Disclaimer: Okay, okay, so the characters aren't mine. I just borrowed them. I promise. Yes, I was going to give them back. What? Well, no I didn't exactly ask. No, I don't think she knows I have them. Oh, please don't tell her! Look, if you don't tell, I'll let you play with them too!

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

-W. H. Auden

"September 1, 1939"

Ten o'clock in the evening, an hour after the last of the shops in Diagon Alley had closed, leaving only proprietors to clean up and close the books for the night. This night, George Weasley was alone in this task, replacing items that had been picked up by customers and replaced on shelves across the shop when they found something they wanted more. It made inventory a pain, but gave him something to do while a charmed broom danced its way around the sales floor, collecting dust that had been carried in by the day's traffic.

It had been a slow day, as fewer and fewer people were venturing out of their homes since the attack on Hogwarts. Christmas was still far off, and a few weeks still existed before school began, bringing their most eager customers to spend their pocket money on supplies for pranks and practical jokes. Though little had happened in the last few weeks, business broke off suddenly as soon as night began to fall. No one could be too careful.

"Nowhere," the latest hit by the Weird Sisters came over the WWN, and George found himself singing along as he rebuilt a display of their edible products. He flipped a box of Ton-Tongue Taffies into the air, snatching it up a foot from the ground, his voice wavering and off-key, rang out with the lyrics.

"We're going nowhere, a floundering youth. We've been falling forever, but can't break through. Scream! Scream! No need to tell me, I don't want your help. You can't save me anymore. I'll save myself!"

As though cued by a twisted fate, the door to the shop exploded, throwing George, who had been standing near it, crashing into the long counter where transactions were completed. Dust and smoke filled the air as he raised himself, coughing into his arm, and turned toward the door, only to find himself faced by a wall of black cloaks.

Death Eaters!

His hand instantly went for his wand, but before it even brushed the wood, his only weapon was yanked from its hiding place and sailing through the air to be caught deftly in the waiting hand of the tallest of the Dark Lord's servants.

"No need for that," drawled a voice George didn't recognize. It was venomous and dangerous. "We're only here to talk." He motioned toward two of the larger thugs behind him who swooped down on George, slamming his much smaller struggling form facedown to the ground with both his arms pinioned in the small of his back. His head ached where it had struck the floor, but he ignored the pain. He knew he was going to be in for a lot more before the night was over. "Do you care to answer a few questions?"

"Not really," George spat back.

"My, my. I had rather thought you'd cooperate." George could almost imagine the sick smile slowly spreading across his face. "Ah, but this makes it much more enjoyable." He was released, but before he could even move, the Death Eater's wand was trained on him. "Crucio!"

George screamed.

Fred felt a chill travel up his spine as he hovered over the scrubbed wood table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He straightened, nearly dropping the silver pocketwatch he and George had designed. It was a portkey, created to work when the dial was pressed in rather than on a preset time at creation- an asset to spying where last minute getaways would be necessary when one had no wand.

"What is it?" Harry asked, seeing the strange look on the redhead's face.

"Nothing," he answered, though not looking as though he believed himself. "Just a chill."

"It is cold in here," Tonks offered, rubbing her arms for affect.

Harry walked to the fireplace and threw another log on the already roaring flames.

"What time is it?" he asked, turning back to the table.

"Half past," Fred answered, now rubbing his own arms where goose bumps had begun to rise. "Everyone should be here soon."

"Where's George?" Tonks piped in.

"Closing the shop. He should be here in a few minutes."

George lay panting on the floor. His arms, bound behind his back, felt like they had been ripped out of his sockets. He'd never felt the Cruciatus at full strength before, and had never imagined it could be this painful. It felt as though every nerve in his body was screaming out.

And that was the third one.

"Who is the spy for the Order of the Phoenix?" the Death Eater asked lazily, squatting near George's head. "We know you and your brothers are in the Order."

"No." Was that his voice that sounded so shaky?

"No? You do know we'll kill you if you don't tell us what we want to know."

"… Kill me anyway."

"That may be the smartest thing I've ever heard out of a Weasley's mouth." He flicked his wand and George found himself flying sideways across the shop, crashing into the shelves that lined the east wall from floor to ceiling. Fire ripped through his right arm, taking the blow of his entire body, but a cry was ripped from his throat when the shelves collapsed, raining the heavy wood slabs down on him. He was thankful when he was knocked unconscious.

Unfortunately, it didn't last.

"Come now, Weasley, don't give up on me that easily," he drawled after George was enervated by one of his silent companions. George glared up at him, blood dripping down his face. He sighed dramatically. "Which one are you? Fred? Or George? Not that it matters," he finished with a wave of his hand. "I am curious, though, if, as twins, one of you can tell if the other is in trouble. For example, how long will it be before your brother shows up here to help you? I'm sure he can't take all of us." He motioned behind him elegantly, indicating the other Death Eaters. "You can save him the pain, though. Just tell us who the spy is."

"I don't know." He coughed hoarsely.

"That was the wrong answer, and I am beginning to tire of this game. I do, however, have a few young recruits who need to practice for themselves."

Fred fell heavily into his chair, a wave of dizziness washing over him, causing spots to dance before his eyes. He pressed the palms of his hands into the hollows of his eyes, attempting to push the vertigo out of his head, but it lingered still.

"You all right?" Ron, who had only just arrived from Hogwarts, watched his brother concernedly.

"Yeah," came the slow answer. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Well, then, stick to that end of the table," Ron muttered. "Every time a sniffle goes around that school, I get it, and I don't want to get sick if I don't have to."

"Ron, you're all heart," Hermione snickered.

"No, I'm aches and chills and snot! I don't know how those little buggers are ever healthy! They're like walking germ factories!"

"Weasley, must you be so dramatic?" Snape drawled as he swept into the room, followed by Professor McGonagall.

"Why Snape," Ron returned sweetly, "I didn't know you developed a soft spot for your coughing, sneezing, runny-nosed first years."

Before Snape could answer back, he was silenced by Harry. The kitchen was full now.

"Is everyone here?" He asked, glancing around. "Where's Alden?"

"On duty," Shacklebolt answered. "I saw him just before I left."

"And Bill?"

"'E iz in Cairo," Fleur answered. "Gringotz beeznuz."

"Where is your twin?" Snape asked, now peering curiously at Fred, who had gone pale. His jaw clenched and unclenched as though he was now in pain.

"He's at the shop," Hermione answered for him. She laid her hand on Fred's face. "You're not warm. Maybe you should go lie down."

Fred nodded and began to rise, but suddenly he didn't seem to have the strength. He fell uneasily back into the chair, listing to the side as if he was about to slide right off onto the floor. Hermione stooped beside him to pull his arm over her shoulder and help him from the kitchen.

"He's not talking, Devinne," one of the Death Eaters was saying, looking down at the bloody mess that had once been a Weasley. George Weasley lay at his feet, bare-chested, his skin coated in a grimy coat of his own blood and bruises. His shoulder was black, and his right arm, still tied behind his back, hung a considerably distance from the shoulder. The body was breathing shallowly, but each exhalation sent forth more blood from his mouth. "Any more and he'll die before he can reveal anything."

"Then perhaps he should die." He pushed himself from the counter he had been leaning against and inspected the barely conscious victim. "You've done nicely, gentlemen. Well done."

"Sir?"

In answer, Devinne directed his wand at Weasley.

"Crucio!" He watched with interest as tremors ran through Weasley's body. A strangled cry escaped his bloodied lips, but in his current condition, there was little force behind it.

"No doubt his brother will return soon, probably with others. When they come, they should find nothing." He glanced down around the shop. "Destroy everything."

"What about him?" one of the stooges asked, staring down at the semi-conscious Order member struggling to breathe.

"Let him go down with the shop." He aimed his wand at the Death Eater who had failed to make Weasley talk. "Avada Kedavra." Watching the body go limp then fall ungracefully to the floor, he turned back to the others. "Burn it," he ordered. "Burn everything."

The kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, was quiet, as the three loudest members were not present: Chris Alden was on duty, Fred was lying in an upstairs bed, sick, and George had yet to show up for the meeting. The head of the table held no member, and had not since the death of Dumbledore six years earlier. Directly to the left of that empty seat sat Severus Snape, who sat somberly, his hands clasped before his face so his chin balanced on his thumbs, trying his utmost to appear calm, but knowing he was failing miserably to those who knew him well. He allowed his eyes a glance up at the clock.

"How long has it been?" Potter asked from across the table. Snape's eyes fell on him, glaring narrowly, though the rest of his weary body revolted at the act of aggression and sighed. Potter was no longer his student, though no less a headache.

Mostly.

"Thirty-six hours since he was summoned. Fourteen since his last contact. And two since he was supposed to have returned."

"How was he when he last contacted you?" Lupin asked.

"He's not at a bloody summer camp, Lupin. How do you think he was?"

"Did he say anything?" Lupin reiterated mildly.

"Only what I have already reported: he's found some new information, and is trying to get his hands on it." A murmur farther down the table drew his attention. "Do you have something to say, Moody?"

"I said, maybe he's visiting the dungeons with his father."

"Do you dare-?"

"Blood is thick in that family, Snape!"

"Alastor! Severus! Enough!" McGonagall cut in, but was ignored.

"I trust Draco with my life!"

"And that's not exactly worth much these days, now is it?"

The table jumped to its feet as both men, Auror and Death Eater, drew their wands.

"ENOUGH!"

Both men froze at Potter's voice.

"How are we supposed to be fighting Voldemort if we're too busy fighting each other?" he demanded, staring coldly at the two men before him. "Draco is a member of the Order, the same as we all are, who puts himself in constant danger whenever he is summoned. No member will be called into question, merely based on blood. And no Order member will threaten another Order member, especially not in my house! Now," he said, lowering his voice to a normal tone again, "Snape, do you have anything else to report?"

"No," he answered, lowering his wand, but not sliding it back into his robes.

"Thank you."

Snape nodded, keeping his eyes on the young man before him. Potter had grown up since the war had escalated, losing much of his boyishness by the time he left school. But then, by the age of twenty-three, he had battled some of the worst the magical world had to offer, including the Dark Lord on more than one occasion.

And now, with Dumbledore dead, he was the unofficial leader of the Order, though it had taken him some time to finally step into that role. Regardless, the role suited him, as two very dangerous veterans of two Dark Wars stepped down at his fury.

Yes, Potter had definitely grown up.

In Diagon Alley, screams could be heard from Weasey's Wizarding Wheezes, but nobody ran to the aid of the tortured young owner. Too many were afraid for their own lives, their families' lives, the safety of their own shops. Many pulled down the shades of their small flats above their shops, huddling below the window in hopes that they would not draw the attention of the Death Eaters who were no doubt visiting the young Weasleys. It wasn't that they disliked the boy, whichever one he was, but that their own lives were more important.

A few men were poised near their doors, frozen in indecision while they were pulled back by wives or lovers who had also been awakened by the screams and feared that their men, who Merlin knows knew no better, might try to rescue the poor soul. Perhaps someone even alerted the Aurors what was happening, but none wandered out of doors to investigate.

The front door opened and the unmistakable shadows of Death Eaters fled into the street before disapparating with hardly a glance around. It was only then that others left their own homes, their eyes drawn upwards toward the sky where a great glittering skull spewed an emerald serpent. No one spoke.

But they screamed.

Flames erupted suddenly from the doors and windows of the targeted shop, singing the hair and bed clothes of those who had been drawn to check for life within the shop, or to view a body. Who knows what goes through the minds of people who can huddle in fear while another screams in pain?

None would admit as much later on.

Most only remembered the strangeness of the flames being sucked back within the shop, as though a dragon had merely sneezed flame without. They would recall the startling silence, the exchange of fearful glances with neighbors, the half-whispers that were never fully formed on their lips.

And the explosion spraying brick and wood and flame over them all.