#clare's a stay-at-home mom so she's pretty much always at the cromwell manor

[carewyncromwell]

“I wish I could stop the world from turning -- Keep things just the way they are... I wish I could shelter you from Everything not pure and sweet and good... I know I can’t...I know I can’t... But I wish I could.”

~“I Wish I Could” by Collin Raye

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tw: emotional manipulation, mild gore

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the Cromwell family tree // includes references to original character Hermia Flume // learn more about Blaise and his son Tristan

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In February 1998, the Second Wizarding War was in full swing. Terror reigned supreme through the Death Eaters’ hold over the British Ministry of Magic, with puppet Minister Pius Thicknesse ordering the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to facilitate the persecution and imprisonment of Muggle-borns, political dissidents, and other such “Undesirables.” It was a very scary time for everyone, including people who had to work at the Ministry, such as magical lawyer Carewyn Cromwell.

However scary the entire War was, however, one of the scariest moments of it for Carewyn ended up being when the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Death Eater Corban Yaxley interrupted a private meeting with one of her coworkers to pass along a letter for her that he’d unceremoniously ripped open.

When Carewyn took the letter from him and read its contents, her heart leapt into her throat.

Winnie --

Jacob has fallen very ill. I’m caring for him here at the Cromwell estate, but I know he will rest easier, with you at his bedside.

Apparate home at once.

Blaise

“Jacob would be your brother, yes?”

Carewyn looked up at Yaxley. His cold eyes were very beady upon her face.

“I was under the impression that you and your brother weren’t on good terms with your uncle,” he said. “You two helped land him, my brother’s wife, and your other aunt in Azkaban at one point, if memory serves me. Rather charitable of Blaise, to now suddenly want to tend to wittle Jacob’s sniffles...”

Carewyn averted her eyes as she quickly got up from her desk and grabbed her purse.

“Forgive me, sir, but my brother needs me,” she murmured. “I must go to him at once -- ”

Before she reached the door, though, Yaxley blocked her.

“Oh, of course,” said Yaxley, his lips upturned in a rather cool, insincere smile. “Naturally, you must go to him. He is your family, after all. The last thing I want is for one of my most hardworking subordinates to lose a member of her family...especially to such a sudden illness.”

He was so close to her that Carewyn could hear his thoughts without even looking at him. Images of prowling around Jacob’s apartment -- of casting anti-illusionary spells at the walls that did nothing and Yaxley’s fist clenching  around his wand as he ruthlessly kicked over Jacob’s coffee table -- rippled over her vision.

“In fact,” Yaxley pressed on, “if Jacob’s illness is truly so severe, I might recommend he be transferred to St. Mungo’s, for more expert treatment. I think it’s best that I Apparate over to Yorkshire with you, to see him for myself.”

Carewyn’s heart clenched.

“That won’t be necessary -- ” she said at once, but Yaxley cut her off.

“I insist.”

He pushed her office door the rest of the way open, indicating the hall to her pointedly.

“After you, Miss Cromwell,” sneered Yaxley.

~*~

The knowledge that Jacob was ill would’ve worried Carewyn enough on its own. Jacob and Carewyn had always been incredibly close, and that bond had only deepened further after Carewyn saved Jacob from being trapped in a magical portrait for seven years and the two of them refined their shared talent for Legilimency as adults. But Blaise’s note was incredibly suspicious from the off-set, and not just because of the reason Corban Yaxley had cited. For yes, however disconcerting it was that Jacob was with Blaise at the Cromwell estate, when Jacob would never have willingly accepted Blaise’s help in a million years, Jacob had also always been in very good health. Therefore he couldn’t just be “ill.” Injured, on the other hand...

Carewyn couldn’t remember feeling more disconcerted than she did when she Apparated with Yaxley to the Cromwell estate -- or, more specifically, to the lands just outside the Cromwell estate. For around the house itself was a very tall, black wrought-iron gate, enchanted so as to prevent Apparition and Disapparition. Lane Cromwell had told her children all about how impregnable of a fortress the Cromwell estate was -- not just keeping everything from animals to even the weather out, but also trapping all of its residents inside with no chance at freedom.

The thought of Jacob, trapped in such a foreboding manor house behind such a terrifyingly cold, cage-like gate...

“Hmph,” said Yaxley, eying the gate with displeasure. “Suppose this thing prevents Apparition onto the grounds itself. Very well, then...”

He strode up to the gate, whipping his wand out with a flourish. The gate, however, didn’t open -- instead, it only seemed to flicker like red-hot cinders in a fireplace, before fading back to its normal cold black.

With a deepening frown, Yaxley waved his wand, but once again, nothing happened. He then reached out as if to open the gate manually -- when his fingers enclosed over the wrought iron, however, it flared a violent shade of red, and he catapulted backward, bellowing with rage and pain as he clutched his wrist.

“GYAAAARGH!”

It was as if Yaxley had touched a red-hot poker. His palm and fingers were covered in cauterized sores, the outer skin being ripped open exposing the red and violet veins underneath. Carewyn recoiled in horror.

“Corban,” said a very dry voice. "What an unexpected surprise.”

Both Yaxley and Carewyn looked up. From the other side of the gate, Carewyn could see the frame of her uncle, Blaise Cromwell, sweeping toward them. He was dressed in elegant black silk robes with a high white linen collar and white cuffs, and his blond-bearded face was twisted with the kind of immaturity and arrogance better suited to a schoolyard bully.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve arranged to meet you at my fireplace,” the Head of the Cromwell Clan said sleekly. “I’m afraid this gate’s old enchantments don’t allow anyone without Cromwell blood to enter. Don’t tell me Marek didn’t mention it?”

Yaxley gritted his teeth with both pain and fury as he nursed his injured hand.

“...He...must’ve neglected to,” he hissed. “I’ve come to see your nephew, Jacob. I’ve received word that he’s here, in your care.”

Blaise’s eyes flitted over to Carewyn, who was standing just behind Yaxley. Her eyes flashed with contempt upon Yaxley’s back.

“That he is,” said Blaise, putting on his most innocent expression. “I paid his flat a wellness check this morning, only to find him completely emaciated in bed, fighting back a bad case of Black Cat Flu. Nothing life-threatening, of course -- but the boy’s always been hopeless, when it comes to caring for his own health. So I brought him home, so as to make him more comfortable.”

Yaxley cocked his eyebrow disbelievingly. “Awfully charitable of you, Blaise.”

Blaise shrugged. “I am Head of the Cromwells. It’s my duty, to take care of my own.”

His eyes flitted back over to Carewyn, his hand sliding absently into his pocket.

“Now, then,“ he said in a much crisper, more business-like tone, “come, Winnie, my dear -- best get you inside...”

Carewyn didn’t move. The very last place she ever, ever wanted to go was inside the Cromwell estate. After everything her mother had told her, she knew that it was a prison of the highest order...and after everything Blaise had done to try to force Carewyn, Jacob, and Lane to return to the Cromwell estate and rejoin the Clan, the very last thing she wanted to do was to give him a chance at trapping her inside his house.

Carewyn looked up at the foreboding manor with narrowed eyes. Her mind lashed around, trying to grab onto Jacob’s, if it was anywhere...but the gate, it seemed, blocked her Legilimency just as well as it did everything else...

“Don’t dawdle, Winnie,” Blaise said a bit more sharply. “Jacob is waiting.”

Carewyn’s eyes shot back up to her uncle’s face. “You can stop calling me Winnie, you are not entitled to that name.”

It was Carewyn’s mother Lane’s nickname for her, and so it was solely Lane who was allowed to use it.

Blaise returned her mistrustful glare with a far more impatient one of his own as his eyes darted back over his shoulder at the house. It made her really, really wish that his Occlumency wasn’t so rock-solid that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

But if Jacob really was in such bad shape...she knew she truly had no choice. And so, taking a deep breath, she swept past Yaxley, her light gray robes billowing behind her as she walked up to the gate.

As soon as she approached, the wrought-iron sparkled with silver, and within seconds, the gate had sprung open, allowing her access. Carewyn walked through, only to realize with a start that someone had abruptly tried to sneak up behind her. Before he could get too close, though, or even before Carewyn herself could react, the gate clanged shut behind her, trapping her inside and flaring with red as it forced Yaxley out. The wizard gave another bellow of rage and pain in response to the iron once again burning him.

“Forgive me, Corban, but you’ll simply have to return to the Ministry and use the Floo Network,” Blaise said airily. “I’ll be happy to receive you properly, once I make it back to my office.”

Carewyn flinched as she felt Blaise snake his arm around her and steer her away from the gate.

“Come, Winnie.”

Blaise led her at a very brisk walk away toward the manor house. Fully aware of Yaxley’s glaring eyes on their backs, Carewyn kept her gaze on the manor house rather than at Blaise. As her eyes passed over the climbing ivy and tiny windows, she reached out with her mind again.

Jacob! Jacob!

Something seemed to stir, somewhere in the lower West Wing of the house -- like a child too weak to move.

Pip. Where...Pip...?

CRACK. A ways away, Yaxley had Disapparated.

As soon as Yaxley was gone, Blaise lost all pretense of sophistication or composure. Seizing Carewyn’s arm in a rough vice grip, he yanked her behind him as he ran into the house.

“Augh -- let go of me!”

Carewyn tried to break free, but it was no use -- Blaise had always been much stronger than her. Her uncle whirled on her with a fierce eye.

“Don’t be a child,” he spat.

With a wave of his wand, he’d thrown open the front door, dragging Carewyn inside the house, and then slammed the door behind them. Then without skipping a beat, Blaise forced Carewyn to follow him up the stairs.

“The instant Corban arrives at the Ministry, he’ll be on his way back here through the office’s Floo grate,” Blaise muttered to Carewyn, his arrogant, condescending voice strangely urgent. “I must be there to meet him, if I don’t want him to wander -- ”

Pip? Pip?

Jacob! Jacob, I’m here!

Pip. Where...? Where...?

Jacob’s voice was becoming fainter -- almost as if he was losing awareness, or...as if she was getting further away from him...

“ -- Claire’s not bright enough to keep him occupied there that long,” Blaise pressed on, unaware of Carewyn and Jacob trying to mentally reach out to each other. “And even if she could, Corban will have to see you with Jacob, in order for him to believe that he’s ill and halt any further questioning...”

Ack...Pip...

Carewyn could practically feel Jacob’s pain shooting through her own veins. It made her eyes flash.

“If Yaxley saw me with Jacob, then he would know full well he wasn’t sick with Black Cat Flu, Blaise. What happened to my brother?”

“Nothing the foolish boy didn’t bring upon himself,” scoffed Blaise. “Now come along -- Jacob’s right up here -- ”

“I know full well he’s not, Blaise!” Carewyn spat. Yanking out her wand, she pointed it right at Blaise’s jaw, so as to force him to stop pulling her along. “Now take me to my brother right now, or so help me -- !”

WHOOSH.

Blaise and Carewyn both straightened up sharply at the sound of a gust of air rushing through a fireplace  not too far away: likely in a room around the corner down the hall from where they were standing. A moment later, Carewyn could just barely hear the simpering voice of her aunt Claire.

“Corban! What a nice…surprise!”

A flash of panic pulsed through Blaise’s expression before he whirled on Carewyn, his face twisted with anger and anxiety.

“There’s no time to explain -- I need you upstairs, with your brother, while I go deal with Corban.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed. She dearly wanted to hex Blaise right in the face -- but with Corban Yaxley inside the manor and Jacob in no fit state to fight back or escape, she knew she couldn’t afford to act rashly. So, her face full of distrust and contempt, she reluctantly lowered her wand.

“As soon as Yaxley is gone, you will bring me to Jacob,” she hissed.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Blaise said dismissively. “Now move.”

He yanked him by the arm up the last set of stairs and down the hall, running to the closest door, which was painted a dark blue. The head of the Cromwell Clan opened the door and quickly shoved Carewyn inside.

“Tend to him until I return,” Blaise told her sternly. “Quietly. His headache doesn’t need to get any worse.”

With this, Blaise shut the door right on Carewyn’s back, forcing her fully into the room, before his footsteps retreated rapidly back down the stairs.

Carewyn glanced at the shut door, before turning to look at the figure lying down in bed. When she saw his face, she gave a start.

Jacob?

It was her brother -- at least, visually. His long messy black-brown curls were all in his face, which was pallid and lined with sweat. He was also shivering noticeably as he blearily blinked up at her. His gaze was distrustful and guarded, despite his exhaustion -- a kind of look Jacob would never give his younger sister in a million years. 

It didn’t take Carewyn long at all to guess the truth.

Polyjuice. How like Blaise.

A bitter taste rippled through her mouth at the thought of Blaise similarly disguising himself as Jacob, eight years ago. This time, though, she wasn’t going to be fooled by someone pretending to be her brother.

Yet Jacob was in the house somewhere. She had sensed his thoughts. So for now, at least until Yaxley left, Carewyn would have to play along with whatever Blaise was up to. And so, after a moment, she took a few steps closer to the bed, coming to stand behind the chair positioned next to the bed.

Not-Jacob stared Carewyn down, his eyes filled with just as much distrust as she’d felt toward Blaise. Even so, the fire was tempered by his lack of energy and consciousness. His mind was a swirling, turbulent sea of clouds that disoriented both its owner and anyone looking in on it. Disjointed echoes of Blaise’s voice even bounced sickeningly through Carewyn’s sinuses, just looking into this stranger’s eyes.

“ -- Winnie -- ”

“Lie down. You’re in no fit state to move, let alone argue -- ”

“Now drink this -- ”

Intense nausea rippled through the stranger’s eyes. He was clearly quite ill -- maybe even with the same Black Cat Flu Blaise had claimed Jacob had.

Polyjuice Potion tastes weird enough when you’re not sick, Carewyn thought. How gross must you feel, drinking it when you are?

“You’re Winnie, aren’t you?” said the stranger.

The question was as petulant as a child’s. It sounded strange, as Jacob’s voice certainly had never sounded that way. It was also accompanied by multiple memories.

“ -- little Winnie -- ”

“ -- saw her the other day -- our little bastard cousin, I mean…”

“Watch your tongue, Iris. Bastard Winnie may be, she is still one of ours.”

“ -- she’ll return home to us soon enough -- ”

Not all the words Carewyn heard were Blaise’s this time, but most of them were. …Come to think of it…the stranger’s childish affect did sound a bit like Blaise’s too…

“…I am Carewyn, yes,” she said softly. “My mother calls me Winnie.”

Not-Jacob’s eyes narrowed further, flashing with resentment and suspicion as he coughed harshly. Carewyn could practically sense the voice of a much younger boy coming off of him -- “I don’t want her here! She sent you away! I hate her, and I hope she never comes back!” -- followed by a loud SLAP and searing pain across the face. The recollection made Carewyn flinch — even when she felt a rocking, queasy sea of guilt wash through her, it only served to make her feel more pain in her face, alongside the pulsing of the stranger’s sinuses and head.

Carewyn rested her hands on the back of the chair as she considered the stranger who was not Jacob lying down in bed. Then, after a moment, she reached into her purse, took out a handkerchief, and wordlessly wet it with her wand.

“Here,” she said gently.

She leaned in and started dabbing the cold wet cloth to not-Jacob’s forehead. He flinched, startled and confused.

“What are you doing, you -- hack, hack -- idiot?” he said very rudely, his voice thick with congestion. “Hack -- I’m not your…your stupid bastard brother — ”

“Surprisingly I figured that out a while ago,” Carewyn shot back dryly. Her expression then grew a bit grimmer. “…Blaise told me to tend to you until he got back. Considering I can’t look for Jacob properly until after Corban Yaxley leaves, I reckon I should do that.”

Especially when you are actually this sick. You must be miserable…

She continued at not-Jacob’s temple with her wet hanky. He kept glaring drowsily up at her, even though his thoughts were so disoriented that Carewyn felt like she was riding a hexed broom. It made her avert her eyes, just to try to shut out his thoughts -- when she did, she noticed the empty glass on the side table.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Not-Jacob looked away with a loud huff.

“Use your eyes!” His voice was laced with resentment. “Hack -- I’m obviously in no fit state to move...”

Blaise saying the exact same thing in the stranger’s memory rippled over Carewyn’s mind again, and it made her raise her eyebrows.

“Is that so? Hm…if you were truly in no fit state to do anything, then I would think you would be sleeping so you could build up your strength.”

Not-Jacob grumbled irritably. “I can’t sleep either. Hack — hack — my cough’s too bad.”

“Well, propping your head up and drinking some water should help with that. Here.”

Carewyn reached out a hand back behind not-Jacob’s shoulders, supporting them enough so that she could help ease him up and adjust his pillows under him. He squirmed.

“Get off me, you -- ” he muttered. “ -- you tramp, you -- Muggle-raised bastard -- ”

“If you’re in a fit state to swear, then you’re in a fit state to sleep quietly,” Carewyn scolded him as she picked up the glass from the side table and wordlessly filled it with water from her wand. “Now settle down. I don’t want you to choke.”

Despite all of his fussing, not-Jacob did ultimately do as Carewyn said, however sour he looked about it. He clearly was not feeling well enough to actively rebel against her help, and he did seem a little refreshed after drinking some water and repositioning himself. When he cleared his throat, he actually was able to clear up some of the phlegm that had been trapped there.

“Does that help?” asked Carewyn.

“I suppose so,” not-Jacob said begrudgingly.

“Good.”

“Is it, though?”

Carewyn blinked. Not-Jacob cocked his eyebrows arrogantly.

“Hack -- it’s not like you actually care about your family, aside from your brother and mother,” he said scornfully. “So what does it matter to you, if I get better or not?”

Carewyn frowned deeply as she put down the glass again. “Family or not, no one deserves to suffer.”

“Even the guys who hurt your brother?”

Carewyn stiffened. Not-Jacob’s eyes gleamed -- he seemed pleased that he’d gotten such rapt attention from her.

“Do you want to know what happened to him?” he asked under his breath, rather like a kid divulging a secret. “He got into a duel with a bunch of Uncle Corban’s mates in Hogsmeade.”

Carewyn felt like her heart had been squeezed. “The Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade?”

“Yeah,” said not-Jacob, seeming even more pleased by her reaction. “Uncle Marek said that one of Honeydukes’s people has been sending enchanted sweets to Hogwarts...so the Death Eaters decided to send them a message, for trying to stand up to the Carrows. Father said he saw them burn Honeydukes’ Sweet Shop to the ground.”

Carewyn’s heart hurt, just hearing this. Jacob had mentioned once that one of Ambrosius Flume’s daughters had been providing him with healing pastries for the fugitives he’d been keeping hidden inside his flat. Not only that, but one of Jacob’s closest friends was the owner of the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta. He must’ve gone to Hogsmeade to help them, upon hearing their home was in danger...

“...When you say your father, I assume you mean Blaise,” Carewyn asked quietly. It was the only thing that made sense, given not-Jacob’s incredibly distinctive, arrogant attitude. “What was he doing in Hogsmeade?”

Not-Jacob gave another scoff. “What do you think he was doing? Hack, hack -- he was making sure your brother didn’t do anything stupid. Not that that stopped him.”

“But how did he know Jacob would be in trouble?” Carewyn pressed, her eyes narrowing a bit more suspiciously.

“He overheard Uncle Marek talking about it while tending to me,” her disguised cousin said with a shrug. “Hack -- Uncle Marek is Uncle Corban's brother, you know. Uncle Marek really wants to join the Death Eaters himself, though Father won’t let him. Father thinks we should stay out of it and just look after ourselves.”

Carewyn’s brows knit together. “And what do you think?”

“That Father’s right, of course,” not-Jacob said, as if it were obvious. “Family’s the only thing that really matters. Not that you and Jacob know anything about that -- all you can do is run around trying to save people who aren’t anything to you.”

Carewyn crossed her arms. “There are a lot more people in the world that matter besides those who share our blood.”

“So you’ll put yourself in danger just for them?” not-Jacob shot back. “A bunch of nobodies? When your family needs you, when -- hack -- all it does is make your family worry about your safety, all the time?”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit together over her eyes. She could sense an odd kind of conviction ebbing off of not-Jacob, when he said this -- something oddly fiery, under the surface. She could see Blaise’s pale, anxious face, as he carried Jacob past the open door of the bedroom they were currently in -- “Damn you, Jacob!”

“You and Jacob are so selfish,” not-Jacob said coldly. “All you can do is run around -- hack, hack -- making yourselves feel good by helping a bunch of outsiders who will never love you the way your real family can. Hack -- meanwhile, that real family has to sit on the sidelines helplessly -- hack -- hoping and praying that you’re going to be okay. All because you won’t even come home, where it’s safe.”

Carewyn could sense someone entering an old room with only one very high window looking out toward the grounds -- “To hell with the world. ...It could never love you, as I do, my son -- ”

That must be Mum’s old room, Carewyn realized -- Lane had described her old bedroom as tiny and dark with only one high window.

And sure enough, Blaise had come to take hold of the person’s shoulders from behind, when he stood in the doorway, a gesture that made the person flinch, given the possessive strength in his father’s hands -- “She’ll return home to us soon enough -- ” “You’ll be able to hear her sing yourself, when she does -- ”

Carewyn’s red lips came together tightly as she considered Not-Jacob solemnly.

“Family is more than just flesh and blood,” she said softly. “I have many friends who have put themselves on the line to fight for my safety and happiness...and I’m grateful every day, for that love they’ve shown me. And I know that there are a lot of other people out there who...yes, perhaps they haven’t done anything for me...but they have the capacity to express just as much love themselves -- for me or otherwise.”

Her eyes drifted down to the bed covers under her hand.

“...As much as...your father might worry about us, in his own weird way...he’s been very lucky, to be able to stand on the sidelines and act like the War doesn’t apply to him. We've all been lucky, to be able to live somewhat normal lives. Many other people aren’t so lucky. And those people aren’t nothing to us. They’re our friends -- our coworkers and mentors...even just people who we’ve gotten used to seeing every day on our commute, but never really talk to. And those people do matter. Maybe not as much to us as other people do -- but they still matter.”

With another loud cough, not-Jacob crossed his arms and turned over in bed, away from Carewyn. The lawyer’s eyes narrowed upon his back.

“You called Jacob and me selfish, a moment ago,” she said a bit more coldly. “Well, we’re not selfish enough to only care about a human life if it benefits us.”

Glancing around, she eased herself off of the bed and stood up. She strolled across the room, over to the window in the corner, and looked out into the garden below. It was very well-manicured with many white flowers, but the hedges around it were so high, one could hardly see the sky. When she reached out her hands and, with a bit of effort, opened the window, though, Carewyn was a bit put-out to discover none of the nice ambient noise one could expect from opening a window: no wind blowing through the hedges, nor birds singing.

Looks like the shields around this house really are impregnable, she thought grimly. She had to get Jacob and herself out of here...

“What are you doing? Father shut that to keep out the cold air.”

Carewyn glanced at Not-Jacob. He was peeking over his shoulder at her without uncrossing his arms or fully turning over, which made him look all the more like a child stubbornly refusing to apologize for his bad behavior.

Carewyn regarded him with a slight wry smile. “Cold air doesn’t hurt you when you’re sick. When you cough, you’re expelling the germs that are making you sick into the air -- if you keep all the windows closed, then all you’re breathing in is the air that made you sick in the first place. So we need to bring in some fresh air so it can push the bad air out.”

“Yeah, right,” said Not-Jacob, as he turned back over.

Carewyn could practically feel him pause. Then, abruptly, he said,

“Bring me some soup.”

Carewyn cocked her eyebrows.

“Hack -- if anything’ll make me feel better, it’s some soup,” Not-Jacob said petulantly. “So bring me some.”

Do I look like a maidservant to you? Carewyn thought scornfully. I have no idea where the kitchen even is in this house, anyway.

“Sorry, but your father told me to stay here with you,” she said primly instead.

“Well, then, the very least you can do is sing something, to help me sleep,” not-Jacob said without skipping a beat, as he closed his eyes. “You said that I should be sleeping, so I can build up my strength.”

Carewyn gave Not-Jacob’s back a rather bewildered look. He didn’t look at her again, though -- instead he simply sat there and waited. Rather than merely seeming expectant or entitled, though, there was something anticipatory, coming off of him -- almost hopeful.

Blaise singing to a dark-haired teenager resting fitfully in this exact same bed -- “You are my sunshine -- my only sunshine -- ” -- Blaise fixing the boy’s collar as he sat at the piano --  “You’ll be able to hear her sing yourself, when she does -- ”

The tension in Carewyn’s eyebrows slowly faded, despite herself. It left her expression far more pensive than it had been previously, as she settled herself back down on the bed. She paused, considering the stranger wearing her brother’s face still turned away from her in bed as his shoulders tensed.

Blaise’s son must still be rather young, Carewyn considered for the first time. A young teenager, most likely, if one factored in both his vocabulary and his bratty attitude. How old was he when his father went to Azkaban, with the rest of R? He would’ve had to have been at least a toddler, to have any memory of the Ministry arresting Blaise. How old was this boy now, when he wasn’t wearing Jacob’s twenty-seven-year-old face?

Carewyn’s eyes drifted around her cousin’s bedroom. However sparsely decorated Lane’s old room had been, this room was not so austere. It actually looked rather cluttered and “lived-in,” despite the grandiose furniture and bed curtains. A large collection of model dragons, griffins, basilisks, and Acromantula was scattered about the room; the bookshelf was almost completely full, its only incomplete row of books being supported by a pair of dragon-skull-shaped bookends; and there was a fake dog skeleton wearing a red collar and an ugly Christmas sweater sitting loyally next to the chair in the corner. There were even two signed posters for Lorcan D’Eath and the magical boy band Spellb🔮und hung up on the far wall beside the bed’s ornate side table. What caught Carewyn’s eye most, though, was the tiny model thestrals that had been hung on every handle or knob in the room so that they dangled off of them, their wings occasionally flapping with the force of gravity.

Carewyn’s eyes lingered on the thestral dangling off the side table’s drawer handle as she quietly inhaled and started to sing.

“Hush-a-bye -- don't you cry -- go to sleep, little baby... When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses...”

As soon as she started singing, she could feel the boy wearing Jacob’s face give the slightest start, but it almost instantly softened his posture. Almost immediately, all of the tension had rippled off his shoulders, and his arms crossed so tightly over his chest had fallen loose beside his covers. His hand even lightly clutched his covers. He’d also gone so quiet that it was clear he was paying her rapt attention.

“Dapples and greys -- pintos and bays -- all the pretty little horses...”

Carewyn could sense something almost wistful coming off of her cousin, as she sang for him -- watching his model thestrals “fly” across his room -- wishing he could ride one -- crying bitterly when his father broke one, in the heat of anger, when he was a toddler -- clinging to his legs, sobbing and begging forgiveness -- “I’m sorry, Father! I won’t leave you alone -- I swear I won’t!” -- Blaise holding an older boy, bringing a hand through his hair -- “ -- no one out there could love you as much as I do -- remember that -- ”

Blaise’s son isn’t happy here, any more than Mum was, Carewyn realized. He just feels guilty about the thought of leaving his father...no matter how badly Blaise treats him...

Her blue eyes softened with pity despite herself as she reached out and rested a hand on top of her cousin’s hand on the covers. The gesture made him flinch, so Carewyn sang the next lines more gently, in an attempt to reassure him.

“Way down yonder, in the meadow, Poor little baby, cryin’, ‘Mama’... Birds and the butterflies flutter ‘round his eyes -- Poor little baby, cryin’, ‘Mama’...”

Slowly not-Jacob seemed to relax again. Carewyn could once again sense Blaise in his thoughts -- the times when his touch made the boy flinch, as he wasn’t sure what kind of mood his father was in, when he held him so tightly --

“Don’t pull away, and perhaps I won’t hold so tight -- ”

Carewyn very gently took her cousin’s hand, being careful not to hold it too tightly. She wanted to comfort, not restrict him.

“Hush-a-bye -- don't you cry...go to sleep, little baby...”

Not-Jacob quietly exhaled as Carewyn’s song came to an end. His hand even very lightly enclosed over Carewyn’s in return as she heard the click of the door opening behind them.

She looked over her shoulder, to see Blaise and Corban Yaxley in the door frame.

“Here you are, Corban,” said Blaise. “Your proof of my testimony.”

His blue eyes passed from his disguised son in bed to Carewyn, zeroing in on her holding his hand. Something strangely happy flitted through his expression, before he put on a more solemn face and approached his niece.

“How is he?” he asked softly. The sincerity came through seemingly despite himself, but so did something oddly smug that Carewyn couldn’t quite place, thanks to his rock-hard Occlumency.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed up at her uncle. “Better. You shouldn’t have shut him up in your son’s room like this -- he’s not going to get any better, breathing in nothing but stale air.”

Blaise looked miffed at being told how to take care of his son, but he tried to feign nonchalance. “I merely thought to stave off the chill.”

He turned to Yaxley, who was peering carefully down at not-Jacob.

“As you can see, Jacob is in no fit state to have been anywhere, Hogsmeade village included,” said Blaise in a slightly haughtier voice. “I don’t know who your scouts thought they saw, back there -- but my nephew has been here at the Cromwell estate since this morning.”

Not-Jacob stirred at that moment. He glanced from Blaise, his eyes blinking blearily up at him, before looking over at Carewyn.

“...Pip...” he rasped.

The nickname coming out of anyone besides Jacob made Carewyn incredibly uncomfortable, but she quickly feigned concern as she rested a hand over not-Jacob’s head on the pillow.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t try to talk...rest now...”

Not-Jacob’s hair fell into his eyes as he reclined back on the pillows with a tired sigh. Carewyn brought a hand down to gently pat his head -- out the sight of her eye, she could see Yaxley’s upper lip curling with displeasure.

“...I see,” snarled the new Head of Magical Law Enforcement. “I suppose there must’ve been some sort of mistake.”

It was clear he didn’t fully believe this -- but with Jacob present, and seemingly too ill to leave his bed, he didn’t have anything to justify further investigation. He’d been outmaneuvered...and he was not happy about it. And the Death-Eater-turned-Ministry-employee turned on his heel as if to leave.

“Very well -- I shall leave you to tend to your nephew,” he said coldly. “I’ll make a follow-up trip tomorrow, to check on his progress.”

“I’ll expect you at noon,” Blaise replied crisply. 

Yaxley headed for the open door. Waiting in the hall just outside was Carewyn’s brown-haired, doll-like aunt Claire. At the sight of his sister, Blaise straightened up a bit -- she gave a covert little nod before shooting an anxious look over at Yaxley. Blaise’s eyes narrowed.

“Claire, escort Corban back to the fireplace, won’t you?” the Head of the Cromwell Clan said pointedly. “I daresay he has very pressing matters to attend to, back at the Ministry.”

Yaxley shot Blaise a rather dirty look over his shoulder, before sweeping back down the hall from whence he came. Claire rushed after Yaxley -- even after they had both left down the stairs, Blaise remained in the door frame, listening carefully as their steps faded away down the hall below.

“Winnie?”

Carewyn looked down at not-Jacob. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, still pretending to be asleep.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Your brother’s hair is really long and annoying,” he mumbled.

Carewyn’s lips turned up in a slight smile as she reached out to smooth some of her brother’s messy curls out of Not-Jacob’s face. He relaxed again, smiling ever-so-slightly despite himself.

“Did it work, Father?” he asked a bit more loudly.

“Quiet, son,” Blaise said tersely. “I’m trying to hear.”

Not-Jacob shut up at once. Carewyn glanced at Blaise -- her uncle’s eyes were narrowed upon the staircase as he listened hard. Finally, in the distance, Carewyn heard the loud WHOOSH of the downstairs fireplace, and Blaise’s shoulders finally relaxed as he exhaled.

“...He’s gone,” he murmured.

Not-Jacob blearily opened his eyes at last, his features spreading into a bigger, brighter smile.

“So it worked?” he asked eagerly. Then he devolved into a coughing fit.

“Hush,” said Blaise sternly. “Lie back down before you cough up your entire lung.”

Once his son had quieted down again, Blaise gave him a smug smile.

“...Yes, it worked. You needn’t have worried -- it was truly not so difficult for your father to manage. Your Uncle Corban has always been a stupid man.”

“If he’s so stupid, I must wonder why it took you so long to join us,” Carewyn said dryly.

Blaise shrugged. “Perhaps I just wanted to give Tristan some time to get to know his cousin.”

He crossed over to not-Jacob (in truth Tristan Cromwell), fetching a small, green-tinted bottle out of his robes.

“Here, son, drink this. No sense in you looking like a ragamuffin any longer than you have to...”

Tristan obeyed. As soon as he’d downed the contents of the bottle, his frame began to morph, his features smoothing out with fresh youth, his height shrinking and Jacob’s long curls bending back in on themselves and straightening out to a flat, straight black.

When the Polyjuice Potion’s effects had been completely negated, Carewyn found a pale, frail-looking thirteen-year-old boy laying in the spot where the “not-Jacob” had before. And when he blinked up drowsily at Carewyn with eyes as blue and almond-shaped as hers, but far less sunken-in or tired than hers or Jacob’s, he offered her a weak, cheeky smile.

“Hi, Winnie,” he said impishly.

“Hello, Tristan,” Carewyn answered coolly. “And it’s Carewyn, please.”

“Father calls you Winnie, so will I,” Tristan shot back. “After all, I’m going to be head of the Cromwell Clan someday -- which means one day, I’ll be head of you too.”

“Sorry -- but the only head that shall dictate my fate is the one on my own shoulders,” Carewyn said very coldly.

Rather than being offended by this, Tristan's cheeky smile spread as he gave another hacking cough.

“Hack -- I made Winnie sing for me,” he told his father, his haughty voice oddly boyish in its mischief.

“I heard,” said Blaise, looking incredibly pleased with both himself and his son as he smirked at Carewyn. “Very pretty, Winnie. I sincerely hope it was a song your mother picked up somewhere, rather than something from that Muggle wretch who sired you.”

Carewyn felt a flare of loathing.

“Stop calling me Winnie -- and Mum did sing it to Jacob and me as children, yes,” she said. Her red lips curled up in a rather cold smirk of her own as she added, “It’s an old folk song -- though the version Mum heard first was performed by her favorite Muggle band, Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

Blaise’s nose wrinkled at once, but Carewyn pressed on a bit more aggressively.

“Now enough stalling, Blaise. I want to see my brother. Now.”

Blaise gave a rather irritable sigh. “Oh, all right. Forgive me for trying to encourage some familial affection...”

His tone dripped with a kind of passive-aggressiveness that could make anyone want to punch him in the nose. But before he could say or do anything else, the clock tolling in the hall made him stiffen like a startled cat. Tristan likewise had bolted up in bed, looking up toward the hall.

“Father?” the boy said hesitantly.

“Blast!” swore Blaise. “Pacifying Corban took more time than I thought -- ”

Carewyn cocked her eyebrows dully at Blaise. Guess he wasn’t so easy to deal with, after all.

Blaise strolled out of Tristan’s room to the top of the staircase, shouting down the stairs.

“CLAIRE! Keep Pearl and that neanderthal husband of yours on the ground floor until I come down there, do you hear me!?”

Somewhere downstairs, Carewyn caught the muffled sound of Claire’s voice obediently shouting back some kind of assent before dashing down the stairs. Blaise then swept back over to the bed and brought a hand down on his son’s head, looking down at him sternly as he steered him back down onto his back.

“Rest here quietly until I return, Tristan,” he told him. “I must send Winnie on her way at once.”

Carewyn’s brows knit together tightly over her eyes in righteous anger. “I’m not leaving without -- !”

“Without Jacob, I know, now be quiet and come with me!” spat Blaise venomously.

He tried to grab hold of Carewyn’s arm again, but this time she was able to dodge his hold.

“Don’t touch me,” she said fiercely as she dashed out the door of Tristan’s room and back to the top of the stairs. 

Sensing that Carewyn would at least follow him this time, Blaise gave an irritated growl before sweeping past her and down the stairs. Carewyn glanced back at Tristan briefly, noting the anxiety in his pale, boyish face, before quickly taking off after her uncle.

“Your brother is already in the room across from my office,” Blaise shot over his shoulder at Carewyn as they raced down the hall. “I instructed Claire to move him to the chaise longue in there while I distracted Corban. In the office is the Floo grate you can use to transport Jacob out of here -- I’ll mop up whatever blood he leaves behind once you’re gone -- ”

The thought of Jacob bleeding heavily made Carewyn’s heart pang with anxiety. She tried once again to reach out to Jacob with her mind.

Jacob. Jacob!

That familiar presence stirred again.

Pip? Pip!

He was close! Carewyn felt her heart leap.

Jacob! Jacob, are you awake?

Pip -- no -- I don’t think so, Pip --

Images of buildings overwhelmed by Fiendfyre dragons and manticores swam over Carewyn’s eyes. Jacob himself was fully surrounded, flinching with pain every time the heat lashed at his limbs -- holding his arms out wide as if to protect the alley behind him from the flames he was actively confronting -- Jacob’s determined thoughts echoing in her own head, and then his voice choked by the sooty air -- I can’t let them go any farther -- “Finite Daemonium!” --

You’re dreaming, Jacob, she told him firmly.

I thought so. Pip, where are we? You’re close, but...I can’t tell where you are, from looking at it...

Never mind that now. Don’t worry, I’m coming --

Carewyn was so locked on her brother’s mind that she ended up overtaking Blaise in the last stretch, barreling over to the door through which she could sense Jacob. She seized the door to the room neighboring the office that had once belonged to Charles Cromwell and threw it open.

Lying prone on his stomach across the chaise longue was the real Jacob. His face, neck, and back were covered in bandages and orange burn paste, both of which could only half disguise the severe burn marks that slashed across his back and had hacked a good chunk out of his long hair.

Carewyn’s heart leapt into her throat.

“Jacob!”

She ran to her brother’s side and quickly tried to turn him over enough that she could take hold of his face with both hands.

Jacob! Carewyn urged him with her mind. I’m here, Jacob -- focus on my voice, Jacob --

Jacob gave a soft groan of pain in his sleep, but inside his own mind, he was more aware and easier to hear than before.

Pip. Pip -- Honeydukes. Were there casualties?

Carewyn’s heart sank remembering what Tristan had said about the Death Eaters’ attack in Hogsmeade.

...I don’t know, but...the building was completely destroyed. It was burned to the ground.

She could feel Jacob’s heart pang with guilt and sorrow, hearing this. The face of a pretty woman with a blond bun and a strong jawline handing him several boxes rippled over her eyes -- “ -- for your tenants, not you, so don’t gorge yourself -- ”

“You’ll have to hide him yourself,” said Blaise tersely, once he’d caught up with her. “Claire might be loyal enough to keep her mouth shut, and Pearl dislikes the Dark Lord’s methods enough herself that she won’t be too cross, but I can’t take the risk that that idiot Marek learns of Jacob’s true condition, considering his blood relations...”

Carewyn’s eyes shot back up to Blaise, narrowing slightly.

“Is this why you wanted me to come so quickly?” she asked. “Because you knew once Claire’s husband came home, it’d be harder to hide Jacob from him and the Death Eaters?”

“Of course,” snorted Blaise. “Your brother would undoubtedly throw a fit if he woke up here. And although I would normally be perfectly willing to deal with one of your brother’s little temper tantrums, Marek hears more than enough from Corban that he’d be able to deduce where Jacob’s injuries came from, if he saw them. And just about everything Marek thinks, Corban could eventually hear.”

Jacob’s form twitched sharply.

Pip. Pip -- is that Blaise with you?

Jacob seemed to writhe in both anger and anxiety, even through the pain that still pulsed through his every vein and made it hard for him to move. Carewyn hurriedly brought a hand through his bangs, trying to soothe him.

It’s okay, Jacob. It’s okay.

“As much as I could take better care of both of you here,” Blaise said with a glare across the hall at the closed office door, “I’ll have to leave this to you and your mother, to sort out...”

The Head of the Cromwell Clan strode over to the office, threw open the door, and moved toward the blazing fireplace. He seized a cluster of Floo powder from a dish on the mantle and tossed it into the flames, turning them a bright emerald green. Then he returned to the sitting room where Carewyn was bent down beside Jacob, hoisting Jacob up into his arms with some difficulty so he could carry the younger man into the office. Some blood leaked through the bandages on Jacob’s right shoulder, staining the carpet.

“Ugh -- you’re far too weak to lift him on your own, but I must get downstairs quickly,” Blaise instructed Carewyn. “Choose your destination, and then use Mobilicorpus to carry him into the grate. The fireplace’s tiles are already arranged in the correct order to allow one to leave on a Tuesday, so we shouldn’t have to worry about anyone else coming through the Floo Network in the meantime.”

Seeing Carewyn's deep frown at his word choice, Blaise gave her a dark smile.

“Your grandfather was very strict about when a person could come or go from this house, and so am I,” he said, lowering Jacob down into the armchair beside the fireplace. “Be grateful for my mercy, under the circumstances.”

Carewyn pursed her lips.

“Grateful? For not keeping us locked up in a cage?” she whispered tartly. “Forgive me for not singing your praises. It’s shameful enough that you’ve already done it to your own son -- ”

“I’m protecting him,” Blaise retorted, his eyes flaring with temper. “Just as I would you, Lane, and Jacob, if you all would just open your eyes. At least then you and Jacob wouldn’t be throwing yourselves into Fiendfyre for the sake of some low-class shopkeepers -- ”

Jacob must’ve heard that through his connection with Carewyn’s mind, despite the state of delirium he was in, for at that moment he lashed out his limbs violently. The burns to his chest, however, abruptly made his body crumple in on itself as he moaned in pain.

“Clearly those ‘low-class shopkeepers’ mean a lot to Jacob,” Carewyn said fiercely. “So keep your insults to yourself.”

She turned her focus back to Jacob, trying to send soothing thoughts through her Legilimency. Then, her eyes still narrowed, she looked back up toward Blaise, her gaze landing on his shoulder rather than his face.

“...Thank you,” she said softly. “For saving him.”

Blaise scoffed as he turned away. “I said it before -- I’m the head of our family. It’s my duty to take care of you.”

Despite this, his face betrayed a rather self-satisfied expression as he headed for the open door. Once he’d reached it, he rested his hand on the frame as turned back to look over his shoulder again at Carewyn.

“Safe travels, Winnie,” he said, unable to fight back a smug smirk despite himself. “Do try to return home sometime in October, won’t you? Tristan plays the piano for hours, on his birthday...”

“This is not my home, Blaise,” Carewyn said coldly. “And don’t call me Winnie.”

Blaise was still smirking like a cat who’d successfully caught a rat as he retreated from the room, closing the office door behind him with a snap. As soon as Blaise was gone, Carewyn took her wand back out and flourished it at Jacob.

“Mobilicorpus.”

Ghostly white ropes emerged from her wand and lashed themselves onto Jacob’s limbs, allowing her to lift him off the chaise longue and carry him after her like a balloon on a string.

Pip --

Shh, Carewyn sent Jacob more comforting vibes through her Legilimency. You can sleep easy now, Jacob -- we’re going home.

With some difficulty, she eased herself and Jacob into the Cromwell fireplace, resting a hand beside Jacob’s head so that it didn’t accidentally hit the top of it.

“Cromwell Cottage,” Carewyn said her mother’s new address very clearly, “Tintagel, Cornwall!”

And with a flash of green and a WHOOSH of air, both Carewyn and Jacob disappeared from the Cromwell Manor.

~*~

Lane Cromwell was also absolutely beside herself, at the sight of her son. She quickly shut down all emotion so she could set about brewing a large batch of burn paste at her large kitchen cauldron, while Carewyn reached out to her Healer friend Chiara, who sent over several more potions she’d brewed herself via Owl Post, which were specifically intended for reversing curse damage.

After administering the multiple potions to Jacob both orally and topically over the course of several hours, Jacob’s condition finally seemed to improve -- his back and right shoulder had scarred over badly thanks to the violently angry third-degree burns, but the pain had finally been tempered enough that Jacob could sleep peacefully and wake up very early the next morning, just before sunrise. Carewyn, who’d curled up asleep in the chair at Jacob’s bedside, woke up not long after he did, subconsciously sensing his thoughts poking at the inside of her mind.

Pip. Can you hear me, Pip?

She stirred restlessly.

Jacob...?

She slowly opened her eyes. Her older brother smiled tiredly up at her from the bed.

“Morning, Pip,” he murmured. His orange-paste-soaked, scruffy face was very gentle as he passed her several comforting mental images through his Legilimency -- Jacob and Carewyn hugging each other upon their shared graduation from Hogwarts -- them singing Christmas carols together -- Jacob as a teenager carrying his very sleepy little sister on his back to bed --

Carewyn immediately moved to unfurl herself from the ball she’d been curled up in on the chair, rubbing her eyes quickly to try to wake herself up.

“Jacob...”

She slid out of the chair to the floor, crawling on her knees over to Jacob’s bed. When she reached him, she threw her head protectively over his heart as Jacob -- predicting the move long before she’d made it thanks to his Legilimency -- encircled her in his arms, bringing a hand gently through her hair. She knew he could feel her heart beating against the front of her rib cage -- see the memory of how scared she was, seeing his condition at Cromwell Manor -- Lane’s reaction, to seeing him...

“I’m sorry, Pip,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I worried you. You and Mum.”

Carewyn gave his arm a squeeze. “You were just trying to help the Flumes and Rosmerta. I know that.”

“I was,” assented Jacob guiltily. “But I should’ve been faster, I should’ve been able to do more. Then maybe Honeydukes...”

He exhaled heavily as he closed his eyes.

“I’d really wanted to save it,” he said lowly. “Even if just some of it was salvageable, at least then the Flumes would have somewhere to go -- some piece of what they had, at least some small thing they could hold onto and build off of. But they don’t...and now Hermia...”

He broke off, too despondent to put his grief into words. Carewyn gave her brother’s arm another supportive squeeze.

“They can rebuild, Jacob,” she said gently. “Jae told me that there were no casualties in Hogsmeade that night, because someone was able to reach the heart of the Fiendfyre tearing up the village and extinguish it.”

Carewyn smiled softly.

“I have a strong feeling that ‘someone’ was you, Jacob. And if it was, then the Flumes, and everyone else in Hogsmeade...they owe you their lives.”

She passed the warm pride that made her chest fit to burst through her mind to Jacob’s. It made his brother hold her that bit more tightly, leaning down awkwardly to rest his head on top of hers on his chest. Carewyn could see herself carrying Jacob into the Cromwell grate while supporting his head -- herself at age fifteen, running through the Portrait Vault to throw her arms around Jacob --

“And as usual,” he said through a slightly choked smile, “I owe you mine.”

Carewyn could sense him parsing through her memories of the Cromwell Manor. Seeing Blaise and that dark, cold house through her eyes made Jacob’s heart flare with distrust and resentment.

“Thanks for getting me out of there, Pip,” he murmured. “I don’t like thinking I owe that no-good, gaslighting old knob Blaise a favor.”

“After everything he did to you as part of R, this is the very least he could do,” Carewyn said dryly. “Even so...for once, I’d say we should be glad that Blaise is only stupid enough to pacify the Death Eaters, not actively support them...and that he’ll choose to protect you over elevating those relations of his that do.”

She paused. The memory of sitting by Tristan’s bedside while he was disguised as Jacob passed over her mind.

“...Jacob?”

“Yeah, Pip?”

“I think we should send something along in October, for Blaise’s son’s birthday. What Muggle sheet music do you think we should send him?”

Jacob blinked. Then his bandaged face broke into a huge grin as he started to laugh.

“...Dancing Queen. Merlin Alive, Pip, one of them HAS to be Dancing Queen.”