The rest of the day was set aside for recovery, never a comfortable process. All of the champions were injured, and mending Rhiannon’s badly-healed broken wrist hurt far more than the original break ever had – and she was the least injured of the three of them. Even the hostages were a bit scraped up, and of course there was Dudley’s situation. The healers clearly knew something, but none of them said anything and they managed to make it back to the castle with a dressing gown and a heavy application of glamours.

Thankfully, with the full moon that night, Dudley didn’t have to stay stuck for long. But monthly nonhuman students’ camp-out was quieter than usual, and Rhiannon kept to the edges of it with her brother and their friends. Fleur was absent altogether – which she had expected, but the way the Beauxbatons students were all so subdued was more worrying.

The next day was worse. Rhiannon was so foggy from the adrenaline crash that she missed all the sideways looks and mutters on the way down to breakfast, and it wasn’t until she sat down at the table and saw her friends’ grim faces that it really sank in. “God – ev-ev-everyone, they know?” she whispered.

Hermione made an angry little squeaking sound and squeezed her hands into fists on the edge of the table, and Luna silently slid a newspaper across to Rhiannon. Right there on the front page... “Fuck – how’d-d-d- it’s such a clear picture, how?” Rhiannon stammered, staring horrorstruck at the photo. A flash of white fur, yellow eyes radiating panic right off the page – Dudley’s half-transformation was captured in full colour and displayed for the entire British wizarding world, and Rhiannon didn’t even have to check the byline to know who was responsible.

“Rita fucking Skeeter,” Rhiannon growled, the rage bubbling up in her gut and clawing its way through her nerves, hot and consuming and vengeful as dragonfire. She looked up and saw that fury mirrored in each of her friends in their own ways – from Nina to Hermione, Luna, Neville, Harry, Faye and more – they were all there in support, but two faces were conspicuously absent. “Wait – Dudley, Ginny – h-has anyone seen them?” she asked. Her stammer crept back as her anxiety rose, but that didn’t replace her rage – only sharpened its edge.

“I saw them in the common room first thing, Dudley said he’d meet us down here,” Parvati replied cautiously. Her expression darkened, and she looked down at the table. “But I haven’t seen them since... Shit, I’m sorry Rhi.”

Tears welled up in Rhiannon’s eyes and she stood up from the table, any thought of breakfast discarded. “I’m gonna g-go f-f-f-find ‘im. I’ll prob’ly be late t’ class,” she announced, trying and failing to keep the anger from her voice as tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ll just- s-s-see you later,”

With that, Rhiannon turned and fled from the hall, almost tripping on her cane in her haste. The most logical place to start looking had to be the Slytherin common room, so she ignored the ache in her knees and hurried downstairs. Students stared as she passed, muttered amongst themselves, but Rhiannon was too angry to pay them any particular heed.

As it turned out, Dudley was not in the Slytherin common room and according to his roommates Abhi Rao and Astoria Greengrass, he’d left with Ginny almost an hour ago and hadn’t been seen since. He wasn’t in the library, or his usual study haven in the transfiguration courtyard. At last, Rhiannon hobbled down to the kitchen, wondering if perhaps Dudley had chosen to eat breakfast where he wouldn’t be harassed by students with questions raised by Skeeter’s article.

Dudley wasn’t in the kitchen either, and Rhiannon was about to head back to the library in search of a person-finding spell when a soft cough stopped her. On looking down, she saw an elf she didn’t recognise – shorter than average and thin, with fine greying hair that just brushed their shoulders and eyes of a mixture of browns that reminded Rhiannon of a tree cut to show its rings. They wore a simple navy checked dress that had been carefully mended many times, no shoes, and much of their face and arms were marked with old scars that stood out silver against their olive skin. “Miss Black,” they addressed her directly, their manner of speaking calm and precise. “If you are searching for young Master Black, he did come by earlier asking for a packed breakfast along with the youngest Weasley. He didn’t explain why, but put a good ten Galleons in the bowl before we’d even given him a yes or no – enough for everyone on the early shift. A little after that, Wispey saw them both when she was gardening near the road gate. If you don’t mind my saying... it’s a cruel thing, what that reporter’s done to him. I hope your pain passes swiftly.”

Anxiety spread like a constricting grip around Rhiannon’s veins as she put the fragments of information together. The picture they made... if Dudley and Ginny had been to the kitchen some time ago, that meant that they had lied to Abhi and Astoria. And while Dudley was a decent liar, he didn’t do it often – sneaking around wasn’t his style. To start now, that meant he was up to something he knew Rhiannon wouldn’t like. And there was only a small number of things that might be.

“Thankyou,” Rhiannon replied with a heavy sigh, her lips forming the barest of fragile smiles even as her mind raced with horrible possibilities. “F-for the inf’rmation – an’ the hope. It’s... w-w-w-we could use it.”

With that message conveyed, the elf turned back to their work. Rhiannon rummaged in her pockets and turned up a Galleon, nine Sickles and a handful of Knuts, all of which she put into the donation bowl at the door as she left. Dudley had been carrying more than loose change – that said he’d planned something in advance. And something told her he’d come up with that plan the moment he’d heard about the article – which probably meant it was something very, very foolish. “D-d-don’t, don’t say anything you can’t take back,” she whispered, nearly tripping over the stairs as she tried to combine thinking and climbing. The road gate meant they’d gone to Hogsmeade – somewhere students weren’t allowed to go without a permit. Perhaps they’d managed to sneak out early, if the only person to see them go had been an elf – Rhiannon wasn’t going to have the same luck.

“Missiculum Da- Remus Lupin,” Rhiannon muttered, taking the chance to lean against the wall and rest. “D-d-dudley snuck out to Hogsmeade, I’m p-pretty sure he’s up t’ somethin’ stupid. Can you get them to let me out?”

Moments elapsed in silence, and Rhiannon anxiously checked her watch – class hadn’t started yet, but she really should have thought of that first. “Sorry, sorry – I was just sorting things with Argus,” came Remus’ crackly reply in her right ear. “He’s not happy about it, but he’ll let you pass – just, be quick about it. And Rhiannon – be careful. With your words, your temper – be safe, alright?”

Rhiannon grimaced and waved a hand, then remembered he couldn’t see the gesture. “Missiculum Remus L-lupin – I will, I promise,” she replied quickly. With a sigh, she pushed herself off the wall and set off again at a weary trot, through the castle and the gardens until she came to the gate in the curtain wall that guarded the road down to Hogsmeade. Standing in attendance was the caretaker Argus Filch, bundled up against the cold and leaning against the gateway, his expression as cranky as ever.

“Causing trouble as usual, Miss Potter?” Filch asked her – it might have been Rhiannon’s imagination, but he didn’t sound quite as acidic as usual.

“Trying t-t-to fix some trouble,” Rhiannon muttered, shifting her weight anxiously from foot to foot – this was just another delay, and that meant Dudley was getting even further ahead with whatever reckless plan he’d cooked up.

Filch sighed gustily and moved his staff aside, clearing the way through the gate. “Very well... suppose you do have special permission. Just don’t make a lot of noise about it. Don’t want the other students thinking they can head out whenever they like.”

Rhiannon snorted, amused despite the urgency of the situation. “I d-d-don’t usually go out my way t’ make a lot of noise about things. It-t-t just sorta, happens,” she retorted wryly. “See ya later, Mr Filch,” she finished, as she shouldered the gate open and hurried off down the hill.

Outside the shelter of the castle a brisk wind ran tickling fingers across Rhiannon’s scars and tugged on her hair, and the day was still early enough that the gravel road and the grass beside it glittered and crunched with frost under her boots. A beautiful day for a hike, but Rhiannon had no time to spare and she made her way down the road at the fastest pace she could manage without risking injury, cane tucked under her arm to keep it out of the way.

Werewolf endurance or no, it was still a good ten minutes before Rhiannon reached the village. Sore and short of breath, she rested against the signpost at the entrance and took a moment to get her bearings. Outside of a Hogwarts visit day and so early in the morning the village felt – muted, almost mundane, the shops and streets quieter as a handful of early risers went about ordinary business. Rhiannon’s nose led her through the quiet streets, past the regular shops and into the heart of the village. She’d have expected the Three Broomsticks to be empty at this hour, but while the shutters were still closed, the front door was slightly ajar and a low hum of voices emanated from inside.

Carefully, Rhiannon nudged the door open a little farther, begrudgingly grateful – left open, the hinges didn’t creak so much, allowing her to slip into the room unnoticed. As her eyes adjusted to the sparsely-lit gloom of the shuttered tavern, the anxiety that had gripped her all that morning grew claws and spread through her chest, knotting in her throat as she took in the scene before her.

“So you’re saying it’s all true?”

The tables had been shoved to the sides, leaving space for the small crowd that now huddled in a hastily-arranged semicircle of chairs around the centre of the dim taproom, their backs turned to the door and to Rhiannon. The murmuring she had heard from outside lulled for a moment, as one voice rose above the rest to direct their question to the figure seated in a very distinctive wheelchair before them. Don’t cause a scene, don’t cause a scene, Rhiannon repeated over and over, the claws in her throat tightening until they drew blood – she would know that figure anywhere.

“I don’t know what you’ve all been saying, what the rumour mill’s turned up. So I won’t say ‘all’. But, for the story of the day... That one’s true. The picture’s real – I’m a werewolf,” Dudley replied steadily. Just off to the side, Ginny stepped closer and took his hand wordlessly, glaring out at the throng of reporters.

For a moment, the hushed conversation died altogether, the echoes of Dudley’s statement hanging in the stuffy air. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted in uproar, all clamouring over eachother to question Dudley while Rhiannon looked on in horror. Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, she repeated in a grim mantra, nails digging into her palms.

“How did it happen?” one reporter shouted, only to be hushed as another cried out over them. “Was it Remus Lupin who bit you?”

“Is that why you can do magic? I’ve never heard of a muggle-born Squib,”

“What about the Girl Who Lived? Is she one? Does she know?”

With each question, Dudley’s stoic expression grew more and more strained, and Ginny’s knuckles paled as their grip on his hand tightened. “I was bitten near the end of July, in 2002. Me and Rhiannon, we’d run away together and we ended up ‘round the edges of Dorking for a bit. We got split up, I was finding us a spot to camp and she went looking for food. That’s when I got attacked,” he explained, his voice wavering a little as he tapped one of his chair’s wheels. “Rhi didn’t get back until it was too late. She tried to fight the werewolves off, set off the Trace – I guess the Ministry spotted it was a bunch of fight spells she was casting and sent us rescue party instead’ve a telling-off.”

“So the Ministry knew? And they covered it up? That’s a major breach of the Lycaeus Doctrine – werewolf records are supposed to be public knowledge.”

Dudley’s nostrils flared, and he shook his head firmly. “I don’t know much about how the Ministry works, but I’d guess there’s some clause about kids’ records being kept private, Doctrine or not. Maybe they’d have made it public when I turned seventeen, but I’d guess the Ministry as a wider, thing, didn’t really know about me – just the minors department,” he told them, his air of measured calm beginning to grow thin. “As for the rest... in case it wasn’t clear from the story, it wasn’t Remus. He was nowhere near Surrey when I was bitten. You haven’t heard of a muggle-born Squib because the Hogwarts scrolls didn’t scan for Squibs before last year, but I’m not even the only one at Hogwarts – and we’re still learning what we can do since there’s not a lot of knowledge about Squibs. And Rhiannon... Rhi knew, she’s my best friend – but this isn’t about her and I’m not gonna put words in her mouth.”

As before, there was a moment of quiet punctuated only by the scratching of quills on parchment, longer this time. But this time when the crowd broke out, Dudley made no effort to bring the conference back to order or to answer any of the myriad questions they fired at him too quickly to pick out. Eventually they fell quiet, and Dudley slouched in his chair with a weary sigh. “Alright. I need to get to class,” he said finally, when they all looked to him. “I assume there’s gonna to be questions about letting me stay at Hogwarts, but until I’m actually expelled – I’ve still got my marks to worry about.”

The press grumbled among themselves, but eventually they got the message – Dudley had nothing else to say to them. They began to pack up their equipment, and Rhiannon took the opportunity to slip back out the door and into the street. Seething, she padded around to the back door and sat down on a barrel to wait, leaning back against the wall and listening for any movement from inside.

After a short while, the back door swung open and Dudley wheeled his chair out into the alley with Ginny close behind him, passing right by Rhiannon as they went. She stood, fighting to keep hold of her temper – there was a non-zero chance the reporters might still be nosing around Dudley. “Spatio silenti,” she hissed, steeling herself against the uncomfortable muting of all outside sound – the discomfort was worth it to protect their conversation. “How dare you?”

Ginny whirled around, reaching for his wand by reflex before he recognised Rhiannon. Dudley was a little slower, his chair difficult to manoeuvre in the cramped back street, and his face reddened as he faced her. “It was the right move – you’ve got enough going on, with the Triwizard, the stories Rita’s already spinning about you – I couldn’t let that slip-up with me hurt you too,” he retorted, his shoulders tensing – had he been in wolf form the hair over his hackles would have been prickling, every part of his body language was defensive even from his seated position.

“Th-th- that wasn’t your decision t’ make,” Rhiannon replied. The claws of her earlier anxiety retreated, leaving scars of ice in their wake and her temper froze, leaving her numb as she stared down at him. “I heard what you said. You won’t put words in my mouth – b-but you took them out of it instead. I would’ve stood up with you, if you’d let me.”

Ginny grimaced, wringing his hands together before coming to a decision. “Look, Rhi – you’re my friend, one’ve my best friends. And Dudley, you’re my boyfriend, you know how I feel about you. Me being here, it’ll just make things worse – I’ll see you later,” he said, and squeezed Dudley’s hand before he sidled past his chair and hurried away down the alleyway with a shamefaced glance back and Rhiannon.

Rhiannon crossed her arms and closed her eyes, suddenly drained of energy. “Forget it, it’s done. We can’t make a whole scene about it,” she murmured wearily.

Dudley shook his head, and shifted his chair back a little, lifting his chin in a defiant expression. “No, we can’t. But Rhi – this year’s put you through hell and it hasn’t finished yet. I had the chance to protect you from one more thing, and I’m not gonna apologise for taking it.”

Rhiannon sighed and hunched her shoulders, her patience thoroughly worn out. “Don’t s’pose it occurred t’ you I’ve handled it this far? I – I guessed what might happen when I learned they’d t-t-taken you – and I decided th’ press was nothing next to a dragon, I was ready to get outed with you.”

Dudley threw his hands in the air, then slapped the arm of his chair and set it to hovering. “Like you said – forget it. If you can’t see why someone would want to look after you, I’m not gonna sit here and explain why. And I really do have to get to class – I owe Flitwick an update on my converter project.”

With that, Dudley turned the chair and floated it away, leaving Rhiannon to her increasingly dark mood. She sat there for some time, stewing in frustration, before she regained the energy to stomp back up to the castle, only a little late for Herbology.

Over the next few days, rumours whirled around Hogwarts, fuelled by the Daily Prophet and the smaller newspapers of wizarding Britain. Much as Rhiannon hated to admit it, Dudley’s damage control had been effective at least on a public scale – the press hounded her as always, but their questions were contained to asking her opinions on Dudley and on lycanthropy as a whole. So far she had managed to put them off – she was busy with her classes, with the tournament – but it was disconcerting how willing they were to set aside any suspicion that the Girl Who Lived might share her brother’s condition and simply assume her to be a bystander with an opinion they could exploit.

The storm of rumours couldn’t grow forever, and when it broke even Remus’ experience the year before hadn’t prepared them for the onslaught of bigotry from all sides. Rhiannon was free from suspicion of being a werewolf herself – but she was still the adopted daughter to one and sister to another, and that meant that the hatred still became something their family had to weather together. Dudley, Rhiannon, their parents and closest friends alike made arrangements with Filch to have their mail screened and redirected to deposit boxes in Hogsmeade after a deluge of hate mail and minor curses; Faye, Nina, Ginny and some of the others lost house points almost daily for the fights they got into, and Dudley had to move into a spare room in the teachers’ wing after parents complained about a werewolf among their children. He put on a brave face about it, but he was a social creature who worried what others thought of him at the best of times – anyone who knew him well could see he was struggling, and in all that... Rhiannon’s earlier anger with him couldn’t last. He’d bought her time and peace at the price of his own safety. All she could do now was honour that by using it, and by helping him bear that price however she could.

Several weeks passed, and gradually the worst of the bigotry subsided back to a low level of general disgust. They celebrated Nina’s first birthday as a girl quietly, and just before the start of the Easter holidays Fleur was returned to the Hogwarts hospital wing. The champions rushed to visit her of course, but they were allowed in only under Madam Pomfrey’s insistence that they keep the visit short and quiet – a terrifying callback to Viktor’s state after the dragon challenge.

Settled in a battered wheelchair, Fleur welcomed her friends in with a worn smile. “It is good to see you,” she admitted, adjusting the blanket across her knees. “That task, the lake... I was convinced I was going to die. Thank-you – I don’t know what plans they had for the hostages, but you saved my little sister anyway.”

“Of course – she’s a kid, and she was in the same trouble you were,” Cedric replied, shaking his head. “We guessed it was because you’re avian Veela – it was happening more slowly with her through the stasis spell, but still-”

“It did enough damage to me,” Fleur finished bleakly. “We both had little fractures all over. The healers at your hospital want to publish a document on the effects on avian nonhumans under environment pressure and my parents are furious. Gabrielle is... well, she insists that she consented, and she healed.”

“Consent?” Viktor growled. “It was a dirty trick, bringing those we loved into this – we are bound, they are not.”

Rhiannon snorted – her mood had not brightened since her fight with Dudley. “We – we made it clear we w-w-w-weren’t gonna f-fight eachother, so they had t’ find somethin’ else to m-motivate us,” she responded sourly. “But – you, you’re right – Gabrielle was – she was twelve, she c-couldn’t consent t’ riskin’ her life like that, and what happened to Dudley... We’ve got t’ tell them somehow, that we’re the only targets they get.”

Fleur shrugged, growing tired around the eyes after only a few minutes of company. “I think you told them,” she replied. “They put our families in danger and we abandoned all competition. I doubt that they would use that tactic again – they will try something new to pit us against eachother. We should start training again as soon as possible.”

Madam Pomfrey, seated in the corner, startled and fumbled with her knitting. “Now, hold on Miss Delacour – you were just released from Saint Mungo’s, you’re in no state to be planning anything like intense physical or magical exercise!”

The champions chorused their agreement, but Fleur just sighed and waved their protests aside. “Madam Pomfrey, I was hardly planning to rush back in when I can barely stand,” she countered sharply. “But the healers at Saint Mungo’s have done all they can for me, they told you as much – I was discharged so that I could start to adjust.”

“Adjust?” Cedric interjected warily. “Madam Pomfrey’s got a point – that course Professor Lupin let us use is pretty full-on, if you rush back in too soon... it’d be even worse if you went into the third task injured.”

Fleur laughed, but it was more like a harsh caw than anything truly mirthful and pale feathers grew visible around the edges of her hairline. “Unfortunately, that is the point of the issue,” she replied bitterly. “It is as I said – the healers let me go to adjust. I will be facing the third task injured either way.”

The champions looked at eachother in confusion, slowly turning Fleur’s words over. Eventually, it was Viktor who put it together first. He took in a sharp breath and brushed his fingers over the heavy scarring on his cheek before he spoke, his expression bleak. “So that is two of us now. This tournament promises gold and glory, but it asks a lot of blood,” he murmured darkly. “I suppose we are only lucky that none of us are dead.”

Rhiannon blinked, coming to an understanding just a little behind Viktor. “Y-you mean, you just... won’t get better?” she whispered, horrified. She shouldn’t be surprised by now – they had known going in that those thirteen thousand Galleons were blood money, and she was no stranger to illness and injury that would never fully heal. But it had happened so quickly, and so soon after Viktor’s injury. “Are you – do you feel okay at least? I-I-I – I mean, I get k-kinda, accepting this is norm-m-mal and moving on, but... Madam Pomfrey’s kinda got a point – are you really well enough t’ just jump back into things? Just ‘cos it won’t get b-b-better, doesn’ mean... it could get worse.”

Fleur sighed and slumped into her chair. “I feel awful. I hurt, everywhere, all the time. My skin prickles, I sometimes – cannot feel things. I am weak and tired, my head is all foggy and if I stand for more than moments, I fall down,” she admitted wearily. Her hands shook and a sharp tooth peeked out over her lip as her mouth turned down at the corners. “But this tournament is – we are in it now. I can withdraw and die, or-”

“Or you can fight and only maybe die,” Cedric finished sombrely. “So you train, you try to get used to working within your new limits as quickly as possible. And then you fight. Correct?”

Fleur’s smile was humourless, her eyes hollow. “Correct,” she agreed. “It cannot get much worse than dead.”

Madam Pomfrey choked and swore under her breath, fiddling with her knitting as she struggled for words. “I’m sorry, I just... you sound like we did in the war. Hearing that from kids, it’s... frightening, to say the least,” she explained, her face gray and her lips trembling. “You’re in an impossible position and that means you can’t make the ideal choices right now. I’d like to offer a compromise – you return to training, but you work with myself or a trusted assistant to rehabilitate as safely as possible. It won’t be as slow as I’d like, and it’ll be slower than you’d like – but if you injure yourself, you’ll make the third task that much harder. This is the best way I can think of preventing that.”

“We do not want to bury you, Fleur,” Viktor whispered, knotting his hands together anxiously in his lap.

Fleur reached out and took one of his hands, holding it for a few moments before she had to let go with a pained grimace. “And I do not want to force you to,” she demurred softly. “Very well. Thank-you, Madam Pomfrey. It is a good solution.”

“Then we start tomorrow,” Cedric put in firmly. “Carefully, of course – but we have to assume they’re going to try and split us up for the last task, which means we all have to get stronger on our own. That’s our best shot at surviving this. And we’ve got two months to get there.”