Phoenix and Dragon

5 years since the start of the Second Wizarding War

January.

Estella Coleman was angry.

That wasn't anything new; she'd long since decided that being angry was better than being numb. If you were numb, you couldn't fuel your rage into something productive or useful. You'd sit, feeling nothing, and nothing wasn't good enough. Estella was far from an optimist; too pragmatic to be; but knew senseless hopelessness was equally useless as blind optimism. So she chose to be angry.

Grinding the mortar into the stone, crushing fragile dried herbs, she channeled her rage into making plants into powder. It was pointless, calling out the Order's attempt to keep an 'even' warfront. They were far from even; being declared at practical terrorist, a rebellion. They'd been underground for almost 3 years now. Estella understood, to a certain extent, why people didn't trust her. Why they were drawn to Harry Potter. Why they listen to him. But fuck it, he could be stupid. He was insistent on direct warfare, on fighting honorably, despite her pointing out that their death rates and injury rates were skyrocking faster than world-wide inflation, that basic supplies were nearly impossible to come by, that they did not have the person power to fight Voldemort's army head-on. It was beyond idiotic. And yes, she was a Slytherin, but clearly being Muggleborn herself, not to mention American, was a clear indicator that she wasn't the stereotype of her house. Order members were dying in droves, those surviving receiving horrific wounds and curses that left Estella crying in the bathroom after tending to them. She'd grown a strong stomach fast, but it was still awful. Being desensitized to violence and death didn't make it less bad.

She's been advocating for them to pull back, focus more on sabotage or infiltration or something that wouldn't kill them off as viciously for years now. It didn't seem to matter. The Gryffindors in charged seemed bent of destroying themselves for the sake of history-book honor. What they didn't see was that the history books would be written by Voldemort.  5 years. It had been years since it all started. McGonagall had given Estella and other foreign students the option to get out, go home, avoid this war. Many did. But Estella and her friends had stayed, determined to defend the place that had become more of home than many of them had ever had. Honestly, if Estella could go back, she'd smack her stupid, 16 year old self for how stupid it was now. Some of them had died, been injured, had disappeared. The grief had almost drowned her. She wouldn't let it. She compartmentalized, forced her emotions back, let her logic take over. Her over-a-decade of scientific hyperfixation, and upon attending Hogwarts, magical hyperfixation, came in handy. Her training as a Healer had been rushed, mostly in real situations. She'd learned to not make mistakes.

And so Estella was angry.

She was angry that she felt like this, angry that the Order was so obviously losing and she felt like the only one seeing it, angry that people were dying and she couldn't save them, angry that she had to fight for every bit of trust the people around her gave, suspicious of her Slytherin identify. Perhaps is was the grief and pain and sadness that she'd buried, until it hardened into a small stone of pain that fueled her, drove her out of her night-mare riddled sleep and into research over and over again, living off coffee and the occasional meal. Estella was angry about the 5 years she'd lied to her parents about what was going on. She was doing an internship. She was doing higher education. She was so busy, she didn't have time to call or visit. Muggles weren't allowed to visit. The lies piled up every time she called them. Estella refused to tell them about the war. Her mother would worry, or force her to come home, or beg her. She couldn't have that. She'd closed herself off, interacting with her fellow Healers, and her few remaining friends when she could.That small prickpin of buried emotions kept her going. And coffee. Lots of it.

"I think the Dittany is ground enough." a voice said, startling Estella out of her thoughts.

She pulled her headphones off, pausing the blaring music. She mustered a tight smile at Hermione Granger, who'd walked into the potions room to grab some supplies.

"Yeah. Sorry." She said, tapping the powder into a funnel going into a vial, the powder mixing into the base.

Hermione paused her vial-grabbing. "Are you ok, Estella? You seem more worn than usual."

"I'm fine." The dark-haired Slytherin responded, walking over to a caldron to give the brew a stir, before heading back over to take off her apron and starting to clean up her workstation.

Hermione looked concerned, but nodded. "Alright." Hermione said, grabbing her vials. "Your shift is up in 3 hours, so you might want to get some rest." 

"I'll keep that in mind." Estella said, corking bottles with more force than necessary, not glancing at the Gryffindor as she walked out. 

Hermione was nice enough, faster than most to get over the house prejudices, but Estella had a hard time liking anyone apart for the other foreign kids when everyone but them looked at her and the other Slytherins the same; with fear, mistrust, often hatred. Like she was responsible for their friends deaths. Like she believed in blood superiority, despite being Muggleborn herself. She hated it. 

There was a slight burning sensation on her right middle finger, and Estella sighed. Dragon.

The only reason (not that any Order leaders except for Moody, Snape, and occasionally Shacklebolt wanted to admit) that the Order wasn't a burned-out hole in the ground with nothing left except empty hope, was Dragon. For the past three years, since just before they were forced underground, Dragon had been supplying the Order with information, occasionally access to supplies. It was a fitting code name, she thought, for him. He was possessive, protective, fierce. Whatever his motivations were to betray Voldemort, Estella knew tied to his identity. Statistically, he was most likely a Slytherin. He seemed about her age, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell. Even the voice moderation charms they both used couldn't disguise his vocabulary, and if he was 5 years older or younger, it reflected in his vocal expressions. Even if he was Pureblood (because of course he was, what else would he be???), he would've had exposure to halfbloods and muggleborns like herself, all who would use that slag, and he would've unconsciously picked it up, even if he strived not to. Estella didn't know his identity, not even the slightest. But using logic, she could narrow him down to numbers, something she could predict and expect.  

Estella sighed as she cleaned up her work bench, stripped off her gloves and apron, and brushed a strand of hair that had fallen out of her crown braid with the back of her wrist. She had a Dragon to meet.

Clothed in simple black robes, traditional wizarding ones, over her jeans and t-shirt, Estella could pretend she was something else. At the beginning of the contract, Shacklebolt had told her to find a mask of sorts to use, to conceal her identity. She'd chosen the most Muggle options she could've gone for; a Ghostface mask. Out of her limited horror movies interest, serial killers were her favorite. Scream was one of the few she actual enjoy; not because she found it all too clever, only that the cinematic gore was appealing. She'd stolen the mask from a Halloween costume from years ago, when she and her friends had went as Muggle Horror movies. She'd rock-paper-scissors Jer for Ghostface, and won. It was a fond memory. Now the mask was used for her meetings as Phoenix. 

And Dragon was late. 

Estella tapped her booted foot against the concrete. He'd sent her a meeting place, some random alleyway in Muggle London. She leaned against the brick building behind her, ignoring the mental clock reminding her of her hospital shift in 3- now 2- hours. If he was much longer, she was just going to leave and tell him to stop wasting her time. Just as Estella was getting fed up, there was a quiet crack of Apparation, and Dragon stroud down the alleyway to her, black robes flying behind him. 

"Apologies. I couldn't get away." He said, plenty polite, voice concealed behind voice charms. 

"Sure, sure, Drag." Estella said, not even the modifier covering her sarcastic drawl. "What's the hassle? Missin' me already?" 

Dragon huffed at that, and she wanted to laugh. 3 years of this, and it always went the same way. If she had a face to put it on, she could almost see the exasperated eye roll he was no doubt giving her behind the plain black mask he wore.

"I called you because there's an attack planned on a Muggle village. Thought your Order might want to be heroic and attempt to save it." 

Estella pushed off the wall. "What village." Her tone was sharp, no humor left. She started running names in her head. Villages near their activities. Their hideouts. Wizarding villages, the few that remained anyways. She was still running it in her head like a computer program when he handed her the paper.  She opened it, scanning copied documents and carefully compilation of notes.

"Thurlestone? Why the fuck would Vol- the Dark Lord attack Thurlestone? As far as I know, we don't have any operations that far Southwest." 

Dragon shook his head. "I don't know yet. I'm working on it." 

Estella head shot up from the papers. "Work faster." She snapped. "The last time you guys attack a Muggle Village, the news casters wouldn't shut up about terrorism for weeks. And there wasn't anything there." 

She could practically hear Dragon grinding his teeth. "I said I'm working on it. He-he's become more paranoid in the past year, Phoenix. Everything is a threat."  Estella could hear it in his voice, even behind the moderators. Something like fear.

"I know." she said quietly. "I'm sorry. Just... what is he looking for?" 

"It's fine. And I don't know that either." he responded, equally quiet. "The rest of what I've got to offer is in there. I'll call again when I find more." He adjusts his hood and starts to walk away.

"Dragon?" He pauses, turning slightly, the dim streetlights from the street beyond the alley reflecting off his mask. "Be careful."

He gives a nod to her before disappearing into the shadows, the crack of Apparation the only announcement of his departure. Estella pulled her mask off, breathing in the scent of crackling magic left behind. It was a comfort; the smell of magic, raw and fresh. Untainted. Unlike her. She carefully folded the papers Dragon had given her, pocketing them in her robes before sliding the mask inside the folds of her jacket. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she took one last breath before walking into the streets of London, disappearing in her own way, no magic required. She'd always preferred to walk back, anyways. Let her pretend the world around her was normal, not attempting to eradicate her existence by daring to, well, exist. Let her escape the suffocation of Grimmauld Place's walls, saturated in misery, death, and tainted in dying hope for a war that seemed unwinnable.

She had a shift in an hour and a half. She still had to deliver the information Moody and Shacklebolt.

But for now, she allowed herself to breathe.