As the final syllable fell from Mr Crouch’s lips, that ice in Rhiannon’s gut shattered, and flooded throughout her body, amplifying every trace of anxiety, anger, protective worry and sheer blind terror that had been building throughout the day. It didn’t matter how big the Hall was, right now it felt stifling, and every eye in the room was on her. On Rhiannon Potter, the fourth Triwizard champion... now not only were Cedric and Fleur in danger, she was too – and she’d be expected to compete against them!

It was too much, too many different thoughts flashed through Rhiannon’s crowded mind and she couldn’t catch her breath, that ice was melting now, turning her stomach to a poison well and she was too crowded, the room grew smaller and smaller as the students of three schools filled it up with whispers. She had to get out. Hermione and Luna both reached out for her, but even their touch was stifling in this panic and she threw them off, only barely reining her inhuman strength in enough that she didn’t harm them as she freed herself. Then, out, she had to get out. Rhiannon lowered her head, hugged her arms around her chest and fled from the hall, sobbing and coughing as she struggled to get a breath, and her fellow students got out of her way as quickly as they could. Not quite quickly enough – dimly Rhiannon registered that she shoved several of them as she scrambled out from the hall and into the corridor. It was cold, the air heavy and damp and it weighed on her like a sodden cloak. But that was almost grounding in its’ own uncomfortable way, the cold weight felt as if it pressed her wandering, fractured consciousness back into the fragile body it fought to flee.

Suddenly, Rhiannon gagged and curled in on herself, staggering into a nook behind a statue as her stomach violently emptied itself – if her consciousness couldn’t exit her body, it was going to throw everything else out, she thought grimly, as her body hacked and seized without any hope of control. Finally, her aching stomach stilled and Rhiannon dragged herself to her shaking feet, struggling to see as tears streamed down her face. Even in her darkest dreams of the worst case scenario for the tournament, she hadn’t considered this – that she might be forced to enter. She was fourteen, naively she had thought that would protect her... but no. No, they’d all known since the Death Eater display at the World Cup that the Girl Who Lived was a prime target, she’d been stupid, so stupid to think that she’d be safe.

All Rhiannon could do as that blanket of shame and self-loathing settled over her was stumble a few steps and collapse, hugging the far side of the statue with her forehead pressed to the cold stone as she sobbed her heart out, unseeing, deaf to the world around her, held to the world only by the damp, cold stone and the weight of the chill night air.

The frightened, heartbroken girl had no idea how long she cried. She had lost any solid sense of time since the moment her name was first read aloud. But eventually someone found her, their body thin and wiry as they tugged Rhiannon into a tight embrace. She took in a deep breath, and wrinkled her nose as she found an unfamiliar scent – meat, old blood and dust, barely masked by a smoky musk-and-fruit perfume. “Fleur?” Rhiannon croaked, feeling her voice vibrate in her throat more than she actually heard it.

“No, ssssh – don’t try to talk, you’ll be sick again,” Fleur whispered – or at least, it sounded like a whisper, everything was oddly muted and distant in a way that made the whole world feel too close and heavy. Rhiannon nodded, and Fleur hugged her tightly against her bony chest. Dimly, Rhiannon recognised that the older girl was trembling – she hadn’t noticed at first amidst the shaking over her own thin body. “I’m here for you. I know you’re not ready to go back in, but they won’t let everyone go to bed until you have, so come on. Just, lean on me, here.”

Rhiannon shook her head, and burrowed further into the stone corner, wiggling out of Fleur’s grasp. She couldn’t go back into the hall. They would all be looking, all of them – and all of them would see her, their Chosen One, weak and broken before them. She was as good as dead, but she still had some vestiges of her pride left – and she didn’t want to be seen this way. “No,” she whispered hoarsely, stubbornly ignoring Fleur’s warning that she not exert herself despite the roiling of her empty, aching stomach. She coughed, spluttered and choked as she tried to say more – don’t let them see me, I don’t want them to see me, but she couldn’t manage it – just as Fleur had warned, her stomach lurched, clenched and once again hurled forth what little it still contained.

“I know you don’t want to,” Fleur murmured, stroking Rhiannon’s hair as she spoke. As she did so, a soft rippling vibration spread from her fingers and flowed across her body, stilling the shivers in Rhiannon’s bones and the miserable cramps in her gut. “But you’ve got to. Here, let me get that off you... Récurer, that should do it. Nothing I can do for the smell, but you can always shower after – I’ll ask Cassandre to help you, and fend off anyone who might bother you. But for now... you can’t stay here all night. Can you walk?”

Rhiannon ground her teeth and nodded, wishing desperately that she had Hermione, or Luna, someone who could understand her without her needing to speak. But she had only Fleur – who would support her staunchly, she just did not have the same ability to read silent communication as someone who had known Rhiannon longer. That meant she had to help herself. “I- I- Gon-n-n- Gonna try,” she grunted, and between leaning on the statue and on Fleur, she hauled herself to her feet. Almost immediately, she began to sway and regretted her stubbornness as she was forced to lean heavily on Fleur to avoid falling. Maybe she could have managed walking, but not so soon after an episode – she could barely hear, let alone see, and trying to find her way as well as keep her balance was simply impossible.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Fleur replied drily, taking Rhiannon’s weight easily. “Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to. If it would be easier, I could simply carry you – you are very small, and even only part-Veela like myself are significantly stronger than most humans.”

Rhiannon scowled, rankled at the prospect of being carried like a child – but she was a child, and a sick one. And in a way, to be carried in would reveal less weakness than if she stumbled her way blindly down the aisle, leaning on Fleur for all support – she could keep the true severity of her current condition to herself. “Fine, I – I- hhhgggh- fine,” she growled, more irritated with her own weakness than Fleur or anyone else – except perhaps whichever latest nemesis had put her name in the Goblet.

With that, Fleur scooped Rhiannon up – an action which seemingly took little effort – and settled her in her surprisingly well-muscled arms. Rhiannon grumbled about it, but eventually Fleur got her comfortable – and it was comfortable being held so close in her fragile state, so fundamentally safe with the older girl, it was as if her arms provided a shield against the confusing clamour of whispers she felt as prickles against her skin more than she heard them. But she could feel Fleur’s tension, the tremors in the tall girl’s muscles, and that told her than the unheard whispers were unkind ones. Fleur was her shield for now, but Rhiannon could feel the weight of suspicion, invasive curiosity and plain dislike outside of this warm embrace. She wasn’t ready to face it, wasn’t ready – she just wanted to run away, to flee into the depths of her mind and hide forever. But she couldn’t. And Rhiannon knew she would pay for it later in exhaustion and misery, but she had to function for now, so she squashed all the scattered fragments of her consciousness back into her form with commendable stubbornness, and began to settle her breathing.

“Ah, Miss Delacour, thankyou,” Minerva McGonagall greeted them, the relief in her voice clearly audible even through the echoey fog that separated Rhiannon from the sounds of the world around.

“It was no trouble, Principale McGonagall,” Fleur replied with an awkward cough – Rhiannon guessed she was unsure how to refer to McGonagall, who preferred neutral descriptors though still used feminine pronouns, as French was an inconvenient language when it came to handling nuances of gender. “I like Rhiannon well enough and it is only right that she have an ally in this room, anyone could see she was surprised and distressed by the selection.”

Rhiannon flapped her hands anxiously against Fleur’s chest, suddenly feeling too squished and close in the room full of people she couldn’t see. Fleur hummed softly, a comforting sound deep in her chest. “All right, don’t worry, I’ll set you down,” she murmured, and her embrace tightened for a moment as she bent and set Rhiannon gently on her feet, though Rhiannon still leaned heavily on her for support to stand,

“She has at least two, allies that is,” Minerva responded grimly, and Rhiannon heard her practical shoes click fuzzily on the stone floor as she approached. “Now, Rhiannon, there is no way I truly believe you asked someone to place your name in the Goblet, but I have to hear it out loud. Did you enter your name, or approach anyone to do so for you?” she asked, her voice weary as she placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on Rhiannon’s thin shoulder.

“NO!” Rhiannon burst out, and tears flowed down her cheeks from burning eyes as she flinched away from the touch, trembling with equal parts fear and fury. She knew Minerva was only doing her job, as gently as she could, but she hated that the job had so little room for kindness in situations like this. “N-n-n-n-hhhhh- no, I-I-I- I never, n-n-n-n-ever wanted-”

Fleur squeezed Rhiannon’s shoulder gently and she subsided reluctantly, coughing and sobbing now that the tide had been let forth.

“Well, obviously he is lying!” An angry voice with a noticeable North-Eastern European accent snapped, his voice echoing and repeating uncomfortably in Rhiannon’s struggling ears. Dimly, she recognised the voice as belonging to Headmaster Karkaroff – at least, she thought it did, it would make sense for him to be in here, but it could theoretically be another of his staff, she hadn’t heard any of them speak for very long.

It was hard to be sure, through the echoes and fog of Rhiannon’s dulled hearing, but she thought she heard the swish of a cloak and guessed that Minerva stood and turned away suddenly. That was confirmed by the sharp intake of breath that preceded a classic McGonagall dressing-down, followed by a soft hiss of breath let out – clearly, the headmaster decided that now wasn’t the time. “Headmaster Karkaroff. Miss Potter is a quiet, respectful student, very capable and, more to the point, honest, as has been proven repeatedly through her time at this school. In addition, her distress is clear to any onlooker and I’ve known this girl for three years now – quite frankly, she’s not this good of an actor. So I request you refrain from any further accusations, and instead turn your attention to what we are going to do about this now,” she snapped, every word bitten off sharply as she audibly reined in her temper.

“Well, surely she cannot compete – she is only a little girl!” A new voice spoke, one that again Rhiannon took a few moments to place as Madame Maxime, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy. Rhiannon bristled at the woman’s haughty tone, but she could not dismiss the argument however rudely it was made – she was a little girl, a child, however much faster she had been forced to grow up than her peers. Cedric and the other competitors were at least three years her senior; and by the laws of nonmagical Britain she was unable to consent to participating.

“To say nothing of the matter of fairness – Minerva, if Hogwarts is to have two champions then I must insist you allow us to reselect additional competitors from our own school,” Karkaroff chimed in hastily.

“Fairness? Igor, the matter of fairness would be in forcing Rhiannon to compete at all. I quite agree with Olympe – there is no way she may compete. She had no idea her name was placed in the Goblet, she did not give her consent to participate, and to force her to compete would be in violation of her rights and of international law.” Minerva retorted sharply.

“Unfortunately, we have no recourse on that matter,” a fourth voice spoke up, and the thin hair along Rhiannon’s spine prickled in a very tangible expression of her dislike. Mr Crouch, bullier of house elves and avid enforcer of even the most unfair rules. “When a name is selected by the Cup, its’ owner is subject to an effect much like that of the Unbreakable Vow; competitors are bound to compete or die.”

“Mr. Crouch, we are talking about a fourteen year old girl, a child,” Minerva replied, but instead of sharpness now her voice was growing weary and desperation coloured the edges of it. “And because of her unique situation, Miss Potter’s safety is ultimately the responsibility of the Ministry and myself, who have legal guardianship of her. In this position we are effectively in a parental role, forcing this child to compete in a tournament with potentially lethal dangers, in which she is at a severe disadvantage. The return of the Tournament was an incredible controversial decision, and those in support of it were only allowed to go ahead with the firm assurances that all necessary safety precautions would be taken. I enacted an Age Line, as requested, but ultimately the security was the responsibility of yourself and Mr Bagman. You really didn’t think to charm the cup so that it would only accept names submitted by their owner? And this, look at the paper – Rhiannon has been entered as a student of Pentangles Academy, which has been closed for the last fifty years! Something has gone very wrong, Mr Crouch, and this is precisely why I spoke against reinstating the tournament in the first place! I didn’t want it to happen, I didn’t want it in my school, and I will not permit you to endanger my student because of a careless mistake on your part!”

Rhiannon shrank back into the protective shield of Fleur’s arms as Minerva McGonagall finally lost her temper. She wasn’t afraid of the headmaster, not really – Minerva was almost like an aunt or grandmother to her. But she was afraid in general, and exhausted, and she couldn’t handle all the noise and anger, even if it was in her support.

Fleur sank to the ground and tugged Rhiannon gently down with her, so that she sat enfolded within the older girl’s arms. There was a soft rustle of movement, of feathers unfolding, and as those feathers brushed her cheek Rhiannon realised that Fleur had let her wings out to shield them both. That noise drew the attention of the arguing adults, and Fleur cleared her throat to draw their attention to her, not just the surely impressive sight of her wings.

“What I can gather from your quarrel is that should Rhiannon withdraw, she will die, but that it was a significant failing of security that her name was able to be entered in the first place. I don’t know what to do about that, I am only a competitor. But I will not duel an opponent who did not enter willingly. If Rhiannon cannot be allowed to withdraw from this competition, I will stand beside her to level the playing field. Is that clear?” Fleur told the room, her voice level – though held close as she was, Rhiannon could feel the tremors in her new friend’s body. Her calm was a facade – a good one, but false nonetheless. Fleur was as angry as anyone else in that room.

With Fleur’s stern claim, the adults once again burst out into noisy argument that had Rhiannon covering her ears in pain, and this time it was the heavy thump of a wooden cane brought down hard on the stone floor that interrupted them. “SHUT IT!” a male voice roared, echoing from the stone walls so disorientingly that Rhiannon could not place its’ owner.

As ordered, the bickering clamour once again fell into silence, and this time Rhiannon could recognise the speaker as Professor Moody as he spoke up again. “Right. If anyone has the right to be shouting and crying right now it’s the Potter girl – no, don’t look at me like that Karkaroff, this isn’t an advantage for Hogwarts, this is a go at her life. The Champions stand behind her. Can you let that be enough for now, and argue the specifics in your own time? Because I’m pretty sure the best remedy for the awful shock that girl’s had is a good night’s sleep, and you’re all keeping her out of bed. Clearly someone Confunded the Cup, the logical step would be to examine it’s magical signature and any traces left behind, the magical surveillance if it’s still intact – let’s all continue this in an hour once the students have gone to bed.”

“Awfully informed about how someone might do this, aren’t you, Mad-Eye?” Headmaster Karkaroff commented, his tone scathing – clearly there was some past between them, though Rhiannon hadn’t the energy to puzzle out what it might be. “For all your insistence it’s not to Potter’s benefit, he has got a – knack, for wriggling out of tight corners, perhaps you thought he’d give Hogwarts an edge!”

“It was once my job to think as Dark Wizards do, Igor – as you should well remember,” Professor Moody growled darkly. “And your wild speculations do nothing to divert attention. Make no mistake, this is an attempt on the girl’s life – and the circle of people with both that goal and access to the Goblet.... My eye’s on you, boy.”

“Always putting the mad in Mad-Eye, aren’t you,” Karkaroff sneered, though he sounded put off balance by Moody’s thinly-veiled accusation. “Are you teaching your students to fear assassination too? Mine have told me all about your Potions curriculum – you always were paranoid, then and now.”

“It’s not paranoid when someone’s actually out to get you – or Potter, in this case!” Moody barked, and he thumped his cane on the floor again for emphasis.
“ENOUGH!” Minerva bellowed, not even needing the benefit of an Amplification Charm to cut across them. “Igor, Alastor, bicker on your own time not mine. And Igor – I will thankyou to keep from harassing my staff, his advice was quite sound and he is indeed correct – the best thing we can do for Rhiannon right now is let her rest. Cedric, Rhiannon, you may leave; and Alastor, please make sure any remaining students head off to bed before you assist with the investigation. Now, out.”

It was perhaps not Minerva’s place to order Karkaroff and Madam Maxime around, but neither complained, and Rhiannon heard the shuffle of feet and robes around her as others filed out of the room. She smelled Cedric’s approach before she heard him, and looked up with sightless eyes to where she guessed he stood as his shoes scuffed on the floor. “Rhiannon, if it’s alright, I’d like to escort you back to the common room. Not that you aren’t doing a good job already, Miss Fleur, it’s just – well, I’m the other Hogwarts Champion, and their Prefect. If any of them want to have a go at her, hold me up as the ‘real’ Hogwarts Champion like I was hearing in the hall, I can put a stop to it.” Cedric offered, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. “And for what it’s worth... I’m with Fleur. I’m not competing against you, you didn’t bloody well ask for this and you’re my mate. I’ve got your back too.”

Fleur hummed, a low rattling sound deep in her chest as she considered Cedric’s offer. “Rhiannon, are you going to be okay with that?” she asked, retracting her wings with a shake of her shoulders. “I’m happy to walk you back if you’re not.”

Rhiannon sighed and shook her head weakly, too tired to really care much either way – some part of her felt dead already, a shadow of a person. “F-f-f-f- fine,” she whispered, and clumsily reached out a hand in the direction she guessed him to be in. He took her hand firmly and she flinched – he was a little further to the left than she had guessed, just another reminder of how fragile she was like this.

With that, Fleur stood, and both she and Cedric helped Rhiannon to her trembling feet. There was no chance of her managing to walk as far as the Hogwarts common room, that fact became immediately clear, so after a silent conferral Rhiannon was again lifted off her feet and settled in Cedric’s arms, her head resting on his shoulder like a pillow. “It’s alright Rhi, I’ve got you,” Cedric murmured, his voice humming through his bones into Rhiannon’s tired skull, and she nodded sleepily. “See you tomorrow, Fleur. Don’t worry Rhi, we’ll all talk about it later,”

Cedric continued with a quiet sort of narration of their surroundings as he carried Rhiannon through the corridors, and from a distance she vaguely remembered ah, right. This was why she had such a crush on him, even if she’d accepted they would only ever be friends. He was so kind, so safe – she couldn’t help it, tears welled up in her eyes and all too soon she was sobbing helplessly again.

“I- I- I’m s-s-s-sorry,” Rhiannon stammered, gasping for breath through the sobs, which picked up again as Cedric rubbed her back comfortingly. “’m- s-s-such a baby, I-”

“Hey, that’s enough,” Cedric told her, his voice soft but firm nonetheless. “You’ve been through hell in your life and you thought you’d finally gotten a break, you finally got relaxed, and it’s all been tipped out again. Of course you panicked. I’m a Prefect, remember? It’s my job to know stuff like that about people in Hufflepuff. I know, you grew up with boys don’t cry, it makes you weak, even though you’re not a boy it’s hard to shake. It’s alright.”

Rhiannon nodded and sniffed tearfully, and Cedric chuckled softly. “Hell, I’ll tell you about my first time on a broom. I was six years old, it was this old thing one of my cousins left in our shed. I’d seen so many Quidditch matches, I thought I knew all about it. Went straight up in the air, fell off and landed on the roof of the house, fell off in a mess of clay tiles and landed three metres below that on the ground.”

“An’ y- y-y-you cried?” Rhiannon slurred sleepily, not really able to reconcile the Cedric she knew with a crying boy falling off a roof.

“You bet I did!” Cedric retorted with a self-deprecating laugh. “My da was furious, said I was bloody lucky I still had my head on. Ma was beside herself, first time I ever saw her have a go at my da – he was going on about the crying, so she rattled off this list of everything I’d broken. Shut him up pretty quick – and you’ve met him, you know that’s hard to do. There’s nothing wrong with crying, you’re hurting, and you’re not a baby for feeling crap about it.”

Rhiannon giggled wetly and sniffed, though there was no chance of her tears stopping. Still, Cedric’s reassurance helped her feel less self conscious about it and soon they had reached the cellar through which the Hufflepuff room could be entered, the smell of honey mead still clinging to the barrel as Cedric carried her through it into the warmth of what she could recognise by sound and smell as the Hufflepuff common room.

How little attention she had paid to the common room before, to the smell of the tree – a willow, bitter-scented, its loose leaves and dry catkins now falling through the circular hole in the ceiling – not that she could see it, only hear the soft crunch of feet over leaves on the wooden floor. She wondered idly why it let leaves through, but not the rain – the leaves could certainly still be wet sometimes. And the room itself had been full of conversation before they entered, its’ remnants still echoed from the walls as Rhiannon lifted her head and tilted it from side to side, seeking some idea of what was going on. Some idea as to who her enemies were.

“What, you’re just going to shut up now?” Cedric challenged their housemates, more brash than Rhiannon had ever heard him and trembling with anger every bit as much as Fleur had been. “I heard you all from out in the cellar. Don’t stop on my account, it’s been such an insight hearing what you really think of my friend, Rhiannon, and without even stopping to see how I feel about the whole mess.”

“Sorry, Cedric, but... well, she’s just a cheat. The money doesn’t even matter to her, she just wants an excuse to, get everyone’s sympathy and attention again. Couldn’t get it last year so she’s desperate.” someone, Rhiannon didn’t know who, piped up, sounding almost apologetic in their brutal assessment.

“Well, that’s your assessment, and I feel it merits a solid five points from our House, Vane” Cedric retorted irritably.

“But prefects can’t take House points, can they?” someone else, younger this time, protested.

“Correct, Fletcher, but Head Students can,” a new voice chimed in. By context, that had to be Esther Lilley, the girl who had led the cheers on discovering Rhiannon’s house placement earlier in the year. “Five points from Hufflepuff. I want to win the House Cup as much as you do, but I’ll happily knock off more, anyone want to make it ten? I saw that, Turpin, ten it is. Fifteen? No? Good. Now shut up and go to bed. Idle gossip is lazy, and Hufflepuff is the house of the hard-working – and loyal, Rhiannon is one of our own every bit as much as Cedric.”

Cedric sighed and crossed the room to where Rhiannon guessed Esther stood, near the stairs and the tree. “Thanks for that, Esther,” he told her wearily. “I was so pissed off I forgot I couldn’t dock points, I really could hear them all the way out there.”

Esther snorted, more of a bitter sound than a genuinely humorous one. “It’s no problem, I’ve been trying to herd them off to bed for a while now, but they wouldn’t go so I just stuck around hoping you’d show up eventually. Thank you for having your head screwed on straight about the whole mess. I’m glad you’ve got her back, it’ll help clear this ‘true Champion’ crap up that much faster.” she replied tiredly. “Hear that, Potter? We’ve got you, however this turns out.”

Rhiannon tried her best to thank Esther, she really did, but she couldn’t make the words come out right – she was just too damn tired. Esther laughed, but not in an unkind way, and patted her shoulder gently. “Yeah, you’re for bed alright. Me too. Night, Potter, Ced.” the older girl told them, and by the sound of it she set off before them down the spiral stairs to the dormitories.

A few paces behind, Cedric did the same, and Rhiannon pried herself off his shoulder in preparation for being set down as they inevitably reached the fourth year dormitory. But Cedric was a gentleman, and he wasn’t about to let Rhiannon suffer the indignity of stumbling through the dormitory in front of all her roommates, some of whom would no doubt be hostile. He set a shoulder to the door and shoved it open, then carried her right in and pulled the curtains partway closed around her bed for some privacy. While Rhiannon’s roommates whispered and gossiped – normally she could have picked up their gossip, but her senses were that far dulled she couldn’t make it out – he let Rhiannon unfold and set her feet on the ground, but before he let her go he hugged her tightly, and when he spoke he sounded close to tears. “I meant it before, Rhi. I’ve got your back. We’re not gonna let you go through this on your own, alright?” he told her softly, and held her for another moment before he helped her sit down on the bed without squashing her cat – not that Calypso seemed to appreciate the courtesy, as she yowled indignantly and padded off to the end of the bed and sat down again with a sniff.

“Th-ang-ffff- th-th-th- thanks,” Rhiannon mumbled sleepily. She didn’t even bother to change out of her robes, just pulled the loose blanket over herself and curled up into a ball, wrinkling her nose at the smell that clung to her. She’d shower in the morning. Anything else was beyond her.

“Any time, Potter,” Cedric told her, and ruffled her hair fondly before he turned away and by the sound of it, hurriedly left the room.

“How’d you con Cedric Diggory into taking your side?” Basil Crane hissed. “It’s not as if you’re a real girl, why’d he be interested in you? Unless he’s a faggot, I suppose, he always was too pretty,”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Crane,” Harry snapped, their cranky voice muffled by sleep.

“Do you English always have to talk so much when you go to sleep?” one of the foreign students, Rhiannon guessed a Durmstrang student by the accent, grumbled sleepily. It sounded as if they might have gone to bed some time before the Hogwarts students, and been woken up by their entry.

“Scottish, but otherwise agreed. Basil, shut up, it’s fucking late,” Mairi chimed in tiredly, and by the sound of things she turned over and perhaps put a pillow over her head.

And that was the end of that. There was some further muffled attempts at bickering, but one of Rhiannon’s friends or the foreign students always hushed it quickly enough, and Calypso crawled back up and into the covers with her mistress. Soon, her purrs drowned out any residual whispering, and Rhiannon settled into an uneasy dozing state, worries flitting idly through her mind – not frantically like earlier, not enough to overwhelm... just enough that she was sure her sleep would not be a restful one. But despite all the risk to her life, the anger, the petty misgendering and bitterness of the night, the last thought that crossed Rhiannon’s conscious mind as she drifted off under the persistent ministrations of her kneading-pawed cat, was that someone would have to tell her family. And they were going to be worried for her.