—CHAPTER FIFTEEN—

"Up you get, sleepyhead," Ginny said, drawing the curtains. Bright mid-day light streamed into their bedroom. Harry recoiled like a vampire. "Viktor is going to be here in half an hour. And Teddy and Victoire wanted to come round for dinner. Busy day."

Hardly a busy day, Harry thought. That he needed to be coaxed into these commitments was humiliating. He had once been the Head of the Auror Department. Now he was hardly managing to get through the day without a drink or a potion.

They were back in their house with the red front door and high hedges. They were back inside their house where Albus' bedroom remained untouched.

"I don't think I can deal with Viktor coming over today," he mumbled.

"He's come from Bulgaria, Harry," Ginny said sternly. "You agreed to meet him. Get up and shower."

There were times, particularly in the early days when they were first dating or first married, where Ginny would treat him like some broken thing. The way a person might behave around a bird with a broken wing or a fragile china cup tarnished with cracks and chips. It never failed to frustrate him.

For instance, when they were eighteen, Harry had been hanging about the Burrow—as he often had in the summers following the Second Wizarding War—and Ginny had teased Ron by collecting a fat, brown spider on the end of her broomstick in the backyard shed. She kept jousting it closer to her brother's stricken face while he yelped and screamed at her to get it away. Harry had laughed shamelessly until enough was enough and he snatched the broom out of her hand and shook the spider into the grass outside.

"Why can't you be a man like Harry, hm?" Ginny had teased, using this as an excuse to wrap her arms around her boyfriend's skinny waist. She was young and wily, long red hair flowing over her shoulders, and she was his.

"I'm perfectly alright with being a bloody wuss, aren't I?" Ron had yelped at his sister, still pale and jittery. "He grew up locked in a bloody cupboard with a bunch of spiders as his best mates, didn't he?"

Harry had laughed. Ginny hadn't.

"What?" she had asked.

"It's true. I used to talk out loud to them," Harry replied, running his hand over her back. "They were like my pets."

Ginny had dropped the theatrics immediately. She drew away from him to study his face and Harry's smile quickly faded. Her brown eyes held the same crippling concern that Mrs Weasley often aimed at him.

They spent the rest of the afternoon up in her bedroom, in what quickly descended into an argument as Harry became more and more resistant to her concern. Ginny tried to clarify the effects of spending the first eleven years of his life locked inside of a dark cupboard beneath the stairs of Number Four Privet Drive and how he had neglected to ever mention this to her. Harry couldn't understand why she wouldn't drop it—such an unremarkable detail about his miserable childhood—nor why she had gotten so upset that she had worked herself into tears. Ginny, who never seemed to cry, crying over something so stupid!

Other occasions followed. When they first moved in together, Ginny had been sincerely impressed with what a competent cook Harry was. She had never cooked for herself when living at home or Hogwarts and was a little hopeless at it, to begin with. By comparison, Harry was a pro.

"Where'd you learn to do all this?" she asked, amused, on their third morning in their new home.

"It's not hard, Ginny."

"Still. You can do the eggs and bacon and pancakes all at the same time without using magic."

Harry started laughing over the stove.

"The Dursleys made me cook for them," he said, flipping the bacon expertly.

With his back to her, he couldn't see the face she made at the mention of them. She stood up and wound her way around him, trying to grasp the spatula out of his thin hands.

"Let me take over."

"No, you'll just burn everything," he said, giving her a light shove.

"You've made breakfast three days in a row."

Harry slid the pancakes onto a plate and pointed her towards the cream and jams on their shelf as a distraction. She relented begrudgingly, still watching him.

"I don't mind," he insisted. "At least here I get to eat what I cook."

He could never get away with saying these sorts of things lightly. For some reason, Hermione and Ron never jumped on him the way Ginny did. She had given him that look, the baleful brown eyes. She had immediately followed up with, "they wouldn't let you eat?"

Following a two-hour quarrel about the extent to which Harry had been subjected to intentional starvation by his aunt and uncle, Ginny started on the relentless doting. They would be in the middle of decorating their study or unboxing bedroom belongings when she would suddenly put everything down and walk over to him, wrapping her arms around him as if they had received news that a loved one had died. For weeks after that row, she insisted on cooking every meal no matter how terribly they turned out. He hated these shows of devotion and wished she would just be normal.

The oddest incident had been during the middle of a particularly rough and playful romp, only a few months before they had conceived James Sirius. Ginny had been on top of him, very keen on shagging him (they had been on a double-date with Hermione and Ron earlier that night, he remembered, messing about discreetly under the dinner table and Hermione had noticed, had immediately called for the check and told them both to get a room). Ginny had wrapped her hands around his throat and asked him whether he liked the pressure. For some reason, perhaps out of tipsiness from the wine or perhaps because he was just thick, he replied by saying "I dunno, the only person who's choked me before is Uncle Vernon and that wasn't exactly kinky."

It killed the mood. He couldn't look her in the eyes without seeing Mrs Weasley.

She spent the rest of the night insisting that they talk about it. He was beginning to realise that these weren't arguments. She was suffering on his behalf. Hearing the dismal details of his childhood pained her. His response was to dismiss it, to argue against what she was saying, to defy her wish to talk it out. He hated the attention. After all, Harry had survived the traumas of his life by avoiding bringing attention to himself. When he grew exhausted by ducking and weaving her questions, Ginny had pulled him into her lap and cradled his body the way you cradle a child, the way he had never been cradled. He resented her a little for doing it. He resented himself for bringing these details up. He resented the way that she touched him as if he were breakable for weeks afterwards.

What he would give now to have her treat him as if he was broken. With Albus missing, with the colossal feeling of failure hanging over him like a guillotine, he would happily sacrifice his pride to be coddled and nursed. He had slept through New Years. The thought of sitting up with Ron, Hermione, his wife and their family at their home was impossible. The kids had been missing for almost two weeks. He felt as if he had aged several years in that time.

Harry showered and dressed. The potion cabinet in the bathroom, hidden behind the mirror, had been discretely emptied days before. No Draught of Peace or Sleeping Potion. If Ginny was refusing to coddle him, it was a sign.

Viktor came around just afternoon. They sat on the back veranda in the cool winter air, two cups of steaming tea on the table and two ham sandwiches because that is all their rations could afford.

"Should I say Happy New Year?" Viktor asked as they settled down after a brisk handshake.

Harry scoffed a little and did his best to stretch an ironic smile over his face. He buried his fingers in his beard and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Do you know what they're calling this year?"

"Vat?"

"Year Zero."

Viktor smiled tightly and then sighed.

"Staring over," Harry clarified, without needing to. Viktor's portkey had been marked for Hogsmeade, as he had wanted to be somewhere familiar when he first arrived in Britain. He would have seen the empty shop fronts, the remaining homeless sleeping in gutted stores, the ash buried in the grooves between cobblestones.

"I do not understand vhy the goblins targeted only Britain."

It occurred to Harry how little media they had been able to get out in the last year or so.

"They were after the Sword of Gryffindor."

"Vat? Not vands?"

"They got the wands too, not that they were ever able to use them," Harry sighed. "It was all some sort of revenge plot."

"Vell, it's over now. Year zero, yes?" Viktor tried to smile but his heavy brow cast shadows over his eyes. Harry was thinking of Albus, Rose and Scorpius. He wanted to explain that it wasn't over. Their children were out there somewhere trying to fulfil a prophecy, if they were still alive.

"So, the Quidditch match," Harry said, clasping his hands together.

"You vant Bulgaria to play?"

"A charity match."

"Of course," Viktor said immediately. "I vill play. Vill you as well?"

"Me?"

Viktor shrugged and picked up his sandwich in his large hands. A few fingers were bent crooked from how many items they had been broken. He finished the first half in a few bites. Harry wondered if this was another of Ginny's ploys to keep him busy. Had she put Viktor up to this?

"Kind of you to ask but I'm not a Quidditch star, Viktor."

"You vould draw the crowd," he said bluntly.

That much was true. He said he would think about it. His head was throbbing as if he did have a New Year's hangover. Their children were risking their lives and all he could do to help rebuild humanity was play in a charity Quidditch game. The ham sandwich made him feel nauseous.

"Right. I suppose we'll do it, then."

Romnuk had developed the habit of thumping his gnarled stump of a right arm into the palm of his left hand. He did this methodically, rhythmically. When they were trekking, when they were resting, when they were pausing to find their bearings. The slap of skin on skin made them edgy, but none as edgy as Rose. Whenever he would start doing this, her shoulders would slowly creep up until they were close to her ears.

They had been walking for six hours through heavy snow. Romnuk had led them away from the marked path through an arduous off-track hike. After the first few hours of trekking, they cleared an incredible view of the valley. The dark mountains surrounding them were veined with white snow. The thick serpentine lake twisting below through the valley shone silver as a mirror. It was breathtaking but they didn't stop to admire the view. They didn't have much daylight and needed to move as quickly as possible.

Romnuk was not a very verbose tour guide. He walked ahead of the group in complete silence, except for the occasional slap of his arm against his hand. It made Rose nervous. He was disturbingly lucid after over a week of being subdued and controlled. While still under instructions of her Imperius Curse, she didn't feel confident now that their journey was in his hands.

They stopped briefly to eat some lunch and rest. The boys took off their boots and began healing their blisters with their wands. Their breath came in chilly puffs like dragon steam. Romnuk sat on a nearby rock, unaffected by the cold, his eyes studying Rose blankly. She stared back at him. He wasn't meeting her gaze. He was studying her hands, the one that loosely held her wand, the other than was wrapped around the strap of her mother's beaded bag.

She nudged Albus gently with her knee as he laced on his boots. When she caught his attention, she nodded her head towards Romnuk. The goblin gang leader sat still on his rick as if he had been hewn out of it.

"He hasn't done anything, Rose," Albus frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. There was something more to that look, Rose felt. Something that said, stop being paranoid.

She couldn't help being paranoid though. How did they know Romnuk wasn't leading them into a trap? How did they know he wasn't taking them in the wrong direction?

Rose took a seat beside them on a low boulder. Despite her layers, the cold was eating at her with sharp piranha teeth. Standing still made it worse. At least when she was moving, she couldn't feel it.

Scorpius stared for a few beats at Romnuk before turning to Rose and tapping his wrist twice. Let's go, he seemed to be saying. It was as if he had read her mind. Maybe he was reading her mind. He couldn't communicate verbally but he was a gifted Legilimens. Maybe he was relying on reading her that way seeing as they could not have a conversation. On the other hand, Scorpius was highly perceptive. Maybe he was just paying attention.

They kept moving. They were descending, moving downward over a steep and rocky path. While this may not have been as difficult as trekking uphill, the extreme descent slowed them down. As it was beginning to get too dark to see, Romnuk ground to a halt.

"Trolls," he muttered. He pointed down along the winding banks of the lake. Clouds reflected off the motionless water, drifting by in their mirrored grey reflection. The scenery was still. At first, they saw nothing in the evening shadows. Then, after focusing their eyes on the sparse tree-line by the lake, they saw what looked to be several large boulders walking. Romnuk gazed down at them and clucked his tongue. He thumped his clubbed hand against his open left palm, the way he used to do with his hammer.

"We better make camp. There is at least twelve of them down there. We should wait until they move on."

"How far are we from the Goblin Kingdom?" Albus asked.

"A few hours. Maybe four at most," Romnuk replied. He pointed the gnarled finger of his left hand to trace the lake, winding it along until he then pointed to a long protruding ledge that jutted out of the rock face like a tongue. "See that? Beneath that rock?"

It still looked like a far distance away. Now that it was growing dark, they had no choice but to find a place to camp. Romnuk insisted on taking the lead once more, rooting around along the rock face on a dangerous ledge and waving them over once he reached the other side.

Rose stood still, arms crossed. They had now lit their wands in the gloom. The ledge they needed to cross fell steeply into the gorge. This felt like a trap.

"I'd rather we take our chances and keep moving," she murmured. "The sooner we get there, the better."

"I don't want to risk a run in with twelve trolls in the dark," Albus snapped back. He shifted his wand irritably in his grip and kicked the heel of his boot into the snow. If Albus was snapping, then the long day of trekking had successfully worn down their patience. "Just trust him a little, won't you? Trust the Imperius he's under at the very least."

They took it in turns to make their way across the ledge. The ice made it difficult to get a grip on the rock. Rose forced herself not to look down. Her heart jumped in her chest every time her foot slid on the ice. When they had all reached the other side, they saw that Romnuk had moved on some distance to find a crevice in the rocks.

They peered into the cave. It was cramped and damp like the earth had formed a mausoleum for them to crawl into and die. They would have to lie down, packed in tightly with little wriggle room.

Scorpius gripped Rose's arm firmly. She turned to look at him. He stared at her with his intense grey eyes. He gave his head the slightest tilt to the right.

Her memory dipped back to two years earlier, when they were fifteen years old and beginning their prefect patrols. It wasn't a single moment of recollection but a surge of merging memories. She had been late—as usual—and Scorpius was still locked into his silence, unable to communicate beyond clipped hellos at best. Clearly agitated that she had forgotten once again when their shift started. Walking with his thumbs in his pockets. Twitching towards her to speak and then promptly shutting his mouth.

She had no understanding or empathy. She translated his silences as standoffishness, as weirdness, as rudeness. He could occasionally be those things. Often he wasn't being those things. He just didn't have the words and she had too many, she had words to spare.

Since then, Rose had come to value the way Scorpius communicated. It wasn't often in words. It wasn't even in his impassive facial expressions. It was those deliberate, non-verbal gestures. Now, unable to use his tongue to speak, Rose was glad that she had slowly picked up on his more subtle language. Now, as he grabbed her arm deliberately and twitched his head, she understood what this gesture meant. He let Romnuk enter first, then Albus, and then he let go of Rose so he could crawl into the cave next. She would be the last to enter, the furthest away from the goblin she so despised and the nearest to their exit.

Albus extracted their sleeping bags from Rose's little beaded bag. Scorpius' attention was diverted elsewhere once more, unrolling the quilted material beside Albus. They kneeled. Only Romnuk could stand in the cave without needing to stoop.

Rose conjured bluebell flames in a jar for some heat and light. In the flickering halo of the cobalt flames, he began to thump his stump of an arm against the palm of his hand again. It was like a metronome or a clock. A steady beat. He stared at Rose with blank eyes. She stared back at him.

She may be able to read her lover but she could not read her enemy.

They had chosen to open the Three Broomsticks late on New Year's Day. The morning had been spent counting their profits and cleaning up the evidence of the previous night's revelries. It was not as if they expected many patrons with everyone nursing their hangovers. The launch had gone well and one surprising outcome had been a meeting with Ginny Weasley about the charity Quidditch match that was now heavily rumoured to be occurring in weeks to come.

That's where the girls were on the first day of January. They were off chasing a business deal. They were off pitching the possibility of a food truck or event catering or whatever other schemes they had concocted. Zabini was staying out of it. He was the hired help. He was just the bloke who manned the bar.

They opened around three in the afternoon, leaving Zabini to look after the place. Despite the fact there was zero pressure and little prospect of any customers, he couldn't shake the tightness in his chest. The main street of Hogsmeade was a bereft snow globe without any figurines. He stared out the window listlessly as the flurries went by, cleaning the dirty glasses from last night by hand. He wasn't great with a cleaning charm and had a habit of shattering the glasses when trying to wash by wand. He was doing it the muggle way. He had the time to kill anyway.

He had thought that being a bartender would mean more sex. The tips were good and he was getting a lot of attention from girls. He had a few regulars who would come throughout the week just to see him. They had nowhere to invite him back to and the withering look Alice would send his way curbed even the suggestion of bringing them upstairs to his attic bedroom. The limping rhythm of the day made him miss the relationship he had once had with Imogen. They were never in love but at least they could rely on one another for a regular shag.

The bell over the door chimed as a witch walked in. She was dark-skinned like Zabini, long dreadlocks draped like ropes over a khaki green men's coat. Older than he was, he guessed, maybe thirty. She wasn't fit—in fact, she looked almost sickly with drawn in cheekbones and dull eyes—but that didn't matter. The place was empty for once and he perked up on her entrance. Something about her reeked of desperation and it made him hopeful.

"Happy new year," he said in a droll tone. The girls had insisted he behave festively should customers come in. "Fancy a drink?"

Her dark eyes were roving over the menu behind him.

"Not much variety," she said brusquely.

Zabini raised one eyebrow and turned his head to look at the well-stocked shelves. It wasn't like there were any other bars around offering a selection of alcohol.

"Of food, I meant," she clarified.

"Just pumpkin soup, I'm afraid."

"I'll have it along with a firewhiskey, thanks."

She fished around in the pockets of her oversized coat for the gold. Zabini accepted it. He noticed that inked beneath her four knuckles, on each finger, were letters tattooed against her dark skin. He couldn't read them with how quickly she returned her hands to her pockets.

"It's just me," Zabini said as he dumped her coins into the register. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured her a glass, not breaking eye contact. "I'll be back in a second with the soup."

She smirked, taking a seat at the bar. He slid her drink across to her and she cradled it in her hands. He could finally read the tattoos across her fingers. They spelt out:

WO L F.

Tacky, he thought. Still, she had the look of a feral creature that had become jaded in captivity. A trained Hippogriff that had escaped a circus. Under the emaciated face was a fiery look that he didn't mind at all. On closer inspection, she looked younger than he had originally guessed. Maybe in her mid-twenties.

He ducked into the kitchen to retrieve the soup from its pot. He grabbed a few toasted slices of bread. She looked hungry and Zabini liked seeing that others were satisfied.

He came back out with her food and set it on the counter. It was toasty in the pub and sweat had gathered along her upper lip. She hadn't removed her jacket. He wanted to point out that he had installed small hooks under the bar so people could hang their cloaks or bags. It had been Isabella's off-hand suggestion when she had complained about how there was no place to put your cloak when you sat on a barstool. Zabini had made the hardware addition but Isabella had never noticed. Before he could make the suggestion to this new customer, she spoke.

"Quiet day?"

He was surprised that she was making small talk. He had never been good at it.

"Er, yeah. I suppose everyone's sleeping in after New Year's."

"Oh, Merlin. I forgot that it was New Year's Day," she barked out a laugh.

He studied her thin face for a moment and wondered if she was an addict. His mother had been and something about the hollowed out look of this woman's face reminded him of her. The thought made his sternum ache like someone was trying to crack his chest so he pushed it out of mind.

"Any new year's resolutions?" she asked him.

"Don't do new year's resolutions."

"Why not?"

He shrugged coolly and folded his arms along the counter.

"Can't commit to a goal?" she guessed. She ripped off a chunk of bread to dip into her soup. It was a jibe, he realised. Maybe it was her way of flirting. A lot of people flirted that way—by being rude or condescending. He was well versed in it.

"I think I've already ticked off all the goals on my list," he said, totally honestly. He was working in a bar, he had a place to live. Really, what else had he wanted after he got out of Hogwarts?

"All of them?" she said sceptically.

Here was his opening. He smiled the smile that smouldered and leaned across the bar, dropping his voice a little, although no one else was around. "I could put you on the list."

He felt a familiar bite of annoyance as she leaned away. Her spoon clattered in the bowl. She let out a howl of laughter.

It took all his restraint not to snap at her. As if he was the one to be rejected. He wanted to tell her that she would be lucky if anyone even spared her a look. Her emaciated face was like something out of Azkaban.

She was laughing in earnest, though.

"Does that work?"

"It usually would," he replied, clipped.

"Sorry, mate. I'm truly flattered but I'm afraid we play for the same team."

She was still laughing. His ire faded as understanding took its place. He leaned back on the bar again, crossing his arms. He studied her with curiosity. He wondered if there was a way to know. He had never guessed it with Lim and certainly couldn't make sense of it with Isabella.

"I can't seem to catch a break," he said, chuckling a little hollowly.

She smiled warmly and picked up her soupspoon again.

"Surely I'm an anomaly," she said generously. He didn't know what that word meant but didn't ask. He was already feeling the heat of humiliation on his face. "You must get your pick of any girl you'd fancy."

He couldn't understand why he wanted to confide in her. There was something safe confiding in a stranger, especially one that he now knew would not sleep with him. "Would you believe the last girl I slept with only did so to see whether she's a lesbian?"

The customer's dull eyes widened at this confession and she slowly put her spoon down again. She was supressing a smirk. "I can't believe any man would test his ego in that way," she replied. "Well, was she?"

"She couldn't say," he replied, troubled.

"Maybe take that as a compliment?" she offered.

He continued to scowl. There was no one to discuss Isabella with and he hated that he even wanted to discuss it. He was usually so detached after sex. The roles had somehow reversed. Isabella was the one acting as if nothing had happened as if she was completely unbothered while he couldn't let it go. A very cynical voice in the back of his mind wondered if this was the effect of the unicorn's spilled blood. A half life? A cursed life.

"Do you fancy her?" she asked with sympathy.

The heat still peaked high in his cheekbones. If only he was allowed to drink on the job.

"Of course not. She used to fancy me."

"You seem down about it."

"She seemed unsatisfied. You have to understand, I am a very good fuck," he said, meeting this woman's eye. She raised both her eyebrows to signal her disbelief. He felt the need to go on. "It's sort of the only thing I'm good at."

He took a moment to explain it all to her, covering his early friendship with Isabella and their subsequent falling out, how he had always resisted having sex with her because she had been so obsessively in love with him. She had been at his mercy and under his control. She would even do his homework for him. As he spoke, it dawned on him that he was living in some mirrored version of reality where everything was inverted. Zabini was working for Isabella. They had had meaningless sex and Isabella had gone about her life as if nothing had happened, just as he normally would have.

Cursed life, indeed.

The more he talked to this stranger, the more he felt the need to explain himself. She sat patiently and non-judgmentally, listening without interruption. He went so far to explain how he had shagged Isabella, giving a play-by-play of each move to get her opinion, as someone who should, "be an expert on female pleasure."

She laughed throatily and pushed her now empty bowl towards Zabini.

"It sounds like you are good," she agreed. "Did it ever occur to you that you're so bothered because you feel used?"

He was stunned by this response. "But it was my idea."

She shrugged. "Do you want to hear what I think?"

He nodded, leaning in again, and rubbed his sternum absentmindedly. She smiled and leaned in, too. It was almost conspiratorial. He could see all the burst vessels in her eyes, that's how close they were.

"What you want is human connection. You want love. You gave that girl more than just meaningless sex and her response has left you feeling lonelier than ever."

He stared at her, feeling the warmth and heat of the conversation leaving his amber eyes. He was drawing himself back again, collecting her dirty bowl and empty glass for the sink.

"Am I wrong?" she asked.

"Without a doubt," he replied.

"I don't think I am, though."

He put the plates in the sink with a clatter, composing his face before turning back to her with a cool look. "You are though. It's impossible for me to love."

She squinted at him incredulously. There was something so familiar about her face. It was as if he had seen a mask of it before, somewhere else.

"Why is that?"

"There's no point telling you my deep, dark pain if you won't even sleep with me."

"I'm sure the deep, dark pain works wonders with women usually," she said, matching his cool tone. She stood up and leaned right over the bar now. Her tattooed hands were splayed on the counter. Her eyes were a little less dull. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I have deep, dark pain, too."

She stood up and tucked her hands back into her pockets.

The entire interaction had left him oddly moved. There was that tightness in his chest that he had been feeling over the last few weeks, sometimes so asphyxiating that he was convinced someone had hexed him. Someone had replaced his lungs with weak party balloons.

As she was about to leave, he couldn't help himself call out, "You never said what your new year's resolution was!"

She gave him a wary look, her smile dampening. "It's always the same," she said, one hand on the door. "Surviving."

Rose woke with a start. The little blue flame was no longer lit and the complete darkness was disorientating. Something was rustling nearby. She went rigid the way a rodent might play dead. Her ears pricked intently. Fabric moving on fabric. Ragged breathing. She picked it up over the more rhythmic breath of Albus and Scorpius. They had fallen asleep. They had all nodded off and no one was on watch.

As she strained her ears, she noticed another sound further away, coming from outside of their cave. Something crunching through the snow, the way a giant might crunch bones between his teeth. It was loud but distant. The rummaging closer at hand was getting more fervid. Her fingers curled around her wand.

A chink of metal.

She was trapped in the stifling heat of her sleeping bag, the musky smell of her sweat entombed inside of it. Her clenched her wand in her fist. She tried to very gently wriggle it up without making any obvious movements. She wanted to appear as if she were still asleep to retain some element of surprise. She shouldn't have trapped herself inside this bleeding sleeping bag in the first place. It felt like a sarcophagus or a straitjacket. Metal clinked against stone, closer to her now. Her eyes, half-open beneath her eyelashes, strained to make out the shadowy shape leaning over her. She could smell rank breath.

With a slash, she ripped her wand out of her sleeping bag and cast a Shield Charm. She only just managed to get it out in time and it was a weak layer of protection. Something made contact with it and her Protego charm shattered under the clang. A frequency that reminded her of a tuning fork buzzed through the cave.

Rose twisted out of the sleeping bag. Her foot caught on something small and soft as she got herself upright. At the same time, her head collided sharply with the hard rock above her. As she stumbled, a sharp jab hit her shoulder. The pain hit her in a burst. She jumped back and aimed a Stunning Spell. The spell missed but in the red light, she saw Romnuk's contorted tattooed face. In the one hand he had left, he wielded the Sword of Gryffindor. She must have tripped over her mother's beaded handbag.

He had been going to slit her throat while she slept. So much for her Imperius Curse.

The boys were awake now, jerked out of sleep by the clamour. She could hear them struggling out of their sleeping bags. She threw another overhand curse at Romnuk. Her head ached and her shoulder throbbed. Wetness was spreading over her skin. Hot wet. Blood wet. She remembered the feeling, hot like urine but thicker than that. There was another loud crunching sound near the mouth of the cave, the sound of snow being trodden on. It was shockingly loud. Rose had it suddenly in mind that an army was approaching. Were they being ambushed? Is that why Romnuk had insisted on resting in this mousetrap? Had he somehow gotten word to his brother?

Rose switched her wand to her left hand, her right shoulder making her useless. She couldn't Summon the Sword with a spell or use a Disarming Charm. Being of the highest goblin engineering, it was impervious. Instead, she aimed another curse at Romnuk's hand, one she had read about in the Serpent Bearer's Little Black Book. Romnuk's fingernails began to rapidly grow in the opposite direction, back into his fingers, piercing through the flesh and bone. He screamed in agony but didn't drop the sword. There was a loud grunt that came from behind Romnuk in response to his scream.

"What the hell is going on?" Albus yelled, throwing up a Lumos charm to light the entire cavern.

They all drew back and gasped. A dull, granite grey face loomed like a moon at the mouth of the cave. The moon opened its mouth to reveal several yellow brick-like teeth. Rose felt the blood that hadn't already saturated her undershirts drain from her face.

They had never seen a Mountain Troll anywhere other than a textbook. It certainly was much bigger in real life. It attempted in vain to cram all twelve feet of itself into their cavern. It reached out a large, horny hand and snatched for Scorpius. He leapt back., colliding painfully with the narrow walls. The troll tried to squeeze its way in, blocking much of their exit. It roared fiercely, furious that its midnight snack was out of arm's reach.

Romnuk laughed and launched forward, diving between the troll's legs and out of the cave. Smaller than the humans in their company, he managed this with surprising ease. Rose screamed back in response, as loud and wild as the troll. She would rather it eat her alive than let Romnuk get away with the sword.

Suddenly, it felt as if she were in a Quidditch match. She felt like the famed Gwendolyn Morgan, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, as they played their iconic 1953 seven-day match against the Heidelberg Harriers. Scorpius had once made the Slytherin Quidditch team study the match play-by-play in preparation of a game against Ravenclaw. Rose was Gwendolyn Morgan and this seemingly endless game was almost at its end. She couldn't lose now.

She aimed her wand at the troll, nothing more than a Bludger in her way, and sent a powerful blasting curse that knocked it clean backwards. Rose vaulted over its body, clambering over the horny feet and bulbous belly, blood streaming down her right arm now. She was Gwendolyn Morgan and she just needed to duck and weave, to shake off the Beaters and get her hand on the snitch. Whatever happened, she couldn't lose sight of it.

Shaking itself out of a daze, the troll seized hold of her ankle and yanked her backwards. The pain was breathtaking. A moment later, it released her with another howl. Albus had aimed a stinging jinx at its feet. It began to thrash in the mouth of the cave.

Rose launched herself over the troll's head and began to sprint into the darkness, her wand light throwing confusing spirals off the snow.

The Holyhead Harpies would have had to play in the dark. The match they had studied had lasted seven days, seven nights. There would have been moments while chasing the snitch that Gwendolyn Morgan would have flown higher than the stadium lights, up into that swathe of black that made spotting the glint of gold almost impossible.

Romnuk couldn't have gotten too much of a head start. With her shaky left hand, Rose shot a volley of arrows from her wand, then a second, then a third. She heard a scream not far up ahead. Grinning, she began to run again, toward the sound. She was becoming faint, her ears ringing. The harder she ran, the more blood was pumping out of her shoulder. It was making it difficult to pick up sound.

There, in the light of her wand, she saw Romnuk crouching down in the snow. One of her arrows had pierced his calf.

Goblins were nothing without their armour. Flesh and bone like the rest of them. Flesh that could be pierced, bone that could be broken. Rose started laughing now—more a wheeze than a laugh—and came to a stop about a metre from him. Her sprinting heart pumped dangerously. If this were a Quidditch match, the stadium would be wild with cheers. The game was almost over.

He was still gripping the Sword as if it were his life support.

"Thought you'd—make a break—for it?" she panted.

"The Troll was well timed," he said between gritted teeth.

His right stump had forced him to fight with his non-dominant hand. Rose was sure that had he wielded a sword in his right hand, she would be dead.

She was getting properly woozy now. There was a pounding sensation rushing through her head and her vision had turned into an old fashioned black and white camera with bright bulb flashes of light. She half crouched into the snow, extending her good hand to steady herself. It meant her wand was no longer pointed at Romnuk. She had to trust that he couldn't run. He hadn't dared to rip the arrow from his leg.

"When—did the—Imperius Curse s-stop working?"

It was important that she found out the answer to this. It felt as if she had failed a classroom practical.

"It got easier to fight it off," he rasped. "I got better at resisting the little voice in my head telling me what to do. No one tells Romnuk the Rough what to do."

He spat at Rose. The spit hit her in the face, thick phlegm that snapped against her cheek. She kneeled forward. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to rip his guts out. The selkies had been so wrong. So very wrong. She was always supposed to kill him. Why hadn't she killed him yet?

She was conscious of how cold her body felt. The icy air bit at the blood on her shoulder and arm, cooling her the way a northerly wind chills you when you get out of the pool. It was very cold. Her good hand in the snow, clutching her wand, was numb. When she looked down at it she saw how the snow was spotted red and pink.

"I will kill you for all the trouble you've caused me. I will go back to my Kingdom, slay my brother and inherit the throne with this sword. I will avenge Ragnuk the First, finest of the goblin silversmiths, and I will be welcomed as a King."

"No…you won't," Rose said groggily. She wanted to tell him that she would kill him. She had already killed his entire gang, drowning them in the Slytherin common room as the slick green lake poured in. His turn now. She would gut him like a fish. She would make a meal of his entrails. She would feed him his own intestines. She wanted to tell him all the gruesome, ghastly tortures she had been storing away in her head. All she had to do was raise her wand. Her arm felt so heavy and so numb, like a block of ice.

Romnuk hobbled closer to her, raising the Sword to strike her.

Then he was knocked backwards with such a force that he skidded for several metres through the snow before hitting the base of a tree. Rose blinked, wondering if she had cast as spell without raising her wand. Then someone launched past her in a blur. She blinked twice, her black and white vision still emitting bright bursts of white light. Scorpius! In the dim wandlight bouncing off the snow, she watched him wrench the sword out of Romnuk's hand and throw it behind him. Then he started punching Romnuk in the head.

Surely Rose was imagining this. Maybe she had already lost consciousness and this was a dream. The only punch she had ever seen Scorpius throw was when he was fifteen years old, before a Quidditch match, at Lorcan Scamander's mouth. Why wasn't he using his wand?

"Rose? Can you hear me? Woah—okay, take it easy."

She blinked and several more bulbs flashed. There was a gradual black vignette growing around the scene, like an old fashioned muggle movie coming to an end. Her cousin gently laid her onto the snow as her left arm buckled. She wasn't done watching the movie though. She wanted to see Scorpius finish Romnuk off. She wanted to see how it ended.

"Hey. Oh Merlin, just hold still, okay? Try to stay awake."

Albus was tenderly healing the cut in her shoulder. Her skin prickled painfully. She closed her eyes and let the credits roll.

He knocked on her bedroom door. It took guts. Zabini was not a coward. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest, racing like a Hippogriff. He was still in his work clothes—black jeans, black t-shirt—but it felt as if he was standing there stark naked.

She opened the door and seemed as dispassionate as she had been since they slept together. Her long, dark hair fell in waves over her shoulder. She sometimes looked like a songstress from the nineteenth-century if it weren't for the ugly, upturned nose.

"A word?" he asked.

Isabella moved aside to let him into her small bedroom.

For some reason, they extended pleasantries. They asked how the other was. Good, and you? So they did that first. Zabini never did pleasantries. He didn't even do greetings. They were like garnish on top of food, purely decorative, and he wasn't one to usually waste time on those sorts of things. When the pleasantries had been exhausted, he asked about the Quidditch match. She explained they would be providing catering to the top-box and also hosting the after-party at the pub for the VIP guests. When these topics had been exhausted, too, Isabella leaned back against her dressing table and sighed.

"Spit it out, Andy. It's late."

"Was the sex bad?"

Asking the question made his voice crack the way a thirteen-year-old's would.

Isabella's brown eyes widened and her mouth puckered. He felt another wave of fury roll through him as she let out a nervous laugh. Upon seeing his expression, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

"No," she said, still hiding her smile. "I just…didn't feel it."

"Like, your nerves weren't working?"

"I felt things physically, you idiot," she sighed, moving to her bed to take a seat. "I just didn't feel anything towards you. It's the reason I didn't enjoy it, I think." She seemed unconvinced.

He joined her on the edge of the bed and frowned at her. Isabella had said that she hadn't felt anything with Alice either. He wondered what exactly she was expecting to feel. Zabini thought about the handful of girls he had slept with. He had never felt anything beyond animal energy. The closest he had gotten to a feeling was experiencing the pleasure of pleasuring someone else, a sort of narcissistic aplomb.

He couldn't even do that right, it seemed. He had completely failed Isabella. It had been the first time he had slept with someone in a long time and he had turned out to be useless.

The mattress creaked a little as she turned away from him to stare into the mottled mirror. Over her shoulder, he could see her pensive reflection in the glass. He wondered what she would do if he reached across to touch her. If he turned her face towards his and kissed her. If he opened her silk robe and took one of her breasts in his mouth. If he looked her in the eyes this time.

Instead, he reached for her hand and squeezed it. She jumped as if he had electrocuted her.

"What's that for?" she asked, staring nervously at his hand on hers.

He didn't know what to say. He kept thinking about the spilt unicorn blood, about the potion he had been conceived under. He kept thinking of curses, the curse of his existence. About the words 'lone wolf' and the bitterness involved in inking the words permanently onto your skin. He didn't want to live like that.

"I really need a friend right now," he said quietly.

She wasn't looking at the mirror anymore. She was looking at him. Her eyes were intent with worry. He couldn't meet her gaze but he could feel it. The sort of worry that brought up the word mother in his mind. He had never once known what that felt like. He imagined it felt like this.

"We are friends," she replied softly.

He made a bit of a face at that, letting out a huff. It had been a long time since they had been friends.

She placed her other hand on top of his. It felt as if she was going to try to resuscitate an invisible heart held in his palm.

"I met this witch today in the bar."

"Oh?"

"We got talking. You would've hated her," he added, sure of this. Isabella was so prim and put together by comparison. "She was sort of…brilliant, though."

"How?"

"It's like she saw right through me."

He thought again of that small, terrified unicorn on the forest floor, it's legs lashing out, its eyes rolling back in terror. The throbbing glow of its mane lashing from side to side. He wondered where Scorpius was and whether his sacrifice had been worth anything. He slid his hand away from Isabella.

"If I disappeared tomorrow I don't think it would make a difference to anyone."

Isabella had turned her whole body toward him now. He could feel the panic radiating from her like electricity, like a hum. Usually, he would get a kick out of this sort of response. His dark, secret pain unlocked something in women. It was the easiest way to get a girl to snog him or to slide a hand down his pants. It gratified him, like a pantomime performing his pain to a peanut crunching crowd paying for the morbid routine.

There was no satisfaction this time—he had already slept with Isabella and he couldn't see it happening again.

"You know that's not true. We'd care."

"I'm just your barman, Isabella," he said, articulating her whole name in four punchy syllables. "I don't have any family. I don't have anyone."

"None of us do. Neither Alice of I—"

"But you did, once. I've never had anyone."

"Is this about wanting to find your father?"

"I already found my father," he bit back coldly.

Isabella's mouth fell open to form a perfect circle. She would have known very little about his father, other than what she had pried out of her parents. Zabini was a very well known surname after all, one that carried status and wealth that had skipped over André. He turned away from her. He could not bear her digging into his past, into the reason he was estranged from his father.

He had never known his father and had never cared for his mother. Why did it matter all of a sudden? He thought of the silver blood on his hands. Isabella slid off the bed and crouched in front of him, her eyes glassy. Her slippers creaked on the floorboards. He stared at them to avoid looking in her eyes. She tried to take his hands but she jerked them away.

"Andy, you matter to me. You're not just a barman.

Alice and I love you, okay? Whatever you're going through right now, we're here—"

He stood up and brushed by her, trying to shake how rattled he felt. He caught sight of himself in the mottled mirror of the dressing table. The emotion in his face startled him. He took a moment to rein it in, to compose himself.

"I just wanted to know if the sex was good," he said coolly, looking over his shoulder the way the witch had at the bar, one hand on the door.

She hadn't felt it. It had left him feeling too much.

"Sleep well, Belle."

When Rose woke, her body felt cold and clammy. She kept her eyes closed for what felt like a long time. Seven days or seven nights. Maybe just seven seconds. Her senses were returning to her. A fire was crackling near her. It was a proper fire, not the bluebell flames she conjured. It wasn't doing much for how cold she felt.

It took her a little while for her eyes to adjust. They were back inside the cave. Over the smoke, she could smell something wretched nearby. It was a hideous stench that combined all the worst smells of a Quidditch pitch changing room—the putrid cheesy smell of old socks, the thick onion-like smell of body odour and the sweet stinging scent of urine. Her nose wrinkled.

"You're awake. Thank Merlin," Albus muttered.

"How long was I out?" she asked.

"A few hours. Drink this."

She was hoping it was a potion that would either ease the throbbing in her shoulder or the woozy feeling in her stomach. It did neither. It was water. She gulped it down greedily.

"Fortunately, it was a shallow cut," Albus said. "Still, you running after Romnuk didn't help the blood loss."

"We couldn't let him get away."

Albus didn't contradict her. He almost looked a little guilty. She glanced around the cave and spotted the goblin's short, stocky body. Romnuk was slumped on his side, unconscious. A bandage was wrapped around his leg.

"I've completely wiped his memory," Albus said. "Even what little we told him about the plan. He won't remember any of it. We can't trust him."

"Clearly," Rose said through gritted teeth.

Albus refilled the cup of water with his wand and forced her to drink it again. Once she had drained it, Rose said, "He fought off my Imperius."

They were out of ways to make him cooperate. Romnuk was far too dangerous for them. They had grown relaxed around him with their cocktail of charms and curses. He had been plotting to betray them at the first opportunity.

"We need to change the plan," Albus said. "We need to assume he'll betray us."

"We always assumed he would betray us."

They sat in silence for a moment. The stench was killing her, especially with nausea rolling through her stomach. The gag reflex in the back of her throat kept clenching.

"Where's Scorpius?"

Albus was refilling the cup of water and tipping it to her mouth again.

"I sent him out only a few minutes before you woke up, actually," he said. "He's removing the Troll's body. The smell..."

The memory of him punching Romnuk in the head had flooded back to her now. It was the only thing she remembered before passing out. It made her grin, so the water dribbles over the lip of the cup. Rose had never seen Scorpius like that. It was like he had been unhinged. It reminded her of a story her uncle Charlie had once told her about a dragon he had cared for and raised in captivity. It was hatched in the sanctuary and never knew its mother, as the eggs had been confiscated from someone illegally trading. Charlie had bottle-fed that dragon. It had recognised him and responded when he called its name. It was incredibly well trained and well behaved as far as dragons went. Then, one day, it tried to bite Charlie's arm off.

Albus was watching her carefully. She felt her smile falter slightly. He tipped another cup of water to Rose's lips. It occurred to her that the reason Albus hadn't given her a Blood-Replenishing Potion was that they had used it all on Scorpius when he was splinched.

"There's something else Rose," he said, lowering his voice as she gulped down the last of the water. "While I was healing you, Scorpius used the Cruciatus Curse on Romnuk."

Rose raised her eyebrows. Scorpius, who potted around greenhouses and said reading was his favourite past time, had managed the Cruciatus Curse?

"It was non-verbal. I didn't realise what it was until after a few minutes in. I'm certain it was Crucio. I had to disarm him to stop him."

Albus had disarmed Scorpius?

She was feeling dazed again. That Scorpius had tortured Romnuk with an Unforgiveable Curse felt almost romantic. She wasn't sure whether this was a normal response or not. She felt nowhere near the vicinity of normal anymore. She probed the top of her head and found a large bump from where she had hit her head while in the cave.

"Something about you both feels different now. I'm worried," Albus said.

He looked more like his dad than ever before. His green eyes had that same moralizing shade of green. For the first time, Rose felt younger than him. He commanded a sort of steadiness that made him seem like a real adult, the kind she wanted to ignore the advice of.

She noticed that the horrible Troll stench was growing fainter. Scorpius must have succeeded in removing the body of the fallen brute. The smell lingered in the cave though, like a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Scorpius re-entered the cave. Rose noticed that his knuckles were bloody and bruised, purple scales fixed to those fishbone fingers. The moment he saw that she was awake, he dropped down beside her. He opened his mouth and closed it again. His brow knitted together and his eyes burned with everything unsaid.

"Close call," she agreed.

He took hold of her clammy hand and kissed it. It was so tender a gesture her heart ached. He smelt like the sweat and piss of the troll. She wondered how they had managed to knock it out.

"I filled her in on what I did to Romnuk's memory," Albus told Scorpius curtly. He was still tense. The Cruciatus Curse was not sitting well between them. Rose had never seen Albus attack Scorpius before—especially not Disarm him. "Rose said he fought off the Imperius Curse. I think we need to re-think our plan."

Scorpius crouched there, thoughts ticking away behind his grey eyes. He gestured aggressively towards his tongue and then at Albus' wand.

"Mate," Albus said, now through gritted teeth. His patience had been stretched to its limits. "I've told you. The only way I can regrow that tongue is if I cut what's left of it off to expose all the muscle and nerves. If I fuck that up, then there's nothing left to regrow. I'm not risking that."

"Look," Rose said definitively. "We're a few hours away from the Goblin Kingdom. We keep Romnuk completely in the dark. We don't tell him about the Stone. We don't let him get his hands on the Sword."

"What are you thinking?" Albus frowned.

"The only part of this plan that matters is we find Morgana," Rose insisted. Then, thinking they probably should have done it sooner, she held out her hand. "Give me your wands."

They stared at her dubiously. She cast a look in Romnuk's direction, where he remained slumped and unconscious. "Trust me," she insisted. "Give me your wands."

When Ginny entered the Weasley Bungalow, using the spare key Hermione and Ron had given her in case of emergencies, she had been expecting to find her brother in the kitchen. Instead, she found a cloud of smoke that cast a hazy film over the kettle and kitchen sink. It took her a moment to process the source, not because she couldn't see, but because she couldn't believe it.

"Are you smoking?" she asked Hermione, who was leaning against the counter with one window open, her hand half-heartedly resting on the sill.

Hermione looked like she had been caught robbing Gringotts. Although, she had in fact done so in her youth. She went to stub out the cigarette but Ginny shook her head at her, waving a hand as if to give her permission. She took a seat beside Hermione on the counter and pinched the cigarette, taking a long drag. It had been years since she smoked, a habit she picked up for a couple of months at sixteen after Harry had taken off to find Horcruxes. Her mother had found out and tossed out her stash of smokes, and proceeded to use a Scouring Charm to clean out her mouth.

Hermione looked far guiltier for indulging.

"I've been really stressed," she said, wringing her hands. Ginny lazily blew out a steady stream of smoke, and then made three perfect rings the way Luna had taught her once.

"I'm not your mum," Ginny said, handing back the cigarette.

She noticed the newspaper on the counter. 'YEAR ZERO' was the front-page title, stretched across the headline.

"They print these faster than we can read them," Ginny noted.

"At least its employing people again," Hermione said cautiously. She stubbed out the end of the cigarette on the newspaper.

"How's Harry?"

"Talked Viktor into the match," Ginny shrugged. "Apparently on the condition Harry plays in it."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I can't imagine he would want to agree with that under the circumstances."

"He's still struggling."

"Aren't we all?"

"I cry every morning in the shower and then spend the entire night pacing the house," Ginny said, folding her arms. "I just wish we had some sort of news about what they're doing and whether they're safe."

Hermione looked guiltier than when she had been caught with the cigarette.

"What?" Ginny asked quickly. "Do you know something?"

"No," she replied, honestly enough. "Was there a reason you stopped in?"

"Teddy and Vic are coming over for dinner and I need to offload Viktor Krum on someone. Was going to see if Ron would take him out for a drink, but since you're home for once, the three of you should go out."

"That would be rich," Hermione snorted.

"You need a night off, Minister," Ginny said primly, impersonating Percy. "Year Zero can wait for another day."

Hermione nodded tiredly and took out her wand to disperse the smoke from the kitchen with a seamless wave. She then fixed Ginny with a quizzical look.

"How'd you get in with all our safety charms?"

"Your spare key."

Hermione's face folded into a reproachful frown. She was back to her usual self. "Do you use that often for non-emergencies?"

"Only when you're on family holidays and Harry and I needed a place to shag where the kids couldn't walk in on us."

"Remind me to change our locks."

A/N: I don't really know how I feel about this chapter, but up it goes! You have no idea how much I'm itching to get this story done! We're almost there.

Thank you for everyone's reviews, it means a lot to me that you're taking the time to provide feedback or to share what you've enjoyed about this story. I hope you're all staying safe and staying home, reading fanfiction and distancing from others. Much love x