XVII
The warm glow of the study’s light spilled into the dimly lit hallway as Thalia stepped through the door, the low murmur of voices growing clearer. The familiar scent of aged wood and pipe smoke mixed with the faint tang of whisky hung in the air. Silently, she slipped off her shoes and hung her cloak on the coat rack, hoping to vanish unnoticed into the shadows of the landing.
Her plan was interrupted as the study door suddenly flew open with a deafening bang, slamming against the bookshelf behind it and making the room’s contents shudder. Thalia froze mid-step, her heart skipping a beat.
"Ah, the youngest Winterbourne finally makes an appearance!" The voice was grating, nasal, and entirely unpleasant. The man who stepped into view was wiry and hunched, with a greasy slick of thinning hair and a smile that displayed his yellowed, rotting teeth. His clothes were shabby and ill-fitting, a stark contrast to the opulence of her grandfather’s study.
Before she could respond, he called over his shoulder to the room behind him. “Hopefully you can help me! Your grandfather has tasked me with acquiring more whisky. I don’t suppose you could fetch it for us? We’re in the middle of a very important meeting,” he said, his tone dripping with false charm.
Thalia swallowed the instinctive revulsion rising in her throat and forced a polite smile. “Of course, Sir. Will you be needing more glasses as well?” she asked, her voice steady and polite, knowing her grandfather would expect nothing less than perfect decorum when dealing with his guests.
“No, just the bottle, girl,” he snapped, already turning back into the room and dismissing her with a flick of his hand.
Thalia curled her hands into fists- her nails creating half moon indents on her palms- but she nodded silently and made her way to the parlor. The room was cold, the air heavy with the scent of polished oak and faint traces of her grandfather’s cologne. She found the cabinet where he kept his prized collection of firewhisky, selecting a bottle of the finest aged variety. Before returning to the study, she hesitated, taking a shaky breath. Bottle in hand, she approached the study door again and knocked softly. The murmured voices inside ceased instantly, replaced by her grandfather’s sharp, authoritative bark: “Enter!”
Pushing the door open with careful precision, Thalia stepped inside, holding the bottle before her as if it were a peace offering. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene.
Seven men were seated in a semi-circle around her grandfather’s desk, their faces shadowed by the dim, flickering light of a single chandelier. The contrast between them and the ratty man she’d encountered earlier was striking. These men wore tailored suits of the finest materials, silk ties expertly knotted at their throats. Their polished leather shoes gleamed in the soft light, and their expressions were unreadable, though their piercing gazes fixed on her with unnerving intensity.
In the corner, the ratty man sat alone, clutching a glass of whisky as if it were his lifeline. His moth-eaten coat and disheveled appearance made him look entirely out of place among the other men, who exuded power and wealth.
“Well, come on then, girl,” her grandfather’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Don’t stand there like a braindead centaur.”
Thalia hurried forward, placing the bottle delicately on the desk before him. Her grandfather snatched it from her hands without so much as a glance of acknowledgment, uncorking it with a practiced twist. He leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a low growl meant only for her ears.
“That is all. Go upstairs and stay there. I don’t want to see or hear from you for the rest of the evening,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yes, Grandfather,” she whispered back, her head bowing in obedience. She stepped back carefully, her heart hammering as she felt the weight of the strangers’ stares lingering on her retreating form.
As she exited the room, she closed the door behind her softly, the low hum of conversation resuming almost immediately. She paused for a moment in the quiet of the hallway, her hands trembled slightly as she exhaled, her breath visible in the chill of the corridor. Unease gnawed at her, and she found herself retreating into the shadows of an alcove just outside the room. Pressing her back against the cold stone wall, she held her breath, straining to catch every word.
The words drifted through the heavy oak door like a poisonous mist, curling around Thalia. The gravelly voice was unfamiliar, but its tone carried a sinister edge that made her skin crawl. “Such a pretty little thing, Polaris, and so obedient,” the voice drawled, the leering insinuation in the words unmistakable.
Thalia’s stomach turned as she pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt trapped, torn between the urge to flee and the grim compulsion to hear more. She knew this was exactly the kind of information Kingsley wanted her to overhear.
“Children are like wild animals,” her grandfather’s gruff voice responded, dripping with disdain. “They need to be whipped into subservience.”
The callousness in his tone- though not unsurprising- was a dagger to her chest. It was abundantly clear to Thalia how her Grandfather viewed her, but saying it in public to his comrades still felt like a betrayal.
The first voice chuckled darkly. “Try telling that to Malfoy. His spoiled letch of a boy is particularly unbearable, constantly sneaking around with that arrogant sneer on his face. Sometimes I want to curse it right off myself—see how his precocious mother and father like that.”
A ripple of laughter followed, low and derisive, punctuated by murmurs of agreement. The venom in their words made Thalia’s blood run cold.
“They’ll show their true colors soon enough,” her grandfather growled, his voice hard as iron. “The Malfoys are good for their money and that is it. A bunch of cowards, the lot of them.”
The room erupted into a chorus of sniggers and sneers, but it was cut short by a sharp, angry voice. “And yet he’s sending them there—all ten of them!”
The indignation in the man’s tone was palpable, and Thalia could hear the scrape of a chair against the floor as if someone had stood abruptly.
Her grandfather’s voice came back like a whip crack, sharp and commanding. “And where would you have sent them then, Yaxley?” he snapped. “They can’t exactly wander through Diagon Alley and book a room at the Leaky Cauldron.”
“Here, of course, Polaris!” another voice interjected, the excitement in it clear. “No one would accuse you of hiding ten fugitives!”
Thalia’s breath hitched as she leaned closer to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. Fugitives? Her mind raced, piecing together the fragments of the conversation, but the implications only deepened her unease.
“It was mentioned,” her grandfather began, his tone measured and deliberate, “that I could have some extra house guests. However, with my location so close to Hogsmeade and Albus Dumbledore lording over that school just over the glen, it was thought it would be too much of a risk.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Thalia could feel the tension even through the thick door, and her fingers dug into the stone wall behind her as she tried to steady herself.
"The ancient, grey-bearded Muggle-lover needs to be taken care of," one of the gentlemen gruffly declared, his voice laced with malice.
"All in good time," her grandfather replied, an evil, jovial lilt to his tone that sent a shiver down Thalia's spine.
The minutes ticked by, the silence in the room growing heavy, blanketing the space and seeping into the corridor where Thalia remained hidden. She tried to stand as still as possible, her breath shallow and her ears straining to catch every word. But the cold stone beneath her feet was unforgiving, and the creeping pins and needles in her legs made her shift her weight slightly. Her fingertips, numb from the chill, tingled as she discreetly flexed them, trying to shake away the sensation without making a sound.
Suddenly, a loud whoosh came from the study, startling her so much she almost lost her balance.
"Green flame! Did you see that? Green flames!" the ratty man's voice cheered, his tone giddy with excitement.
"They actually did it," her grandfather's low voice followed, tinged with something rare: emotional surprise.
Thalia’s mind raced. Green flames? What does that mean? Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she struggled to piece the puzzle together.
"We're expected at the manor as soon as they send the signal," her grandfather said next, his voice once again cold and calculating. "Our lot have been Apparating far too much this evening. Given our need for privacy and secrecy, I recommend you all take the Floo Network."
The room erupted into motion. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor and hurried footsteps echoed through the study, the excited sounds leaking out into the hallway. Thalia’s pulse quickened. She knew this was the end of her eavesdropping—there would be no more to overhear.
Carefully, she slipped back into the parlour, pressing herself behind the closed door. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she silently recited the information she had gathered, her mind working furiously to commit every detail to memory. Ten fugitives. Green flames. The manor. Secrecy. Dumbledore. She repeated the key phrases over and over like a mantra, determined not to forget a single word before she could write it down.
The whooshing sound of the Floo Network filled the house as she counted each departure, her fingers gripping the edge of the door. One. Two. Three. The flames roared to life again and again until the house fell silent.
Only when she was certain the last man—and her grandfather—had left did she dare to move. She slipped out of her hiding place and bolted upstairs, her bare feet making almost no sound on the cold stone steps. Once safely inside her room, she grabbed parchment and a quill, her hands trembling as she began to pen a letter to Kingsley.
Her words poured out in a frantic scrawl, detailing everything she had heard. Ten fugitives, the green flamed signal, the manor, the plot against Dumbledore—it all spilled onto the page. She described the ratty man, hoping that the description would help Kingsley and added the name Yaxley to the paper, sure that her Grandfather had referred to him. She didn’t stop to reread or second-guess herself. There was no time. The urgency of the situation pressed heavily on her, and she knew this letter might be the only chance to warn Kingsley and the Order.
As she finished the letter, she sealed it hastily, her heart still pounding. The night was far from over, and the weight of what she had uncovered threatened to crush her. But she forced herself to stay composed, knowing that every second counted.
Opening her bedroom door a fraction, Thalia paused, straining her ears for any sound that might betray movement in the house. The silence was absolute, a heavy blanket of stillness that emboldened her. She slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her, and crept down the stairs. At the front door, she hastily threw her thick coat around her shoulders and shoved her feet into her boots, the cold leather biting against her skin. With one last glance over her shoulder, she stepped into the freezing night, disappearing into the shadows.
The air was crisp, her breath forming pale clouds as she moved swiftly through the grounds and out into the quiet streets of Hogsmeade. The town was eerily still, the usual hustle of the day replaced by an almost oppressive calm. At the edge of town, her quick steps faltered.
How am I going to get this letter to Kingsley tonight? she thought, gripping the parchment tightly in her gloved hands. The options raced through her mind.
Sneaking into her grandfather’s study to borrow his grand horned owl was out of the question. Even if she managed to avoid being caught, the owl’s distinctive appearance would betray her. The Hogwarts owlery was another possibility, but the risk of being spotted by night patrols was far too high. And the Hogsmeade post office was certainly shut at this hour.
She hesitated, biting her lip as the weight of indecision pressed down on her. She could wait until morning and hand the letter to Professor McGonagall, but the sense of urgency gnawed at her. Something was happening now, tonight, and Kingsley needed to know.
Her feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying her aimlessly through the narrow streets. Plans formed and dissolved in Thalia's mind like wisps of smoke. Every shop she passed was tightly shuttered, their lights extinguished, leaving the cobblestone streets bathed in an eerie silence. Her desperation grew with each step, the weight of her letter feeling heavier in her pocket.
It wasn’t until she spotted a pool of golden light spilling onto the pavement that a glimmer of hope sparked. The light came from the window of an old pub, its candlelit interior casting dancing shadows on the frosted glass. Thalia stopped, staring through the window at the scene within. A barmaid bustled about, her sleeves rolled up as she scrubbed down the bar, while a broom swept the flagstone floor on its own, moving with the practiced precision of an enchanted charm.
This might work, she thought, though doubt tugged at the edges of her resolve.
Hesitantly, she pushed open the heavy wooden door, wincing as a high-pitched bell above it rang out. The sound seemed to echo far too loudly in the quiet night.
“We’re closed for the night!” the barmaid called over her shoulder, not bothering to glance up as she focused on a particularly deep gouge in the bar. Her tone was sharp, though not unkind.
Thalia stepped inside anyway, her nerves fraying. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice trembling slightly. “I know it’s late, but I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
The barmaid straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth as she finally turned to face Thalia. Her expression was skeptical, her brows furrowing as she took in the sight of the young girl standing in the doorway. “No can do, girl,” she said, shaking her head. “The landlady doesn’t like patrons in the pub after close.”
“Please,” Thalia said, her desperation spilling into her voice. “It’s an emergency.”
The barmaid hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as she considered Thalia’s plea. Before she could respond, a new voice cut through the air, smooth and commanding.
“An emergency, you say?”
Thalia turned toward the sound, her eyes widening as a woman emerged from behind a curtain at the back of the bar. She was strikingly beautiful, her full, curvaceous figure accentuated by a fitted dress. Her unruly blonde curls framed a face that was both kind and calculating, her bright blue eyes sharp and observant. The vivid red lipstick she wore made her features pop, giving her an air of effortless confidence.
The woman crossed her arms, leaning casually against the bar as she studied Thalia. “What’s a girl your age doing wandering around Hogsmeade at this hour?” she asked, her tone light but laced with suspicion. “Shouldn’t you be at home? Or locked up in that school of yours?”
Thalia swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the woman’s gaze. She knew she had to choose her words carefully if this plan had any chance of succeeding.
“I—” she began, her voice faltering for a moment. “I need to send a letter. It’s urgent, and I can’t wait until morning. Please, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, her head tilting as she considered Thalia’s words. “A letter, is it?” she said, her tone thoughtful. “And what makes this letter so urgent that it couldn’t wait until daylight?”
Thalia hesitated, the truth hovering on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t reveal too much, not here, not now. “It’s a family matter,” she said finally, her voice steadying. “Something’s happened, and I need to get word to someone who can help.”
The woman’s gaze softened slightly, though her expression remained guarded. She glanced at the barmaid, who shrugged, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation.
“Please,” Thalia whispered, her voice barely audible but carrying the weight of her desperation.
The woman’s sharp gaze softened for just a moment, and Thalia could see the internal battle playing out behind her striking blue eyes. With a resigned sigh, the woman slumped slightly over the bar, shaking her head. “You’re lucky I’ve got a soft spot for lost causes,” she muttered before straightening and retreating behind the curtain. She paused briefly, glancing back over her shoulder. “Well, are you coming?” she called, her tone brisk.
Thalia didn’t need to be told twice. She rushed forward, her steps light but hurried, throwing a grateful smile toward the barmaid as she passed. The barmaid rolled her eyes but grinned cheekily in return, her earlier skepticism replaced with a flicker of amusement.
The narrow stone staircase creaked under Thalia’s hurried steps as she followed the woman up to the second floor. At the top, one of the doors stood ajar, and Thalia hesitated briefly before stepping inside.
The room was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the frosty night outside. The burgundy walls reminded Thalia of the cozy Gryffindor common room, rich and comforting. At the center of the space stood a large oak desk, its surface cluttered with parchment, quills, and an inkpot that seemed perpetually on the verge of tipping. Behind the desk, a wide window framed by periwinkle blue curtains let in a sliver of moonlight, which illuminated the room with a silvery glow. On either side of the window, towering bookcases were crammed with leather-bound tomes, their spines glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Two high-backed leather chairs faced the desk, their deep brown surfaces worn smooth with age and use. The woman gestured toward one of them, her movements fluid and precise.
“Sit,” she instructed, her voice firm but not unkind.
Thalia stepped further into the room, her gaze darting around as she took in the details. The faint scent of parchment and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth radiating from a small tiled hearth on the far wall. She perched on the edge of one of the chairs, her posture stiff with nervous energy.
With a casual flick of her wrist, the woman closed the door behind Thalia, the low thud echoing in the quiet space. “Now,” she said, settling into the chair behind the desk and fixing Thalia with a piercing stare. “You’re the Winterbourne girl, live on the hill with your Grandfather? Let’s hear it. What’s so important that you came knocking on my door at this hour?”
Thalia shifted nervously in her seat, the weight of the woman’s gaze pressing heavily on her. The fact that this stranger not only knew her name but seemed to know more about her circumstances than she’d expected left her momentarily stunned. Her mind raced, trying to piece together how much she could safely share without revealing too much.
"Something is happening," she began, her voice trembling slightly. She stared down at her hands, picking anxiously at a hangnail. "And I need to tell someone, so they can help."
The woman leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "Okay," she said slowly, her tone measured. "Can you tell me who you need to contact at nearly midnight?"
Thalia shook her head, her movements jerky. She couldn’t bring herself to meet the woman’s curious gaze.
"Can you tell me what information is so important you're wandering around in the dark to deliver it?" the woman pressed.
Again, Thalia shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line.
The older woman’s eyebrows quirked upward, and for a moment, Thalia braced herself for anger or dismissal. But instead of irritation, a flicker of concern crossed the woman’s face.
"Are you safe?" she asked gently, her voice softening.
Thalia’s head shot up, her wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I don’t know."
The woman sighed, nodding slowly as though she had expected the answer. She leaned forward, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on Thalia’s arm. The touch was warm, grounding, and surprisingly comforting.
"I noticed who you met here the other week," the woman said, her voice low but steady. "I don’t know how deep you’re in or what services a young girl like you could possibly be providing them with, but you need to be careful."
Thalia nodded, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in her throat.
"There are those of us who keep an ear out for information," the woman continued, her tone growing more serious. "Who will relay it and pray that it brings about a better tomorrow. But I fear that tomorrow cannot come without a war. I chose my side long ago, and I am willing to do everything in my power for the safety and security of those I love. If you have made the same promise for the light, I will help you now and in the future."
Her eyes bore into Thalia’s, the intensity of her words sinking deep.
"But," the woman added, her voice dropping slightly, "I also know who your grandfather meets with. And I believe I know where his loyalties lie."
Thalia stiffened, her spine straightening as she lifted her chin. Her tears were gone, replaced by a fiery determination. "I am not my grandfather," she said firmly, her voice carrying a strength that surprised even herself.
The woman’s lips quirked into a small smile, a glint of pride shining in her eyes. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the resolve in the young girl before her. "I’m glad we cleared that up," she said simply, her voice tinged with approval.
Rising from behind her desk, the woman crossed the room with purposeful steps toward a cage tucked in the corner. Inside, a sleek screech owl dozed, its head tucked neatly under its wing. At the soft click of the cage door opening, the bird stirred, letting out a sharp squawk as it stretched its wings wide. With a sudden burst of energy, it took flight, circling the room in a blur of feathers before perching atop a bookcase. Its sharp eyes surveyed Thalia below with an almost regal air.
"This is Galahad," the woman said, gesturing to the owl with a faint smile. "Small, discreet, and most importantly, quick. He'll get your letter delivered in no time."
As if responding to the introduction, Galahad swooped gracefully down from the bookcase, landing on the desk with a soft thud. The owl extended one leg toward Thalia with an air of expectation.
A startled laugh bubbled from Thalia’s lips, and she reached into her pocket, her fingers trembling slightly as she retrieved the letter. She carefully tied it to the owl’s outstretched leg, making sure the knot was secure.
Galahad clicked his beak approvingly and, to Thalia’s surprise, nuzzled affectionately against her palm. She let out a soft gasp, her heart warming at the unexpected gesture. With a shrill squawk, the owl spread its wings and launched itself toward the window, which the woman had opened moments before.
Thalia moved closer to the window, watching as Galahad’s silhouette became smaller and smaller against the night sky. A sense of relief washed over her, her chest lightening as she realized she had completed her task.
The woman returned to her desk, her presence calm but commanding. She extended her hand across the polished surface. "I’m Rosmerta," she said, her voice warm yet firm. "Landlady of the Three Broomsticks."
Thalia turned to face her, stepping forward and clasping the offered hand with a firm grip. "Thalia Winterbourne," she replied, her voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Rosmerta’s lips curved into a faint smile, her grip firm but kind. "Well, Miss Winterbourne," she said, releasing Thalia’s hand, “It appears we are comrades in arms.”
Thalia ducked her head modestly, her fingers nervously brushing the edge of her sleeve. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."
Rosmerta studied her for a moment, her sharp blue eyes softening. "You're welcome, my dear," she replied, her tone warm but edged with a seriousness that hinted at the gravity of the situation. "But don’t thank me too much just yet. You’ve stepped into a dangerous game, and gratitude won’t keep you safe."
Thalia nodded, the weight of Rosmerta's words settling heavily on her shoulders. "I understand," she said, her voice steadier now.
Rosmerta’s expression softened further, and she gave Thalia a reassuring pat on the arm. "You’re braver than you look, Winterbourne," she said with a small smile. "Just don’t let that bravery get you in over your head. If you ever need help, you know where to find me."
Thalia looked up, meeting Rosmerta’s gaze with a newfound resolve. "I won’t forget," she promised.
Rosmerta inclined her head, her curls bouncing slightly as she gestured toward the door. "Now, off with you before someone starts asking questions about why you’re here so late."
Thalia hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words, but then simply nodded. Pulling her coat tightly around her shoulders, she turned and slipped out of the office, the door closing softly behind her.
As she stepped back into the cold night, the sound of Galahad’s distant flight still echoing faintly in her mind, Thalia felt a flicker of hope stir within her. She had done what needed to be done, and for now, that was enough.
~.~.~
As soon as Thalia stepped through the doors to the Great Hall, a strange, electric tension fizzled in the air. The usual hum of lively chatter was replaced by hushed whispers that echoed eerily off the cavernous stone walls. Students sat rigidly at their tables, their faces pale and drawn, eyes darting nervously as though they expected something terrible to burst through the doors at any moment. The jovial chaos of breakfast was absent; even the clatter of cutlery seemed muted, swallowed by an oppressive silence that pressed down on the room like a storm cloud.
Her pulse quickened as she scanned the room, her eyes quickly finding the familiar cluster of red hair at the Gryffindor table. Relief washed over her briefly, but it was fleeting. There was something wrong—terribly wrong. The group was huddled together, their heads bent low over a newspaper, their postures tense.
Thalia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as she hurried toward them, weaving through tables and dodging students who barely noticed her presence. Her lateness, caused by the exhaustion of her nighttime escapade, now felt like a mistake—a dangerous delay. As she approached, George and Fred turned in unison, their faces a mixture of worry and relief.
George stood abruptly, pulling her into a tight hug that knocked the breath from her lungs. His grip was firm, as though anchoring her in place, but she could feel the tremor in his hands. Fred cleared his throat, a subtle nudge that made George step back, though his hand slid down to hers, gripping it tightly as he guided her into the seat beside him. His arm wrapped protectively around her waist, his warmth a stark contrast to the icy fear settling in her stomach.
Thalia’s gaze swept the group, taking in their grim expressions. Ginny was trembling, her face pale as a ghost, and Angelina had her arms wrapped tightly around the younger girl, whispering soothing words that did little to erase the fear in her eyes. Lee sat stiffly, his jaw clenched, while Alicia and Katie exchanged anxious glances.
“What’s going on?” Thalia asked, her voice a shaky whisper as she looked from face to face.
Lee nudged a copy of the Daily Prophet toward her, his expression softening into a sad, almost apologetic smile. “Read it,” he murmured.
Her stomach churned as she glanced down at the headline, the bold black letters practically screaming at her: MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded the paper, the edges crinkling in her grip. The accompanying article was worse than the headline. Ten convicted Death Eaters had escaped during the night, vanishing without a trace. No leads. No explanations. Just an ominous, gaping silence.
The room seemed to tilt, and her breath hitched as nausea rolled through her like a tidal wave. Her fingers instinctively tightened around George’s hand, pulling it into her lap as she tried to ground herself. The article blurred in front of her, the words swimming as the panic rose, threatening to drown her.
George leaned closer, his voice low and soothing. “Breathe, Lia,” he murmured, his free hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. “You’re safe.”
But his reassurance did little to quell the icy tendrils of fear creeping up her spine. The article wasn’t just news—it was a warning. A chilling reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows, of what was to come. And for Thalia, it was more than that. It was confirmation of the whispers she had overheard, of the dark plans being set in motion in her very own home.
Her mind raced as she fought to suppress the panic. She couldn’t let it show—not here, not now. The pieces were falling into place, and she needed to stay sharp. For now, she gripped George’s hand tightly, focusing on the warmth of his touch, using it as a lifeline to keep herself from unraveling.
The group was abruptly jolted from their swirling thoughts by the sharp, resonant chime of the bell, signaling that first period was about to begin. The sound reverberated through the Great Hall, momentarily breaking the oppressive tension that had settled over them.
Thalia blinked, her mind snapping back to the present. With hurried movements, she grabbed the Daily Prophet , folding it tightly and stuffing it into her bag. The crinkling of the paper seemed deafening in the heavy silence. Slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she glanced toward George, her gaze catching on an oddly mundane sight amidst the chaos.
He was calmly spreading jam on a slice of toast, his expression focused as if nothing unusual was happening. The normalcy of the gesture felt jarring, out of place in the tense atmosphere that hung over the room like a storm cloud.
Noticing her watching him, George turned to her with a small, reassuring smile and held up the plate. “You didn’t eat breakfast, Lia,” he said softly, his calm voice a gentle nudge against her frazzled nerves.
Thalia hesitated, her stomach still churning from the news. “I’m not hungry,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her voice was low and tinged with sadness, though she managed a faint, appreciative smile for his effort.
“Well then,” George replied, undeterred. He grabbed a napkin and carefully folded the slice of toast inside, tucking it neatly into his pocket. “I’ll take it with us. You can eat it later.”
His smile was warm and steady, a small beacon of comfort in the chaos. Thalia felt a flicker of gratitude, her heart softening at his quiet thoughtfulness. She nodded, her lips curving into a genuine, albeit fleeting, smile.
“Thanks, George,” she murmured.
He shrugged casually, though the way his hand brushed hers as they stood spoke volumes. “Always.”
"Where are you heading first?" George asked, his voice low but warm as he slipped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her gently to his side. The comforting gesture was a small but steady anchor amidst the tension still lingering in the air. They began walking through the hallways, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, the bustling noise of students around them somehow distant.
Thalia sighed, her mind still reeling from the morning’s events. “I’ve got a free morning,” she said, her voice quiet but purposeful. “But I need to go and talk to Professor McGonagall. She wanted to see me about something.”
Her words carried an edge of urgency, though she kept her tone neutral. She needed to check if Kingsley had received her letter and, more importantly, whether he had responded. The weight of the information she had sent was pressing on her chest, and she needed answers.
George nodded, his hand tightening briefly on her shoulder before he let go. “Alright, I’ll wait outside,” he said, his tone light but his eyes searching hers, trying to gauge her mood and trying to figure out what was weighing so heavy on her mind. “Then we can find a quiet spot to ‘study,’” he added with a teasing grin, making exaggerated air quotes around the word study .
Thalia chuckled, the sound of it soft but genuine. She appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, to give her a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos. “Sounds good,” she replied, offering him a small smile.
As they walked down the corridor, the atmosphere seemed to shift around them. There was still an undercurrent of tension in the air, but George’s presence was a balm to her frayed nerves. She let herself be drawn into the rhythm of their steps, her thoughts momentarily quieting as they moved closer to McGonagall’s office.
Thalia hesitated before knocking softly on the door of Professor McGonagall's office, her heart hammering in her chest. The usually comforting sound of the castle’s stone walls felt oppressive today, as if the very air around her was thick with unspoken fears. She had left George in the corridor, casually leaning against the wall with an easy grin on his face. Now, she wished he was here, holding her hand and comfortingly rubbing circles with his thumb. It had been a long night, and even longer morning, and now, standing before the door to McGonagall’s office, she felt the weight of the situation closing in on her.
With a deep breath, she knocked, the sound sharp and purposeful, yet her stomach churned with anxiety. She could hear McGonagall’s voice from within, clipped and precise, calling her in. Professor McGonagall's office, usually a place of calm and order, felt unusually tense. The normally composed professor was pacing behind her desk, her usual stern demeanor replaced by something more fraught, her lips pulled into a thin line.
"Ah, Miss Winterbourne," McGonagall began, her voice sharp yet laden with an emotion Thalia couldn’t quite place. "Sorry, I was expecting someone else. I had been meaning to catch you this morning. This arrived at dawn." The professor’s eyes flickered with something that resembled worry, something Thalia had never seen from the stern head of Gryffindor House.
Thalia couldn’t help but notice the way McGonagall’s fingers trembled ever so slightly as she handed over the cream-colored envelope, her brow furrowed in concern. It was a stark contrast to the woman’s usual unshakable poise. Thalia took the envelope with a sense of foreboding, her fingers brushing against the smooth paper, the weight of it feeling far heavier than it should have.
Thalia opened the envelope, her eyes skimming the letter, her heart pounding as she read the contents. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening. The words were clear, but the implications were chilling.
She looked up at McGonagall, wide-eyed, her stomach twisting with dread. “What does this mean?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"The information you provided last night suggests that your Grandfather has a bigger role to play in all of this than we originally anticipated," McGonagall said gravely, her gaze fixed on Thalia with a mixture of sympathy and concern. Her words were heavy, each one seeming to hang in the air longer than the last. "It is our belief that this manor they speak of is their headquarters. We have some guesses about where this could be, but Kingsley has asked that you keep an ear out for any details."
Thalia nodded quickly, her mind racing. Her grandfather, a key player? Companion of Death Eaters. Killers. The thought made her stomach churn. She had always known he was involved in something, but to this extent… It was overwhelming. The weight of the responsibility that now rested on her shoulders felt like it might crush her.
"Of course, Professor," she replied, her voice tight with determination. “It’s not the first time it's been mentioned. They all disappeared there after the attack on Mr Weasley so it seems like an important location.”
Professor McGonagall nodded, clearly deep in thought.
She hadn’t meant to say it out loud—hadn’t meant to voice the question that had been gnawing at her ever since she’d overheard the whispered conversations and pieced together the fragments of information. But the words spilled out before she could stop them, a desperate need for clarity pushing her forward.
"Professor," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "they always mention a 'he' in conversation. With everything I learned yesterday and what has come out in the press today, I have to ask. Are they referring to Voldemort?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing down on her chest as if the very walls of the office were closing in. McGonagall’s eyes shot up to meet hers, wide and unblinking, her mouth slightly agape as if the question itself had physically struck her. The usually composed and unflappable professor was now visibly shaken, her posture stiffening as if she had just been caught off guard by a blow. Thalia’s pulse hammered in her ears, the words hanging between them like an unspoken truth that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The room felt colder now, the shadows in the corners of the office stretching longer as if the darkness itself was waiting for an answer. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her.
"I mean," Thalia continued, pushing through the discomfort, "after last year with Cedric, it was all over the news. Harry saw his return." Her voice was barely a murmur, but the weight of it seemed to echo off the stone walls. The memories of that night, the darkness that had descended over the Triwizard Tournament, came flooding back—Cedric’s lifeless body,the wails of his father, and the terror in Harry’s eyes when he spoke of Voldemort’s return.
She took a shaky breath, pressing on despite the rising anxiety in her chest. "I know the Ministry said both him and Dumbledore were lying, but we’re dealing with Death Eaters now. I—I was listening in on their conversations!" Her voice faltered for a moment, the reality of her actions crashing down on her. She had been so close to them, so close to the very heart of their plans. Her stomach churned, but she couldn’t stop herself now. "I have to know if this is what we’re dealing with. If it's him, then everything’s worse than I thought. If it is him then the stakes of the game I am playing are higher than ever, deadly even."
McGonagall’s gaze never wavered, but Thalia could see the subtle shift in her expression. The professor’s lips pressed into a thin line, her face now a mask of contemplation and something else—something dark, something grim. The weight of the question had clearly taken her by surprise, but it was the way McGonagall’s eyes darkened that told Thalia more than words ever could. For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustling of parchment and the distant hum of the castle. Thalia felt the tension building, the air growing thicker with every passing second. She couldn’t read McGonagall’s expression, but the professor’s hesitation was palpable, like she was choosing her words carefully, knowing the gravity of what was about to be said.
Finally, McGonagall spoke, her voice low and measured, though there was a tremor of something unspoken beneath it. "Miss Winterbourne," she began, her eyes narrowing slightly, "you must understand that the situation we’re facing is more dangerous than you can imagine. Yes, your suspicions are correct, but even speaking his name carries consequences. You cannot take this lightly. He is not known for his understanding or forgiveness, if you were compromised you may pay the ultimate price."
Thalia nodded, her throat tight as she absorbed McGonagall’s words. It was as if a dam had been broken, and the floodgates of fear and uncertainty had opened wide. She had known it deep down, but hearing it confirmed—that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was still a looming threat—made her blood run cold.
The professor’s gaze softened slightly, but the edge of urgency remained in her voice. "You’ve done well to bring this to us, but you must be careful, Thalia. There are things you don’t yet understand, things that are better left unsaid for now. Our information and secrets are the only way that we can ever defeat him. But you’ve proven that you can handle yourself, and that’s why I’m trusting you with this."
Thalia’s mind raced, but she nodded, determination settling over her like a cloak. She couldn’t turn back now. The pieces were falling into place, and no matter how terrifying the truth was, she had to see it through.
“You’re a part of the group, alongside Kingsley, Tonks, and Charlie Weasley. Aren’t you?” Thalia’s voice was steady, but there was a sharpness in her words that cut through the tension hanging in the room. “I’ve got my suspicions that there are more of you—half the faculty, I expect. Clearly, you’re all being led by Dumbledore. But that’s the ‘We’ you’re referring to, isn’t it? And it’s the group’s secrets you’re trying to hide?”
McGonagall’s eyes widened for a brief moment, the flicker of surprise quickly masked by a controlled calm. Thalia could see the professor weighing her words carefully, but there was something in her gaze—a glimmer of approval. The older witch leaned back slightly in her chair, a proud smile curling at the edges of her lips.
“You clever witch,” McGonagall said, her tone rich with admiration. “Proving yet again why you are one of the smartest students I have ever taught. It seems you’ve been paying attention.”
Thalia felt a rush of exhilaration. The pieces were falling into place now, the puzzle she’d been trying to solve for so long finally coming together. It was as if she had stepped into a larger world, one she had only glimpsed at the edges, but now it was real, tangible, and all around her.
But that exhilaration quickly turned to determination. “I want in,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering. “If there’s a war, I want to fight. If I’m going to spy for you, I want to be a part of this. I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
McGonagall’s expression softened, but there was a flicker of something else—something Thalia couldn’t quite place. The professor’s eyes were full of the wisdom of someone who had seen far too much, who had lived through things Thalia could barely begin to understand.
“Not yet,” McGonagall began, her voice calm but resolute. She continued before Thalia could even open her mouth to argue. “We are only in the early days. Our infrastructure at the moment is based on the first war—there are too many pieces we still need to put into place. We need witches and wizards who are of age, who are out of school, who can fight without drawing attention. Thalia, I know you’re capable, but there are rules for a reason. We cannot, and will not, put children on the front line.”
Thalia’s chest tightened, but her defiance flared. She wasn’t a child. Not anymore. “When I come of age, you can’t stop me,” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade. “I’ll be ready.”
McGonagall looked at her with a mixture of pride and something else—concern, perhaps. “You will have my full support when that time comes,” she said, her voice softening with a hint of warmth. “In fact, I’ll recommend you, write you a reference if you need it. But for now, you need to focus on what you can do in the here and now. The war may be coming, but there are still battles to be fought in the shadows. You’re doing good work already.”
Thalia swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. She had thought she was ready, thought she could dive headfirst into this fight. But McGonagall’s words grounded her, reminding her of the weight of the situation. There was no rushing into something like this, no skipping the steps. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be ready when the time came.
“I’ll be ready,” she repeated, her voice steady. “And when that time comes, I’ll be fighting with you.”
McGonagall gave a small, approving nod, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, replaced by a quiet understanding. Thalia wasn’t a child anymore—not in the ways that mattered.Her sharp eyes continued scanning Thalia’s face, perhaps looking for signs of doubt or fear. When she spoke again, her voice softened, though it still held an edge of urgency. "As for the rest... you mentioned that Yaxley was there. Is that the only name that was said? Did you recognize anyone else?"
Thalia felt a pang of disappointment as she shook her head. "No. Unfortunately not," she said, feeling the weight of her lack of information. It felt as though she had failed in some way, though she knew that was hardly the case. She had given them everything she had heard, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
McGonagall sighed, her expression thoughtful but not unkind. "Okay. We’ll continue to work with what you’ve provided." Her tone was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, a determination that mirrored Thalia’s own.
Throwing one last look at Thalia, McGonagall’s gaze flicked to the clock mounted on the wall, her eyebrows knitting together in concern whilst her lips pressed together in a thin line.
“I’m expecting another visitor this morning, Miss Winterbourne,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. Her eyes darted to the door, her expression betraying a flicker of tension. “Unfortunately, they are not as pleasant as you. It would be best if they didn’t find you in my office.”
Thalia’s heart skipped a beat at the continued tension in McGonagall face and body. The professor glanced at the door again, as though she expected it to burst open at any moment, her hand resting lightly on the edge of her desk.
The room, so filled with quiet authority moments ago, now felt charged, the air thick with the promise of an encounter Thalia wanted no part of.
“Of course, Professor,” Thalia said quickly, rising from her seat. “Don’t let me keep you.” She hesitated for a moment, her curiosity prickling at the back of her mind, but the sharpness in McGonagall’s eyes left no room for lingering questions.
“I’ll see you in class,” she added, offering a faint smile before making her way to the door.
As Thalia turned the handle, she cast a glance over her shoulder. McGonagall was already moving to tidy her desk, her movements brisk, but her attention remained fixed on the door, her posture tense.
Slipping out into the corridor, Thalia let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She found George still leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed and his face lighting up with a wide smile as soon as he spotted her.
“There you are,” he said, straightening up and falling into step beside her as they began to walk. “You were in there forever. Did she give you detention, or can I still steal you away for some ‘studying’?”
Thalia smiled, shaking off the unease that had settled in her chest. “No detention,” she said lightly, though her mind lingered on McGonagall’s parting words.
As they moved down the corridor, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly behind them. Thalia resisted the urge to look back, but her senses remained on high alert, the tension from the professor’s office still clinging to her like a shadow.