Author's Note: Welcome to Nocturnus! This story has been in the works for over a year now, and I'm thrilled to share it with you! I sincerely hope you enjoy. Nocturnus will see weekly updates for the time being, a pace which may increase once the story is completely written; as of the time of this posting, Nocturnus has 34 chapters written and is approximately one-half to two-thirds finished.

I've been fortunate to have a wonderful team along for the ride. Alpha love to Kyonomiko and LadyKenz347, and beta credits to ravenslight. Check them out!

Warnings: This story will contain the following: Violence; non-graphic depictions of war; character death; alcohol consumption; mature language and themes; and sexual content. Please consider this as your warning for the entirety of this story.

Disclaimer: This story is fan-created content. I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Part 1: Aedifacio

Chaos reigned. Nocking an arrow into his bow, Fletcher surveyed the scene in front of him with a cool stare. Fire crackled and roared, singing with the fury in his veins as they steadily advanced.

This wasn't what they wanted.

When his herd fled the forests of Hogwarts after the end of the wizards' war, they had hoped for a fresh start on the continent. After weeks of travelling, they'd found a new place to settle in the forests beyond Avignon in France. There they had subsisted in peace with the members of a small wizarding community for years.

But now…

It had been a week ago now that Fletcher's father had been taken.

A noble and intelligent centaur, Firenze had been their liaison with the human population of Avignon—the one who had ensured their continuing peace.

On the winds had come change, and centaurs weren't fond of change—especially not when it brought violence. Warmongering. The same as they had fled, years ago.

Their numbers had slowly dwindled since, the herd growing restless and wary. Many hadn't returned from supply runs—and after a meeting in town only the day before, three more had failed to make it back.

Including Juniper. The thought of losing her sent both terror and anguish racing through his veins with an insistent thrum—coupled with an endless rage that had only grown. Now to be unleashed like the flames from Fletcher's bow.

Vengeance for his father. For Juniper—the one to whom he had promised himself in the spring.

His sister Willow stood tall at his side, her expression dark even as she maintained a rigid elegance. They had work to do—and this was no time for emotions to get in the way.

A desperate cry tore from his throat as he released the shot.

At the snapping of flames and the sharp, staccato bursts of glass exploding, they charged.

Murmurs, whispers, and shadows follow the group known only as Avance as the wizarding world turns its collective attention on France with shifty eyes and bated breath.

Tensions are running high at the Ministry of Magic these days—Great Britain is only too aware of the horrors that were left behind just five years ago, and it'll be up to Minister Shacklebolt to decide whether to take a stand. Is Avance to be considered a viable threat?

Is the lingering sense of déjà vu growing? Are the aims of Avance all too familiar to those who remember the reign of terror of the late Lord Voldemort?

Or will Shacklebolt continue to lick his wounds and fix his internal focus on rebuilding a war-torn and ravaged Britain? Will the French Ministry, notorious for sitting on their hands, act before the situation becomes dire? Time will only tell.

M. Humberscuff, special correspondent to The Daily Prophet.

Draco Malfoy folded his copy of The Daily Prophet and tucked it out of the way. He spread orange marmalade on a slice of rye toast—a breakfast staple—and took a bite.

The chattering of china on china drew his attention, his grey eyes flickering up; his mother had set down her teacup with a rattling clumsiness that was unlike her.

"Did you see this?" Draco nodded at the exposed front page headline—Stirrings of a New Magical Order.

Humming, Narcissa Malfoy agreed, bringing the teacup to her lips to take another sip. "I did."

Taking another bite of his toast, he dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. "And what did you think of it?"

Narcissa's gaze fell to the silk tablecloth as she laid her teacup to rest on its saucer again; Draco realized with a start that her hands were shaking. Her lips were pursed, her breaths unsteady, and she fixed Draco with a tight smile. "It's difficult to say, isn't it."

It wasn't an answer, and they both knew it. "Right."

Falling silent, his gaze darted across the words in the article again as he finished his toast and took a long sip of pumpkin juice. An elf cleared his empty plate, and Draco nodded with an absent, "Thanks, Podski."

Narcissa rose from her seat at the breakfast table, her hands clasped together. "I wouldn't let it bother you too much." With an unfamiliar tension in her gait, she left the room.

"What do you think of this?" Hermione Granger asked, her gaze lingering on a copy of The Daily Prophet, eyes swinging to her two best friends as an afterthought.

Harry shrugged, breaking a chip in half and dipping one end into his ketchup. "Sensationalism, to be honest. They've made it sound like Kings is just sitting on his hands and waiting for the baddies to go away—Robards is keeping a close eye on the situation, but as of now, there isn't much to report."

"Here's the thing," Ron interjected, waving his fork, a slice of seasoned chicken still pierced on its tines. Hermione grimaced and shifted in her seat. "These Prophet reporters have always tried to stir up a healthy dose of fear—ever since the end of the war—and with things being so quiet, they need to sell copies, don't they?"

He scarfed the bite of chicken from his fork, and Hermione turned to face Harry, swallowing back a remark.

"So Robards isn't worried?" she asked, a frown pulling her lips.

Something about the article had struck a nerve—the last thing Britain or the wizarding world as a whole needed was a new rising power deciding to take matters into their own hands.

"Robards is usually a lot of things, but that doesn't mean he tells everyone," Harry said with a flicker of his brows. "But he's competent, and he has more information about it than we do. If the Ministry needs to make a move, I'm sure he'll approach Kingsley about it."

Flipping the page, Hermione scanned the supplemental follow-up with a sigh. "Alright. I just don't care for the ideals this Avance seem to be spouting. It all sounds very Dumbledore-and-Grindelwald-esqe, you know, 'for the greater good'."

"I know," Harry agreed, a heavy silence falling over them, broken only by the clattering of Ron's cutlery against his plate. "But trust me, I'm keeping as close an eye on the situation as anyone. If this group is some sort of Grindelwald contemporary, they'll be stopped before they can get off the ground."

Hermione gave him a grateful smile, taking a sip of her Butterbeer. "Thanks, Harry. I'm glad to hear that."

"Of course." Flashing a hint of a grin, he eyed her over his glasses, his green eyes astute as ever. "And how's work been?"

Huffing a laugh, she set her mug down. "Which job? The Department of Magical Creatures has been quiet—and as usual, Flourish and Blotts has been slow as well. Things will pick up closer to September with the rush of students, of course."

"Of course," Harry murmured in acquiescence, taking a sip from his own drink. "Everything's been a bit dull lately, hasn't it? Maybe we could use something interesting to focus on—if this group turns out to be trouble after all."

Ron snorted and dropped his fork to the plate with a jarring clang that caused Hermione to tense in her seat.

Forcing an absent smile, she mused, "Let's be careful what we wish for, hmm?"

More than mere whispers and raised brows have been following the growing order in France known as Avance. The commander of this organization has yet to reveal himself—or herself—but one thing is for certain; Avance is keen on amassing power.

In an unprecedented announcement two days ago, the French Minister for Magic Arcand declared his support for a new policy presented which screams of Avance influence.

What does this mean for France? From the outside looking in, it appears as if Minister Arcand has had the proverbial wool pulled over his eyes. Drastic policy shifts, harsher laws around blood status and creature rights, all espoused by Avance, and all with the support of the Ministry.

Just last week, a group of centaurs were seen firing flaming arrows into an apothecary in Avignon. Whispers have been heard regarding similar unrest amongst a pack of werewolves on the outskirts of Wizarding Marseille.

And in England? It means sleepless nights, for those who still remember the last war.

It means it may be time for our Ministry to step in, before it's too late.

M. Humberscuff, special correspondent to The Daily Prophet.

"I don't care for it," Draco snapped, his brows knit as he shook his head. For emphasis, he smacked the folded newspaper with the back of his hand. "We've been fighting for a return to normalcy ever since the end of the war, and now all of this. As if the wizarding world needs more supremacist nonsense—we learned that lesson the hard way, didn't we?"

"Of course we did," Narcissa answered, her tone placating and demure. "And despite your father's incarceration, we have restored much of the respect in the Malfoy name. Largely due to your efforts."

"Money." Waving a soft hand, his tone dropped. "Galas and charitable causes—but what purpose does any of that serve if these lunatics in France think they're doing the world some sort of favour? They'll be pushing another wizarding war at us, and so soon after the last."

"You'll show them the Malfoy name can't be swayed again." There was a glint in his mother's blue eyes with which he wasn't altogether familiar.

"But how?" Draco's eyes whirred across the article again. "We need to distance ourselves from this—now, before things grow any worse. Britain needs to move against these people before it's too late."

"You and I both know the Ministry won't do anything," Narcissa said with a knowing hint of a smile. "And even if they try, the red tape of bureaucracy will prevent them from doing enough. This Avance group is sneaking beneath the law, and it will give them an edge the Ministry can't touch."

Shaking his head, bitterness etched onto his features. "I won't let my life become this again. Your life. Not after how spectacularly fucked everything was last time."

The glint was back in her eyes.

"If you really mean to make a change, Draco, there is something you can do," Narcissa said, taking a passive sip of her tea. "A power in your birthright."

Draco froze, his eyes swivelling to his mother in wonder. It wasn't possible—was it? It had been generations since any Malfoy heir had activated that sort of power. There was a delicate smile on Narcissa's lips as she waited for the pieces to click.

Eyes brightening, his heart began to race in his chest.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he breathed, "Nocturnus."

Hermione ground her teeth as Harry paced the sitting room in Grimmauld Place. Ron sat across the room, staring blankly at a chess set, his eyes unmoving.

After a somber meal, the group of them had retired to the sitting room, but she couldn't shake the anxious nerves from cresting through her as they debated the hot topic of the week.

Cradling a cup of tea in her hands, Daphne perched on the seat beside Hermione.

"And meanwhile, Robards has been urging Kingsley to make a move," Harry said, waving a hand. "But the damn bureaucracy of it all has left them neutered. According to some ancient agreement between Britain and France, the British Ministry can't just waltz in and seize control without Arcand's permission."

"And Arcand's got a nasty bug whispering in his ear," Ron grumbled, giving up on the pretense of his solo chess match.

Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Harry gave a begrudging nod.

"Well, fine," Hermione huffed, "but what can be done? Because they can't expect us to sit around and wait while they do nothing. At the rate things are escalating, this Avance will be kicking Muggles and creatures from their homes by the end of the month!"

"There isn't anything yet," Harry responded with a grim look.

Daphne sighed, turning doleful green eyes on Hermione. "I hate that this is even a situation we have to deal with."

Hermione pressed her lips together, nodding. "As do I. As if we haven't all seen exactly what comes of this sort of prejudice! Did France learn nothing from our experiences here?"

Folding his arms across his chest, Ron leaned back in his seat. "They claim it's different. This organization is helping in the cities—sounds like a load of corrupt bollocks if you ask me."

"Meanwhile centaurs are torching everything in sight," Hermione exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

"And with this new Malfoy development…" Harry added, sliding into the seat between Hermione and Daphne and slipping his arm around the shoulders of the latter.

Blinking, her nose wrinkled as she swept her gaze towards him. "Malfoy? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"Didn't you read the Prophet this morning?" Daphne asked, leaning across Harry to face Hermione. "It was front page."

"No," Hermione said, distracted as she shook her head. "I left the flat before the paper had been delivered. What about it?"

Releasing a sigh, Daphne opened her mouth to explain when Ron interrupted.

"Seems Malfoy has chosen an inopportune time to flaunt his buried, archaic powers," he said, frowning. "A load of speculation, but no one knows why."

"Archaic powers." Shaking her head with a grimace, she said, "I don't follow."

Daphne rose and walked to the kitchen, returning with a copy of The Daily Prophet. Hermione accepted the offering with a distracted smile, her gaze already dropping to scan the article.

It sounded like a lot of pureblood pomp, and left her more confused than before. "What's the Nocturnus Order? And how has Malfoy come to be in charge of it?"

With a sort of baffled shrug, Harry settled back against the couch again. Daphne exchanged a look with Ron.

"So basically," Daphne began, frowning, "The Nocturnus Order is this ancient magical order—thousands of years old, so far as I know, but it has been left dormant for generations. The last leader of the Order was a Malfoy—Draco's great-grandfather—" Daphne squinted for a moment in consideration. "Septimus Malfoy."

The words made no sense, and Hermione frowned as the girl went on.

"Nocturnus was led by the Malfoy Dynasty for several centuries before Abraxas Malfoy ended up on a different path and never claimed his birthright, allowing Nocturnus to fall out of favour and into history." Daphne looked around at the three of them, and Hermione found herself swallowing thickly. "And… well, we know the story with regards to Lucius and Draco."

"So why now?" Harry asked, waving a hand. "What does Malfoy think he's going to achieve? And if he wanted to step into some sort of seat of power, why didn't he do it after the war? Why go to such lengths with the rebuilding efforts?"

It was common knowledge that Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had attempted to reintegrate into society after the end of the war and after Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to a life sentence in Azkaban. But Hermione had only ever seen it as a shady way to slip back into society and sweep their misdeeds beneath the proverbial rug.

Frowning, she shook her head. "Five years without the power and prestige they once had—maybe Malfoy's grown bored of mediocrity."

"All I know," Daphne said with a mild shrug, "is that the Nocturnus Order is serious business. If Draco's decided to ascend to the seat at the top, it'll be with reason."

The four of them fell silent; Hermione's head spun with more questions than she had received answers.