, he spotted his beautiful white mare and Dobby at its knees, feeding it oats by hand and speaking to it in a soft voice. The sound of the elf’s mutterings and the familiar smell of damp hay immediately calmed him.

“Master Draco, sir,” said Dobby, snapping to attention as soon as he saw him. “Dobby didn’t see you there, sir. Are you needing your horse? She is not sleeping sir, no, she is feeling danger in the air.”

“It’s fine Dobby, I’m not here for the horse,” said Draco, kneeling down to look the elf in the eye. “Do you remember where we put the crate, in the safe place, up the river?”

“Dobby is remembering, sir.” The elf nodded enthusiastically, his ears flapping with the exertion. 

“Great, I need you to run a special errand for me, alright?” There were many reasons it paid to keep House Elves on hand. Not least of all because they were some of the last remaining latent magic users, and frankly, even Draco wasn’t sure how Dobby accomplished some things he did. He held out a piece of paper on which he’d scratched a crude map. “I need you to move them. Here. Can you do that for me?”

Dobby’s eyes grew even bigger as he clasped the folded up parchment. “Sir can trust Dobby, sir! Dobby will not let you down!”

“Good,” said Draco, rising to his feet and turning his gaze to The Andromache. He patted her on the neck and she nickered softly. “Tell me when it’s finished, but speak to no one else.” 

“Of course, sir, Dobby tells no one. Not even the family,” Dobby affirmed, before apparating away with a crack. 

“Not even the family,” echoed Draco to no one in particular. Alone in the stables, the only sound was the horse’s steady breathing, and the shift of her hooves on the cold earth. Beyond the pale ring of light from the stable, all was darkness. 

He wasn’t sure how long he spent standing with the horse in the quiet of the night, both of them soothing each other, but by the time he made it back to his rooms, the sound of curses being flung across a battlefield were ricocheting in his head. 

The only thing he knew to work in quieting the noise was the bundle of dried valerian in his end table drawer. He rolled it into a spliff, lit the end with a silent Incendio, and took a deep drag, letting the root’s magic take hold. 

As the smoke filled the air overhead, the memories of war melted away. They never disappeared entirely, but they turned hazy, like a song he’d forgotten the words to. And if he could pretend long enough that he’d imagined the whole bloody thing, sometimes he could even drift to sleep.

Harry was a few minutes early to the train platform where he lingered, checking his watch and trying to act inconspicuous. One side of the tracks saw a few trains pass through each day, but the side of the tracks that Harry was on was closed for construction and looked like it had been for some time. 

He was just checking his watch again, wondering if he’d come to the right place, when a smooth voice from behind him asked, “Are you in position?”

In a ripple of black cloaks, Severus emerged from the shadows. Harry smiled a sigh of relief and reached an arm out instinctively towards his guardian, but pulled back when Severus’s cold, mask-like features did not budge. Mentally kicking himself for what could have almost constituted a breach of his cover, he took a step back and mirrored the stoic expression. 

“I am,” he said. 

“Good. Come this way.” Severus took a couple of long strides forward, stepping past some scaffolding into a part of the platform taped off for repair. Harry scrambled to follow.

Once they were out of sight of the platform, Severus’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of a tension he was always holding in public and turned to Harry, a calm smile falling into place. 

“Well done. I knew you’d take to things easily. You have your mother’s cleverness. There, let me get a look at you,” he said, laying both hands on Harry’s shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “Anything unexpected?”

“Nothing yet,” said Harry, smiling back under his relaxed gaze. “Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.”

He and Severus had been planning his trajectory within the Order for years, and the fact that Harry could actually pull off his first mission and make him proud was nearly enough to motivate him entirely. It helped that the mission involved the one man Harry wanted to seek revenge against above all else, but Harry would have taken any mission if it got him out of supply run duty.

“Don’t drop your guard too soon,” said Severus, releasing his hold on Harry once he was satisfied with his once-over, and turning to lead him farther down the under-construction platform. “I met the police precinct this week and they are a bunch of absolute half-wits. If we’re lucky, they’ve simply missed the obvious and the wands will be ours for the taking. Still, it pays to be prudent. We may be in this pitiful excuse for a town for a couple of weeks or more.”

As eager as Harry was to complete his objectives and move on to the next mission, he didn’t want things to wrap up before he’d settled the score with Black. 

“I would say so. I have my hunches, but nothing solid yet.” He ducked under a low beam, surprised at how deftly Severus was navigating the detritus. 

“Do not let your prejudices get the better of you,” said Severus from up ahead. “Where have you established yourself?”

“I’ve secured a position at the pub in town. It seems to be a heavily frequented spot of the local gangs.”

“And they suspect nothing?” 

“Nothing. The bartender, Hagrid, is affable enough. I’ve been able to get a bit of information off him about the Flinders. Our earlier intel might have been off — from what I’ve seen, I don’t think Sirius is capable of orchestrating the theft.”

“That is unexpected. Back is one of the most well trained magical minds in this whole accursed village.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, but he’s come into the pub a fair amount already, usually drunk or swanning about throwing his name around for favours.” 

“We’re missing something. I couldn’t find anything in my interrogation of him, either.” Severus did not look back as he passed deeper under the scaffolding. “Without Black at the helm, Narcissa wouldn’t have been able to organise the theft of the wands, I’m sure of it.” 

“Actually, I have a hunch it might be the younger one.” Harry’s mind flashed back to the head of golden hair, the smirk across the bar. “Draco Malfoy.”

Severus paused his progress across the platform, as Harry lengthened his pace to catch up. “Malfoy?”

“You should see the way people act around him, like he’s a Dementor or something. Everywhere he walks, there’s a chill in the air that follows,” said Harry. “He’s certainly the one that’s fixing the horse races. The rumours of magic usage seem to be substantiated as well.”

The black cloak came to a billowing halt as Severus faced him, his expression softened. “You’re sure they don’t suspect you of the same?”

“Definitely not. Everyone thinks I’m a Muggle,” said Harry, adjusting the frames on his nose. “You were right, the glasses help.” 

The glasses had been Severus’s idea to begin with, though Harry thought they called a bit more attention than was strictly necessary. The day he got on the train to Hogsmeade was the day Severus removed the vision charm that had lasted his whole life. They both knew the magic would be too easily detected.

Severus raised one hand as though to reach for the frames himself, but his fingers twitched and he withdrew it. “Maybe they were a mistake after all.” 

“They’re fine. I’m used to them now.” 

Severus held his gaze as a clock in the station chimed the hour, then he turned, picking up pace as he strode ahead. “As you like. What of the other factions I outlined in the dossier?” 

“I have an eye on one of the Equalist organisers, Longbottom, but he seems harmless enough.” 

“And the MRF?”

“Er, Nothing yet.”

Severus withdrew a wand from his sleeve and aimed it at a low-hanging beam of scaffolding with a tarp hanging across it, which sprung up to form an archway they passed through easily. On the other side, the tracks veered off into a tunnel. He came to a stop, turning to Harry with his head tilted in a gesture of patience, as he always did when Harry bungled up a spell at practice. 

“Do not let your preconceived notions about the Blacks keep you from the mission at hand.” 

“I won’t,” said Harry. 

“As much as my affection for you might have kept me from letting you get involved with these… degenerates,” Severus waved the word away as though clearing an unpleasant smell from the air. “You must remember why we are here. The Order’s cause comes before all else.” 

“I know,” sighed Harry in a huff of exasperation. He was tired of lectures, he was ready for action. “Just give me time to get the lay of the land and I’ll find the wands. Like you say, there’s nothing here that we can’t crack. You’ve seen a lot worse than a crummy town with a local band of thieves, I’m sure.” 

Severus let out a low chuckle. “Quite right. I’m only saying if I could keep you from this danger, I would.

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"It’s not whether you are suited to the job is not in question, It’s the Dark Lord I fear. The closer you get to these bloodthirsty devils, the closer you are to his gaze. Merlin help me, I will not let him sink his claws into you.”

“You’ve survived him,” said Harry, studying the soft warmth of his mentor’s face for a flicker of emotion that often accompanied their conversations about his double identity, but none came. He was a master of his craft. 

“It is a life I do not wish upon anyone.” Severus’s eyes fell back on him and softened. “Least of all you. I promised your mother.” 

“And I promised Dumbledore I’d find the wands,” said Harry. “So we all keep our promises, everyone wins, and before long, I’m running high risk missions in your stead and you can retire to a cabin by a beach somewhere.” 

“You understand me completely,” said Severus drily, checking the time again as Harry laughed at his own joke. 

“If you have somewhere to be, I can meet you back here tomorrow, same time?”

“No,” said Severus, his professional demeanour falling back into place as a faraway rumbling emitted from the tunnel. “Come here only when I’ve sent for you by owl. As much as I would like to see you regularly, we’d become too easy to spot. In the meantime, send all of your notes to the precinct by owl. The avian post has fallen out of favour in these parts, so it’s unlikely to be detected.”

“Alright,” said Harry, craning his neck towards the tunnel. Somewhere down the torn up tracks, a whistle sounded. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Not quite.” 

From the edge of the tunnel, a bright red steam engine emerged, barreling down the disused side of the tracks. The enormous train seemed to glide over the broken up rails and past the overhanging scaffolding, coming to a stop right in front of them. On the side of the engine car, the words Hogwarts Express shimmered in gold lettering. 

“Come along quickly,” said Severus, entering the first passenger car as it came to a rolling stop. “The train can only stop for a few minutes to keep the untraceable charm in place.” 

If they weren’t leaving, was the train bringing someone? As long as Harry had known the Order, they had moved sporadically across the country when danger required or opportunity permitted. But never in anything so conspicuous as this. 

Yet as he turned the corner, following Severus’s black robes, they came upon a comfortable train car furnished as an office. Narrow bookshelves lined the walls and a selection of spindly silver instruments was scattered about various surfaces. A familiar Phoenix perched in a cage nearby and an even more familiar set of half-moon spectacles glinted in Harry’s direction, as he beheld Dumbledore himself, Head of the Order, behind a carved wooden desk. 

“Harry! Well, this is a delightful surprise, isn’t it?” he said, clapping his hands together and smiling warmly. “Please come have a seat. Lemon sherbet?” 

“It’s good to see you, sir,” said Harry, scraping back a chair and taking a seat. “I’m not used to seeing you on the move.”

“Ah! Of course. How do you like my new office?” Dumbledore gestured lightly around the train car in admiration. “As the Order begins to mobilise at last, I’ve found I’m needed in more places than ever.”

“It’s brilliant,” said Harry, looking out the window of the train car, which showed a pastoral view. “How did you manage it? A trace scrambling charm?”

“You know, it’s actually a derivative of vanishment,” mused Dumbledore, tapping his chin. 

“If I may,” said Severus, cutting in. “We must be brief. Harry is in position undercover and I have taken command of the police force, little that it is. We have begun the investigation and are following several leads, but an early interrogation of Black turned up fruitless. He is either skillfully withholding the information, or truly does not know the whereabouts of the wands.” 

Dumbledore nodded, lacing his fingers together on his lap. “You believe you have applied the right pressure to extract the information?” 

“Sir, attempted Legilimency would only be a last resort. With Black’s mind being what it is after Bella’s butchery, I’d be sentencing him to the grave if I tried it.” 

“It would be a shame to cost a man his life, even one so depraved as Sirius, but we can not lose sight of the mission. Voldemort must not secure the wands, no matter the cost.” 

“Understood,” said Severus. A shadow passing over his gaze. As much as Harry wanted to see Sirius brought to justice, he didn’t want the blood to be on Severus’s hands. 

“There may be another way,” he heard himself say. 

“Yes, Harry?” Dumbledore cast his twinkling blue eyes on him. Severus also turned, his expression unreadable.

“I wonder if someone else has been leading the Black family since the war. The younger one, Draco.” 

“I see,” mused Dumbledore. 

“With a bit more time, I’m confident I can get closer to him.” 

“And you believe the Blacks are the most likely to have the wands.” 

“I do, sir” 

The train whistle shot through the air, signalling that the Hogwarts Express would move along shortly. 

“Well then that settles it,” said Dumbledore, looking from one to the other with a benevolent smile. “Keep your eyes open to all possibilities, but do whatever you must to get close to Draco Malfoy.” 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” asked Theo, after he and Draco had walked a short way in silence. He was fidgeting with his hands in his pockets and throwing glances over his shoulder like he thought someone might come up behind them at any minute. 

Draco took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out in Theo’s direction. When he didn’t take one straight away, Draco gestured towards the castle looming on the hill. “We just have to get a way out of town. Like I said, I have a job for you.” 

Theo huffed a nervous laugh and accepted a cigarette, pulling out a beat up plastic lighter from the pockets of his coat. He tried to get it to spark, but with fingers shaking, he couldn’t get it going. Draco halted him, held up a hand to shield the breeze and ignited the end. 

“Cheers,” said Theo, bringing the cigarette to his lips for a shallow breath. 

They carried on in silence towards the castle’s dark silhouette in the distance and the noises from town grew farther away. The late afternoon light stretched out their shadows in front of them, long dark streaks across the snowy ground. 

“I know what this is about,” said Theo, focusing his gaze on the end of his cigarette. “It’s because of what I’ve done. Isn’t it?” 

Draco lit up a cigarette for himself, taking a deep drag and wishing tobacco did a better job of calming his nerves. He couldn’t let Theo see he was agitated. He couldn’t have him put up a fight this late in the game. 

“It’s because I’m not right in the fucking head,” said Theo, scraping a shaking hand into his hair and gripping it tightly. “I’ve tried! Believe me mate, I’ve tried. It’s like every time I get lost, I find myself on the battlefield all over again and all I can do is try to survive.” 

“I know,” said Draco, steering their path towards a slope in the hill as the black lake came into view. Two figures could be seen past the water’s edge on the north side. 

As soon as Theo spotted their outline, he started breathing erratically, his voice choking out between sobs. “Fuck this is it, isn’t it?” 

Draco put a steadying arm on his friend’s shoulder and stared him in the eye. He deserved the truth, and he deserved dignity in the end, just like any soldier.

“Look, Theo, you know what you’ve done. The man you killed was a member of the Goldstein family, and to prevent an all-out war breaking out between them and us, they demanded that we even the scales. Do you understand?” 

Theo nodded, but he could barely get a word out. His cigarette had all but burned to ash in his hand. 

“Here, drink this.” Draco handed him a flask. “Better to face your fate head on. I know you can do it, hell I saw you face worse things in France.”

“Right,” said Theo, setting his brow in concentration. He rubbed his coat sleeve roughly across his eyes and then accepted the flask, knocking his head back and downing it in desperate gulps. “Fuck, that was wretched. You couldn’t get the good stuff for a man’s last drink?” 

Draco let out a hollow laugh and took a final drag on his cigarette, tossing it to the ground as they came to the edge of the lake. It shone like a sheet of solid glass, a window into the dark of night. As the men across the lake acknowledged their approach, Draco and Theo halted at the water’s edge. 

“Right, let’s get this over with.” Theo finished his cigarette and pulled his coat more tightly around himself, turning to look at his friend one last time. “If my sister ever comes back, will you tell her I died honourably? Bury me somewhere nice where there’s a grave she can visit? We never did get to make our peace.” 

“Of course.” 

Theo clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you have to do this for me.” 

“Anything for a friend.”

With a last, wan smile, Theo faced the lake and closed his eyes. Draco withdrew a splintered remnant of a hawthorn wand out from between the folds of his hat. A shimmer of unicorn hair glistened in the fading light. 

“In the bleak midwinter,” he said, holding the wand shard up to aim at his friend’s temple. A bolt of green fired at close range, and Theo’s limp form fell into the black lake with a crash. It laid there for a moment, bobbing near the surface, before slowly sinking beneath the reflection of the evening sky. 

Soon, the only thing that remained of Theodore Nott was a series of ripples that cascaded to the men on the far bank, who nodded and walked away. In a few moments more, even those had faded back to the unnatural calm of the lake. 

Draco waited until the ripples had ceased, and the reflection of the castle was crystal clear. Then he turned and headed back to Grimmauld Place, pulling up his coat against the cold. 

The long walk back through town was a much needed respite with his own thoughts. Much had changed in the span of a few days. With Snape coming into the mix, Draco would have to be careful that the betting operations didn’t get caught up as collateral damage in the investigation. Though if there was anything Snape’s arrival told him, it was that the wands were a more powerful bargaining chip than he’d even assumed. 

Draco’s real focus would be making the owners’s suites at the Horse Races by Derby Day, and to do that he needed a foot in the door with Mundungus for the season's first qualifying race at the Ayr Grand National. Getting on Snape’s good side would be easy compared with Mundungus – At least he had something Snape wanted. 

Needless to say, none of that would matter if there was unrest in the town that drew his attention, so more than anything he needed to keep things at home under control. Theo’s sacrifice would go a long way in keeping the Goldsteins at bay, but the Weasleys were less predictable. Perhaps he could even get two pieces to pay against each other on the board – if he could get Mundungus interested in keeping the Weasleys in check, he’d be halfway to solving both problems.

There was little time to worry about his mother’s visions of storms in a teacup, Neville’s all-too-lofty ideals, or new bartenders who didn’t know their place. Draco shook his head at the thought. Least of all that. He had bigger problems.

“Draco,” called Sirius’s voice from the betting parlour in his sternest tone. “Get in here.”

Speak of the devil. 

“Yes, cousin?” said Draco, leaning on the door frame. The room was empty save for Sirius, angrily flipping the pages of the betting ledger at Blaise’s desk. Behind him, the wall safe was open, awaiting deposits from the Armadale race which sat in a meagre pile. 

“The horse won. It fucking won.” Sirius slammed the book closed with a dull thud and leaned his hands on the desk, turning to glare at Draco instead. His black eye was just beginning to fade, but the cut on his forehead was still a nasty reminder of his encounter with Snape. “We had to pay out nearly everything, since the powder trick had the entire town betting on The Andromache. So what the hell do you have to say for yourself now?”

“Sirius, I told you I’d handle it.”

“Well it doesn’t bloody look like you’re handling it!” 

Draco sighed and approached the desk where the small stacks of muggle notes sat in even piles. “She was meant to win.”

Sirius cocked his head as though he’d misheard. “Do I need to explain to you how horse betting works? We only make money if the punters bet on horses that don’t win.”

“Yes, except now we have a horse that does win, that the punters believe is enchanted to win,” said Draco, fixing his cousin with a measured stare. “So next time she’ll win again. And again, until we have the whole country betting on her.” 

The scowl faded on Sirius’s brow. 

“When the takings are ten times what they were today, that’s when she loses,” said Draco. “We’re in control now, and I’m not about to let it slip through our hands.” 

Sirius shook his head and let out a sigh of relief that faded into a chuckle. “I’d hate to be your enemy.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Draco with a smirk, picking up a stack of cash and heading to the safe. 

Sirius had an important role to play in all this, and Draco needed him willing and able. All the Flinders, for that matter, would need to play their parts. 

He’d have to check on Dobby as well and make sure the wands were secured. Before long, he would need to let the rest of the family in on the secret if he had any hope of making any use of them. 

It wouldn’t be until several hours later that Dobby would be back at the stables, having waited under illusion at the Lake’s edge for a soaking wet Theo to be tossed back on shore by the merpeople, once the Gillyweed tonic had worn off. 

Draco hummed a laugh to himself, thinking how Theo would take the news from a house-elf of all beings that Draco had a job for him to do after all. Because Theo was well and truly a Peaky Flinder now.