Bathsheda was very comfortable. She was stretched across Cassian’s chest, limbs tangled, perfectly settled. Cassian, however, was groaning.

She looked down.

Her elbow was jammed into his sternum.

She didn’t move it.

“What a nice woman you are,” he gasped. “Letting your man suffer. Just to prove his love.”

“I do try,” she said, making no effort to shift.

Then a phoenix feather slid in through the wall. It floated near Bathsheda’s ear. But as she heard the message, she sighed.

“Can’t believe Dumbledore learned your trick.”

Cassian opened one eye, breath still ragged. “Course he has. He’s an old monster.” He hooked an arm around her waist, tugged her down, and kissed her. “Did he find something?”

She pushed up, elbow still very much in place.

“Yes. Probably a trap.”

He didn’t bother asking more. Just gave a tired hum. “Be careful, love.”

Bathsheda stood, straightened her shirt, reached for her wand. “Always.”

She waved behind her and stepped out, already walking toward the Headmaster’s office.

Cassian wheezed into the pillow. “Heartless woman,” he muttered. “Bloody elbow…”

***

Bathsheda landed on the edge of an overgrown verge. The air was wet and she could already smell cold stone and the faint sting of chimneys. She adjusted her coat and stepped out from the alley.

The area Dumbledore called her to was half-abandoned, an old orchard that had grown sideways into the outskirts of the city, fenced off and forgotten. Wards buzzed faintly under her boots, which meant he’d done his usual. When she reached the stretch of trees near the southern edge, she saw him.

Albus was leaned up against an old oak, sitting casually. Blue robe flapping in the breeze, beard resting neatly on his chest, probably his idea of blending in. He even had a book in his lap, thumb tucked inside it.

Bathsheda sighed again, walking.

“Bathsheda,” he said, smiling warmly. He closed the book. “I am very glad that you came.”

“Of course,” she said, arms folded. “Cassian sends his irritation.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I will make it right with him.”

“You won’t,” she said. “Now. What’ve we got?”

Dumbledore frowned, his smile dropped.

“I found Winky,” he said. “And I fear it is meant to draw us in.”

Bathsheda’s brows drew together. She didn’t interrupt.

“The oldest trace tied to her is months old,” he went on. “The Dark Lord may have been behind the earlier ambushes. But after this delay, I doubt he is here now.”

He glanced toward the trees. “Tom was never patient. He wouldn’t wait half a year to spring a trap.”

She drew her wand.

Runes along her right arm flared. Ash landed with a light scrape of claws on the dirt.

Bathsheda touched her snout. “Ash. Smaller.”

Ash huffed, shrinking down until she fit neatly along Bathsheda’s shoulder. Her eyes stayed sharp.

Dumbledore watched the treeline again. “Careful, all the same,” he said.

“Consors Umbrae.”

Bathsheda blurred against the trees, shape softening until she was barely there. Dumbledore followed suit. His robes caught the light oddly for a moment, then vanished. Only the faintest ripple betrayed where he’d stood.

They layered it with Invisibility. Then a few more spells. Muffled steps. A paired charm so they could see each other’s outlines through the concealment.

The orchard narrowed as they moved. The trees thinned. Roots reached out across a slope where the old fence had collapsed into brambles. In the centre, where the nettles gave way to soft moss, a small figure lay crumpled beside a half-rotten log.

Winky.

Her robes were torn. One sleeve burned through. The rest was damp, sticking to the skin. Her hand still gripped a bit of rope, shredded at both ends. Her chest rose. Barely.

Bathsheda didn’t move. Dumbledore halted beside her.

If they touched her inside a warded circle, the whole thing would explode. They needed to break the runes first if they wanted to treat her.

Bathsheda’s mouth tightened.

Dumbledore’s next step shifted the soil underfoot. A pulse moved outward from him, then disappeared.

He made a brief gesture with his hand. At least ten presences were spread through the orchard.

She gestured. Two fingers toward her eyes. Then pointed ahead. Above.

Dumbledore nodded. He went right. Bathsheda moved left, vanishing into the trees.

Three figures shimmered into view near the far tree line, cloaked and masked.

Bathsheda raised her hand.

Three more shapes appeared from her side, spaced wider in the trees. Six total.

One of the Death Eaters turned. The second started to raise his wand.

She grabbed the first by the wrist, twisted, shoved a spell through his throat. Silencer then a stunner. His body hit the dirt with a grunt. His friend barely got his hand up before she slammed a hex into his shoulder. His bones cracked sideways.

Two down.

Third tried to run. She flicked her fingers. Trip hex. The man folded backwards into a branch. Stayed there.

She kept moving.

The fourth one spotted her too late. He’d only just turned when her spell slammed into his ribs. His wand flew one way, body the other. She followed it with a second hex. He crumpled into the bracken with a grunt, not moving again.

Behind her, Dumbledore dropped the last on his side.

Then a Death Eater bolted. Bathsheda swore and darted after him. The runner flicked his wrist as the Dark Mark flared.

Ash dove, dropping like a falling star, claws first. She slammed into his chest and rolled him over. The wand clattered into mud. He wheezed and grinned at them. It was too late.

Bathsheda skidded to a halt.

The Mark was activated.

She turned to Ash. “Get back.”

Ash jumped off, already changing, growing as she landed.

Bathsheda reached into her coat, snapped out a rune and slammed it into the earth. The sigil flared gold. Didn’t work at all. The air twisted. A figure stepped out of it, taking slow steps.

Thin. Pale. Red eyes locked on the crumpled figure. Then stopped on her. Curious. Puzzled. Faintly amused.

Dumbledore stepped into the clearing behind her.

Voldemort frowned. “Albus.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t shift. “Tom.”

Four more appeared behind Voldemort before they could say more.

Bellatrix dropped in with a laugh. Rookwood came quieter, he was eying the opening. Then Barty Crouch Jr. He grinned at Bathsheda.

Last was Lucian.

He looked at Dumbledore. Then Ash. Then Bathsheda.

The moment his eyes met hers, it changed.

Bathsheda straightened. Ash growled behind her, smoke curling from her nose.

Lucian looked past her. And then his mouth curled. “Where is Cassy?”

Bathsheda smiled. “He sends his regards. After we bag you, we’ll collect the bounty and take a nice holiday. South America sounds good.”

Lucian snarled, wand already half-raised, but Voldemort flicked a hand and he stopped like he’d hit a wall. The red eyes didn’t move from Dumbledore.

“I waited for Rosier,” Voldemort said. “But he never came.”

Dumbledore smiled softly. “Paperwork stopped him. For once.”

Voldemort’s mouth curled. “Ah. That explains it. I doubted it was fear.”

Bellatrix moved with a shriek, hair flying. Her curse cracked through the air, hit a ward that flared gold. Bathsheda hit her with a jinx straight through the shoulder. Bellatrix crouched with a cackle.

Rookwood’s wand lit, but Ash was faster.

She surged forward in a blur, slammed him sideways into a tree. The bark splintered. His wand spun out of reach. She pinned him, smoke spilling from her mouth.

Lucian went for her flank.

Dumbledore stopped him cold. A non-verbal shoved Lucian backwards into a tangle of roots. Lucian responded with a curse, rolled, came up again, but slower.

Barty tried to circle. Bathsheda caught him mid-step. Her curse cracked the ground under his feet, flung dirt and moss in all directions. He jumped over the spell, but lost his footing.

She was already moving again but Voldemort flicked his wand. The clearing bent. Dirt twisted up from the earth, aiming for their ankles. Dumbledore cancelled them with a sweep of his hand, light slashing across the ground.

Bellatrix howled and sprang again, but Ash was already there claws catching her coat and flinging her back into Rookwood who was getting up.

Lucian caught Ash mid-turn with a lash of silver. She growled, spun, took the hit on her shoulder. Her scales rippled, absorbed the worst of it, and she bared her teeth in reply. Steam hissed out of her nostrils.

Bathsheda snapped a rune from her belt and flung it at the nearest tree. The bark glowed and cracked. Roots exploded upward, tangling another Death Eater’s legs trying to sneak on them.

Lucian went for Bathsheda again. He nearly made it.

She ducked under his curse, slammed hers into his ribs. He staggered, dazed, his nose bleeding.

Ash spun behind her, caught another curse meant for her side. Letting out an annoyed roar.

Rookwood dragged himself upright, spitting dirt, and snapped his wand up. “Exstinguo.”

The grass around Ash blackened. A pale light shot from the runes under his boots and crawled up the trees, choking the air. Then came the second hit, three overlapping sigils, burned straight into the soil. Her wings started to falter mid-beat.

Bathsheda flinched.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Gravitational runes?”

Old runes. Sub-layered and hidden. Some kind of feed-drain loop spliced into suppression weave. Filthy work. Would take her hours to crack clean. But she didn’t need clean, just a gap.

She looked up just in time to see Bellatrix roll upright.

Barty followed, wand flicking.

Dumbledore didn’t look at her or Ash. Voldemort had his full attention.

His wand twisted through an arc and the earth kicked up a snarl of dust. Voldemort answered without hesitation. Their spells clashed mid-air, cracking like a whip.

A fight like that didn’t leave room for babysitting.

Bathsheda turned, dropped a ward of her own and aimed it at Rookwood. It scraped off his shoulder.

Lucian slammed in from the side.

She caught him off the corner of her eye, ducked. His spell cracked the bark behind her. He moved like he wanted blood.

She hexed him in the shin. Hard.

He snarled. “You’re in the way.”

She fired two shots, one high, one low. He blocked the first. The second clipped his hip and twisted. He swore and staggered.

Behind them, Ash had pulled back, wings dragging on the ground. She was breathing hard, eyes flickering, pupils too wide, heat rolling off her in fits. That drain was still crawling through her scales. She could barely raise her head.

Rookwood was shifting, setting a fourth rune.

No time to wait.

Bathsheda turned, flicked her wrist, and slashed her wand across the ward-laced ground. Her runes didn’t match his, they clashed, spat, sparked. She stepped into the circle, and jammed her heel on the outer ring. The lines cracked. Bathsheda’s teeth clenched at the backlash, pain flashing up her ankle.

Ash’s head snapped up. Her eyes lit again.

A single flap and she launched, shot straight for Rookwood, faster this time. He barely turned before her claws dug in.

The man howled. She dragged him into a tree.

Bellatrix laughed and lunged for Bathsheda again. This time she was ready.

Lucian advanced. “Does he even know what you’re doing? Fighting his family?”

She gave him a cold look. “You’re not family. You never were.”

He struck again from a dirty angle.

She caught it. Her wand buzzed in her palm. Recoil bruised her wrist.

He closed the gap, voice lower now. “You think you matter to him? You’re a distraction. A way to forget. Something soft to bury the shame.”

Bathsheda stared at him, deadpan.

Ash growled behind her.

They pressed on her from all sides. Branches behind her snapped. A curse missed her ear by inches. Ash circled beside her, tail lashing against the ground to warn off the others.

Lucian laughed, clearly too pleased with himself. “Cassy used you,” he said. “He always did. I heard Father say it when he first started, find a capable woman, someone close to Dumbledore. Someone who opens doors.”

Another curse skimmed past her shoulder. Bathsheda’s gaze was lowered, eyes dark.

“You’re convenient,” Lucian went on, circling. His smile twisted. “Pretty accessory. A clutch for his schemes. You don’t know him at all. You’ve no idea what sort of man he really is.”

Bathsheda glanced down at her hand.

The rune on her ring finger pulsed.

She smiled.

Lucian faltered. He’d expected anger. Hurt. Something to dig into.

She closed her fist.

“Lumos Noctis.”

Darkness fell, like the world had been folded shut. Spell-light sparked and died the instant it formed. Bathsheda lifted her empty hand.

A pulse rolled out from her palm.

It struck bark. Stone. Bodies.

She spoke into the dark. “You might not know Cass.”

Another pulse followed.

“But there’s nothing about him I don’t.”

Four impacts landed clean. Four bodies hit the ground.

Ash hopped up onto her shoulder, roaring to the sky.

She turned and walked, the darkness peeling away behind her, as she made way straight for the clash of light and force where Dumbledore and Voldemort were still locked together.

Two were circling now.

The Dark Lord struck first.

The ground shook. A curse roared past Dumbledore’s shoulder. He stepped sideways, countered with a twist that sent glassy shards of air straight toward Voldemort’s feet. They embedded in the ground.

Then, two pulled back at the same time.

Dumbledore stepped back toward Winky. Voldemort drifted the other way standing in the midst of felled Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord’s gaze slid to Bathsheda. His serpentine eyes were locked, as if he was trying to see through a mystery he couldn’t make sense of.

His cloak lifted. Five shapes tore backward through the air and were gone.

Dumbledore let out a sigh and crouched. He lifted Winky carefully, one arm under her shoulders, the other bracing her legs. She stirred, a weak sound catching in her throat.

“She’s alive,” he said. “Badly injured but will live.”

Bathsheda’s hand tightened around her wand. “Is she freed?”

“Yes.” He checked the torn sleeve, the burns. “Thankfully. They must’ve been afraid we’d trace her back to Barty.”

Bathsheda watched Winky for a second longer. Her shoulders eased. They called Aurors to deal with the aftermath, then they vanished, taking her home.

(Check Here)

Unknown territory. Many travelers passed. None left markings. Cartographer suspects laziness.

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