author's notes:

Hello to my old readers. You've stayed by me all these long years. How does one express enough gratitude for that?

I can't, so I hope this is enough: I cherish you.

Hello to my new readers. I hope you come back soon.

Follow me on tumblr if you've got one.

This chapter was originally beta'd by [ eltaninrose. ] Thanks for taking the time to do that, E.

This chapter was beta'd again on the 3rd of October, 2015 by [ violetmort. ] Thank you so much, V. I think you caught it all. xo

If you reach the end of this chapter, please review.

fair fortune
by
sweetasylums

"It kills me sometimes, how people die."- Markus Zusak

It begins with the end.

"Unspeakable Number One," the Minister of Magic says. "Congratulations."

Number One steps forward, hair a burnt orange, eyes a dark blue. There is no one behind her, no family in the crowd as she accepts her award. There is no crowd, no one in the room save for Head Auror Harry Potter and the Minister of Magic. There is no award, either. No medal announcing the promotion of title in her rank. The highest title in her rank.

The brightest witch of her age, they say.

Just like her mother.

There is a warm light within her office, a flame flickering as it descends dangerously near the pool of molten wax below it. Littering her office are dusty tomes and yellowing scrolls in various stages of age and wear. Runes and forgotten languages are swirled and scratched across them, a fading black. On her floor is a stack of unopened letters. The pile almost reaches the height of her desk. It is an unusual amount for an uneventful day, but she has not touched them. Number One's attention is on the leather tome, half the size of her desk, open in front of her. Bound are frayed old parchment papers written on in what looks suspiciously like blood. A quill hovers and twirls over a brand new scroll beside her, matching her finger as it swirls through the air like an instructor, guiding every stop and turn.

A few consecutive taps at her door direct her attention to it. The quill falls, blots ink on the paper. The Foe Glass reveals nothing but frosty ambivalence, and she tells the door to open. A familiar face is behind it. He is a mop of red hair and a devil-may-care grin.

"Wow," he says. "You look like shit."

Unaffected, she sighs and rubs her eyes. The whites are surely marbled with red lines, pronounced by the probable dark circles below them. There's nothing to argue so she doesn't dispute. It prompts her brother to break the silence.

"Dad swung by your flat yesterday. Said he was worried because your post was untouched." Hugo is taller than their father now. The shadows he paints across her office walls dance as he moves toward her desk. He drops himself into the squishy leather armchair before it.

"I've been working."

"On what?" he wonders, suspiciously.

"Puffskein," she says without a beat. "Discovering whether they're eating the mucus compound for sustenance or whether they need a certain bacteria within it."

"That's revolting," he says with a sickened look. "Quit immediately."

She smiles at that. Number One hides somewhere within the deep recesses of her mind; quiet and still. There are only three people who know Number One's identity, and she is one of them. It was time to put that part of her away. She was only Rose Weasley now, Administrator of the Department of Magical Creatures, Head of the Research and Development Branch.

"It's Christmas Eve, you know." He looks at her pointedly. "Mum will be gutted if you don't show up… again."

"It was one time," she replies. Between them, the flame descends downward, struggling to keep its head above the pool of wax. "I got stuck in Scandinavia, couldn't help it."

"Studying the…. What was it again?"

"Veela," she reminds. The questions are annoying. She can't answer; not unless she desires a very unpleasant death.

Unspeakables make Unbreakables, after all.

Her book snaps shut and she stands up, grabbing her cloak. "Let's go." She takes her brother's arm when he offers it.

"So that book was about Puffskeins, you say? Somebody wrote a book about puffskeins in blood?"

"They were clearly very devoted."

The door slams shut as they leave.

The flame sinks below and is lost.

The winter is a harsh one. A relentless snowstorm has moved in while she was confined in her office. Her eyes squint as she fights the wind, forcing her way to her parents' front door. Hugo is beside her and she's still clutching his arm. The giant oak door creaks open metres away from them. Their mother is there, her arms outstretched. Her hair has lost all color and is pulled back in a silvery bun.

"Come in, come in," she insists, motions them to move faster to her open arms. Like children, just for the moment, they forget their age – she, the oldest, was almost forty – and they hasten their steps. Their father appears in the doorway as they reach the top step to the grand tudor home. They take turns hugging their parents as they step inside.

Warmth washes over her as they pass through the door. She is already tugging off her scarf by the time she makes it to the living room. It is surprisingly empty, save for their Muggle grandparents and Hugo's new blonde wife. Rose greets her grandparents, hugs the new Mrs. Weasley awkwardly. "What were you all talking about?"

"Apparently an Unthinkable put a powerful memory blocker-thing on another Unthinkable," her Grandma Mary says. Rose blinks.

"It's all over today's paper, Rosie," her father says as he enters the room. "Haven't you seen?" He nods over to table beside the sofa.

'RITA SKEETER CRACKS CONSPIRACY WITHIN THE MINISTRY!' the headline reads. 'MUGGLE FAMILY SAYS "WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR SON?"'

"There is a family of Muggles saying the Ministry came to them and told them their Unspeakable son died during fieldwork," her father explains. "A few months later the wizard's Muggle father saw his son walking around London. Wizard had no idea he was talking to his father. That hag Rita Skeeter is saying there's a secret group within the Unspeakable Sector led by someone called Unspeakable Number One. She's saying Number One wiped his memory. Codswallop if you ask me."

"It's disgusting," says Grandpa Joe. "To play with peoples' minds like that." The room suddenly feels like it's closing in on her. She now understands the endless stream of owls she didn't check.

Rose sees her mother shut her eyes and open them again, slowly. It is a sign that she is growing annoyed. "Sometimes people have to make hard decisions, Dad," her mother says, and it makes Rose swell with relief. Did her mother know? Why else would she justify wiping someone's memory? "If the end justifies the means, it's worth it. If this is true, who knows what kind of work he's doing? It could be for everyone's benefit, including the wizard's, that he doesn't remember anything about his personal life."

Her Grandmother opens her mouth to argue, but Rose cuts her off.

"Where is everyone else? Grandma Weasley? The Potters?" Rose asks, changing the subject.

"Grandma Weasley will be here soon," her mother says. "But the rest aren't coming."

"Why?" she asks, surprised.

"Uncle Harry has a headache."

Christmas morning, she wakes up with his arms around her.

"When are we going to tell everyone?" she asks. She knows he's up. He's always up before her.

"I don't know," he says. "I'll probably be killed. By your family – if my own doesn't get to me first."

"Probably," she agrees.

He pins her wrists to the bed and trails kisses from her chin to her chest. Sunlight seeps through the window and bathes the room in illumination.

Scorpius is a constellation of silver light above her.

Later that evening, she is back at her parents' house. The Weasleys are meeting here before they head over to the Potters'. Rose is sitting on the sofa, alone, while the rest of the room is paired. Uncle George is there with his wife and children, grandchildren. He keeps looking to his other side, as if to say something. He turns away when he realizes there's nobody there. He was different before the war, they've said. But this is how she has always known him to be. A bit touched.

The room is packed before too long. The amount of blood relatives and extended family is enough to overwhelm the most social of people, but she has adjusted to this over the years. Even her old Herbology Professor, Neville Longbottom, is here with his wife Hannah. Their marriage has always been strange in Rose's eyes. They never seemed to fit together. Professor Longbottom is such a handsome man. She has harboured a fancy for him for as long as she can remember. When she was in school, he was kind to her, protective of her. He treated her like her mind was a precious thing, strong and enlightened. Once, a few years after Hogwarts, when she was young and foolish, and uncaring that he had a wife, she asked him to have a drink with her.

"Are you mad?" he had asked. Clearly she was not as coy as she thought she was. "I'm married. And even if you meant that in a friendly way, which I'm certain you didn't, your mother would skin me alive, skin you alive too."

"My mother?" she'd laughed, ignoring the former reason. Her mother, who refused to kill even spiders, insisting on scooping them up and putting them outside. Her mother, who flossed after every meal? Her mother, who spent her life more involved with creature rights than the lives of her own children. Always buried in a book when Rose wanted attention, always working on some thesis even when they were on vacation? "She works with house elves."

He looked at her then, harshly, and it was unnerving from such a kind man. It was the first time she shrunk under his gaze. "You don't know her at all. You weren't there. You didn't see." Instinctively, she knew he was talking about the war. That's how all the adults spoke about it, on the rare occasions that they did. Vaguely, with a thousand-kilometre stare. "Your mother is the most brilliant mind that ever lived. Don't ever insult her again."

She found out later from her Aunt Ginny that Neville Longbottom had loved her mother since they were both eleven years old. Any kindness he had shown her as she blossomed was solely because she, Rose, reminded him of her mother. She did not pursue him further. In her later years, she was ashamed of herself and spoke very little to him after that.

Shaking the memory away, she ignores Hannah Longbottom's stare, afraid she'll try to make conversation. Instead, she gazes at the Christmas tree. It is full of glittering ornaments. Twinkling fairy lights glide around the tree, over branches and under them, swaying slowly. It has an eerie beauty. Her mother is beside it, adjusting one of the snow globes on the mantle, ever the perfectionist. She has a certain eerie beauty about her too, even if it isn't conventional; and even in these later years of her life. Her silver hair is braided elegantly and tied in a French knot this evening. As usual, she has forgone robes. Her sweater is a pale grey, soft and thick, woven with glimmering silver strands. Her white pencil skirt hugs her figure, and feet are bare – her heels are propped beside the fireplace. She always puts them on at the last minute.

"Alright, everyone," her mother announces once Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur finally show up. "Grab some floo powder."

Rose makes it to the fireplace first, reaches over the high mantle and dips her fingers in the powder, clasps them shut tightly. It feels silky between her fingers, like sifted flour. "Potter Residence, Godric's Hollow," she calls, clearly. She has done this a thousand times. The flames roar to life and she steps through.

Uncle Harry is on the other end, sitting comfortably, facing the fire. The world knows him as The Boy Who Lived, the man who defeated the Dark Lord in the Second Wizarding War; now a feared and revered Head Auror. But this is how she knows him: a kind old man with messy hair, now mostly grey with a few black strands, rocking quietly in his favorite chair. He stands up as she appears and gives her a tight hug.

The rest of the family steps in behind her one by one, and the room soon erupts in loud banter and enthusiastic dialogue.

It is a comforting, familiar chaos.

Dinner is the normal holiday feast. Uncle Harry sits at the head of the table, with his wife on his left and Rose's mother on his right. This is how they always sit. The table is packed with polished silver platters, goblin-wrought with beautiful filigree. Upon the plates are tender meats that fall apart when you slice them, boiled, buttery potatoes, roasted vegetables, salty and crisp. Desserts are fluffy cakes with smooth icings, sweet sticky puddings, fruit platters drizzled in chocolate and dusted with powdered sugar. The room is loud and abuzz with various conversations. Rose answers questions when she's asked (some truthfully, others not) but she finds her thoughts often wandering to Scorpius, and what he might be doing at that very moment.

During dessert, WWW's Christmas crackers explode around her. A mechanical Santa that's charmed to walk around the table saying "ho, ho, ho" leaps out of one. She watches as it marches toward a bowl of pudding, lifts itself up, and teeters on the edge before it drops down, face-first, into the bowl. It struggles to stand, stuck in the toffee topping. Hugo and Teddy snap a cracker beside her and it's filled with live fairies that burst out in an explosion of color. Too shy to stay in full view of everyone, they zoom for cover under her curly locks. By the end of dessert, there are so many fairies nestled in her hair that Teddy's little boy starts calling her a Christmas tree. He vanishes into the sitting room for a minute or two and comes back in with colorfully wrapped presents in his arms, and he stacks them neatly all around her. Everyone, including her, has a good laugh.

As Rose helps bring the dishes into the kitchen, she sees her parents and Uncle Harry stand. They retreat into the sitting room, alone. Aunt Ginny eyes them as she picks up a fruit platter but says nothing. It's the same every holiday, every family get-together. Those three go off somewhere to be alone, usually to the sitting room, where Uncle Harry sits in his rocking chair and they enjoy the silence together, or speak in quiet voices – conversations meant for nobody else's ears. Rose has heard stories that those three went off together for a time before Voldemort was destroyed. She has always wanted to know more, but she never had the courage to ask. No-one ever talked about it. It was an unspoken rule not to drudge up the memories of the war.

Loud laughter startles everyone in the dining room. The three friends are laughing louder than she has ever heard them. "Look at her," she hears Uncle Harry say. "She can't stop, she's almost crying."

Rose adjusts her head to see her mother bent over on the sofa, her face flushed from trying to reel in her laughter. "I'm not crying," she insists between gasps for air, "my eyes are just glistening with the ghosts of my past!" It makes the two men with her laugh louder.

Rose doesn't get the joke.

Hours later, the whole family is in the sitting room. Torn pieces of glittering wrapping paper in various shades of reds and golds and silvers are littering the floor. Everyone is holding their gifts up as they open them, calling thank-yous across the room, some trying to wade through the sea of paper for hugs and kisses. The kids have already torn open their toys and abandoned them to dive under the wrapping paper together. Rose has a pile of books beside her, along with baubles of pretty perfumes and hand-crafted candles, handmade cards, a glimmering gold chain and trinkets of varying sizes and purposes. Her mother comes over to hug her, to give her a kiss. She smells of spicy cinnamon and warm nutmeg from the Christmas tea Aunt Ginny fixed.

She's in her mother's arms when Uncle Harry stands up. She watches as he sways on his feet unsteadily. Rose isn't the only one to see it. Various others in the room ask him if he's okay. He yells then, and it terrifies Rose. Her mother yanks away at the sound, wrenching around to see what's going on. Harry Potter clutches his head and falls to his knees.

Her mother moves faster than Rose has ever seen her go, pushing past the crowd that has gathered around him. Rose follows behind her, watches as her Uncle holds up his hand to his wife. "No, Ginny," he says. "Stay away." There is panic in his voice. He is fighting convulsions. "Hermione," he calls forward, and Rose's mother darts toward him. Aunt Ginny watches it unfold in shock. Whether from his condition or his need for his friend and not his wife, Rose is unsure.

"What is it, Harry?" asks her mother, getting to her knees too, wrapping her arms around him. "Tell me."

"Something's wrong," he says gasping, shaking. His hands are cupped over his forehead. It's only then she remembers that that's where his scar is. Rose has never seen her uncle look so terrified. Or so frail.

"Ron!" her mother cries out, and then Rose's father is at her side, lifting Uncle Harry up, as though he weighed no more than a child. "Lay him down on the sofa." And he does.

Uncle Harry is convulsing again and the room is in a panic. The older generation is shouting, asking if they should floo a medi-witch. Grandma Weasley is sitting in her armchair, crying. Aunt Ginny, too, is sobbing as she stares. A dread has filled the room, one that Rose doesn't fully understand. She looks over at Hugo, at Teddy, at Victoire. They are all as bewildered by it as she is. "What's going on?" Rose calls out. She gets shushed.

"Harry," she hears her mother say, "talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling. Is it—"

"Yes," he struggles, and nearly everyone in the room gasps. Rose has a view of Uncle Harry through the shoulders of the Longbottoms. Harry Potter is crying desperately while her mother kneels beside him, holding his hand to her chest. Her father is there, too. The sight of the three of them breaks her heart.

"Don't be afraid," her mother says softly, her free hand pushing the hair away from his now-sweaty forehead. Rose sees it clearly then; the jagged lightning-bolt shaped scar. "We're here, Harry. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Hermione," he says, stronger now despite his shaking body. "I am with you."

After that night, the days pass in an onslaught of fractured pieces of a whole. She tries to grasp at them, put them all together, but she comes up short. Uncle Harry has not left his house in days as far as she knows. Her mother and father are constantly at his side. They speak in hushed voices. Clips of conversation reach her ears when she visits him. She lingers outside his door, straining to hear.

"Could he have had another one, Hermione?" asks Uncle Harry. Why was the Head Auror looking to her mother for answers?

"I suppose it's possible. Yes... it's possible. It could have been done while we were on the run, or during the last battle, I suppose…" Her mother's voice is calm, determined, so sure of itself. "At a time when you were too distracted to feel him do it."

"Hermione? Do you have any theories on how? Who he killed for it? Grindelwald?" she hears her father chime in.

"It couldn't have been, he had no time," says Uncle Harry. "He was rushing back to Malfoy Manor. Hermione, what do you think?" he asks again.

Her mother responds with silence.

"Hermione, please," he begs.

"Snape," her mother says, finally. "I think he used Snape."

A week later, she finds her mother at Uncle Harry's kitchen table, scouring the newspaper.

The front page reads 'DUMBLEDORE'S TOMB DESECRATED.'

It's raining the day the world ends. Not the vicious kind; not in a foreboding, foreshadowing way. It is a gentle rain signaling spring. New beginnings.

Her mother is heading toward the fireplace at half a run when Rose floos in.

"Oh, hello, dear," her mother says kindly, a hand on her own chest as though she's trying to settle her startled heart. "I was on my way out – Ginny and I were talking through the mirrors and then it just – went black. I wanted to make sure everything was alright. Excuse me," she adds and grabs a handful of floo powder before Rose can get a word in.

Rose follows her, steps in right after her mother.

When she steps out of the Potters' fireplace, a hand wraps around her mouth to keep her from screaming. Her mother is behind her, holding her mouth shut. At first, her brain thinks 'imposter!' and she struggles, but she realizes what's surrounding them. Paintings are ripped, dangling from their nails. The sitting area is cloaked in faint light from the other room. Uncle Harry's rocking chair is overturned. There are dark puddles, still wet, on the carpet before them. Spatters of blood and a long, rectangular stain extend from the sofa to the doorway, to the hardwood floors in the corridor.

A man laughs somewhere in the other room and the sound draws her attention to the door. The sound chills her to her core.

"Get out of here, Rose," her mother whispers in her ear. "Get to the Ministry and tell them that there's an intruder in Harry Potter's home." The pressure on her mouth is gone; her mother has let her go.

And then her mother runs down the dark hall, wand at the ready.

It happens fast – her mother blasts the kitchen door clean off its hinges. Rose darts in right behind her mother, manages to throw her arms up over her head as a shower of sparks explode directly above her. Fragments of her surroundings flicker across her vision, fast as a shutter, over and over, disorienting her. A clock crashes down from above, lands her back. She falls, hits her head.

The images come in flashes: Aunt Ginny is laying on the floor, a puddle of blood surrounding her. There is a creature bent over her; half man, half beast. Rose throws a stupefy and it but it dodges, runs towards the other end of the room. She tries to clamber backwards, find enough grip to stand, but her arms give way; she's slipping on blood. Something hits her then, out of nowhere, and she goes rigid. Her limbs will not obey the instructions she's giving them. She can only watch her mother helplessly.

And then she sees her cousins, James and Lily. They're still. Lifeless on the ground, and – oh, god, she tries to say, to scream, but nothing comes out. Albus is on his side, his face close to hers, choking on and spitting up blood. He exhales one last time, long and deep. He lays quiet and still after that.

A thunderous boom explodes from the other end of the room. There are three cloaked figures dancing, spinning, into and out of sight as they unleash a barrage of spells. It's only then that she realizes who is holding them all off. It isn't Head Auror Harry Potter.

It's her mother.

For the first time in her life, Rose Weasley understands why people speak in hushed voices about the mind of her mother; the dangerous edge to her intelligence, the way her wand slashes like blade. It is a terrifying thing to see. The sheer power that her mother commands moves through the room like a wave of static, raising the hairs on her arms, sending a chill straight up her spine. A tsunami of white-hot sparks erupt from her mother's wand and sends the three cloaked men soaring backward.

The beast-like creature lunges at her from behind and Rose wants to shout, to warn her mother, but she can't find her voice. It doesn't matter – her mother senses him coming, flicks her hand over her shoulder. The beast – a werewolf, by the looks of it – loses his momentum, stops in midair. He lingers just long enough for Rose to see his face turn from smug to alarmed, and then he's thrown backwards, writhing, screaming.

Her mother steps forward, red light illuminating her dark features.

"Where is he, Fenrir?" her mother asks. The tone of her voice is foreign to Rose – it is quiet, menacing. Deadly. "Where is Harry?"

The creature roars again, calls her mother a slew of foul names – he's being tortured, she realizes with a start. She's watching her mother use the Cruciatus on a werewolf.

"Fuck you," Fenrir spats out. "Mudblood," he laughs. "Whore. You'll be dead soon, too. You and your pretty daughter." He lunges at her, Rose. She finally screams then, finds her voice. The jet of green light from her mother's wand hits him in the back. He falls down in a heavy heap on top of Roses legs, limp.

"I told you to get out of here," her mother says, eerily calm. Spirals of silver smoke slip from her wand. They are shapes – animals made of light. They are patronuses, she realizes. They speed off through the broken windows, disappear on the horizon.

"What are you doing?" Rose whispers, finally able to move her lips. Her voice is shaking but her body is still. She cannot steady the sound of her voice. Her heart is racing so fast she can feel the blood pumping to her head, flushing over her cheeks.

"Warning the others," she says. Her hands are outstretched towards Rose. "What were you hit with? Was it a Petrific—"

That one moment of weakness – that small fraction of time where they were nothing more than a hurt child and a concerned mother – was the chink in her mother's armour. A violent, bluish black jet of light hits her mother from the other end of the room. Rose screams as her mother falls, clutching her side, gasping in pain. "Run, Rose, run," her mother calls, but she can't. She's bewitched; terrified. Freezing, too – her breath is coming out in harsh exhales. Clouds of condensation form in front of her nose and mouth.

"Drop your wand, Granger," comes a whisper through the dark. "Or he dies. And your little daughter too." There is a gaunt-looking man in the doorway. She can see his breath as well. There's a silver, skeletal-like mask curving around the contours of his face. The skin of his neck is pale like porcelain and his hair is a familiar silky white. Uncle Harry is sitting at the man's feet, barely conscious. There is a wand to her uncle's temple.

"Draco," her mother says to the man. "What are you doing?" There is a sadness to her tone, though Rose does not understand why. "The Aurors are on their way. They'll be here any second."

"Then they're a second too late," he says. His voice is sad, too. Solemn.

Her mother drops her wand, throws it at Draco's feet.

Rose's mother is shaking now. At first, Rose thinks it's from fear – but no, it's not fear. A frigid cold has crept upon the room, seeping into their skin, carving out their insides. There is a darkness just outside, blackening the windows. It's seeping in through the broken panes of glass, the cracks beneath the doors. They glide in like smoke, ink-black and toxic. The room is so cold it burns her skin. They flood into the house, hover over all of them like storm clouds. They're churning, drinking them in, devouring them.

"No," her mother says, crying. "Not this. Not like this." The darkness is dipping down towards them, inhaling them. Uncle Harry wakes up then – he's yelling at the top of his lungs, sobbing. The dementors are affecting him in a horrifying way. One of them reaches out a boney, scabbed hand, grips her uncle by his throat. "Harry," her mother cries. "Harry, fight it!"

But her uncle looks down at the bodies of his wife, his children. Rose can see it in his eyes – he has no more fight left in him. He falls limp, stops struggling. He takes a deep breath and lets it go; greets death as his old friend.

"No!" her mother screams.

Harry Potter's soul is a fistful of light, so bright it's blinding.

It ascends, higher and higher, until darkness swallows it whole.

The hand on his neck releases its grip and he falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. The body left behind is breathing shallow breaths but there is no recognition in his eyes. Just an empty stare. Draco steps forward, a new wand in hand. It is a wand she has only seen in pictures - the elder wand. There is an illustration somewhere in her office, a page from a book. She can see it in the forefront of her mind, etched in blood.

"That's the horcrux he made from Snape?" her mother's voice pulls her back to the present. It is hoarse from exhaustion, from tears. "The Elder wand?" There is no answer. Draco stays silent, his own wand pointed at her mother, cautious and careful. Rose's vision is blurring. She struggles to stay conscious. "It's not too late. We can destroy it, Draco. You'd never be a slave again."

"Don't you understand?" asks Draco, and Rose realizes he's crying. "It's too late. All they needed was a vessel."

The dementors swoop down again, swarming around her uncle like a tornado. She thinks they're breathing him in until a marble of light, dim and flickering, emerges from a dementor's mouth. It descends slowly, creeping towards her Uncle's open lips. It enters the cavern of his mouth and vanishes somewhere deep within him.

Harry Potter's eyes widen, shocked. He gasps for air like he's learning how to breathe. The whites of his eyes change, darken. Irises go from green to red. He rises, slowly. Slips the Elder wand from Draco's hand.

"Well, well," her uncle says, dragging out every syllable. There is something different about the tone of his voice. "Hermione Granger." He steps over Lily Luna's body, slowly. A cat circling its prey. His index finger tilts her mother's chin up, lingers there. "Shall I kill you first? Or your daughter?"

"Do what you want with me," her mother pleads. "But let my daughter go."

Harry's smile is a cruel, vicious thing. "Your daughter first, then."

It's an indescribable feeling, knowing she's going to die. She wants to be brave like her uncle, tries to gather her courage and face her end. The curse that hit her earlier is shutting her down anyway. She can barely keep her eyes open.

The elder wand points directly at her.

And then there are shimmering wisps of animals darting throughout the room, stampeding through the air, hunting the dementors as they scatter. Cracks of apparition can be heard throughout the grounds. Aurors are bursting through the windows, throwing stunners at Draco. They stop for a moment, a fraction of a second, when they think their job is done. But Harry Potter starts attacking, makes a path to the door. The Aurors - some confused, some steadfast - try to stop him. It's no use.

He's already gone.

Kingsley Shacklebolt disbands the secret sector of the Unspeakables a week later.

"But my research! Years of it, Kingsley!" argues Rose, horrified.

"Don't you realize how terrible that information would be in the wrong hands?" he explains, shortly. "When the Ministry falls again – and it will fall again – all of that information will be his."

Rose opens her mouth, shuts it again. There is fear twisting inside of her. "What if that information is our only chance to survive?"

The Minister of Magic sits back in his high leather seat, stares at her sadly.

"Then we're doomed anyway, Rose."

One month to the day, the Ministry is raided. Rose is in her office when it begins. At first she hears only a distant noise, some sort of commotion down the hall or on another floor. It takes her a few heartbeats to realize that the sound she's hearing is screaming. She starts knocking books off her shelves, dropping them into her mother's old purple bag. Scrolls too. Whatever she can find that's in reach.

The door snaps open. Her parents and her brother are there, rushing her. "We need to go, Rose. Now," her father says.

The last thing she grabs on her way out is a giant leather tome, its pages scrawled in blood.

It drops into the interior of her bag with a heavy thud.

They see Kingsley Shacklebolt one last time. He's in the atrium of the Ministry, ushering the panicking crowd toward the fireplaces, calling out instructions – get home, find your family, help each other.

"Come with us, Kingsley," her mother says to the Minister. "I'll protect you."

Rose looks from her mother to the Minister. There is no amusement on Kingsley Shacklebolt's face. For a brief moment, he actually looks like he's considering it. "No, Hermione," he says, finally. "My place is here. Go. Be safe."

Her mother doesn't argue. She only kisses the Minister's cheek and hurries along, moving toward the fireplace at a half-run.

Rose wants to say something to the Minister but doesn't know what. "Be safe, Minister Shacklebolt," is all she can think of, all that she can muster. She takes off at a run behind her family.

"Rose!" shouts Kingsley Shacklebolt as she goes, his voice a thunderous sound over the crowd. She looks over her shoulder as she runs, but she hears him, clear as day:

"I release you from your vow."

They're in the woods, hidden behind barriers and wards and bewitchment. Her entire family is here, and their friends, and friends of friends. A sea of tents as far as she can see are littered throughout the forest, propped up between trees, near campfires. She has no idea when, or how, her mother organized this. This is the third spot they've camped in the last month. Rose's mother insists on moving every week or so. There are two strict rules here. Do not mention their names. Not The-Boy-Who-Lived, and not You-Know-Who. And do not, under any circumstances, use magic while the wards are down.

Everybody flocks to Rose's mother with their conflicts, their problems. They look to Hermione Weasley for answers, for protection. It is strange to see her mother so stoic, so resolute in this leadership role. Rose understands now; this is how Harry Potter survived all those long decades ago. The camp whispers the answer, the name, like a prayer.

Hermione.

Rose is called into her parents' tent on the second month of living on the run. Reports have come in – the Minister is dead. The Ministry has fallen. Muggleborns are being executed or kissed. She isn't sure which one is worse. The interior of the tent, like all the others, is a vast amount of space. Her mother is at the head of a long wooden table. She taps the seat beside her and Rose takes it.

"What were you working on?" her mother asks, quietly.

The muscles in her chest tighten. "What?"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt released you from your vow," her mother elaborates. The candlelight has cloaked half her face in shadow. Her eyes are endlessly dark. "He did that for a reason. You were working on something that he thought we'd need. What was it?"

Rose shifts uncomfortably, says nothing. Her mother rests her hand on Rose's arm. "You were Unspeakable Number One." Blue eyes meet brown. Rose is shocked. Her mother smiles in a forlorn way. "I know. Now tell me, Rose."

And she does.

"Are you mad?" Rose's father asks his wife. He is entirely serious.

"Probably," her mother answers. "But it might be our only chance."

Her father is quiet, still. Options are being weighed and measured in his head.

"But I thought it was a children's story?"

"It is," says her mother. "But so were the Deathly Hallows."

This statement gives him pause. He sighs then, gives up trying to argue. "Alright. Rose," he turns to her. "Show me this book of yours."

Neville Longbottom is brought into the tent before long. Rose is confused by this, though she is not sure why. It surprises her how much her mother trusts him. She cannot remember much interaction between the two old classmates through the years – none that Rose saw, anyway.

"Whatever is said in this tent," her mother whispers to him, "you cannot tell Hannah."

Without hesitation, he agrees. Neville Longbottom's loyalty to her mother is unwavering. Rose puts the book in front of him, flips to somewhere in the middle. Three crude ruins are painted across the page. The translation is simple:

Fair Fortune's Fountain.

The camp is destroyed three weeks later. Someone used magic while the wards were down. They never found out who. The survivors thought it might have been a child. Teddy's boy, most likely.

Many die. They are not strange faces, not nameless bodies in a crowd. These are people she knows, people she loves. The Lovegoods, the Thomas family, the Finnegans. Hannah Longbottom dies too. She takes a killing curse for Rose.

They try to take as many of the dead as they can when they escape. Rose goes back for Hannah's body, holds it tight when she dissapparates.

They set up camp at a new location, try to collect what's left of their sanity.

Teddy cradles the body of his dead son for hours after the surviving members of the camp relocate. It isn't until Rose's father pries the child away that Teddy finally lets go, sobbing all the while. Rose keeps thinking about how tiny the boy is, about the way the Christmas presents nearly tipped him over when he brought them to her.

Hugo, mad with grief over the wife Rose never bothered to get to know, begins to dig a grave with his bare hands. One by one, they all start helping him. Teddy helps too, shaking and weeping. The survivors lay their dead side by side. Her mother kisses Luna's forehead, cries over her body. They lay the small boy in his mother's arms. Victoire is still beautiful, even in death.

Little Remus looks like he's only sleeping.

They are found again three weeks later. With all her mother's hard work, there was cause for concern. She was worried all these weeks, jumping at any sound, afraid that Voldemort had Harry's memories.

When the wards around the camp fall, Hermione Weasley bows her head. The worst possible scenario has been confirmed.

Voldemort knows Hermione as well as Harry had.

There are so many killing curses zooming through the chaos of camp that the forest is bathed in emerald light. Everything she sees is a shade of green. People around her are screaming, running, abandoning everyone in their haste to escape. Her mother is taking on Harry – Voldemort – alone. She's matching him blow for blow. The ground is breaking beneath them. Hermione is yelling, telling everyone to run, to get to safety. Neville Longbottom is beside her, throwing curses at a masked figure.

Rose can't find her father. She sees her brother, calls over to him. Old Mundungus Fletcher disapparates just as an Avada Kedavra hurls toward him. Her brother is standing right behind him. The spell hits Hugo square in the chest. Her mother screams from afar and Rose wonders if she saw it happen – but she couldn't have.

Maybe mothers can feel it when their children die.

The explosion her mother sends Voldemort's way kills four of the Death Eaters flanking him. Pieces of them fall from the sky, litter the camp. Voldemort retreats long enough for the surviving refugees to escape.

Hugo's death almost kills her mother.

For eighteen days, her mother doesn't move. She lays in the bed of Rose's makeshift tent; doesn't ask where they're camped, doesn't make the effort to eat. She cries sometimes, quietly. When Rose tries to talk to her, to motivate her to do something – anything – her mother says nothing. She only asks for her husband.

Everyone is too afraid to tell her that they never found him. They left without him. There was no choice.

Rose cannot sleep. Anxiety has burrowed into her chest, a constant companion. Hugo dies every time she closes her eyes. When everyone else is asleep, she pleads for her father to find them. To fix them. To take the fear away. But Ron Weasley is gone. Everyone else is leaving too. They think Hermione has lost her mind, think they're better off on their own. Eventually, there's only four of them left.

When her mother finally realizes that her husband isn't coming back, she drags herself out of bed. Rose is outside of the tent with Neville and Teddy when it happens. They're the only ones who haven't gone, the only ones who haven't abandoned hope. Her mother's hair is wild, her gait is steadfast. There's something in her eyes that's different – an emptiness. Madness, maybe.

"I'm going to kill them all," her mother says.

They believe it.

The Death Eaters are relentless. There is never a moment where they can breathe easily. Worry is thick in the air, suffocating them.

"Why are they following us like this?" Rose whispers.

Her mother takes pause, carefully considers the question. "One of two reasons," she says. "Did your uncle know about the fountain?"

Knots twist in her stomach. She's afraid to say the answer out loud. "Yes. He did."

Rose watches as her mother stares out into the night, dispirited. "That's why, then. He's hoping we'll lead him to it."

"And what if we do?" she questions, doubting herself, her mother, her mission.

"If it comes to that," her mother warns, "you run like the devil is on your heels. Get to the fountain. I'll kill him if I can."

"Do you think you can? He looks like the boy you grew up with. He might try to use that to his advantage. He might manipulate you."

"Oh, darling," her mother laughs. "You don't know me at all."

They're hunted like animals for the next year. No matter how far they get from Wizarding Britain, the Death Eaters are not far behind. Rose is doing everything in her power to find what they're looking for. All those years of research and she still has nothing to show for it. She knows the answer is here, in these macabre runes. Her days are spent scouring the text, over and over. Her nights are filled with fitful dreams of fountains spouting blood.

"Are you close?" her mother asks, once, after nearly a year on the run. It is the first time she has mentioned it in a long while. Rose is never pressed for answers – not by her mother.

"I… Yes… I think so…" Rose's voice sounds timid, even to her own ears.

They're encircled around a fire, somewhere in Scandinavia. The winter of their lives is eternal. Rose cannot remember the last time she was warm. Teddy shivers beside her, wrapped in blankets. He tries to pull them tighter but it's no use. This cold seeps through layers like acid.

Neville is beside her mother, one arm around her shoulders. Hermione is drawn close to him, drinking in his warmth. It is a sight Rose has grown used to. Oftentimes, when she sees them like this, she wonders if Neville is happy to have gained her mother by default. Sometimes she wonders if her father is rolling over in his grave, or whatever unmarked hole the Death Eaters buried him in. What would Hugo say if he could see his mother now?

"Leave the book by my bed," her mother says. "I want to look at it."

"Fine," Rose replies.

The fire spits embers between them.

"The Caribbean," her mother announces the next day. "I think it's in the Caribbean."

Rose stares, mortified. "I've been studying that book since before the war. From which part did you gather its location?"

"Nothing in this book has the answer," her mother tells her, handing the tome back to Rose like it's nothing more than an old copy of Hogwarts, A History. "But the Muggles have a similar story. Wizards call it The Fountain of Fair Fortune. Muggles call it The Fountain of Youth."

It takes months to make the journey to the Caribbean. Carefully plotted apparitions, broomsticks that they've charmed themselves, and illegal portkeys have led them to a warmer climate. Rose's mother insists on an erratic journey – they never travel from Point A to Point B in a straight line. They are always all over the map, hopping from here to there and back again. It keeps them one step ahead of the Death Eaters – it keeps the enemy guessing.

On the eve before the summer solstice, they're on a sandy beach eating roasted fish. The water nearby is a vast, clear turquoise. It's so clear that Rose can see fish swimming in it from metres away. It would be a lovely picture for the postcards if they weren't covered in sweat; with matted hair and blackish buildup under their fingernails. They're sinking their teeth into the flesh of the fish like starved animals, spitting out the bones like they can't eat fast enough. The yellowtail is sweet on Rose's tongue, delicate and succulent. She wants to savor it but she doesn't have the patience.

"What if it's not here?" Teddy asks, a long while later, when all the fish has been consumed and the sun is mere hours from rising. They were supposed to rest, to sleep, but none of them can.

"Then we're fucked," Neville answers confidently.

Her mother laughs, and the sound is so foreign to Rose's ears that she snaps her head over to watch, to make sure it's really happening. She has not laughed since before Hugo fell and Rose's father was lost. But there she is, staring up at the clear sky and the constellations above, genuinely laughing.

"Do you think we're in the right spot?" asks Rose, pulling her mother back to reality. "What if we're not? The fountain only accepts a worthy soul once a year."

"We won't know until we know," comes her mother's simple reply. "Get some sleep now. All of you."

It's an hour before daybreak. Teddy is fast asleep, calm. Neville's sleep is more fitful, but it always has been. Rose cannot sleep at all. Her mother has not moved in a long time, and very quietly, Rose lifts her head to check if she's awake.

"What is it, Rosie?" her mother asks. It brings tears to her eyes. That was her father's nickname for her.

"I'm afraid," she replies. She hadn't meant to say it, to be so blunt, so honest.

A few beats of silence pass. "What's coming will come," Rose's mother says, finally, "and we'll meet it when it does."

A thick silence follows.

"Mum," she says meekly, and she recognizes how childish it sounds.

Her mother hums a response.

"You mentioned once that I didn't know you at all." She turns her head, tries to garner her mother's reaction. "You were right."

There is a frown on her mother's face. "I suppose I was a bad mother, looking back at it. I was always distracted. Not involved enough."

"You weren't bad," Rose says, and she surprises herself. "You aren't bad. You were never a bad mum. But I was a terrible daughter. Am a terrible daughter."

"No you're not, Rose. You're a very good daughter and I'm proud to be your mother."

Rose can feel hot tears trickling down to her ears at that. She's not sure why she wanted to hear it, needed to hear it. "I was mad at you for a very long time," she confesses. "I used to be mad that you were simple and boring. Then I was mad at you because you were terrifying and powerful. I was mad that you were clever. More clever than I am. But I realize now that I've been mad at myself - mad that I wasn't more like you. I'm useless. A burden. You're the hero of this story. Not me."

"Merlin's beard, Rose," her mother exclaims, sitting up. "You are not useless and you most certainly are not a burden. You don't ever have to be anything other than who you are. That is enough in my eyes. Life is not a competition." Her eyes soften. They're not a blackish brown as Rose had originally thought – they're a deep chocolate, smooth and warm. "You're more like me than you realize." Rose gives her mother a skeptical look at that comment. "I have the advantage of age. I grew up in a time of war. My only goal was to survive, to make sure my children would never know the fear we felt back then. See? I'm not the perfect person you've created in your head. I've failed." A laugh bubbles out of her mother's mouth, though the look on her face says she doesn't think it's very funny at all. "That's my boggart – did I ever tell you? Failure."

Rose laughs when she hears it, wipes away her tears. "It's mine, too." Her mother smiles, a perfect row of white teeth. It hurts to see her mother smile, hurts because she's scared she'll never see that smile again. "I'm afraid," she says again. "I wish I wasn't. I wish I was different."

"Bravery isn't the absence of fear, Rose. Bravery is running directly at danger even though you're afraid." There's a pause after that. Rose wonders what her mother is thinking. "I used to be like you," she adds. "I dreamt of being a different person."

Her mother's eyes move skyward. Rose wonders if she's dreaming what she used to dream, if she's seeing the girl she wanted to be somewhere in the stars. "I wanted to be someone wild," her mother says. "Someone free."

Overnight, a wall has erected itself. An endless slew of plants, branches, thorns. It stretches wide around them, higher than them, too. The vines awake with the sun, stretch their limbs as the light envelopes them. The four of them are standing in front of the ruins, squinting in heat, watching as a crack of light appears. They do not try to blast their way through it as it parts. Her mother thinks nature will reclaim them if they do. They're cast in shadow before the wall.

Rose steps forward, holds her arms out, waits for the plant to reach out and grab her. It doesn't.

It reaches for her mother instead.

The booming claps of apparition startle her even though she was expecting it. The Death Eaters are zooming toward them. Maybe they were there the whole time; waiting in silence. Rose grabs onto her mother. Neville does too. Teddy throws up a shield just in time to protect them all – he grabs onto Neville's leg. The vines are pulling her mother – pulling all of them – through the impenetrable wall of razor-sharp leaves. A hand wraps around Rose's ankle and she thinks maybe Teddy lost his grip, tried to grab onto Rose while he could. But it isn't Teddy. A hand clad in leather is gripping her so tight she can feel pins and needles prickling down her leg.

Rose yells, tries to kick him off. It's no use. Death Eaters swarm over them like bees, wasps, grabbing whatever limbs they can. Who knows how many are getting pulled through the wall with them? The vines drag them onwards – the darkness feels like it's never going to end. Rose can feel her face and arms getting sliced, flesh ripping on thorns and god knows what else.

The wall spits them out on the other side. Rose can feel blood trickling down her chin to her neck. She has no time to think; the Death Eaters are already on their feet. Neville and Teddy are struggling to stand. Teddy is bleeding heavily from his leg. Her mother is upright, wand out. She brandishes it like a whip and the Death Eaters are lifted clean off of their feet. Some fall back, hit the wall hard. The vines wrap around their throats, tightens like a vice. They try to kick their feet but it only makes it worse. A mask falls off of one of them – Scorpius is bathed in sunlight. His face is turning purple. Rose turns away, sick.

The remaining Death Eaters clear a path. He's there – a face that used to comfort her. It's different now. His features are skeletal, snakelike.

"Run, Rose," her mother says. "Neville, Ted – go. He's mine."

Astonishingly, they bow before they begin. They maintain eye contact and bend at the waist – a form of respect. Rose is surprised by it, confused by it. They still acknowledge each other as a worthy foe, even through all of this death and war. They've taken so much away from one another, done everything they could to make the other miserable. And still they bow.

"Come on," calls Neville. Teddy pulls her, pushes her down the hill. He's limping, there's a big blackened stain on his robes, right over his leg. She almost loses her footing as she rushes down. The Death Eaters follow behind like an avalanche. Spells are whizzing past her ears. She can't think, can't do anything but run-run-run. Her heart is thumping in her ears. Voldemort and her mother are still dueling, it's all she can hear over the shouting behind her.

A sound like a nuclear bomb goes off and she wrenches her chin up to the sky. Her mother and Voldemort are overhead, flying without brooms. Rose has heard tales throughout childhood of great and terrible minds who taught themselves to fly without aid. She has heard Harry talk of Voldemort, and Severus Snape, who could leave the ground from sheer will. Dark, dark magic, he said.

Magic that her mother has mastered.

The two great foes crash down in front of them like a comet; the impact forms a crater in the earth.

"Go!" her mother cries. Fire erupts from the tip of her wand. At first, it's no bigger than the stroke a match – but it grows, twists, forms into a herd of monstrous beasts – it's fiendfyre. The flames gallop toward her and Rose yells, but they leap straight over her. They fall upon the Death Eaters and she can hear screaming. The smell of burning flesh coils into her nose and makes her cough. The screaming reaches a fever pitch – and then suddenly they're quieted. The flames disappear in a cloud of ashy smoke. Rose refuses to look behind, doesn't want to see what has become of her hunters.

Neville and Teddy grab her by the arms, pull her onward. Blood is still seeping from her forehead, slipping down her neck to her shoulder. They run until they can't anymore. They hit the air in front of them like it's a solid wall. Something is stopping them. "No!" Rose cries. "It can't be!"

It's Neville Longbottom who points it out – a crude rune carved in the dirt. White worms and maggots burrow through the crevices. The symbol is deep. It translates to one simple word: Pain.

Rose falls to her knees, tries to remember the story. She wipes the tears from her eyes and rubs it into the earth. It's doesn't work. "Tears," she tells her companions, desperately. "That's what the story said. The worm wanted pain and they fed the earth tears. I don't understand." Blood trickles down to the bridge of her nose. A heavy drop lingers there before it falls. The blood from her cuts saturate the soil. The earth is pleased. The ward collapses; truth is more terrifying than fiction.

They move on, uphill. There are two more runes in the ground. "Labour's fruit," she calls as they run over it – and run. And run.

They run for an eternity. The muscles in her legs feel so tight she worries they'll snap. Her heart is skipping beats, palpitating from exhaustion. She wonders if she'll collapse. The ground is far below them but there is no end to the hill in sight. A fog has set in – or clouds, maybe. She cannot tell which. Teddy is stumbling beside her, holding the palm of his hand to the wound on his leg. "If anything happens," he struggles out, pale as snow, "you two keep going. Don't stop."

She tries to cheer him on, hangs her head so the sweat will drop. It doesn't work.

It isn't until Teddy falls that the fruit of their labour is paid. His leg gives out. Rose tries to grab him as he rolls past her but it happens too fast. He hits the ground below them with a horrible sound. "Teddy!" she cries, sobbing, but the figure below doesn't move. "We have to go back down," she calls to Neville.

Neville's hand is tight on her arm before she can turn – gripping so hard it's bruising. "We keep going," he commands. She tries to argue but he silences her. "It was an artery," he tells her. "He didn't survive that fall. If he did, he'd be dead by the time we get down there anyway. We keep moving."

Half-sobbing, she lets Neville guide her. There's a path off the left that wasn't there before. The steep hill evens out when they take it, the ground is level now. She leans all of her weight on Neville; he's thin and malnourished but so much stronger than he looks. He holds her up as she walks. Like a child, Rose calls for her mother. She doesn't care if Neville can hear her. "Mum," she sobs. "Mum? Where are you?" Only silence and echoes greet her.

She collapses when they reach the stream (or was it a river?), an endless babbling brook. A rune lay before it. "Treasure," she tells Neville. "It wants the treasure of our past." She puts her wand to her temple and tries to think. Scorpius is clear in her mind, his features so vivid she feels like she can reach out and touch him. The tip of her wand draws him out, a silver thread.

"What did you use?" Neville asks, and she opens her mouth to reply.

But she can't remember.

"I don't know," she says, dazed. "But it must have been something important." And she drops it into the river. The current washes it away.

"Maybe you need to do it, too?" she wonders. Neville puts his own wand to his temple. "What are you going to use?" she asks.

"Hannah," he says, and the strand stretches out as he pulls, breaks free from his skin and dangles over the water.

"Won't you miss her too much?" asks Rose.

"Miss who?" he asks, curiously, and the memory falls off his wand. It lingers, floats atop the water, until it too is washed away.

"I suppose we cross now," she tells Neville. They tread into the water. She thinks they'll make it until the current turns. The river sucks them under, spinning like a whirlpool. She tries to claw her way to the surface but she can't. There is no air in her lungs, nothing to sustain her. Desperately, she points her wand to her lips, tries to cast a bubblehead charm. It doesn't work. Neville is beside her, kicking like mad. Bubbles escape his mouth in huge bursts. She wonders if he's trying to scream. He clutches at his throat, stares at her as they sink deeper. He inhales deep; a reflex. His body convulses once, twice. And then he's still.

There is a pressure in her head. Black spots and white lights appear and disappear before her eyes. She's losing consciousness. Her desire to fight is waning. Giving up seems easier.

But then, miraculously, two ropes appear. They dance down through the water like charmed snakes. She wraps her hands around one when it's close enough, holds it tight. Suddenly she's moving. She can feel the rush of water against her skin as she's pulled, feels the wind on her face when she breaches the surface. She gasps, inhales. Her lungs sting from the shock. She spits up a pint of saltwater before she even realizes who her rescuer is. It's her mother.

"Neville?" she asks, but from the look on her face, she already knows the answer.

"Gone," Rose coughs out. An emotion flickers across her face that Rose can't decipher. "Where is he?" she sputters, still coughing. "You-know-who?"

"Distracted," her mother tells her. "Though not for much longer, I suspect." It's curious, the way her mother can stay calm in the wake of such despair. "What did you give it?" she asks. "The water. What did you offer it? Did you use Scorpius?"

"Who's that?" Rose responds, baffled.

Her mother evaluates the water; guarded, suspicious. "What did Neville use?"

"Hannah, I think."

"And it didn't work." It's not a question. Her mother is working it out in her mind, putting the pieces together in a way Rose never could. Uncle Harry told her once, long ago, that her mother's mind was like the staircases in Hogwarts. Always moving, always connecting. Always showing them where they needed to go. "What sort of magic lies within this fountain? And is it worth it?"

Rose knows she's not meant to answer that question. It is something her mother is asking herself. She is mulling over her options. "The story says the fountain has no magical powers. Do you think that's true?"

"No, Rose. I think there is a powerful magic within that fountain. I think the end to that story was a farce. For this fountain to be protected by such dark magic, there is certainly a spell upon that water. Or a curse."

A silence stretches.

A loud noise in the distance, behind them, worries Rose. Whatever the sound is, it's drawing closer. "Mum?"

"I know what it wants," says her mother, solemnly. "But I'm not giving that up."

Rose tries to argue. Her mother refuses to hear it. "Don't you see, Rose? Whoever got to this point turned away. They said the fountain had no magic because they realized that the cost of getting to it wasn't worth the price. What's the point of living if you lose what you're living for?"

"I don't understand," she says, quietly. But for once, she thinks she does. "What does it want?"

"The treasure of my past," answers her mother. "A mother's love. It wants you, and Hugo. I won't give it that."

"Oh," she says, and she realizes then that she's crying. Her tears fall, not from fear, but because she knows what must be done. And it hurts to have to do this, but she understands her purpose in this story after all. "You told us once, Mum," Rose reminds, and - despite her fear - an eerie calm makes her capable. She wonders if this is what bravery feels like. "Sometimes the end justifies the means."

Her mother looks down at the wand pointed at her in shock. "No!" is all she can say, but it's too late. Rose has already invaded her mind.

The memories of Rose and Hugo are a deep and endless well in her mother's mind. They rush past Rose's eyes in segments. Her mother's life is a roll of film on fast-forward.

She takes only what she needs. She tears the memories away from her mother, one by one – key memories. Her wedding, their births; the mundane and cherished memories of her children. She takes them all. The silver strands snap away from her mother's temple like rubber bands. When she's done, cupped in her palm is a puddle of swirling silver.

"Who are you?" her mother gasps when Rose is done. There is a vinewood wand pointed between Rose's eyes.

"I'm a friend," she says. The weight of what she has done is heavy on her chest. "I'm here to help you. Do you know your name?"

"Of course I know my name," her mother snaps. "Hermione… Granger."

"Do you know where you are? And why you're here?"

"I'm going to find the Fountain of Fair Fortune," her mother says, determinedly. "I have to get to it before Voldemort does." Her brown eyes stare across the water, confused. "But something was stopping me…" Her mother looks down at Rose's hand. "What is that?"

"Payment," is all Rose says, and she lets her mother's treasured past slip through her fingers and into the water below. Giant rocks rise from the deep waters, creating a jagged path across. Something else rises in the distance, too. Rose can see it. It's enormous, bejeweled. The water it spouts glimmers in the sun like gold. "Go, Hermione," Rose tells her, the name sounding foreign on her lips. "I'll hold him off."

With one last odd look over her shoulder, her mother starts leaping from stone to stone. She's almost to the other side when Rose hears the snap of twigs behind her. Uncle Harry is looking down at her. A jet of green comes at her and she dodges it, lunges at him like a rabid animal. He waves his hand and it stops her in mid-air, throws her onto the ground. Something in her side breaks; a rib, maybe two. She looks across the water, her mother has reached the other side. She's close, so close to the fountain. Voldemort makes a move to jump to the first rock. Rose catches him around the ankle.

He falls, lands on his elbow, but then he's up on his feet again. Rose, too, rises. She faces him, stares him down. His eyes are blood red. The sight of his eyes in her Uncle's face used to terrify her, used to keep her awake at night.

"Foolish girl," he laughs, and it's a cruel sound. "You're a fly in a web." He raises the elder wand.

Behind him, she can see her mother on the other side, a silhouette in the sun, teetering on the edge of the fountain.

"Oh, darling," she laughs. "You don't know me at all." She runs at him, throws all of her weight into him. They fall together, hit the water. The current turns. The river sucks them under.

The last thing she sees as her head sinks below the surface is her mother, far in the distance. Her arms are outstretched as she lowers herself into the fountain.

She looks wild.

She looks free.