Chapter 1: The Plan

'We are not what we were. None of us.'

'Your boss,' Thanatos Brynmor grunted in response, 'is definitely not what he was, is he, if you're here.' He stood with his hands closer to the fire than most men would tolerate, a silhouette as still and impassive as a shadow carved from obsidian. But he was not most men, Ritter knew, because most men had not spent more than a decade in the icy chill of Azkaban, a cold that left a frost on the soul no flames could banish.

Ritter fought the urge to drum his fingertips on the table. It was solid oak, as sturdy and as humble as this farmhouse jutting defiantly off a Dartmoor peak in a summer night's storm, and the sound would carry. While it was no shame for him to fear this meeting with two Death Eaters of some renown, he was reluctant to give them the satisfaction. He cleared his throat. 'The world is not what it was, either.'

Brynmor's expression twisted like an avalanche on his stony face. 'You don't need to tell me that.'

'What my counterpart means,' came a voice from the corner. 'Is that Mister Cole is not infamous for choosing to stand with or against the Dark Lord. He is infamous, in fact, for not choosing. Your presence suggests a change.'

'Your presence,' Brynmor grunted, 'suggests he grew some balls.'

Ritter looked between the two Death Eaters. Where Brynmor was the Dark Lord's battle-axe, Idaeus Robb was the rapier: tall and thin, sophisticated, precise. He had stood in the shadows while Brynmor did the bulk of the talking, but now he peeled himself off the wall and strolled to the table. 'Why,' asked Robb, calm and measured, 'has Cole decided to stand with us this time?'

'My employer,' said Ritter, 'is a businessman. It is true that during the First War he stayed away from the politics, but this war is going to be different. The lines are less blurry. And in this new age of clarity, Mister Cole deeply regrets the stance he took fifteen years ago. The opportunities missed.' This was a dangerous gambit. If any men would hold contempt for a lack of dedication, it was two Death Eaters who declared their loyalty loudly and clearly and were locked up for it. But He Who Must Not Be Named's return from the shadows was only weeks old, and wars were not fought on dedication alone. What Ritter's employer lacked in gumption, he made up for in galleons.

Brynmor snorted anyway. 'You mean he's scared.'

Robb waved a dismissive hand. 'So long as he remains dedicated, there is a place for him, whatever his apprehensions. Though it does not speak well of his commitment that he sends you.'

Ritter inhaled frustration and exhaled icy control. He was not a big man, not as broad as the dark and solid Brynmor, not as tall as the rakish, golden-haired Robb. Just small and slight, plain-faced and easily overlooked, and he used every inch of his irrelevances. 'Mister Cole trusts me to handle his affairs.'

'Because where else is a squib going to go, huh?' Brynmor shook his head. 'Somebody less patient than me might take that as an insult.'

'But we're patient men,' said Robb. 'And we've all waited long enough. Let us talk money.'

Ritter nodded, relief untying the knots in his gut, and reached for the sack under his chair. 'Obviously the movement of finances through Mister Cole's accounts requires some discretion. But he can commit a thousand galleons, right now.' The sack clinked as it was set down on the table. Most men would have reacted at the presence of such wealth, but Ritter saw nothing beyond cold calculation in the eyes of Brynmor and Robb. Fifteen years in Azkaban made men crave more than gold.

A fat galleon gleamed in the firelight when Robb pulled it out. He turned it over, clear green eyes calm, analytical. 'Very good,' he said, and tossed the coin on the table. 'Just a shame it's marked with a tracing charm.'

Brynmor actually clapped. 'What?' Both astonishment and amusement were genuine on his wide, craggy face. 'Old Man Cole really tried to fuck us -'

Neither Death Eater was watching Ritter too closely, because of course a squib could do very little to two men like them. So neither reacted when he slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew just a pinch of black powder. And cast the room into pitch blackness even the fire couldn't pierce when he tossed it on the floor.

'What the -'

Ritter grabbed the edge of the table as he rose and shoved it into Robb's gut. He couldn't see either, but Robb hadn't moved and the grunt of pain let him know he'd struck true. But there was no time to waste, not now Brynmor had his wand out.

'Lumos. Lumos!'

It wouldn't take him long to realise his magic couldn't break the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and Ritter knew he'd probably set the room on fire and trust Robb to protect himself with magic. But he'd prepared for this. Three quick steps to the left, a slight turn, and then hurling himself forwards, shoulder-first -

Glass shattered around him as he went through the farmhouse window, and then the wind was blowing and the rain was lashing and while it was dark he could see, see the wilds of Dartmoor. He slammed into the sodden earth, mud spattering over him, but he had to keep moving, roll upright.

A slew of oaths followed him through the window. Ritter looked up to see the hulking shape of Brynmor burst out behind him and a Stun flying through the air. Still on one knee, Ritter couldn't avoid it. He yanked his cloak up, and the magic thudded into the fabric before dissipating with a gleam of a protective enchantment. And that was the one-shot Shield Charm cloak used up, and a big, burly, armed wizard was rising from the mud. So there was only one more thing for Ritter to do: slam himself into Brynmor shoulder-first, and send them both flying back.

Flying back, and tumbling down the hill outside the house. Down they rolled, over and over, Brynmor bigger and stronger but still trying to bring his wand to bear on Ritter, which was the only reason the squib had a hope in hell. A hope which seemed quashed when they tumbled to a halt, rain blazing down on them, mud squishing underneath Ritter as he landed splayed on his back, Brynmor kneeling over him, wand levelled.

'You piece of shit,' gasped Brynmor, breathless from the fight and tumble, filthy and sodden. 'You come to trick us? Cole the coward, he sends you to trick us?' He stood, chest heaving, and kicked Ritter in the ribs. Ritter gasped in pain, curling up. 'You think your tricks are going to beat us?'

Despite all he knew, Ritter's heart lunged into his throat as Brynmor's wand lashed down at him - and did nothing. No spark of light. No burst of magic. No blazing pain, or blazing oblivion. Just nothing.

He smiled, teeth bloodied. 'Yes,' said Ritter, voice ragged, and slammed his foot into Brynmor's knee. There was a crunch, a scream, and Ritter rose as Brynmor fell, revealing the real wand he'd swapped for a fake in their tumbling fight. 'Compliments of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes.'

Brynmor wasn't listening, clutching his broken kneecap and rolling in the mud as he groaned. A glance up the hill towards the farmhouse showed shifting shadows, and whether that was the moon playing through gaps in the night-soaked clouds or Robb coming to catch up, it was still time to go. He wasn't far from the Portkey. He could be out of here in two minutes, if he ran.

Ritter tossed Brynmor's real wand to one side, because mildly inconveniencing a Death Eater wasn't the worst thing he could do, and nodded at the fake one the big man hadn't let go out of sheer, agonised instinct. 'Keep it,' he said. 'Consider it a free sample.' Then, hand pressed to his aching ribs, he turned and jogged into the darkness, away from the two emissaries of the Dark Lord and the infiltration mission he couldn't be too sorry had been botched. It would, at the least, delay their next meeting.

Though he was sure it was coming.

§

'Victory!' Cal burst into the back garden like he could rival the blazing summer sun itself, so broad was his grin and exuberant his voice. 'Against all tribulations and exasperations and incubations, I have found the guy ropes.'

His two best friends stared at him, stood like buoys in the sea of camping equipment strewn across the lawn. Tanith arched an eyebrow. 'What's a guy rope?'

Tobias, a bit more sheepish, nudged his glasses up his nose. 'Incubations?'

'I ran out of words ending in "shuns".'

'Is it a rope you tie men up with? Are you two going to corral local talent for me?'

With a whole new exasperation, Cal tossed the ropes onto the pile of tent pegs. 'They anchor the tent, so the wind doesn't blow it away or make it collapse.'

'Huh,' said Tanith. 'You know what else stops a tent collapsing? Magic. You know what lets us sleep in real beds, instead of that metal contraption I'm not convinced isn't going to eat me in the night? Magic.'

'You know what we don't have?' Cal turned to her. 'Wizarding tents. So this is a cheap and easy holiday with your best friends in the whole world, where you don't have to listen to death, slaughter, and mayhem for a whole weekend.'

'Listen to him.' Tobias pulled his meticulously-organised list of supplies from his pocket. 'Also listen to the word, "cheap."'

Sharp-eyed and sharp-faced and shorter than anyone expected until they stood next to her, Tanith capitalised on her sulks being legendary. But with long days ahead, she decided to spare her friends, instead huffing and flopping onto the patio wall. 'Fine. I still think a guy rope sounds like something I'd use to round up blokes.'

'Maybe you should bring one to the next Hogsmeade Festival.' Tobias ran a hand through his blond hair, rumpling it more than he usually tolerated, surveying their equipment from his lofty, lanky height.

'I thought you were the one who went on the pull then?' said Cal with that too-broad smile he always used with this topic.

Eight months on, and conversations about romance and parties were still a recipe for disaster. Tobias would get awkward, Cal would try too hard to make jokes, and she would wish she were somewhere else. To keep her hands busy she tried correcting the precarious stack of metal pans, and instead collapsed them with a clatter that drew a surprised glare from Cal. She offered a smile that wouldn't melt butter. 'Yes? Was there something I was supposed to be doing?'

'Sunning yourself and not getting in the way,' said Cal, and went to check the pile of cooking equipment he'd dragged out of the shed that morning and hadn't confirmed was fit for use. 'Obviously that was too much to expect.' And then, against all logic she could see, he kept talking about the festival. 'We should go again this New Year. We won't have to sneak out of Hogwarts for it this time, we'll all be home. We can meet up.'

'Maybe,' said Tobias, lips thin. 'I had to give Mum a full itinerary of this week before she'd let me come to Cal's. And I've visited most every bloody summer.'

'Yes, but most every bloody summer there's not been a returning You-Know-Who,' pointed out Tanith. 'I bet that's why Gabriel can't be here. I bet his father's keeping him in.' There were lots of possible reasons the fourth member of their merry band couldn't join them at Cal's house for a week of pubs and camping, but mystery had always been Gabriel's stock in trade. They'd long ago given up wasting time on wild theorising as to what exactly happened to him during the holidays.

Cal examined a propane tank and decided it had enough in it for two nights. 'I say we pack, if Mister Meticulous and his Lists here are satisfied.'

'They call me Captain Control Freak, thank you so very much.' Tobias stuck his nose in the air, smirking.

Tanith snorted. 'I have different names,' she said, but those names were lost in the wind at the piercing shriek from the skies beyond the fence, and all three heads whipped around.

They expected to see an owl, of course, but even that was no reason to relax. Owls meant news, and news these days meant the Daily Prophet, transformed from ignoring You-Know-Who's return to gushing over every violent escapade with morbid relish. News meant letters from distant friends or relatives, or emergency messages from the Ministry, and it was never with good omens. That they had been spared the darkest of missives so far was only a small comfort. It meant it could always get worse.

But Tobias relaxed when he saw three dark specks growing closer in the blue skies. 'They'll be from Hogwarts.'

'Oh,' said Cal, sounding a little ashamed for worrying. 'Of course. Smart of the buggers to know we're here.'

'They want to let us know as soon as possible, don't they.' Tobias frowned, meticulous planning forgotten. 'Exam results. Course books. We'll need to go shopping - I need a new set of Potions equipment, and the Arithmancy book list is going to be as long as my arm -'

Cal grabbed his shoulder. 'Holiday first. School later.'

'Actually,' said Tanith, going to the garden fence as the three splendid tawny owls alighted, 'Letters first. Camping next. School last.' She took their letters.

'And in the meantime, Toby, try breathing.' Cal opened the back door. 'Water's in the kitchen, boyos. Drink up, Scotland's a long way back.' The quiet Muggle village of Kittering, nestled in the Peak District, was not accustomed to sights such as a trio of owls flapping about in daylight. But this particular street of tidy terraced houses had long ago accepted that oddities would burst periodically from Cal's house, and they had long ago given up asking questions.

He took his letter from Tanith and looked at Tobias, who was already breaking the seal with fumbling fingers. 'Relax, mate. You know you've aced the exams, and even if it's gone sour you've got a whole second year of NEWTs to make up for it.' He could afford to be dismissive. The odds of Tobias screwing up his exams when he was top of the year in every subject were astronomical.

But Tanith's gaze was more serious as she watched the pacing. 'Don't worry. It'll be in there,' she said, and Cal opened his mouth with a frown just as a solid pewter badge slid from the envelope and into Tobias' hand. She smiled. 'See? Miles was never going to hold onto it.'

Yet the furrow in Tobias' brow didn't ease, even as his fingers curled around the prefect's badge. 'I wasn't worried about that,' he muttered. 'Snape told me I was all but guaranteed to get it back with Umbridge gone. It's…' His voice trailed off into a mumble.

She left him to it and read her own letters. There was little of note. Confirmation of her continued status as a prefect of Slytherin House, confirmation of the abolition of the Inquisitorial Squad and thus her loss of status there, confirmation of her NEWT courses, a book list for seventh year, captaincy of the Quidditch team going from the addled Montague to fifth-year Urquhart -

'Yes,' hissed Cal. 'Jack will keep me on the team over Crabbe and Goyle for sure…'

- and Head Boy and Head Girl appointments.

'That Irish bastard.' And there was Tobias' outburst. He threw his letter on the ground. 'Of course O'Neal gets the job. He gets everything, doesn't he? Never works, never makes an effort, just smiles his golden boy smile and everything falls into his lap!'

Tanith stood, hands lifted like he was one of her father's horses in distress. 'Grey - relax, it's only the Head Boy position. It's not like it's -'

'Do you know how hard I worked for that? Do you know how much I tried as a prefect, as a student, pushing forward, giving my all?'

'No, because I've not paid you any attention these past six years, because I've not been right next to you in every prefect meeting, every time you played nice with Snape and Dumbledore.'

'But all O'Neal's done is play happy Hufflepuff Labrador…'

'Cuppa? I'll put the kettle on.' Cal burst to his feet and disappeared through the back door.

Tanith watched Tobias, tall and always tense about something, some ideal or stress, and drew a deep breath. 'O'Neal's done a lot of good,' she said despite herself. 'He's a good student, he's a good prefect.'

'And is Hufflepuff's latest golden boy since Diggory.' He rolled his eyes. 'Of course. So Hufflepuff gets the sympathy vote. Because Diggory never lived to be Head Boy, so when the next shiny Hufflepuff comes along he gets the job, no questions asked.'

'Let's be fair.' Irritation flared at the self-pity. 'O'Neal never had his badge taken off him.'

'That's not fair. That was Umbridge punishing me for not sticking to the party line - and do you think I'd have a shot at Head Boy if I'd been in the Inquisitorial Squad, with Dumbledore back?'

'So that was why you did it? I thought you were trying to stand on your high horse, play the victim, and maybe try to prove to MacKenzie that you could play fluffy Slytherin for her.'

'This has nothing to do with Annie.' Tobias' voice turned from hot frustration to cold anger, and Tanith realised a heartbeat too late this was perhaps not the best angle. 'I've played "fluffy Slytherin," I toed Dumbledore's line, and what do I get? Ignored. Overlooked. Like every Slytherin.'

'You don't hear me complaining about Riley making Head Girl.'

'You never wanted Head Girl! You barely wanted prefect at first, just Ariane and Melanie are useless -'

'Thanks -'

He rolled his eyes. 'That's not what I meant, and you know it. You didn't want it. Prefect or Head Girl. We haven't had a Slytherin Head Boy in nine years. Van Roden should have had it, but of course it went to a bloody Gryffindor.'

The back door squeaked as Cal returned, three steaming mugs on a tray. He stared at them squaring off, then looked at the tea. 'You know, I forgot milk and sugar.'

But the interruption was a heartbeat to think, a heartbeat to breathe, and Tobias' shoulders slumped with defeat. 'This is just shit,' he groaned. 'It's really shit.'

'I know. I'm sorry,' said Tanith, and realised this was what he'd needed her to say all along, really. 'But… hell, Slytherin's never going to get anything. I figured that out in first year.'

'So did I, but what can I say? I'm a sucker for lost causes.' He flopped onto the grass, exhausted by his anger. She turned away, either so she couldn't see his face or so he couldn't see hers; she wasn't sure.

'Is it safe?' Cal stuck his head out again, then shrugged his broad form into the garden and was once again big, bouncing, jovial as he handed out the tea.

'Yeah,' said Tanith with wry amusement, returning to her report. 'False alarm - Where're the class reports?'

'I've got mine,' said Cal, waving a fresh sheaf.

Tobias retrieved his abandoned letter. 'Oh, they've been sent home for our parents.'

Tanith almost dropped her mug. 'Shit. I didn't think the letter was today! They'll read it!'

'So?'

'They think I'm taking Astronomy, not Defence! Ancient Runes, not Transfiguration!'

'So?' Cal repeated.

'That's what I'd need to take to be a Potions Researcher! Without Astronomy, how the hell am I supposed to do that?'

Realisation flashed in Tobias' eyes first. 'They'll realise you're -'

'Don't say it.' Saying it would make it real, and it was real enough already. 'I'll be back soon,' she said, whipping her wand from her back pocket. 'Before we planned to leave, don't worry, just hope I'm in one piece -'

Then she swished her wand and turned on the spot and disappeared with a crack. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realised she should probably have taken more care in Disapparating from Cal's back yard, but then reality rushed back in and she had bigger problems than being seen. No more was there the warmth and crisp air of the Peak District, but the musky scent of woodlands, the sound of birds in the trees, and she was in the copse in the grounds of her parents' house.

It was a walk of heartbeats to the back door, but she managed to stretch it out long minutes, pausing to enjoy the woodland shade, stopping by the paddocks to admire the winged horses her father bred. The family home stank of the old money that had built it brick by brick. Muggles passing by would see the old manor, know it to be inhabited, but there were no records of the place, and charms hid the horses and magical displays from sight. A wizard could look upon the house and see everything as it was – a Muggle would look, see nothing important, and suddenly remember they'd left the kettle on if they bothered inspecting any further.

So the 'back door' was a wide set of glass windowed doors that made it impossible for Tanith to sneak into the house, and Altair was stood waiting for her in the kitchen as she slunk in. 'Your father wants to see you.'

Tanith cringed, the look on Altair's face everything she needed to know. The short, unassuming man wasn't just her father's assistant - he'd been her tutor, too, and the only one in the house who knew the truth, but she was under no illusions. He couldn't save her from her father's wrath. 'He's in his study, isn't he?'

'No,' came a voice from the door, and Altair disappeared, as was his particular talent. 'No, I came to welcome our little Potions Researcher home. Only… I am all astonishment.'

Her father stood with his arms folded across his chest. Daedalus was a man of slim build, devotedly average height, with nothing commanding about his appearance. His social position was, she recalled with some derision, that of the intellectual, never something that respectable when one is expected to hold dinner parties, and especially not when paired with a reputation for being eccentric. But right now the frown on his face was thunderous, and she had to take a step back.

'So you read the report, Dad -'

'I read it. I admit to some confusion as to what you intend, throwing away academic opportunities like this. For the most part, I am simply confused and hurt at my daughter outright lying to me for over a year.'

Tanith sighed. 'Is Mum in?'

'She's at the Drakes'. She hasn't read the report. Yet.'

Any hope Tanith had summoned at swaying her Ravenclaw mother with academic arguments died. Her resolution was in Slytherin hands. To be honest, she preferred it that way.

'I'm wondering,' Daedalus continued, 'how you intend to be a Potions Researcher with these course choices. Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration are, after all, little use for such a career. Herbology is a useful choice, as is, of course, Potions itself. But no Astronomy? How do you intend to anticipate the influence of lunar cycles on herbal reagents without such study?'

She swallowed hard. She wasn't used to being daunted like this. Not by her father. 'Because I'm not going to be a Potions Researcher,' she managed at last, hoarse.

'No. You're not. You have a very specific course list, don't you.'

'I just picked them at random.' Fear made her facetious. She'd delayed the inevitable for so long that it was instinct by now.

'I also,' her father continued as if she hadn't talked, 'got in touch with Mister Van Roden. He assured me he'd provided you with all the necessary texts to prepare for Auror Training.'

Tanith's expression set. Well. Damn. Then she forced a beam. 'Did he? I thought he'd missed a couple of the old Auror journals I asked for -'

'You're not becoming an Auror,' Daedalus thundered.

She flinched, but his fury sank into her bones and met her anger as it rose. 'Isn't that up to me?'

'I will always give you the freedom to make your own decisions and mistakes, except this is a mistake that will get you killed! There is a war starting!'

'People fight in wars, Dad.' Tanith felt her hands clench into fists at her side.

'Supremacists and Muggle-borns fight in this war, you don't have -'

'Yes, I do have to! Because people I care about are affected, their families are affected. Because I went to Hogwarts and I realised the world is bigger than me.' Her chest heaved as if arguing with her father was like running a marathon. 'You raised me to want for nothing, to have every privilege and opportunity, told me to become the best. And then you told me to look out for only myself. But what good is having everything if the world's going to hell? What's the point of being the best if you can't stop the world from going to hell?'

'Yes, I have raised you with every opportunity.' Daedalus' jaw tightened. 'I have provided every resource for your studies, I've had Altair teach you since you were a child, teach you in matters even Hogwarts doesn't. I think I'm entitled to know about the important decisions of your life!'

'So you've bought my choices? How loving of you, Father.'

You twist my words,' Daedalus snapped. 'But I am your father, and you will listen to me -'

'Why? It's not like you'd understand.' The words sounded petulant the moment they were past her lips, so she forged onward to justify, explain. 'You've always been gutless. Last war, you sat around and held dinner parties for Death Eaters and Muggle sympathisers and played it safe! So if you disapprove of my decisions, that makes it sound like I'm making good ones!'

'That all happened before you were born; you couldn't possibly understand -'

'Are you saying you didn't sit on the fence? Your friends were all Death Eaters -'

'And so will yours be! That is what happens in Slytherin House!' He had been angry since the start, but it had been a slow-burning aggravation. Only now did he raise his voice, and then he wasn't the funny little man who threw dinner parties any more; fury made him bigger, a looming shape to dominate the room. 'Ariane Drake! Who do you think her father works for? Adrian Pucey! His mother barely wriggled out of an arrest sixteen years ago! Caldwyn Brynmor! His mother killed by the Unspeakables, his father in Azkaban until six months ago!'

None of this was news. Her roommate Ariane brushed over her father's affairs with her usual air-headed disregard, but Tanith knew there was a space between the lines. Pucey was always keen to win the approval of Malfoy, Warrington, Nott. And Cal's family history had been blown open by the Daily Prophet after the Azkaban breakout, nearly causing fights with Gryffindors in the corridors. Slytherin House had closed ranks around one of their own, but for every student who'd clapped Cal on the back and made out like his parentage didn't define him, another had nodded approvingly like his parentage made them think better of him.

'Cal isn't going to do his father's bidding,' Tanith said, rolling her eyes. 'Cal's never met him -'

'These are just some of your classmates, your housemates, your dorm-mates!' Daedalus barked. 'Slytherin House may defend its honour when accused of breeding Dark Wizards, but the statistics speak differently. You're not hiding your plan to become an Auror, and you're living with the next generation of servants of He Who Must Not Be Named. You have painted a target on yourself.'

'Seriously? Everyone in the House with half a brain won't care. The ones who'll side with You-Know-Who - they're idiots! The Malfoys, the Montagues…'

'The Brynmors, the Doyles, the Buskirks, even the Harts. Is there anyone you can trust with your life?'

Her lip curled. 'I have friends, Dad. I know you probably lost all those selling out to either side to protect your hide -'

'Even Severus Snape, Tanith - the accusations against him were never cleared up!'

She gaped. 'He is our Head of House. He knows I'm studying to be an Auror, he's not said a thing! He just told me to sleep on it for a month and then come back to him when I asked for the application letter of recommendation! And Jacob never got trouble from anyone!'

'Jacob Van Roden did not join the Aurors when a war was breaking out. It's been a halfway respectable job for certain Slytherins of certain families, but the world is not what it was -'

'You're crazy.' Tanith's voice flattened. 'This is my choice. My life to risk. And you might be my father, and I'd respect your opinion on academia, or finances, or even people. But you are, and I meant this sincerely, the last person I would ever turn to if I wanted advice on a choice it took guts to make.'

That did stop him, deflating his anger like a balloon, and he shrank back to the man not much taller than her, all neat robes and unassuming features and mild manners. Daedalus let out a deep breath. 'You have no concept of the decisions I've made for you, your sister, your mother, do you?'

'You have no concept of me as your daughter. This is a shot out of the dark for you? That just shows how little you know me; how little you've bothered speaking to me since I started my NEWTs. If you'd even been around at Easter, if you'd even spoken to me about my courses, you'd have known I was lying through my teeth about Astronomy.'

'I had an important show in the Dordogne last spring -'

'That was in May. You didn't need to be in France for all the setup!' She folded her arms across her chest. 'Face it, Dad. If you knew me even halfway, you'd have known I've been planning this for two years.'

He tore his gaze away, watching the window, the grounds and paddocks beyond, and after a long silence he let out a sigh. 'We both know each other very little, don't we.'

She hesitated at that. 'What do you mean?'

He padded over to the window to be bathed in the bright sunlight, eyes still on the silhouettes of their winged horses in the paddocks far away. 'I know Gawain Robards, the new head of the Auror Office. We did a little work together after the war. I'll ask him to send you some advice for your application.'

The deflation was complete, and if anything he looked smaller now, like venting his anger had shrunk or aged him. Tanith took a tentative step towards him. 'Dad?'

'You can go.' He didn't turn away. 'Enjoy your hike. Be careful, of course. And ask your friend Tobias Grey how his father's faring after loudly proclaiming himself evil's enemy.'

Tanith's breath caught. 'Robert Grey's dead.'

'I know.' Daedalus did look over now, the sunlight sinking into every wrinkle and crevice in his lined face. 'And I'm not.'

A/N: So. This story was initially released a while ago. A long fucking time ago, in fact. It was started even longer ago; the first time I wrote the opening, the fight between Ritter and the Death Eaters, was the summer after Half-Blood Prince was released.

I've changed a lot as a writer over those years. And I have still a huge soft spot for the Anguis series. I like that people still find it and read it. And it's part of being a writer whose stuff is immortalised on the internet to either make peace with wincing at your past writing, or to just... take it down. Didn't want to do the latter. But boy was the prose in Shade to Shade flabby. Adverbing everywhere. Dialogue which was sometimes meandering, or pointless. You could tell it was written over a long period; there was a huge improvement in quality between the beginning and the end as I got better as a writer.

Still. I want people to find my stuff and find it legible. Apparently people do, but it could be better. We've seen this reaction from me before, when I went and rewrote Latet. This is not a project on that scale (though considering STS is fucking huge compared to LAH, it took about as much time). In Latet there were chapters I almost entirely rewrote, whole scenes I gave major rework. For the most part all I have done with STS is brush up the prose, especially with the second half. Trim and edit. Nip and tuck. The first 10 chapters have seen the most significant work. So if you're an old reader who's curious what this makeover job STS has had is, but doesn't want to reread the whole thing... maybe just those first 10 chapters?

If you're a new reader, hi, this is STS, it used to be 190,000 words, now it's 150,000. It lost 40,000 words and every story beat is exactly the same. This is the power of editing, people. Enjoy! Enjoy!

Also unlike Latet Redux I'm not gonna give this one author's notes on every goddamn chapter of what I changed and why because for the most part it's 'I killed adverbs, weirdly clunky dialogue, and meandering sentences that went nowhere.'

Welcome, one and all, to one of my favourite children, now new and pretty.