Draco was beautiful. Sometimes, Blaise forgot. He became used to those sharp features, still distinctive under the lingering baby fat. The blond hair, typically slicked back like a seashell. Draco's quicksilver eyes would dull to concrete, after day-to-day life and extraordinary tragedy both took their toll on Blaise's perceptions. But tonight, his perceptions were sharp indeed.

A white-gloved hand extended to Blaise, palm up in gallant invitation. The crowded ballroom was silent, watching Draco's actions with rapt attention. Only moments ago, Lucius had opened the ball with his traditional welcome and best wishes. Now, for the first time (in this go-around) Draco would fulfill the heir's duty of opening the dancing. As was expected by only twenty or so individuals in the massive, well-attended room, Draco had immediately sought out Blaise.

At his shoulder, Mother grinned. She tried to hide her pleasure with a decorous mask but her attempt failed obviously. Blaise didn't blame her. Not every day did the Malfoy Heir seek your only son's hand for his first dance. The Second Wizarding War didn't exist yet; the Malfoys were not yet dangerous enough in her opinion to outweigh the benefit of their exclusive, powerful attentions. Mother was so young, Blaise thought. She was in her thirties and had survived the First War—as well as her collection of husbands—but gods. To Blaise, his wise mother suddenly seemed so very young.

"May I have this dance, Master Zabini?" Draco asked, voice sweet with youth but confident. Beautiful. His was the perfect image of pureblood royalty, a prince taken from a fairytale. Every eye in the ballroom watched him and, by extension, Blaise. Draco's eyes, however, never left Blaise's face.

Blaise slipped his hand lightly over Draco's offered palm. "I would be delighted, your lordship." Draco grinned, fire-bright. Cued by Blaise's acceptance, beautiful music filled the room, ethereal to the ear. Veela musicians, Blaise guessed, pleased. Such a showing was a rare treat. The Malfoys had truly spared no expense, this time around. Nominally, the luxury would seem to honor Draco's official ascension to the heir's position, perhaps the recent swelling in Malfoy political power. Only the returned would know that there was more to celebrate than that.

A few short steps and they took position in the middle of the dance floor. Dance had been taught to Blaise like it had been taught to all pureblood children for centuries. At six, a dedicated instructor had instilled in him the steps, which his mother had then harassed him with until, at eleven, he was firmly on the rung of excellence. However, Blaise had never actually enjoyed dancing until he had danced with Draco.

The music swelled. With matching smiles and perfect time, they were off.

"You remember," Blaise said, too low for anyone but Draco to hear, "Last time around, I wasn't your first dance." They had danced together at later events, of course. But Draco's first dance, a portent for many marriage-plotting society parents, hadn't gone to Blaise.

"A horrible mistake," Draco said. "I'd overheard Father speaking about the importance of securing a business contract with the Shafiq family, so I asked their daughter."

Blaise frowned. "Your father sealed that contract the next day, if I'm not mistaken." And made stupefying amounts of money off it, even for a family of the Malfoys' standing.

Draco nodded. "He surely did."

"So," Blaise prodded, "Why so regretful?"

Around them, the music reached a crescendo. "Because," Draco said, "I have always regretted not having that first dance with you." Effortlessly, Draco pulled Blaise into a tight spin. Blaise could only imagine the spectacle: their long, light robes whipping round their legs in perfect contrast to their controlled, impeccable posture. Not a step was missed as Draco led Blaise into the next rotation. The crowd rumbled approvingly.

The unfamiliar hot feeling of a blush charged over Blaise's cheeks, unexpected. "You can't be serious. It's just a silly superstition. Your first dance has nothing to do with who you'll marry."

"Obviously," Draco replied, leading them instinctually through the next waltzing steps. "But that's not what I meant." He swept Blaise into a low dip, the music slowing momentarily.

Blaise held Draco's shoulders delicately, safe in Draco's arms. As Draco guided them easily to standing, Blaise looked up into his future husband's face. Those grey eyes glowed like Blaise had not seen in years. "What do you mean?" Blaise breathed.

"Only that every moment I miss with you is a regret of mine," Draco answered. He held Blaise's gaze simply, with no mask or veil. Blaise's heart stuttered, lungs freezing in his chest. His body moved of its own accord, instinctively following Draco through the turns.

"You really mean that," Blaise murmured. "Even after everything."

Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor flashed into Blaise's mind. His quiet confession to Draco. An ice cream parlor in December is a lonely, isolated place. There had been no one to witness Blaise's tears or the way Draco had gathered him up, held him together. In an ice cream shop, of all places, they had reassured a faith between them Blaise hadn't realized was shaken.

They couldn't kiss, he and Draco. They were eleven. Even the thought felt weird. As well, kissing would have been highly improper after only a dance. Yet, Blaise had the feeling that had they been alone and in their proper bodies, a kiss would have been exactly Draco's response to Blaise's words. As it stood, Draco merely nodded. "I always will, Blaise. I swear on my magic."

Blaise didn't stumble. He glided as smoothly after Draco as always. He did, however, blink back some tears. Blaise's guilt, his hurt, had been quietly consuming him. Confessing had taken that silent killer away. The conversation had been hard—excruciating. But Blaise didn't feel like he was drowning anymore. He felt like he had finally found solid ground, even thrown a decade and change back into the past. That solid ground, as ever, was Draco.

The music came to an end with a final pull of violin. The guests broke into thunderous applause: not for the preternaturally talented musicians, but for he and Draco. For the Malfoy heir and his first chosen partner. Most, after such a dance, would expect to hear of a marriage contract within the week. Blaise fancied that, unlike the life where Draco had danced with Josephine Shafiq, such predictions would be right.

The dances flowed on. Blaise again twirled tightly between Draco's arms. He came to a rest against Draco's chest. Breathless, a thought came to him. A last secret he hadn't meant to keep but hadn't found the strength yet to share. Leaning up, Blaise whispered against Draco's ear, "I wanted to call her Calliope. After the most gifted of the Muses."

Blaise was curled against Draco's shoulder, tucked against his neck. That's why he felt Draco's stoic swallow. "We will, Blaise. One day, that's exactly what we'll call her."

And, as Draco pulled them into form again, Blaise believed him.

Arthur was watching the dancers, lost in nostalgia, when a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. Charlie's bright "Looking good, Dad!" didn't stop Arthur's instinctual jerk.

When Arthur turned, Charlie was frowning at him. "Are you feeling okay, though?"

Arthur bit back a sigh. How to explain to your son that your distraction was caused not by discomfort, but by your plans to shortly begin raising the dead? Arthur didn't expect that there was a parenting handbook that covered such conversations. Afterall, not even the Dark regularly tampered with necromancy. Still, needs must when the Devil—or Dark Lord—drives.

"I'm fine, Charlie. Just not used to such," Arthur glanced around, "extravagance."

Charlie grinned, the anxiety melting from his eyes. "Yeah, I get that. I thought Christmas was amazing but the Malfoys really don't hold back at all on New Year's, do they?"

"It is the last day of Yule," Arthur reminded gently. "Traditionally, the pagan will always outdo the Christian." Still, he knew what Charlie meant. Even Arthur's misty memories of his last Malfoy Yule Ball cast a pale shadow against the majesty before him now.

A thousand of the global community's most powerful witches, wizards, and human-magical creatures crowded the Malfoy ballroom. Royalty, politicians, business people, academics, and celebrities from across the entire magical world, with their families and most privileged envoys. They had poured in with the stroke of midnight, leaving behind the old year to welcome the new one at Malfoy Manor in the most traditional of ways. They glittered like so many precious stones. With the guests' arrival, music had flooded the room, ethereal and fey. They danced the dances of old, as elegant as figures of myth and story. Luxurious foods covered artful banquet tables and filled the serving trays of enchanted statues, who flitted so lightly from guest to guest that never would you have thought they were made from marble.

The glorious Christmas trees that had lined the ballroom had been changed, too, grown larger and more mighty. Transfigured from their native green, they now gleamed glimmering silver and gold. Brilliant lights were strung among the boughs, hovering in perfect beauty. Gentle, billowing mist swirled along the floor. Effigies of golden gods stared in awesome power from shrines among the trees, offerings from devout worshippers piled at their feet. On the witching hour, the fires below the offerings would be lit, taking the gifts to the divine realm. The Hunt would ride, and the fires would burn until the hunters' return with the morning light.

"Are you joining the Hunt, Dad?" Charlie asked, as though reading Arthur's thoughts. "All the others are."

All the other lords were hunting, Charlie meant. Lucius would lead, as was his due. Sirius, Severus, Remus, and dozens of other lords Arthur couldn't be bothered with knowing also made up the principle riders. Ladies, generally, did not ride. With the minors, they lit and maintained the ritual fires, conducting the ceremonies and magics needed to ensure that the gods' favors were given for the next year. In the morning, the hunters would bring back their prey to be slaughtered in a final sacrifice, and a great feast would be held in the morning light. For another year, according to tradition, wizards and witches would be blessed with their powerful magic.

But no, Arthur would not ride tonight.

"I'll be somewhere in the back of the pack, I think," Arthur replied, smiling at Charlie. "I've never been a part of a Hunt before. I'd hate to mess it up."

Not that Charlie needed to know that Arthur had other plans.

Charlie nudged him playfully in the shoulder. "You'll be great, Dad. You'll see, we'll get the biggest stag of the Hunt."

Arthur smiled. "I'm sure you and Bill will do us all proud. Tonight will be a night not to be forgotten, in any case. Maybe go over your tack with him once more before the Hunt gets rolling?"

Charlie smiled, indulgent. "Sure thing, Dad."

Arthur maintained a smile on his face until Charlie disappeared into the sparkling crowd. His expression slipped away, then, to reveal a haunting tiredness, one that Arthur felt deep into his bones. He was exhausted from studying his resurrection spells deep into the night, yes. Arthur hadn't caught more than four or five hours a night since Christmas. Yet, Arthur's pains went deeper than that.

Wizards and witches were blessed by love in many ways. Early on most found the sort of love that muggles searched all their lives for. Young loves became life-long marriages that ideally stretched into long years of magical harmony. Especially gifted lovers could even cast tandem spells, or craft magic specific to their paired cores. In their short time together, Arthur and Tom had delved deep into lovers' magic. They had not married in the usual sense, but their cores had become just as tightly bound.

Without the cosseting barrier of Amortentia forcing Arthur to forget and diverting his magic's attention, Arthur's whole being called out for Tom. But Death had divided them. When Arthur reached for Tom, he met a cold iron wall. Arthur could not penetrate that barrier and, sooner or later, he soul would be exhausted by trying. Arthur would join Tom—one way or another.

Arthur wasn't prepared to die yet. So, Tom would have to live.

Arthur would have preferred to cast his spells on the Spring Equinox. Spring was the season of rebirth: Arthur theorized it would lend itself well to resurrection. The Christians certainly thought so and, say what you will about sorcery, the Church worked some powerful magic of its own. Hallowed ground didn't just jump forth unaided, after all. However, the point was moot. Arthur wasn't willing to bet on his own strength lasting to spring. Resurrection took an inordinate amount of power, power Arthur could feel trickling away the longer he searched for a dead-end. If Arthur were going to raise the dead, he needed to act now.

Mercifully, Arthur was finding that necromancy was like riding a broomstick. His body, soul, and magic seemed to know intimately what Arthur's mind was newly learning. In a few nights, he felt as confident in the spells and rituals as he would have if Arthur had crafted them himself. He was growing suspicious that he had crafted them himself, actually. Their rhythm was like Arthur's mother's lullabies, embroidered with a lilting twist like her native Welsh. The words were Latin, the spellcraft language Arthur favoured. The symbols were all Arthur's favorites, familiar to his hand when he drew them. The ingredients were such that Arthur was comfortable working with them. In fact, Arthur had found all of them preserved in the music box, shrunken alongside his books and notes.

Tonight provided the perfect cover for Arthur's plans. While not a solstice or an equinox, a full moon hung fat and heavy over Malfoy Manor. Additionally, every vaguely magical force in the universe would be focused on the Manor because of the Hunt. The year was ending and a fresh one beginning. January 31rst might be a somewhat arbitrary, human date, but it was as close to a seasonal calendar point as Arthur was going to get.

Traditionally, Horcrux-based resurrection required the bone of the father, the blood of the servant, so on and so forth. A splintered bit of soul bound to the material world was used to order the greater spirit back into its mortal body. The ritual was a commandment, a brutal order forcing the universe to bend to the casters' wills. The ritual was tremendously difficult, took tens of devoted casters to complete, and would require Harry Potter's living blood unwillingly given.

Arthur wasn't prepared to do any of that. Arthur would never harm Harry. The boy was another son to Arthur, as well as beloved of Arthur's actual child—his, and Neville's, safety and happiness were paramount to Arthur. When he had designed the spells, Arthur hadn't known he would care so much for one of the Horcrux vessels. He had only been looking for a gentler way to subvert death. Now, Arthur was eternally grateful for his younger self's squeamishness.

Arthur's spell took one caster, all the spirit's remaining soul splinters, and a lot of blood. Arthur's blood. The blood of the spirit's lover. There was no room for hate in Arthur's spell. No despised fathers or disgusting sycophants, no enemies or spare pieces wandering about. No graveyards. No death. Just love.

Once upon a future, Albus Dumbledore had figured love would kill Tom Riddle. Arthur was going to prove him wrong.

Casually, Arthur checked his pocket watch. 1:33am. There was an hour and a half of revelry left in the night. Then the hunters would depart in a cloud of light and noise and color. They would give a final kiss to wives, husbands, and sweethearts, and off they'd ride, leaving the remainder to tend to the rituals. Some would depart then, the waffling Grey and the Light who only came for the political clout and fun, not because they believed in the rituals' power. Others would return in the morning, not skilled enough to be invited on the Hunt or to the Rituals, but eager to help with preparing the daylight feast. Arthur would slip away in the chaos and begin his spell. By the time the women and minors were at the apex of their rituals, when the most magical power was flowing through Malfoy Manor, so would be Arthur. Tom's resurrection would be merely a drop in the magical bucket. Or so Arthur hoped.

Either way, before the Hunt returned Tom Riddle would walk again— with Arthur Weasley at his shoulder.

It was past two in the morning and Lee had just been told that time travel was real. Being a somewhat scientific fellow, so far as being a wizard allowed, Lee would never believe such a claim, ordinarily. However, the twins had taken the Veritaserum-laced sparkling pumpkin juice Lee had offered them as easily as babes to a bottle. They couldn't be lying. Could they be crazy? Veritaserum only forced you to reveal what you thought was the truth, after all. But, besides ignoring Lee, the twins didn't appear to be at all mad. Or, well, no madder than usual, and Lee knew full-well he was implicated in that kind of madness.

"Time travel," Lee said, testing the words aloud. His voice sounded faint even to his own ears. "You two have ignored me because of time travel."

Below his feet, Lee fancied he could still hear the party—ball—going on. Probably not. The Malfoys didn't seem the sort to cheap out on something like soundproofing. Maybe he was just in shock. Malfoy Manor was unbelievable. The building looked like it should be perched atop Mount Olympus. The ball was like something out of a fairytale. Like The Twelve Dancing Princesses and their forest of silver and gold. Earlier, Lee had helped Cassius and his parents prepare the Warrington family's sacrificial offerings. Honey, taken from the family bee hives. Wine, from the Warrington vineyard. Apples, from the Warrington orchards. All of it was to be burned on fires that, Cassius had explained, would take the offerings to the Warrington family gods.

Gods. Loki and Sigyn, to be precise. The Norse god of lies and his wife, a goddess of fealty and marriage. The Warringtons traced their linage to Norse invaders in 1016. Apparently, more than nine hundred years of sacrificial produce kept the mortal and divine in touch.

In his muggle life, Lee hadn't even gone to church. His parents said the family was Protestant when asked, but Lee thought that meant the same as "socially liberal, financially conservative." In short, if the Protestant church had asked Lee's father to burn his best wine, that would have been the last nail in the coffin. No resurrection available. Obviously, the Warringtons were a different kettle of fish. Cassius had insisted that he and Lee prepare a special offering for Sigyn, and also Frigga, who was the Norse queen and most powerful marriage and love goddess. Together they had gone into the Warrington wine cellar where, under Lady Warrington's careful eye, they had tasted tiny mouthfuls of wine until they had settled on a shared favorite. Together, they had laid the bottle at Sigyn's golden feet, asking for her blessings. They'd repeated the gesture at Frigga's shrine, offering sweet apples Cassius and Lee had picked out themselves from the harvest in the cellar.

Lee hadn't expected the experience to have much of an impact on him. He had gone along with the steps because they were important to Cassius. However, as he had lain in bed last night, apple and wine smells lingering on his skin, he had felt a spark of belief light in his chest. And, though when he thought of Loki he pictured American comic books, Lee also knew that Loki wasn't just the god of lies: he was the god of tricks, too. And Lee had been planning on one fantastic trick.

With quiet feet, Lee had crept to the wine bottle Cassius had gifted him. They had tasted it will looking for wine for Sigyn. Cassius had hated it, too bitter for his tongue, but it had been Lee's most favorite. It wasn't a very big bottle, but it looked very old. In the dark of night, with quiet certainty, Lee had decided to sacrifice that bottle to Loki.

Cassius—and his parents—had both been pleased by Lee's apparent religious enthusiasm. Blessedly, they hadn't asked why Lee felt the need to have the god of deceit on his side—Lee had a feeling that enquiring after someone's prayer was rude. After laying the sacrifices and offering his prayers to Frigga and Sigyn with Cassius, Lee had felt confident enough in the ritual actions to go to Loki's shrine, right beside Sigyn, alone.

"Loki Lie-Smith, God of Fire, the Silver-Tongued and World-Walking, lend me thine ear and eye and aide," Lee had murmured, and somewhere between one rhythmic word and the other, a sort of trance had muffled his mind. He had spilled his desires easily, kneeling at the gold figure's feet, sure, for some reason, that no one else would hear him. He had felt no such feelings when offering to Sigyn and Frigga, but Lee hadn't been afraid. He had felt content at Loki's feet, peaceful—pleased, even.

As he'd risen at the end of his prayers, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that the effigy was smiling at him. But surely that couldn't have been. Lee wasn't self-absorbed enough to think so.

"Lee!" Fred cried, jerking Lee from his musings. The younger twin was looking at Lee anxiously, worry creasing every line of his face. George looked much the same but had more reserve than Fred. Instead of crowding Lee in, he hovered restrainedly over Fred's shoulder.

In that moment, they looked exactly like Lee had always pictured his two closest friends—his brothers of choice. This scene could have been taken from any point in their lives where Lee was upset and the twins were on his guard. In fact, just last summer they'd held this exact posture, watching concernedly as Lee blinked the smoke from a failed experiment out of his eyes. Abruptly, Lee wanted to cry.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lee spit out, blinking back tears. He hated crying, especially over people who didn't bloody deserve it. He gestured wildly. "Why did I have to resort to this?"

"We didn't want to put you in danger!" Fred exclaimed, rushing forward. He pulled Lee into a hug that Lee didn't have the will to fight his way out of, even if he was pissed with them. Even with Cassius, Lee had been so bloody lonely without the Weasley twins. Fred's hug felt like the best thing in the world.

"I followed you to Slytherin," Lee mumbled into Fred's expensive robes. He wasn't crying. Definitely not. "How much more bloody danger could there be?"

"The lethal kind," George replied. "We didn't time travel for larks, Lee. The future's awful."

Lee looked up from where he'd buried his head against Fred's chest. "But don't bad things happen to wizards who play with time anyway?"

Fred shrugged. "We didn't do the playing, though. We have no idea how we wound up like this."

"We?" Lee quired. He rubbed irritably at his eyes. "Isn't it just you guys?"

"Oh no," Fred laughed. "There's, like, twenty of us."

"You know," George said, cutting in before Lee could ask for specifics. "The Veritaserum was pretty wicked of you. It's really annoying."

Lee snorted. "What's really annoying is being ignored by your best friends for months while surrounded by people you antagonized for years. If not for Cassius, I'd have lost my entire mind by now."

"Cassius?" Fred asked, raising a curious eyebrow. "As in our year's Cassius Warrington?"

Lee stuck his nose up in the air, ignoring completely that he still had his arm linked with Fred. "You're not the only ones who spent Christmas with someone new this year."

Both twins winced, perfectly in synch. For Lee's family, Christmas was something of a business affair, full of fancy parties and hobnobbing. Lee didn't enjoy the anxiety that went along with pretending he was perfectly normal. So, he had gleefully spent the holidays warm in the Burrow, eating the twins' mum's amazing food and playing pick-up games of Quidditch. This year had been very different. He supposed, however, that the twins hadn't had their usual Christmas either. Guilt stirred.

"I'm sorry," Lee said. "I can't imagine how bad the last few months have been for you. You've lost way more than just your Hogwarts house. The stuff with Ginny and your mum—er, Molly," Lee amended, remembering that the Weasley had evicted her from the family. "And—time travel. Gods, time travel."

George squeezed Lee's shoulder. "Thank you, Lee. But you should be upset with us. We were trying to protect you but we hurt you by doing it. We didn't want to. We knew we could trust you. We just didn't want to drag you into this mess."

Lee nodded, swallowing firmly. "It's all forgiven. Just don't push me away again. I don't know if you have noticed but, ah," Lee felt himself blush, "You're really all I have, family-wise."

Fred looked like he was going to take a turn not-crying now. "That's why we wanted to be careful. You're our family, too. You didn't come back like us. We thought we could protect you, like we couldn't in the future."

Lee bit his lip. "Did—did I die? In the future? Is that why I didn't come back with you?"

The twins exchanged a look, conferring, but the potion forced the truth out of them.

"No," Fred said. "You were alive, last we remember."

"But you'd nearly died several times," George continued. "Lost an arm, the last time. Saving our asses, of course."

"We told you to leave us." Fred smiled, grimly. "You wouldn't bloody listen."

"We have no idea why you're not a returned," George said.

"Do you wish I was?" Lee asked, soft. The twins looked like his twins but it was obvious that they had memories that Lee didn't. Did they miss the their friend, the Lee that Lee was not, yet?

"We love every version of you," Fred said.

"But we're very glad that the Lee we left," George added.

"The Lee that got so hurt protecting us," Fred continued.

"Won't have to happen again," George finished.

Lee melted. "Thank you, guys. But don't think I won't have your backs, too. If the future's as bad as you say, I'll do whatever we need to prevent it from happening."

George stepped forward, face earnest. "Lee—"

"I literally drugged you with Veritaserum from my would-be fiancé's family potion stores at the most exclusive party of the year with a willingness to resort to blackmail if your father wouldn't sign some paperwork for me," Lee said frankly. "I followed you blindly to Slytherin. I didn't spill any of your secrets while you played your little power games in third year. Did you know, Terence Higgs offered me the world to give you up? I didn't even flinch when he threatened me, the little prick."

"Threatened you?" George repeated, furious.

"Fiancé?" Fred repeated, intrigued.

"Well, yes," Lee blushed. "If your father would ever sign the marriage contract."

"I'll talk to him," Fred said. "He's been really busy—"

"Not that I'm not thrilled," George interrupted, "But what do you mean Higgs threatened you?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you when you brushed me off in the common room. He's pissed about you taking over third year. But more to the point," Lee insisted, raising a hand to silence both the twins. "I am willing to follow the pair of you idiots anywhere, to do anything. You might want to protect me but I want to protect you, too. That's my choice. Do not make my job harder." Lee held their gazes, willing them to listen. "Please."

The twins slumped. "If we can't convince you otherwise…"

"You can't," Lee confirmed.

"Then okay," said George.

"We'll explain everything," said Fred. They both sounded more resigned than pleased.

"Brilliant" said Lee. "You can start by telling me what, exactly, we are trying to prevent." He then sat down tiredly on a conveniently located sofa and offered up two silent prayers. The first was to Loki, a thankful recognition for watching over his gambit and helping Lee prevail. Lee had called the god's attention—if that smile he couldn't quite banish from his mind was real, Lee wasn't going to be rude. The second was to the Malfoys: their taste in furniture placement truly was impeccable to his exhausted mind.

Through the forest, a figure walked. She avoided the dappled-moonlight patches, clinging close to the darkest shadows. An invitation tucked into her pitch-black leathers give her access to the grounds, but she daren't test the wards on the manor house proper. She was taking enough risks as things stood. Mercifully, she hadn't been questioned too much when securing the invitation. She had said that she wanted to see how the other side lived. Technically speaking, her blood relation was hosting the party, even if she had never had a conversation with the woman.

No, Charlie Weasley hadn't questioned her much at all. Why would he? They had been best friends since first year. Charlie wouldn't see it, but her actions tonight would be to protect him as much as anyone else.

Nervously, she shifted the crossbow in her hands. She didn't worry that she would miss. Even if she hadn't practiced relentlessly with the weapon for the last few weeks, it was charmed for accuracy. The shot was going to be easy, too. No, she would hit her target. He would fall from his mount, struck with lethal poison. There was no antidote. No salvation. He would die, slow and painful.

"I'm afraid it's entirely necessary, dear," Molly had explained, her struggle written across her face. "The Dark is taking over. If we're not careful, we won't be able to fight a war when the time comes."

She had fingered the vial Molly had placed in her hand, watching the noxious yellow liquid slosh inside the spelled glass. "But couldn't we try arresting—"

"The Minister is in his pocket, I am afraid," Dumbledore had replied. Her old headmaster had sounded so sad. He had rubbed exhaustedly at his glasses. "I have thought we would have more time. However, even without their lord the Dark grows powerful. We must take action. We have already lost too much ground."

"But," she had paused, "Murder…"

"Not murder, my dear," Dumbledore had reminded her. "A crucial first step in securing our futures." Dumbledore had taken her hand. "Your actions, though difficult, are for the greater good. On day, they will be recognized as heroic."

She didn't want to be a hero. She did, however, want to protect her friends and family. They were living in scary times. There were new rules that basically let magical people steal muggleborn children, like her Dad, from their parents. The Magical Children's Act. She snorted. All those blood purist pricks had to be trading high-fives over that one.

Her resolve strengthened. Dumbledore couldn't fight the sort of political power that had amassed behind the Dark. He had been stripped of so many titles because of false accusations; he had only barely been able to maintain control of Hogwarts. Dumbledore couldn't survive another political blow like that and, without Dumbledore, there would really be no one left to organize the Light.

Gritting her teeth, she hoisted herself up into the trees. She was stationed along the Hunt's route, at the point furthest from the Manor. Even at top speed, her target would be beyond hope before he came in sight of the front veranda. Not dead yet—that would take some more time—but close enough. Killing a powerful wizard was hard work for a potion, apparently. She had wondered if they shouldn't just use the Killing Curse, but that would be traceable on her wand. She could abandon the crossbow after she was done. The poison on the bolt would be enough.

Her mission was necessary for the greater good. She knew that in her bones. When she had signed up to be an Auror, Tonks had never thought she would become an assassin at eighteen. But she wanted to protect her family and friends, the Light and the whole wizarding world. If this was how it had to happen, then so be it. Needs must.

Tonks checked her watch. Half an hour until the Hunt rode. At peace with herself, she cast her last few concealment charms and settled down to wait for her chance to change the world for the better.

Hello, dears! The goal for this chapter was to have it out on New Year's, but those of you that know me know that only a three day delay is a miracle. So, I hope you enjoyed this one! I had a lot of fun with it. As always, your reviews keep me writing and I am so excited to hear your thoughts. We're almost at 1000 reviews, which is something I never thought I'd accomplish. Thank you all so much for your support, and Happy New Year! This may even be the year I finish this monster~

On other news, can any of you think of a better summary of this story? I feel like the current one is sort of lacking but I have no idea what to do with it. So, thoughts? Also, as always, I love to hear what directions/characters you are most interested in, so feel free to give me suggestions as to what I should focus on in the next chapter :)

Sincerely,

BlackRoseGirl666