Ambrose Rookwood felt the attack on his wards just over an hour after returning from Longbottom Hall. He had hoped for more time, but knew that they would come for Pansy as soon as they learned that she had been in his home.

Barely a month ago, they would have been we. The ones now attempting to breach his defenses were the same ones, the same death eaters, that he had almost joined. The same cause that his father had served for decades, and for which his father had ultimately died.

As far as they were concerned, he had something they wanted. So without thought for his family's service, or his own potential value as an ally, the death eaters were attacking. All to get full control of Pansy's family.

"What would you have done, father?" Ambrose muttered, even as he filled another trunk with books and journals from the study.

Augustus Rookwood had been a true believer in the Dark Lord's cause, and his journals made that plain. He almost revelled in the mayhem, the sheer destruction, that the death eaters caused during the first war. But absent from those journals , or at least the earliest ones, was the strategic outlook - the long-term thinking that he had learned at his father's knee, the sort of thinking that won wars rather than battles.

Perhaps his father had grown wiser as the war progressed? But if that were the case, what the hell was he doing in the Department of Mysteries? Why had he been there, skulking in the shadows, masked and robed, only to fall to Potter's knife?

Ambrose would have plenty of time to consider that, once he had made it to safety. For now, he was taking everything he could carry.

The last item, the family grimoire, was hidden behind a false panel in the study. His father had told him of it last summer, saying that he had to know "just in case." When Ambrose learned that the Dark Lord had risen, he understood what "just in case" meant.

Finding the panel, he touched the corners in a certain pattern, and the panel glowed briefly before sliding away. Inside was a small sack of galleons, a stack of muggle pounds, and a pair of muggle passports, one for him and one for his father.

At the back of the compartment, there was a small wooden box sitting on top of an ancient book. Carefully taking the box, Ambrose opened it and found vials of memories. Either his father or his grandfather had wanted some sort of insurance, it seemed - but against whom?

The box went into his trunk, along with the grimoire and most of the cash. The passport and the galleons, he kept. When he picked up the second passport, he paused, opening its cover.

Ambrose wondered when his father would have had the chance to get a muggle picture taken. There, staring up at him amidst the trappings of the muggle document, was his father's picture - his intense grey eyes, his bald pate, his very carefully neutral expression. Again, Ambrose spoke softly to himself, just as he felt the wards come under attack once more.

"What would you have done, father?"

The wards would not fall anytime soon, but Ambrose finished his work with renewed urgency all the same. The second passport went in the trunk, which was quickly shrunk and stashed in a muggle backpack. It took only moments to look about the now mostly empty study, and see that nothing of value had been missed.

When the death eaters got in, if they got in, they would know that he had fled. There would be no plausible excuse for emptying the study, if he was simply out when they arrived. But then he thought back to Flint's warning, and to the letter demanding his presence that he hadn't received.

Whatever else happened, any chance of standing with the dark families and supporting the Dark Lord was well and truly gone. The bridge had been burned. Voldemort viewed him as an enemy, now.

Ambrose found that he wasn't nearly as upset about that as he might have been. The Rookwoods had been underestimated before, and yet here he stood.

Reaching down, he picked up a small paperweight from his father's desk. With a word, the portkey activated, and Ambrose Rookwood disappeared.

oOoOoOoOo

Even before he left the Headmaster's office, Severus Snape knew that someone had arrived in his home at Spinner's End. The wards told him that one wizard had used a portkey he had created, and that the intruder was sitting in his living room. The intruder was in good health, so far as the wards could detect, and did not bear the dark mark.

Snape did not give many students direct access to his home, but he had been known over the years to give out emergency portkeys to those students in his house who might have need. After all, who better among the staff to recognize the signs of abuse, but he?

He did not give portkeys to his fellow death eaters, for the simple reason that it was frequently the death eaters whom his students were fleeing. More than once, this year, he had had to speak to a Slytherin who worried about being forced to take the mark. No, if a death eater needed him, then they could summon him in the usual way - or else, the Dark Lord would summon him, as had happened that morning.

Given all of that, the list of wizards who would need to use one of those emergency portkeys, and who would do so before being injured in an attack, was a small one. With all that Snape had heard that morning, while he tended the Dark Lord's injuries, that list came down to just one name.

"Mister Rookwood," Snape drawled, as he stepped out of the floo. "I had hoped you would heed my warnings, but am once more disappointed."

Ambrose stood as the floo activated, and watched his head of house step out. He could not help but smirk at the Professor's ire, for there was no true heat behind it.

"Events overtook me, Professor, as they often seem to do these days," Ambrose replied.

"I would accept that from a Gryffindor, Mister Rookwood, but you of all people should know better." Snape continued. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Rookwood took a step back, involuntarily. Snape's tone betrayed his frustration, just as his expression told of the minimal hours of rest he had likely gotten the night before. Which made sense, if there had been a massive battle as Flint had described.

"I was thinking, sir, that I was protecting a housemate from attack," Ambrose said, as calmly as he could. "Just as you protect your snakes, sir."

"Miss Parkinson was not your concern," Snape argued.

"The moment she crossed my wards, catatonic with fear and bleeding from torture, she became my concern." Ambrose felt the anger coming to his voice, but didn't care. Who was Snape to question him?

"Yes, of course she was," Snape replied with a sneer. "Do you put yourself in the path of the Dark Lord for every pretty girl you see, I wonder?"

"No, professor," Rookwood spat.

"It must be something, then, Mister Rookwood," Snape spoke, almost tauntingly. "Your father claimed that you would take the mark, just before his death. And before he was even cold in the ground, you knowingly betray the cause he fought for all his life?"

"If we have to torture teenagers and execute civilians to further our cause, Professor, then what worth could our cause possibly have?" Ambrose shouted, angrily. "I believe as my father believed, as I think you believe - that change is good and right and necessary, now more than ever. But I will not accept that this is the way to go about it. Not after what I've seen these past weeks."

Snape glared at Rookwood for a full minute. Then, with a sigh, he nodded and put away his wand. Ambrose was shocked to realize that Snape had had his wand out the entire time, while they argued.

"Good," said Snape. "You're wiser than I was, at your age."

Ambrose felt himself relaxing, as the tension drained from the room. "I find that hard to believe, Professor."

Snape's expression was unreadable. "Nevertheless, it's the truth. Otherwise, I wouldn't have this." His nod toward his left forearm was all he needed to make his point. "Come, sit."

Snape took a seat in a comfortable looking chair, and motioned for Ambrose to sit on the nearby couch. Then he summoned a house elf to bring tea. When the elf arrived, Ambrose noticed that it was one of the Hogwarts elves.

The pair sipped their tea in silence, each gathering their thoughts. Presently, Snape spoke first.

"You chose the worst possible day to be discovered, Mister Rookwood," Snape began. "The Dark Lord fought against Potter last night, and escaped after being poisoned."

"Potter never struck me as one to use poison," remarked Ambrose.

"Nor would he be able to brew anything truly useful for that purpose," agreed Snape. "But in this case, he made up for his academic deficiencies by utilizing basilisk venom on a thrown blade."

Ambrose blinked in surprise. "And the Dark Lord survived?"

A nod. "He did, somehow. But the experience left him quite… irritable, shall we say?"

"I see," said Ambrose. "So when he spoke to Flint and learned that Pansy was at my home…" his voice trailed off.

"Yes," confirmed Snape. "He was enraged already, and that did not help. I doubt your family home will survive the day, Mister Rookwood."

Ambrose nodded at that. "I had expected as much," he said, quietly.

"Indeed," said Snape. "I notice you did not bring Miss Parkinson along? She is safe, I trust?"

Ambrose nodded again. "Under a parley, Neville Longbottom offered her sanctuary. I dropped her off two hours ago."

"Good. I have no doubt that Mister Longbottom will show her the appropriate hospitality, as will Mister Potter." Snape's voice did not carry its usual disdain for all things Gryffindor - or, rather, not as much of it as was typical. It caught Rookwood's attention immediately.

"Potter killed my father, Professor," Rookwood said, coldly.

Snape could hear the anger in Rookwood's tone, but kept his silence. It was obvious that the boy had not had a chance to talk about his father's death. Even their last (and only) conversation at the end of term had been perfunctory at best, with Snape telling Rookwood to not ask questions and stay out of trouble.

Look how well that turned out.

"I want to hate him. Part of me wants to gut the little shit, and watch him bleed out on the stone floor of the great hall." Rookwood paused, gathering his thoughts. "But it feels off, somehow," he continued, without heat. "The whole ambush, the battle in the Department… I don't know, sir, it just doesn't feel like something Augustus Rookwood would plan."

"The operation was Lord Malfoy's, I think you know that by now," replied Snape.

"So I read," Ambrose agreed. "The DMLE report was clear on that, at least."

Snape's eyebrow raised. "How, exactly, did you obtain the DMLE report?"

Ambrose looked at Snape, as if to say you know better than that. "I am a Rookwood, Professor."

"So true," Snape acknowledged, doing his best not to roll his eyes. "What detail stood out to you, then, Mister Rookwood?"

Rookwood frowned, trying to articulate what his gut had told him about his father's death. "I learned to fight with a blade from my father, you know that. Several of the marked learned from him as well."

Snape nodded once more. "I was one of his students. He was a strict teacher."

"He was a master," agreed Rookwood, pride in his voice. "And I don't say that because I was his son. He really was that good. After he was kicked out of the Department, he made ends meet by tutoring in hand to hand and knife combat."

"And yet…" Snape prompted.

Ambrose sighed. "And yet, he died when he charged around a corner, blind, when he knew that Potter was coming that way. He didn't lay an ambush, he didn't let them pass and strike from the rear, he didn't get out in front of them and cut them off. He just stumbled forward and took a knife to the throat." He looked up at the Professor, who had a thoughtful look on his face. "How much of that sounds like Augustus Rookwood to you?"

oOoOoOoOo

Pansy found herself going through the motions when she met the Longbottoms and Potters. She had been trained all her life in the ways of Pureblood customs, and could recite the empty pleasantries of high society without thought. It was an excellent way to hide one's emotions, her mother had said - better, in some ways, than occlumency.

The most important rule she followed was the simplest - never let them know what you're thinking. It was why she fit so well with Umbridge's goon squad, and how she was able to hover in the background behind Malfoy and his thugs. It was a survival tactic, useful because it worked. In a crowd of future death eaters, she was just one of many. No one bothered to ask her opinion, after all - why would they?

So while she greeted the long lost Potters and miraculously healed Longbottoms, she was the picture of poise and gratitude. She thanked them for shelter, using phrases old before Merlin's time. She welcomed the parents back into Wizarding Britain, and hoped that they were well. She complimented their sons for their upstanding conduct during the recent upheavals. She very deliberately did not remark on the absence of Harry and Neville.

Inside, she fought to keep herself calm.

The whole point of going to Neville had been to avoid the Headmaster's supporters. During that parley, so long ago, Potter had made it clear that he was his own side in the war, and that he did not fight for Albus Dumbledore. His actions at the Ministry proved that more than any oath could have.

Her father had been killed for his politics, and she was now hunted for her family's vote in the Wizengamot. Seeking shelter with one of the most politically connected wizards in the last century was inviting trouble. And yet, here she was.

After a quiet lunch, during which she managed to avoid questions about anything of substance, Pansy was escorted to a guest bedroom. James Potter seemed about to object, before Alice Longbottom shut him down with a glance. It was her home, after all.

The elf who escorted her was kind, but would answer no questions - which did little to ease Pansy's worry.

When she was alone, she heard the click of a lock. She fell to her knees, fighting to slow her racing heartbeat, as panic overtook her.

She had exchanged one prison for another.

oOoOoOoOo

Professor Snape went to prepare tea, giving Rookwood a few minutes with his thoughts. After they both had cups in hand, the silence continued to stretch out.

"I find myself surprised that Mister Longbottom was up before noon," Snape remarked, choosing a new topic. "After all, he had quite a late night last night."

Rookwood's eyes narrowed. "He was at Bones Manor as well?"

Snape shook his head. "Only Potter was there during the battle. Several others showed up afterwards, Longbottom among them."

Rookwood shrugged. "He and Potter both seemed quite well rested when we met them at the edge of the wards."

Snape's eyes snapped to Rookwood, who found himself unnerved by the Professor's gaze.

"The wards at Potter Manor would not have allowed such a close approach," Snape said, evenly.

Rookwood shook his head. "I don't know where Potter Manor is. Pansy's agreement was with Neville Longbottom, not Potter. So we went to his home. Longbottom Hall." Off Snape's look, Rookwood sat forward. "Why?"

"Potter, you dunderhead," muttered Snape.

"Professor, what happened?" demanded Rookwood.

Snape sighed, and set his tea down. "Harry Potter, as you know, has declared a blood feud on the Dark Lord, and all who bear his mark. What you likely don't know is that he is not the last Potter."

"Not the last… Professor, what the hell?"

"Listen!" Snapped the Professor. "Potter's parents lived. They survived the attack, in 1981. They made it out of that cottage, and went into hiding. Them…. and one of their sons. Potter's twin, James Potter Junior."

"How am I just now learning this?" demanded Rookwood.

Snape shook his head. "Potter figured that they would announce their glorious return as soon as they could. But they have done nothing in public, not yet. Right now it's basically an open secret among the Light families."

Rookwood thought back to the boy he had seen that morning. The long-haired Potter boy, dressed in nice clothes and wandering the grounds of Longbottom Hall without care. Certainly, not a boy who had fought the Dark Lord hours before.

"Merlin," he whispered. "Potter has a twin."

"Yes," Snape confirmed. "And so does Longbottom. Trevor Longbottom, whose death was faked, apparently."

Rookwood looked up at his Professor. "The Longbottom parents?"

Snape nodded. "In hiding as well, with the Potters."

The pieces fell together in Rookwood's mind, and he swore. "So instead of avoiding the Order, I handed her over to it."

"I'm not going to bother asking how you know of the Order," replied Snape. "But yes, Mister Rookwood, that is the situation."

oOoOoOoOo

It was midafternoon when Pansy heard the door to her suite open. She was sitting next to the window, looking out on the grounds of Longbottom Hall, and did not bother turning to greet her guest. As a result, she was surprised when the speaker turned out to be Albus Dumbledore.

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Parkinson," the Headmaster said in those gentle, grandfatherly tones he was known for.

Turning, she saw the Headmaster standing in the doorway. She said nothing, but nodded in acknowledgement of the man's words.

With a soft smile, Dumbledore conjured a chair and seated himself in the center of the room. There was a chair near the window, facing Pansy, but he clearly didn't want to sit too close to her. That told her that he expected her to get upset by his questions, and she felt herself tense.

It would not be long before she knew how right she was.

"You were wise to come to the Longbottoms, My dear," the Headmaster continued.

"Neville and I spoke before the end of term, Professor," she replied, keeping her voice as calm as possible. "He offered me a safe place to hide, should the need arise."

Dumbledore nodded at that. "Mister Longbottom is a fine wizard, and a good man. It was a lucky thing he made that offer, I think."

"Yes," she agreed. "I have not seen Neville since I arrived, do you know if he is available to speak with me?"

Dumbledore sighed very softly. "I'm afraid Mister Longbottom did not take his parents' return to health very well, Miss Parkinson. He is not currently at home."

Pansy had never spent much time around the Headmaster, and never in close proximity. She had had no reason to, being both a Slytherin and one intent on going unnoticed. But now that she sat in the same room as the man, she was starting to notice his mannerisms. The slight tilt of his head, the theatrical sigh before giving bad news, the gentle good-natured chuckle.

The man could've done well in Slytherin, she realized. Everything about him screamed manipulation, when you really looked closely.

"That is unfortunate," Pansy said, with a sigh of her own. "I should very much like to thank him."

"Ah, well, my dear, perhaps there is a way you can show your gratitude," the Headmaster said.

"Oh?" Pansy replied. She kept her voice as closed to 'teenaged girl' as she could, guessing that that was what she was to the Headmaster. After all, he had called her 'Miss', rather than 'Heiress', which told her that he was minimizing her rightful place in society, as one might a younger child. Or was he keeping her mind off her inheritance?

"Indeed," he replied. "I understand that your uncle has claimed to be Regent and Proxy for House Parkinson in the Wizengamot."

"So I was told," she said, hesitatingly. He had said as much to her as he cut into her arm. "I don't know what I can do about that if I'm in hiding."

"I am told that your uncle went to Minister Fudge, and got a dispensation to take over the Regency without a certification from the goblins, and without waiting for the reading of Lord Parkinson's will." Dumbledore said, a note of sadness in his voice.

The man's good, thought Pansy. She couldn't tell if the emotion was real or false.

Dumbledore continued. "If you were to assign a proxy on your own, then that should overrule the Minister's decision, and your House's seat would be secured."

There it is.

"I see," she said, quietly. "Unfortunately, many of the adults I… that I trusted... are death eaters, sir." She held up her bandaged left arm. "You can understand why I might be hesitant to assign the Parkinson vote to them."

Dumbledore smiled at her. "Quite wise, my dear. I would give five points to Slytherin if it were not the holidays." He leaned forward in his seat, gazing at her over his spectacles. "If you wish, I would be honored to take up the task."

Pansy smiled back at the Headmaster. "While that is a gracious offer, Professor, I doubt we agree on many of the issues before the Wizengamot. Would you be able to vote against your own positions, if I asked you to do so?"

The Headmaster chuckled again, in the way a grandfather showed amusement at a child who said a clever thing. "I suspect, my dear, that you would have no cause to object to the way I would exercise your vote."

Of course not, she realized. You probably wouldn't tell me half of what you did with it.

"And if my uncle objects?" Pansy asked, in as small a voice as she could muster.

Dumbledore bought it. "You have nothing to fear, Miss Parkinson. You are safe here."

Pansy nodded, and clasped her hands together in her lap. She was surprised to find that they actually were shaking. "I'll have to think about it, Headmaster." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Either way, thank you for your gracious offer."

Dumbledore nodded, and stood with a sigh. It was not clear if he sighed because of his age, or to show disappointment. But that smile remained on his face, and he inclined his head to her in a slight bow.

"I will take my leave, then, Miss Parkinson. Please do consider your situation. I expect there to be an emergency session on Thursday, and it would not do to leave you or your family's vote in the hands of your uncle." With that, Dumbledore turned and left the room.

The tension drained from Pansy when she heard the lock click on the door once again.

The Headmaster had asked for her vote, but left her locked in a room. His parting words were a clear but subtle threat - let the Headmaster vote your seat, or take your chances with the man who killed your father and tortured you. That told her everything she needed to know about the so-called "Leader of the Light." Whatever happened, she knew one thing.

She needed to get out of here.

oOoOoOoOo

Susan Bones had been worried when Harry had come down to lunch. Neville had told her not to worry about it - that this was something he sometimes did after a big fight, and that she should just let him relax.

That comment did more to calm her than anything else. "He's flying, then," she said.

"Yup," replied a grinning Neville. "As soon as he learned that the manor had a Quidditch pitch, he knew he was home."

After they ate, Susan went out on the back patio to catch a glimpse of Harry in flight. She had always had one eye on him during the school matches, even when the lions played against Hufflepuff. One of the first things she learned about Harry Potter, long before properly meeting him, was that he loved to be in the air. It was part of why he was a great seeker - it meant that he was always moving through the air, no matter what.

If he had one of the other positions on the team, and had to actually focus on one task, or had to limit himself to only one area as part of a formation? Susan had no doubt he'd walk away from the game. As seeker, he had as much freedom as he could want, so long as he chased that little golden target whenever it appeared.

When Susan sat down, she saw Harry flying toward the manor. At first glance, it looked like he was wearing Quidditch robes, but as he grew closer she saw that his outfit was different. It seemed like a combination of his battle robes, with that basilisk-skin longcoat, and chaser's pads. His gloves were still fitted for the seeker position, however, with their fingerless design allowing the player's skin to touch the snitch and trigger the end of the game.

She noticed the wand in his hand, and realized why he was wearing seeker gloves. He didn't want anything interfering with his casting, and keeping his skin in contact with the wand was the best way to ensure that.

It was then that he saw her, and grinned. Instead of waving, he did a quick barrel roll, earning a laugh from the Hufflepuff. Then he stuck his wand straight into the air and cast a spell.

She could not hear the incantation from where she sat, and it was hard to see the spell's effects in the bright July sunshine. What she did see was a series of projectiles flying from the wand, each one trailing smoke. They looked like fireworks, and acted like it as well - each one sped off in a different direction, before the lot of them exploded as one. Instead of brightly colored lights, the fireworks released more smoke and what looked like debris - something that no one would want to fly through.

He isn't practicing Quidditch, she realized. He's still training.

Her thoughts were confirmed when he spun about and aimed his wand at the growing cloud of smoke. As if imagining an opponent, he sent three stunners in that direction, followed by one of his green stunners that looked like the killing curse.

Susan's eyes were drawn toward the woods, where some sort of creature was charging toward the open field behind the manor. The spells had not made a lot of noise, apart from the exploding fireworks, but they still caught the attention of… something. From this distance, Susan could only tell that the creature looked like a horse, had dark grey skin, and wings.

Wings?

The creature did not break its stride as it took to the air, great leathery wings stretching out and catching the wind. Harry flew low over the field, passing by the creature, laughing as he went. With a shrill cry, the creature gave chase, and the two began flying across the grounds, as if in formation.

At one point, a laughing Harry looped back and reversed himself, so that he was flying upside down. He passed over the creature, which cried out at him in annoyance before sweeping to its left, turning to follow. Harry flipped back upright, before bringing himself toward the manor and the ground.

Susan was on her feet before he had touched down. She couldn't help but grin at him, for she could see how much he had enjoyed the flight.

"What was that?" She asked.

He just laughed once again. "Practice!" he replied.

Susan huffed, even as she hugged him. "No, you prat, what was that?" Turning him, she pointed at the creature as it landed nearby.

"Oh," he said, nodding. "I suppose that would make sense, now." He looked back at her, and kissed her forehead. "That, Susan, is a thestral."

Her eyes grew wide, and she looked at the creature, getting a better look now that it was close by. She wanted to ask him how she could see, but then she remembered the night before. The death eaters falling to the floor, writhing in pain. The intruder whose head exploded with a crack of gunfire.

"Oh," she whispered. She felt Harry hold her tighter.

"Yeah," he agreed. After a moment, he whispered. "What do you think?"

Susan smiled, tightening her hold on him. "It's beautiful."

The couple stood there for a while, watching the thestral graze. When it loped back into the woods, Harry looked down and found Susan looking up at him. With a smile, he leaned in and gave her a soft kiss.

"Thank you," he said.

She replied by kissing him back.

It was some time before they went back to the manor. Both Harry and Susan made a point of ignoring Neville's chuckles as they passed him by.

oOoOoOoOo

Pansy was not pleased to be served dinner in her room. Clearly, the Headmaster wanted her to carefully consider his words, and so she was to be kept confined.

So much for the hospitality of House Longbottom, she thought bitterly.

The sight of Trevor Longbottom did surprise her, however. She had expected an elf, to show that she was being denied contact with anyone while still being treated as a guest. Having the lost Longbottom twin serve the meal was an unexpected touch.

"I trust you are well, Heiress Parkinson?" Trevor asked, as he set the tray on her table.

"I would be much better if I were allowed to leave this room, Mister Longbottom," she replied, coldly.

Trevor had the grace to at least look uncomfortable at the clear accusation.

"My parents did not want you wandering, I'm afraid. These are dangerous times, as you know." Trevor did not meet her eyes as he set out her dinner service.

"If there is danger here, perhaps your family should consider relocating?"

Trevor shook his head. "You misunderstand, the danger was to you." He looked up at her, finally meeting her eyes. "Some of my family's allies consider your family to be allied with the Dark Lord, and your uncle's actions do little to prove otherwise."

Pansy almost snarled at him. "My father was neutral for two decades, Trevor. Ever since he took the seat, he never supported one side or the other. And Dumbledore fucking knows it."

Trevor took a step back at her angry response. "But…" he began, but she cut him off again.

"But, nothing, Longbottom." She kept her seat, looking every bit the pureblooded heiress, but her voice was angry and raw, and clearly not what the boy expected. Pansy pressed the attack. "I came here under parley, hoping for safety, and your family has me imprisoned. If it's not safe here, let me leave, but quit acting like you're in the right here."

Trevor stood up straight, as if he were preparing to fight. And perhaps he was.

"The Longbottoms have always served the Light, Parkinson," he snapped.

"So you say," she replied. Then, she gave him a sneer worthy of the snake pit, before bringing her voice down to almost a whisper. "At least the Dark families kill their victims. Your side, on the other hand, lets them mourn for decades before showing back up." She sat back, letting her features radiate disgust. "Which is the more cruel, I wonder?"

The look on Trevor's face told her that she had said something right, for he immediately looked guilty. Again, she pressed on.

"At least Neville had the Regent Longbottom to guide him," Pansy continued. "Harry Potter had fucking nobody. They locked his godfather in Azkaban, with no trial, and his godmother fucked off with you to wherever you were."

"The Potters are Light as well," Trevor replied, not sure what else to say.

"So it would seem," Pansy agreed, but her tone made it an indictment rather than a compliment. "And you wonder why so many families fight so hard to remain neutral?"

Try as he might, Trevor could come up with nothing in response. He stood there, glaring at the Parkinson Heiress, saying nothing at all.

After a minute of tense silence, Pansy sighed. "I would like to eat my meal now, Mister Longbottom."

Trevor looked at the table, and the two place settings there. "Of course," he said weakly.

She saw his eyes, and realized he had meant to join her. Nope.

"Alone, Trevor. I can't deal with you right now."

Trevor looked as if he wanted to speak, but thought better of it. Instead, he walked to the door. Rather than leave, however, he simply leaned against it, arms folded.

Pansy stared at him. "Longbottom…" she began.

"I was told not to leave until you had finished eating. My father thought you might have questions for me." Trevor looked embarrassed as he spoke, but not embarrassed enough to actually leave her alone as she had asked.

Pansy scowled at him for a moment. "I suppose you're to tell me why I should support the Headmaster?"

The boy relaxed a bit, and nodded.

"Alright," Pansy said, a pleasant tone in her voice. "Convince me."

Had Trevor been a Slytherin, that tone would have been a warning. There was a saying in the snake pit, one that she followed almost religiously. 'Be careful around a grinning Slytherin.' She smiled at him, looking every bit the pureblood princess, and he thought she had calmed down, when the reality was exactly the opposite.

Trevor blinked at her, but then gathered himself. "The Headmaster is the leader of the Light, Parkinson," he began.

Pansy held up a hand. "Let's start there. What does that mean? The Light faction, as it is known, is made up of several influential families, and Dumbledore leads those families, but what does the Light stand for?"

There was only one answer to that, in Trevor's mind. "The Light is what stands in opposition to the Dark." His tone betrayed his feelings on the matter - it was a self-evident truth, obvious to anyone with eyes to see.

"I am aware," Pansy said. "But that is what the Light are against, what they oppose. What are you for, exactly?" She tilted her head at the confused boy. "If House Parkinson were to support the Light, what policies would we be supporting, exactly? What laws would our vote help to pass?"

Trevor stared at her. These were important questions, of course, but not ones he had ever considered before. The Longbottoms supported the Light, end of story. He had never considered exactly why they did so, or what it was they were supporting. Details like that were his father's concern, not his.

"Let me tell you what I see, Mister Longbottom," continued Pansy. "I see one faction that kidnapped me and told me to give them my vote. And then I see the opposing faction that kidnapped me and told me to give them my vote." She smiled broadly at him, keeping her tone light and conversational. "Why in the name of Merlin and Morgana would I ever, ever, consent to aid either of them?"

"It's not that simple," Trevor began, but again she cut him off.

"Oh yes it is!" she snapped. "The most basic fucking thing a Head of House needs to do is protect their family. Period. Finite. My father did everything he could to keep me safe, and died for it. So now I have to protect myself." She shook her head sadly. "If you lot have taught me anything, it's that I can't trust you to do it. For fuck's sake, you can't even protect yourselves."

"What do you mean by that?" Trevor asked, angrily. He was not going to let her accuse the Longbottoms of such a thing. "We've always protected our own. My parents have never harmed me."

"I'm sure they haven't," she agreed. Then Pansy gave him her best Slytherin glare. "Perhaps we should ask Neville what he thinks, eh? Or Lord Potter?"

Trevor stared at her. He opened his mouth to argue the point, before closing it again. He simply couldn't counter her words. Could she be right? It scared him that he couldn't immediately say 'No.'

It was equally clear that Pansy knew it as well. When he looked back at her, he saw that she had turned away from him, and was beginning to eat her dinner. It was a clear dismissal.

Without a word, a shaken Trevor left her to her meal.

oOoOoOoOo

Ambrose Rookwood raised another concern as he helped Professor Snape clear the dishes from their dinner.

"I don't think I can even go back to Hogwarts, now," Rookwood said.

"It is too early to say," replied Snape. "Several students have been killed since the summer began, all while wearing the mark. It is possible that there will not be as many of the Dark Lord's supporters in our house as we expected."

"Maybe," said Rookwood. "But it only takes one."

"True," Snape agreed. "It will be your NEWT year, however. Not an easy time to leave."

"I'm less worried about my NEWTs than I am about getting cursed in the back, sir," Rookwood answered.

Snape frowned, considering that. "If Mister Potter has his way, there will be no one in the school who bears the mark, save myself."

"So I figured. He can't exactly pause a blood feud, can he?" Rookwood looked thoughtful. "But then again, I doubt that the Headmaster would permit anyone to just go about executing students, even if they are marked."

Snape couldn't disagree with that. "At the rate Potter is going, however, it may not matter."

Rookwood did not need any explanation. Crawley, Bones Manor, Hungary… and the Ministry. All had been disasters for the forces of the Dark Lord. Flint had not said as much, but it was clear to Rookwood that some of his fellow Slytherins had been among the victims of those engagements.

"He threw their lives away, just like that," Rookwood said quietly. "Just like he would've done to me. Just like he did to Da."

Snape's expression softened, ever so slightly. "Those who take the mark pledge their lives to the Dark Lord. He has never been shy about collecting on that pledge."

"No, he has not." Rookwood agreed. He sat heavily in one of the chairs in the small kitchen, and leaned his head against the wall. "What the hell do I do now?"

"I don't know," Snape answered. "Perhaps we should consider Miss Parkinson's situation first?"

Rookwood scoffed. "What do you want me to do, storm Longbottom Hall?"

Snape sneered at the thought. "Are you a Slytherin or not, Mister Rookwood?" he drawled.

"Neville Longbottom wouldn't give me the time of day, sir. And I refuse to contact Potter." Ambrose looked over to his Professor. "Who else would I ask for help? The people I trust are all in this room."

Snape heard the telltale sound of the floo, and nodded. "I may be able to help you with that, Mister Rookwood." Then he raised his voice. "In the kitchen!"

Ambrose Rookwood stood up when he realized that someone had arrived. His wand was already in his hand as he turned. In the doorway stood an odd-looking wizard. His clothes were that of a wealthy pureblood, perhaps a Lord, but his hairstyle was a very short muggle cut. The man had an easy way about him, but also showed signs of combat training. He seemed at once relaxed and on edge, something not many would notice.

It bothered Rookwood that he did not immediately recognize the man. When Snape spoke, he understood why.

"Ambrose Rookwood, may I introduce the Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, Sirius Black."

A/N: You know, it's funny. My other major story, Keystone Council, might cover months in a chapter - and that, while juggling five main characters (all versions of the same person). Here, I'm lucky to get through half a bloody day. That's what I get for skipping the trunk shopping and training montages and whatnot, I guess.

It was Pansy's thread here that got the best reaction from my betas. I think it stems from letting her Slytherin flag fly without making her a hateful blood purist. I'll admit, this Pansy has been fun to write, as has Ambrose Rookwood.

Thank you again for all of the comments and questions. I never figured on getting 5,000 follows on any story I wrote, and yet here we are. Again, thank you.

Stay safe out there. Feedback, as always, is welcome.