Grimmauld Place is buzzing. Maps stretch across tables. Wands are drawn, but not fired. Everyone’s on edge. The air smells like ink, smoke, and strategy.

The Order is preparing for war.

Molly hands out tea with shaking hands. Kingsley reviews defense placements. Tonks fidgets with the hem of her sleeve. Even Hermıone's usual calm feels… strained.

You’re in the corner, half-lit by the candlelight, watching them all through a softened gaze.

You’ve earned their trust. They think you're one of them. But they don’t know.

You’re not just carrying a wand. You’re carrying VoIdemort’s secrets. You’re the unknown.

The DeathEater hiding in plain sight.

“We strike at nightfall,” KingsIey says. “They won’t expect us to move so soon.”

A few heads nod. Remus starts assigning groups.

“You’ll be with me,” he tells you kindly. “You’re fast. You think on your feet. I need that tonight.”

You smile with practiced ease. “Of course.”

Harry stands nearby. He trusts you most of all.

You know he’d follow you into fire. And he might. Just not for the side he thinks.

Your heart isn’t cold. It never was. But the mark on your arm says otherwise.

It burns now—faint, quiet. A reminder. The Dark Lord knows what you’re doing. He expects loyalty. And you’ll deliver.

But still… your gaze lingers on the people in the room. On Fred and George's laughter. On Ron’s attempt to hide how scared he is. On Snape’s silent nod of approval when you corrected a strategy detail.

You wonder how they’ll look at you when they find out. If they live long enough to.

You stand from your chair, adjusting your robes. Your orders are simple: Delay them. Misdirect them. Ensure the upper hand.

Harry catches your hand on the way out, eyes filled with hope. “Stay close to me tonight, yeah?”

You nod. Not because you mean it. But because he deserves a lie that feels like love before everything burns.