Draco glanced over at the tall wizard standing beside him on the precipice, the former Headmaster's skin as pale and wrinkled as his white hair, his beard straggling in kinks down the length of his lean torso, stark against his worn black robes. His back was straight; hands clasped behind him in the confident and easy manner that had faltered enemies and inspired respect and loyalty and, most of all, love in numerous others. Dumbledore was the sole reason he bothered to help the Order at all, having saved Draco's life some ten years before. It was a wizard's debt, and nothing more, that kept him in the game.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed behind his half-moon glasses as he looked out into the warring tides. Behind them, the small, heavily warded shantytown of the Order lay morose and quiet. "They are both important," he said, finally breaking the silence. "They must be protected at all cost, or we have no hope of defeating the Dark Lord," he shifted his gaze to Draco, fierce blue that belied a strange vulnerability, "or saving Harry." Dumbledore sighed. "The Order needs you to get Miss Weasley out of the compound."

Rescue a Weasley. "They know she's had contact with Granger before. She'll be under the highest guard and," Draco clenched his jaw in irritation, "I doubt I'd have clearance."

Dumbledore seemed amused. "A Malfoy denied access?"

"The world just doesn't make sense anymore, does it?" Draco quipped, trying to make light of something that was rapidly turning him bitter. During the struggle for Avignon, a well-aimed curse had left Lucius quite insane, and the incident considerably lowered the Malfoy family stock. "Macnair's dumb as a yeti, though," Draco acknowledged, referring to the head of the New Ministry. "I'll see what I can do."

"It's imperative, Mr. Malfoy." He cleared his throat and continued, "Her brother will be your contact on the outside."

"Which one?" Draco asked on a groan.

"Ron," Dumbledore said, his mouth twitching slightly, a hint of the old twinkle in his eyes.

Draco cursed softly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why the hell couldn't you have given me George? I can at least have a civil conversation with that one."

"Busy with a new baby, I'm afraid," Dumbledore chortled. "Molly's fifth grandchild."

"They breed like rabbits," Draco muttered. "What about Granger?"

"The Tribe is sending an emissary to find her."

Draco snorted. "Sniff her out, more like." The Tribe, a band of rogue Animagi who had gone to ground when Potter's powers were rent in two, had been rumored to barely maintain any human forms at all. "Will they even be able to reverse the Memory Charm?"

Dumbledore arched a thick brow. "I have every faith that they have kept up their magic practices over the years."

"Do you?" Draco asked, doubtful.

"Minerva McGonagall is, first and foremost, a professor of magic," he said firmly.

Draco shook his head. "They've gone wild, Dumbledore."

"Wild," Dumbledore murmured, breathing in the crisp sea air, "and more powerful for it. They just may be our only hope."

The old woman stared into the fire; her palms, fingers spread wide, reached out to nearly touch it. She didn't flinch from the flames, nor did she give any indication that the heat was burning through her fingertips, making them glow a painful red. "She has been found," she said, her voice hoarse from disuse. It was the first time in over a year that she had settled in her human skin.

A low growl came from the other side of the circle. The big cat's yellow eyes glowed through the fire, fastened intently on the woman.

"I have summoned you, spirit guide to the great cat Cublha, loyal tribesman, who protects the innocent from harm and gives his strength and speed to our warriors." The woman, once a professor of the precise intricacies of transfiguration, but now a powerful spirit seeker of the Tribe, lifted her crimson hands to the night sky. "Let the Tribe's wishes be known, that you will guide and protect her as you would your own."

The cat roared, his cry louder than any natural leopard, light glinting off his bone-white fangs.

"Cublha," the matriarch said, nodding her head towards the panther, addressing the Animagus by his tribal name, "let the Tribe's wishes be done, that you will lead her and protect her as one of us."

The leopard roared again and rose slowly, making its way around the fire towards the woman.

Minerva McGonagall lowered her arms, the ceremony finished, the blaze now gone from her weathered hands. She chuckled softly as the black cat, years past from being her student, rubbed his large head into her palm. It was an oddly unconventional protection spell she had performed, but the Tribe had little use for structured magic.

She looked up at the bright stars. "It has been blessed." The cat rumbled deep in his chest. "Yes, you must go now."

The leopard snuffed once, and then lifted its gaze to the narrow strip of sky, visible only by the bareness of the black forest trees. The air was still and cold. They sat there together for a moment, the fire lower now but still strong, then the cat rose and padded softly into the darkness, slipping into the dense brush surrounding the clearing.

Tessa jerked awake with a gasp, her fingers curled tight around the pale sheets. Her hair clung to her cheeks in damp ringlets, fluttering lightly from her breath as she fought to slow her heart. She calmed herself by focusing on the familiar objects in her room. Cloaked in half shadows, the curves of her giant armoire seemed solid and reassuring. Her cluster of antique, gilt-framed mirrors reflected a pale haze of moonlight. She had placed them just so... to catch the late night full moon as it drifted down towards dawn. Esmee, her feline form stretched long across the low cherry vanity, wheezed a delicate snore; her nose no doubt tickled by a floating dust bunny.

She had dreamed of Ginny again.

It was surprise, really, that had torn her breathless from her sleep. She hadn't dreamed of the tall, flame-haired woman in so long. It felt like, and probably had been, years since their nightly adventures had faded, pushed back by Tessa's blind determination. If she'd felt the echoes of Ginny's desolation for weeks on end afterwards, imagined the sadness in her wide-set, chocolate eyes, she ignored it as best she could, convincing herself that sane, normal people didn't dream of mischievous witches night after night.

Sinking back down onto the bed, she pulled the covers up to her chin. The dream had been sharper and more defined than any she'd had before. Or perhaps it had just seemed so, since so much time had passed and her subconscious ached for details.

Ginny had gotten older. Her hair was a shade more auburn; her face slimmer, cheekbones more pronounced. Her dark eyes seemed shadowed, and a crease of worry furrowed her brow, but her squared chin had that same stubborn tilt to it, her mouth still a wide, curving slash of red.

Tessa shivered, tightening the blankets around her as she stared at the moonlight spilling across her bedroom floor. An odd sort of yearning had settled in the pit of her belly.

Though the cell was dank and cold, the lumpy mattress and threadbare blanket scant protection against the changing seasons, the familiar scent of cinnamon brought a small, relieved smile to Ginny's lips and she murmured contentedly in her sleep.

Hermione was back.