It was past midnight in the northern coast town of Durness, Scotland.
To the north and west, the sea stretched endlessly, roaring and crashing against the jagged cliffs. The storm only fed the fury of the waves, their howls echoing through the night.
No lights shone in the windows of the sleeping town; the people inside were long used to answering storms with nothing but sleep.
Only the streetlamps fought against the rain, their glow trembling in the deluge, and far off on the coast, the tall white lighthouse sent a narrow beam slicing through the darkness.
A small blue-walled cottage stood alone, fifty meters from its nearest neighbor, a white two-story house.
In front of the blue cottage, three figures suddenly appeared out of thin air.
"Merlin's beard! What kind of dreadful weather is this?" Ron shouted over the wind.
Harry's eyes rolled back. He swayed and would have fallen if Ron and Hermione hadn't caught him.
"Harry?"
"He's passed out!" Hermione pressed a hand to his cheek. "We need to get him inside, now! And we have to treat our own injuries, too!"
"I'll carry him," Ron said quickly. "You open the door, set up the tent if you have to!"
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Meanwhile, in a dim alley somewhere in London, a fat rat crawled out from a storm drain. It looked both ways, then scurried into a nearby garbage bin.
"Bloody hell! Why wasn't this report delivered sooner?" Skoll snarled, leaping to his feet. His chair clattered backward onto the floor with a crash.
"Mr. Skoll, sir, we only just received it," the man stammered. "That scavenging party, they'd just returned from Godric's Hollow this afternoon. They went there on their own, hoping to rob a few old rich wizards, but they stumbled on this instead—"
Skoll crushed the parchment in his fist, brows furrowed deep.
"Forget it. Pay them. And next time they find a corpse worth talking about, I want the report the moment it surfaces. We'll pay well for that kind of news."
"Yes, Mr. Skoll. Anything else?"
"I'm not staying here tonight. Cancel all meetings. I'm heading out now."
He waved his wand; the chair lifted itself back upright.
"Yes, sir."
Pulling out his phone, Skoll dialed Hermione's number, then took a small wooden token from his pocket and sent a short message:
Where are you?
He flicked his wand, sending the papers on his desk flying neatly into the bookshelf. With one hand on his phone, he pushed open the window and vaulted out onto the empty balcony below.
He landed lightly, knees bent to absorb the shock. Once he was clear of the Order of the Phoenix's anti-apparition wards, he pulled up the hood of his gray cloak.
The call connected.
"Hel—"
"Hermione," Skoll cut in sharply, voice tight. "Where are you? I'm coming."
"Number Three."
"Good. Wait for me."
He ended the call.
Darkness twisted, and he was gone.
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A flash of white lightning tore the sky open as Skoll appeared outside the blue cottage.
The rain poured down in sheets.
Frowning, he didn't bother to remove his hood, striding through the small yard toward the door.
He knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Hermione stood there, drenched from head to toe. Her face and arms were streaked with cuts; a fresh bandage wrapped her right forearm. Her jeans were torn open at the knee, blood still seeping through. She stood awkwardly, most of her weight on her uninjured leg.
As the door shut behind them, Skoll pulled down his hood, removed his earpiece and ring, and shrugged off his soaked cloak.
"Anne, I'm dripping wet—" Hermione began.
Anne swept her off her feet in one motion, her expression calm but unyielding. "Injured people don't get to argue. You just arrived?"
Hermione nodded weakly. Her face was pale, lips drained of color, damp hair clinging to her cheeks.
"Ron and Harry are hurt too," she whispered. "Harry's unconscious, he kept muttering something, but I couldn't make out the words. Ron carried him to the bedroom."
"I see."
"Anne? What are you doing here?" Ron asked, surprised. His robe and trousers were torn and blood-stained; a cut ran across his forehead, half his face red. He clutched a towel against a wound on his arm.
"I just received word," Anne said, setting Hermione gently down on the sofa. "Bathilda Bagshot is dead."
"What? Why didn't that come sooner, ah!" Ron tried to sit but yelped as pain shot through his arm.
"The report came from a scavenger group, just now," Anne replied, already unpacking a small case marked with a red cross.
"Anne, check on Harry first—" Hermione urged.
"Yes! Anne, he was bitten by that snake! I couldn't stop the bleeding—" Ron added anxiously.
Anne froze. "A snake?"
"Mm," Hermione nodded. "During the fight, Harry shouted, He's here! I think the snake was Nagini."
Anne laid out a ceramic jar, a small brown bottle, and a handful of cotton swabs. Opening the brown bottle, she let two drops fall onto Hermione's bleeding wound.
"The brown one's dittany, good for bleeding. But if it's curse damage, don't use that. Use what's in the jar instead."
Hermione winced but said nothing as Anne worked quickly.
"I'll check on Harry." Anne picked up the box and strode into the bedroom.
She cut away the messy bandage Ron had wrapped and saw four clear puncture marks on Harry's left forearm. Blood was still seeping steadily.
Frowning, she dug into the bottom layer of the case and retrieved a small crystal vial filled with a transparent liquid that shimmered faintly red under the light.
Phoenix tears.
Uncorking the vial, Anne let a few drops fall onto the wound.
The punctures began closing instantly, leaving behind only four faint red dots. She exhaled in relief, tucked the vial away, and turned to treat the rest of his injuries, burns, cuts, bits of glass embedded in his skin. She worked methodically, cleaning, salving, and bandaging.
Through it all, Harry kept murmuring, "Don't, go… I found it…"
The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead glowed an angry red, hot enough that when Anne touched it, her fingertips burned.
Her brow furrowed. After a moment's hesitation, she covered him with a blanket and stepped back into the sitting room.
"How is he?" Hermione and Ron asked together.
"The wounds are treated. He fainted because of his scar," Anne said shortly, opening the case again and mixing two cups of blood-replenishing potion.
She handed one to Ron and carried the other to Hermione, then knelt in front of her to clean the gash on her knee. It was deep, and dittany alone wouldn't be enough.
"Ron," she said without looking up, "tell me everything that happened tonight."
Ron gulped down his potion and began recounting their disastrous trip to Godric's Hollow while Anne finished tending Hermione's leg.
When she was done, she turned to bandage Ron's arm properly, her movements brisk but careful.
Finally, she straightened. "You should rest. I'll take the watch tonight, and keep an eye on Harry."
Before Ron could protest, she scooped Hermione up again and carried her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.
"Anne, what about the Order?" Hermione asked softly.
"We'll deal with that tomorrow," Anne said, setting her gently on the bed. She opened her backpack and summoned a clean white T-shirt and a pair of black shorts with a flick of her wand.
"Your clothes may be dry, but they're filthy," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Change into these and get some sleep."
Hermione blushed, glancing at the neatly folded clothes.
Anne didn't notice. She slung the backpack over her shoulder and went to the door. Before stepping out, she added, "I'll come check in an hour. Don't stay up overthinking, all right?"
As she left, she flicked her wand, extinguishing the lights.
The door clicked shut.
Only the bedside lamp remained.
Hermione picked up the clothes Anne had left, Anne's own, actually. In summer, Anne preferred to sleep in just that: simple and cool, as she liked to say. Nightgowns and robes are far too fussy.
Anne always had her own odd ways, different from everyone else's, but endearing in their own right. Spend enough time with her, and her quirks became contagious.
Smiling faintly, Hermione peeled off her outer clothes and unclasped her armor.
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Out in the sitting room, Anne checked on Harry again; his breathing was steady now. She left the bedroom door ajar and settled into an armchair that gave her a clear view of him.
The light in Ron's room had gone out.
Anne sighed, pulled a stack of files from her bag, and began working.
She couldn't just ignore the Order of the Phoenix, not really. If the meetings were postponed, she might as well deal with the pile of reports first.
She read, annotated, paused to think, sometimes staring absently at the Deluminator sitting in the middle of the table.
An hour passed before she noticed. Setting down the pen, she placed the papers aside, rose, and padded quietly to the master bedroom.
The door opened soundlessly. She slipped inside.
Hermione was asleep.
Anne brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, the light catching faintly on the healing scratches. Then she bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione's forehead.
For a moment she just stood there, watching. Then she adjusted the blanket around her, turned, and flicked her wand.
The bedside lamp went out.
Back in the armchair, Anne reopened the files and continued to read under the quiet hum of the storm.