"Enough!"
Anne drew her wand, its tip sparking with a sharp red flash.
"So now you're all in this together, huh?"
Her voice was loud, almost a shout.
"Fine!"
She strode out of the kitchen, yanked open the door, and before it even swung shut, she Disapparated from Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
Eyes red, breath uneven, Anne appeared near Paddington Station in London. After orienting herself, she pulled up the hood of her gray cloak, adjusted her glasses, earpiece, and ring, and marched toward a small house.
She knocked, two knocks, one, then two.
"Who's there?" came a voice from inside.
"The Gray Cottage," replied Skoll.
The door creaked open, revealing a short, stout man. "Oh? Mr. Skoll — what brings you here?"
"There's work. I'll be staying the night," Skoll said, stepping inside. "Bring me all the files from the past two days — and tomorrow's schedule, too."
"But… you've already gone over the schedule twice! I've already sent it out," the man said nervously, rubbing his hands.
Skoll's face darkened. He exhaled slowly, then waved a hand. "Forget it. Just bring me the files."
"Yes, sir."
On the third floor, he pushed open a heavy wooden door to a room that looked like a small study. A single bed stood in one corner, a desk in another, and beside it, a large bookshelf sparsely lined with folders.
What caught the eye, though, was the wall: half covered with a map of Britain, the other half with a detailed map of central London, both pinned with countless colored tags.
The outer headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.
He flicked the switch, and a white bulb flickered to life. Skoll walked to the window and pushed it open. Streetlamps glowed on the quiet road below. Every house was lit, though empty of people. From one, a television blared the muffled sound of a newscaster.
He took a few deep breaths, letting the soft summer night breeze wash over him until his pulse finally steadied.
A knock.
"Come in."
The stout man entered with a stack of papers.
"Put them on the desk. You can turn in early tonight."
"Yes, sir."
Once the door shut, Skoll locked it with a flick of his wand. From his pocket, he pulled out a cube and sent it floating into the air.
Removing his earpiece and ring, he slipped them away and sat at the desk — Anne once more.
She flipped open the first file but closed it after barely two pages. Turning her chair, she looked out the window at the moon.
That scene just now… maybe she'd gone too far.
Well — maybe not "maybe."
It had been half real, half act.
But it was real emotion, at least partly.
She hadn't realized how much resentment had built up inside her — and blurting it all out like that had felt… surprisingly good. Especially when anger took over and words simply flew, unfiltered, straight from her chest.
Absentmindedly, Anne twirled a pen between her fingers. Part of her scolded herself for losing her temper; another part argued back — why should I always be the one doing everything?
The conflict twisted inside her, like something lodged in her chest — neither swallowed nor spat out.
She stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled open a drawer full of snacks — chocolate bars, chips, puffed treats.
Tearing open a chocolate wrapper, she took a bite, popped the lid off a can of coffee, then opened a bag of chips. Hugging her snacks, she leaned against the window frame and listened to the faint sound of a TV drifting through the night.
"…the Prime Minister yesterday… stated that… the train… fatalities…"
Her pocket buzzed.
She took out a black phone. The tiny screen flashed: Girlfriend.
She answered.
"You owe us an apology." Hermione's stern voice cut through.
Anne froze — then, obediently, said, "You're right. I'm sorry."
"You really shouldn't have said those things about Ron, Harry, and me," Hermione said, still unable to hide her anger.
Anne paused. "You're right. I admit it."
Hermione faltered, caught off guard. Anne took another sip of coffee. It tasted more bitter than before.
"I'm sorry too," Hermione said softly. "I shouldn't have snapped."
"Alright."
Anne looked across the street. Through a brightly lit window, she could see a family — parents and a little boy — gathered around a baby carriage. The TV flickered with colorful cartoons. A chubby baby hand waved a toy in the air.
"Explain, Anne," Hermione said quietly. "I want to hear your side."
"There's nothing to explain."
"No — Anne, tell me. Tell me you and Harry planned this together, that it was all to help Ron."
Anne let out a small laugh. Classic Hermione.
Hermione seemed to relax a little. "I knew it. Harry looked strange after you left. I was angry and didn't think much of it then, but now… I understand. And I know why you didn't tell me—"
"Hermione…"
"Hm?"
You don't need to defend me, Anne thought. What I said was half-truth, half-lie.
"Do you want to hear a song?"
"But I haven't—"
"If you keep going," Anne teased lightly, "that secret Harry and I promised to keep might just turn into a joke."
Hermione laughed despite herself. "Alright, alright."
"Good." Anne flicked her wand, summoning the guitar case from the wall.
"Did you eat dinner?" Hermione asked.
Anne opened the case with another wave.
"Just did. I was about to go through some files when you called."
She set down her wand, took the guitar, hit the speaker button, and placed the phone on the desk. Sitting down, she strummed once, clearing her throat.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
A soft prelude filled the quiet room.
Anne began to sing, her voice steady and warm:
"Well I fell down, down, down
Into this dark and lonely hole
There was no one there to care about me anymore
And I needed a way to climb and grab a hold of the edge
You were sitting there holding a rope And we'll go up, up, up But I'll fly a little higher We'll go up in the clouds because the view is a little nicer Up here my dear It won't be long now, it won't be long now When I get back on land Well I'll never get my chance ...."