The hooded witch in black robes took a deep breath and pushed open the wooden door of the Three Broomsticks, which was swaying in the breeze.
Madam Rosmerta's business was good today; more than half the seats were occupied. Some patrons were enjoying a quiet drink alone, while others were clinking glasses and talking in low voices.
The hooded witch was not particularly noticeable. Only a few wizards seated near the door glanced up as she entered. Her plain black robes quickly sent their eyes back to their drinks.
She smirked, put her hands behind her back, and moved briskly toward the staircase. Near the bottom step, she glanced discreetly over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then slipped upstairs to the second floor.
She found the familiar door and knocked: three times, a pause, then one short—two long—one short, another pause. She muttered under her breath, "Why on earth do wizards use Morse code when they meet?"
Still complaining, she raised her hand to finish the last two signals—one long, one short—but the door had already swung open.
"Welcome!" A rosy-cheeked witch with jet-black hair smiled warmly from the doorway. "Please come in!"
"I hadn't finished yet—" the visitor said.
"That's quite enough. That code is far too long." The witch extended her hand. "I'm Hestia Jones, a new member. And you are?"
The visitor pulled back her hood, revealing brown hair and an attractive, still-youthful face.
The room erupted. Several people sprang to their feet at once, wands trained on her. A woman who had been maintaining a perfectly composed and elegant bearing rushed at Hestia like a gust of wind, yanked her behind her without a thought for her dignity, and levelled her own wand.
"Get back, Hestia!" Her voice was sharp with warning. "Draw your wand!"
"What is it, Emily?" Hestia peered out from behind the stern-faced woman, startled. "What's happened? She gave the signal—"
The visitor raised both hands, indicating she was no threat, and tilted her head with a mild smile.
"Hestia, you're too young to know her." Emily Vance's voice was taut with alarm. "That's Bellatrix."
"Wait—don't panic, it's not her." A dark-haired wizard in the corner spoke up in a drawl. "Bellatrix wouldn't smile like that. And look at the hair colour—Bellatrix is black-haired. This one's brown."
A wizard with a square jaw and thick straw-coloured hair stared at the woman, bewildered. "Then who is she?"
"Sturgis, that's my cousin. Andromeda." Sirius Black turned a crystal goblet in his hand, not having moved for his wand at all. He strolled forward with an easy smile. "She and Bella are almost identical."
"Ah, yes—I know Andromeda," Arthur said. "A perfectly respectable witch."
The room relaxed, though most wands stayed half-raised.
Sirius, however, came to a stop before the visitor, studied her for a moment with his grey eyes, and then drew his wand and pointed it at her nose.
"Who are you?" he said sharply. "You are not Andromeda."
"Why do you say that?" the witch asked, unruffled.
"It's been years. She couldn't possibly look exactly the same." His grey eyes were full of suspicion. "And she wouldn't know that code."
"All right, stop showing off your talent—look at the commotion you've caused." Alastor Moody, looking sallow and worn, spoke up from an armchair in the corner. He had not shifted an inch since the door opened—the one person in the room who might have had the most reason to react had sat perfectly still. He let out a bark of laughter. "Isn't that right, Tonks?"
The witch grinned, and her appearance shifted: the brown hair faded to bubblegum pink, and the angular face softened into a young, heart-shaped one. Around the room, some stared with lingering suspicion, others with frank astonishment.
"That's right, Alastor!" Tonks said brightly.
Sirius lowered his wand slowly. "I see now what Remus meant. A remarkable skill." He paused. "Why Andromeda, though?"
"Because your cousin Andromeda happens to be her mother." Remus Lupin emerged from behind Sirius, a full glass of Butterbeer in hand, and said mildly, "Isn't that right, Nymphadora—"
"Don't!" She shuddered visibly and rounded on him. "Call me Tonks. Please."
"As you like." Remus shrugged, then said to Sirius, who was looking faintly stunned, "I suppose that makes her your niece."
"Or just Tonks," she said. She looked at Sirius with frank curiosity. He was a handsome man, with a kind of innate elegance worn over something rougher underneath.
Sirius extended his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Tonks. I'm Sirius Black. How is your mother?"
"Not bad," Tonks said, shaking it. "She sends her welcome. Whenever you have time."
"I'll take her up on that," Sirius said, and something quiet passed across his face. "Remus—introduce her around, will you? I need a word with Charlie—"
"Of course." Remus pressed a Butterbeer into Tonks's hands as she swiveled her head around the room like a curious Bowtruckle. "And I believe I owe you a belated happy twenty-second birthday—if I'm remembering correctly."
"You are, thank you," Tonks said, genuinely pleased that he'd remembered.
She turned to watch Sirius cross to a stocky, freckled young man standing beside Arthur Weasley. He was short and weathered, his face so thickly speckled that the freckles nearly ran together. When he raised his hand to shake Sirius's, Tonks noticed a broad, shining burn scar running up his forearm.
"That's Charlie Weasley," she said with interest.
"That's right. Arthur's son, and our newest member. You know him?"
"He was a year above me at Hogwarts. Gryffindor." She clicked her tongue with a note of admiration. "One of the best Chasers I ever saw. Everyone thought he'd play for England after graduation."
"I suppose everyone has their own calling," Remus said.
"Working with dragons—honestly, that's a pretty brilliant one." She shrugged, then noticed the black-haired witch who had opened the door watching her with unabashed curiosity. She thrust out her hand. "Did I give you a fright? Sorry about that. Thank you for letting me in."
Hestia shook her head, smiling, and shook her hand warmly. "Are you a Metamorphmagus? That was extraordinary."
"Got it in one," Tonks said. "Want to see another?"
"Can you look like me?" asked Emily Vance, who had regained every inch of her composure. "I'm Emily, by the way. Emily Vance."
"Lovely to meet you." Tonks's face rippled and reformed into Emily's likeness. "Something like this?"
"Incredible!" Emily clapped. She was joined by an elderly, silver-haired wizard who shuffled over, slightly out of breath. "Child, what a remarkable gift you have!"
"This is Elphias Doge," Remus said. "He was one of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix."
"Thank you for the kind words," Tonks said, privately amused by the floppy hat perched on his head.
"And that over there is Sturgis Podmore," Remus continued, nodding toward the square-jawed wizard with the straw-coloured hair. Tonks nodded and smiled across the room at him.
"I won't bother introducing you to the Ministry faces," Remus added.
"No need," Tonks agreed. She spotted Kingsley Shacklebolt—her officemate from the Auror department—and Arthur Weasley, and exchanged nods with both. The two of them were already bent over something with Moody, voices low:
"Little Hangleton Chapel—"
"Yes, the cemetery—"
Tonks watched them with interest. "I had no idea they all knew each other. They've never behaved like it at the Ministry." She paused. "Surprising, though somehow it makes complete sense."
"Good—saves me the introduction," Remus said pleasantly. "These are essentially all the members who could make it tonight. There are a few others you'll meet in time—"
He was cut off when the door swung open and a wizard in a tall violet hat strode into the room.
He spread his arms wide, laughed at the room in general, and cried in a slightly high-pitched voice, "Friends! It's been far too long!" He bowed extravagantly in several directions. His hat tumbled off and hit the floor with a clatter.
The room transformed. Wizards surged forward from every side, clapping him on the shoulders until he spun helplessly from one greeting to the next, beaming and utterly overwhelmed.
Tonks laughed. This one was clearly well loved.
"That's Dedalus Diggle," Remus said to her with a smile. "Rather flamboyant, tremendously good fun. One year he conjured a meteor shower over Kent entirely for the pleasure of it—quite an extraordinary sight."
"The Muggles held their bonfire celebrations a whole week early because of it!" Diggle announced proudly, having finally extracted himself from the crowd and made his way toward Remus and Tonks. He beamed at her. "And who's this?"
"Our newest member, Tonks. A natural-born Metamorphmagus—quite gifted," Remus said.
"A Metamorphmagus! Can she become anyone?" Diggle asked with childlike delight.
"Anyone at all," Tonks said, and shifted smoothly into his likeness.
"Merlin's beard!" Diggle circled her in excitement. "So that's what I look like from the outside! I look absolutely bizarre!" His expression shifted suddenly. "Wait—is the back of my head really that bald?"
He patted the back of his own head with mounting concern, then darted to the mirror on the far wall and attempted to angle his head far enough to see the spot in question.
Tonks and Remus burst out laughing. Amid the noise, Remus watched as Tonks let her appearance ripple back to its natural state—bubblegum pink hair, heart-shaped face, bright dark eyes.
"A truly remarkable talent," Remus said, with genuine warmth. "You've been very fortunate."
"I think so too—though my father took some getting used to it. My hair kept changing colour right from birth, and he'd stare at me for hours with this anxious look on his face." She laughed. "He's a Muggle-born, never seen a Metamorphmagus before. He still shows this wonderful, startled delight every single time. Actually, I got him this morning—he nearly dropped his tea."
Remus imagined the scene and found himself smiling despite himself.
"Right, everyone's here!" At that moment, Sirius Black moved to the centre of the room and clapped once. The chatter died away.
"I assume you all know tonight's plan," he said. "Dedalus—no? I thought I'd already told you. All right, I'll go over it once more, and then we'll assign tasks, partners, and positions—"
Tonks leaned toward Remus as Sirius began speaking. "The ambush is near the church in Little Hangleton? I heard them mention a cemetery."
"That's right. Based on the Triwizard Tournament schedule, we expect Voldemort to attempt to appear there around eight o'clock. We'll divide into groups of two or three, Disguised as Muggles. We need to be in Little Hangleton before seven, and keep some distance from the cemetery itself—we'll approach on foot from there."
"Why not just Apparate straight into the cemetery?" Tonks asked.
"That brings me to the first rule of the Order of the Phoenix," Remus said patiently. "Think before you act. Consider what might happen if you Apparated directly into a location the Dark Lord has prepared. If there are any detection spells in place, it would alert them immediately."
"Fair point." Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Lesson learned."
---
When Sirius Black returned to Hogwarts along the main road through Hogsmeade, it was nearly dinnertime.
Walking through the castle corridor, he spotted his nephew and Hermione sitting beneath the wisteria trellis in the courtyard, both of them tilting their heads back to gaze at the sky, which was shifting slowly to rose and amber.
"How much longer?" Hermione asked, her voice heavy with impatience.
Draco patted her shoulder. "Soon, I think."
"I feel as though I've been waiting here my whole life," she sighed.
"There are worse ways to spend a lifetime," he said, quietly, almost to himself.
The two of them sat lost in thought, entirely oblivious to who had just walked past—or to the fact that they had been watched for several long moments.
"Hello," Sirius said, clearing his throat. "What exactly are you two doing?"
They both startled violently, nearly leaping off the bench.
"Good heavens, Sirius—when did you get there?" Hermione said, still catching her breath.
Draco had already drawn his wand, but lowered it when he saw who it was. "We're waiting for an important letter." He glanced at Sirius more carefully. "You've come at a good time, actually." He pocketed his wand. "Hermione thinks Bertha Jorkins is the woman Harry saw in his dream."
"What?" Sirius said sharply.
"Mrs. Weasley mentioned her disappearance at lunch today," Hermione said, her expression tight with worry. "Draco has been trying to get hold of a photograph through some contacts. We're planning to show it to Harry the moment it arrives."
"Bertha Jorkins—she'd be a few years ahead of me. I don't know her well," Sirius said. "What makes her significant?"
"She was exceptionally gossipy," Draco said. "If it really is her, we'll need to think seriously about what she might have told him about the Ministry."
"Not a bad line of thinking." Sirius frowned. "Harry's focused on the match. Don't say anything unnecessary to him yet—just let him see the photograph and react. We'll go from there."
"That's exactly what we thought," Draco said. He hesitated, then pressed: "The plan for the cemetery tonight—everything's in order?"
"All arranged," Sirius said, with the brief confidence of someone who has checked and double-checked. "And regarding the Goblet of Fire—Dumbledore placed it deep in the maze himself this morning. I watched him do it. He cast half a dozen protective Charms on it besides. If that's not enough, nothing will be."
"Right," Draco said slowly, his frown not quite lifting. "Then we focus on Bertha Jorkins."
"I need to get to the Great Hall—I promised Harry dinner before the match." Sirius looked between them. "Owls can find you anywhere, you know. Are you two actually going to eat?"
The two of them shook their heads at him in unison, faces taut, and turned back to watching the sky.
Sirius looked at them a moment longer.
"Ridiculous pair," he said, shaking his head, and walked on alone toward the castle.
"Hermione—are you hungry?" Draco asked, eyes still on the darkening horizon.
After Sirius's comment, he had become newly concerned that his girlfriend hadn't eaten.
"I have no appetite," Hermione said quietly. "If my guess is right, do you realise what it means?"
He glanced back at her.
The possibility sat between them like something sharp.
"Based on what Mrs. Weasley said, Bertha Jorkins had worked in so many departments," he said, carefully. "And given how much she loved to gossip—she would have known an enormous number of Ministry secrets."
He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. If it really had been Bertha Jorkins who died in his previous life—perhaps she had been the one to tell the Dark Lord about the Prophecy Orb, inadvertently setting the whole chain of events in motion that had ended with Lucius being sent on that ill-fated mission to the Department of Mysteries. The failure to steal the Prophecy had marked the beginning of the Malfoy family's unravelling.
Though, if he was being honest with himself, the beginning of their ruin had come far earlier. It had come with the choice to serve the Dark Lord at all.
He and Narcissa and Lucius had been blinded by the promises of power and glory, wholly ignorant of the price fate had already placed on their heads.
Would the Dark Lord manage to rise again tonight? Draco turned the question over uneasily.
It seemed unlikely. Without Harry in the graveyard, a resurrection was nothing more than a dream. And Lucius certainly wouldn't be there—Draco had received a Muggle postcard from Narcissa just yesterday, the message area blank as always, a picture of Miami Beach on the back.
Over the past two months, his own carefully worded letters had been answered with a series of silent postcards. Grand Canyon. Yellowstone National Park. The Hollywood sign. The Golden Gate Bridge. The designs changed; the blank message area did not.
This headstrong couple had taken it upon themselves to tour the entirety of the United States, with no apparent plans to return. They had not even acknowledged his birthday—except through Gringotts. A letter had arrived on the fifth of June informing him that his parents and grandfather had each transferred a sum of Galleons into his vault. Cold, precise, and entirely typical of them.
"I keep thinking about the man on the floor," Hermione said quietly, resting her head on his shoulder. "Bertha Jorkins must have known him. She must have been following him when she ran into trouble."
Draco came back to the present. "They may have worked together," he said. "Or had some contact before. Possibly even known each other personally."
"Harry mentioned the man's voice sounded familiar," she murmured. "The adult wizards Harry knows best are the school professors—and the tournament referees."
"A referee," Draco said, without hesitation.
Hermione lifted her head, a faint smile crossing her face.
In the quiet of the evening, surrounded by the growing unease of a day building toward something, there was a particular relief in finding someone who could follow your thinking without needing it spelled out.
She didn't feel entirely alone.
"There are five judges," Draco continued, absently turning her fingers between his own. "Madam Maxime is immediately ruled out—the wrong gender. Dumbledore is not even a question. Bartemius Crouch Senior is dead. That leaves Karkaroff and Bagman." He let the two names settle. "Karkaroff—a former Death Eater, shrewd and deeply cowardly. If someone put a knife to his throat, he might very well turn in whatever direction saved his skin. Including back toward the Dark Lord."
"And Bagman's behaviour has been strange," Hermione said.
"Bagman," Draco said more slowly, "I think he's just desperate to clear his debts."
He remembered, from his previous life, that Bagman had been drowning in financial ruin during this period—but he had never descended so far as to become a Death Eater. That didn't sit right. No matter how he turned it over.
"But his interest in Harry has always been unusual," Hermione said. "He was always trying to get close to Harry. And in the dream—the Dark Lord punished that man because he failed to reach Harry. That description fits Bagman's behaviour far better than Karkaroff's. Karkaroff has never even tried to approach Harry."
"Though it's worth considering," Draco said, "whether Karkaroff kept his distance precisely because he was afraid to. Alastor Moody has been watching Harry like a Hippogriff with a single foal all year. A coward like Karkaroff might have simply lost his nerve."
"True." Hermione was quiet for a moment. "Harry also mentioned hearing from Krum that Karkaroff has barely left his room on the ship. I wonder what he's actually been doing in there."
"Sirius said something similar," Draco said thoughtfully. "And there's something else I've been piecing together—Karkaroff and Bartemius Crouch had a history. They made a deal: Karkaroff handed over a list of Death Eaters in exchange for clemency."
"I never would have guessed they had any connection," Hermione said, surprised. "That does make Karkaroff seem more suspicious—"
"Perhaps," Draco said, "while we all assumed he was hiding in his cabin, he was occasionally slipping out to do something on the Dark Lord's behalf, and maintaining the appearance of helpless isolation as cover."
Hermione frowned. "Should we go to Professor Dumbledore directly? Ask him to keep both of them under watch?"
"We'd need evidence," Draco said. "You can't walk up to the referee's table and accuse a senior official of serving the Dark Lord on the basis of a fourteen-year-old's suspicion. They won't stop the match. And while I have great admiration for your ability to Petrify a professor—we can't rely on that every time, or we'll end up alerting the very person we're trying to catch."
"But Professor Dumbledore will understand what we're trying to say," Hermione pressed. "He ought to be on his guard already."
Draco was quiet for a moment. "I think Dumbledore already is," he said. "He's the greatest wizard alive. Whatever those half-moon spectacles are resting on, it's never nothing." He paused. "Did you notice at noon? He was in conversation with Karkaroff—who had finally surfaced at the staff table. Dumbledore was watching him the whole time."
"He's already fishing," Hermione said slowly.
"That's one way to put it." Draco gazed at the horizon. "I think he's been playing a long game against an invisible opponent, and he's quite certain that if he holds his position, nothing will go irreparably wrong."
The careful measures around Harry, the Order of the Phoenix positioned in the graveyard—none of it was arbitrary.
"I keep worrying about Harry," Hermione said. "With so much still uncertain—"
"Dumbledore wants to toughen him up," Draco said plainly. "He's been doing it all along. Practically roasting an innocent lamb over a slow fire."
Whatever the reasons behind it, this fourteen-year-old boy who was hailed as a saviour always seemed to receive, in equal measure, more glory and more suffering than anyone else his age.
Dumbledore had always watched Harry endure it with that same mild, inscrutable expression—stepping in only rarely, offering little, standing back with the unhurried patience of someone who already knew how the story would go.
"Is this one of your darker interpretations?" Hermione studied him. "Are you about to tell me that Professor Dumbledore deliberately allows terrible things to happen to Harry?"
"Set aside your ideal image of Dumbledore for a moment and think about the Chamber of Secrets," Draco said, his pale grey eyes narrowing slightly. "I learned something from the Pensieve—Dumbledore can understand Parseltongue. A wizard of his ability could have tracked the Basilisk through its own hissing. He could have located it and stopped the attacks before a single student was Petrified."
Hermione's brow furrowed.
"But he didn't," Draco said quietly. "He left the school in chaos for an entire academic year. He left you Petrified outside the library." A brief, cold edge entered his voice. "I was furious about that."
"Oh, Draco—don't be angry on my behalf." She kissed the corner of his lips, and his expression softened at once. "You're the one who saved me, remember?"
The hardness left his face entirely. A faint smile took its place.
"But why would he do that?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "I don't think Professor Dumbledore is the sort of wizard who is indifferent to suffering."
"I think there's only one reason he doesn't act sooner," Draco said, stroking her hair. "He's waiting for Harry. That meant Harry spent a year in anguish and self-doubt before he found the courage to face it."
"He was anxious and withdrawn for a very long time," Hermione said quietly. "He reminded me a bit of how he was at the start of this year—as though everyone had turned against him."
"That's part of what makes me question it. Dumbledore seems to believe Harry needs to experience a certain amount of suffering in order to be ready for something larger," Draco said. "I don't deny that Harry handles these things remarkably well—the isolation, the danger—but none of that means he enjoys it."
"No," Hermione agreed. "I'm fairly sure Harry would always rather be playing Gobstones with Ron."
She said it with a slight frown, and Draco noticed—without commenting on it—the shadow that crossed her face, the thought she was keeping to herself.
"Anyway, that's my darker reading of Dumbledore," he said, watching her. "But that's not what matters right now. Right now, we need to think about those two suspects."
"Bagman still troubles me more," Hermione said. "He worked directly with Bertha Jorkins—they must have been well-acquainted. Karkaroff has no obvious connection to her at all."
"True." Draco considered it. "Tonight, then—I'll watch Karkaroff, you watch Bagman?"
"Agreed," Hermione said, with a flash of her old brightness. "Just like we always do. I'll take Quirrell, you take Snape—shall we?" She raised her palm with a grin.
Draco raised an eyebrow in good humour and met her palm with his. "Right. One of two—surely one of them's the culprit."
They smiled at each other.
And then, footsteps.
Both of them caught the sound at the same instant. A glance passed between them—wary, alert—and they stopped speaking.
"I didn't want to interrupt whatever it was you were discussing, or the extremely meaningful glances you were exchanging." Sirius Black materialized around the corner with a paper bag in each hand, rustling considerably as he walked. He set them both down on the bench beside the couple. "I asked the house-elves for something portable. Tuna sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, some snacks, Butterbeer—" He gave them a meaningful look, tilted his chin, and said in an affected drawl, "This corridor has always been a charming spot for a romantic evening. I won't keep you. Have a lovely time."
"Shut it, Sirius! We're waiting for an owl!" Draco called after his retreating figure.
Sirius simply raised a hand in an unhurried wave, called "You're welcome" over his shoulder, and disappeared around the corner with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself.
"Utterly insufferable," Draco muttered, his face colouring slightly. "He knows perfectly well what we're actually doing."
"I think he's just worried about us," Hermione said, already pulling the bag open to peer inside. She found bottled pumpkin juice, two Butterbeers, and the warm, savoury smell of sandwiches. She said cheerfully, "In his own particular way."
"You mean the way that makes you want to throw something at him," Draco said darkly, opening the second bag and pulling out a sandwich. "He does this constantly—he either takes nothing seriously, or he uses that ridiculous sense of humour to avoid saying anything sincere, and you can never get a straight answer out of him."
"Or," Hermione said, passing him a Butterbeer, "he's the kind of person who shows he cares by making you laugh when you're frightened." She settled back against his shoulder. "I think he's more like you than either of you would ever admit."
Draco opened his mouth to respond. Then thought better of it, and took a bite of his sandwich instead.