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Thursday 1^st September 1994

Harry drummed his fingers in irritation on the long wooden table in the Great Hall as the students all listened to the Sorting Hat’s new song.

“‘Power-hungry Slytherin loved those of great ambition.’ It’s a bit biased, don’t you think?” he grumbled. “The Sorting Hat made it sound like a bad thing to go to Slytherin, but there’s nothing wrong with being ambitious. Salazar wasn’t a bad man you know, he only wanted power to protect people. He cared a lot about the students – it’s just that he disagreed with the other Founders about the best way to go about keeping them safe. Some might say he made some bad choices, but he was acting out of the best possible motives.”

“You’re a bit defensive of Slytherin for someone who’s actually a Gryffindor, Potter,” teased Thomas, from across the table.

“I know why, too! Me mam read Lockhart’s new book,” Finnegan said. “Secret’s out, Potter, not that it was much of a secret before. Everyone knows you’re the Heir of Slytherin, now! But don’t worry mate, we know you’re a good bloke and we won’t give you a hard time about it.”

“Much,” added Thomas, with a wink.

“Ackerley, Stewart!” Professor McGonagall called out in the background, and the first trembling, rain-soaked student walked up to be Sorted.

“No-one’s going to believe me anymore about me not being the Heir now, are they?” Harry said, slumping in his chair with a sigh.

“Ravenclaw!” shouted the Hat, eliciting loud applause.

Hermione patted Harry reassuringly on the shoulder. “Probably not, no. But we don’t mind, honestly. Smith’s related to Hufflepuff, and he doesn’t have any special badger powers! It’s just family. Besides, I still think half of the students at Hogwarts are probably related to one of the Founders – it’s such an insular and small community it’s inevitable. You were just lucky in getting to be a Parselmouth – probably just the luck of the draw in getting good genes, or something. Some Houses have talents running in their families; that’s a known fact.”

“Baddock, Malcolm!”

“Slytherin!”

The twin Weasleys hissed loudly in disapproval at the first Slytherin to be Sorted. Harry tutted disapprovingly at them (which they didn’t even notice, being seated much further down the table) and gave Baddock a pointedly polite clap. On the other side of the Hall the Slytherin table cheered enthusiastically for their first new member.

“Yeah, lucky, that’s me,” huffed Harry. “Still, I do like being able to talk to Storm. And it was handy in the Chamber of Secrets. I might not have saved… been able to help save people without that.” Reminded of his pet, he fished Storm out of the satchel at his feet.

“Are we there yet?” Storm asked sleepily, then wound his way up Harry’s arm to his shoulders. “Oh, yess, I sssee we are. Warm me.” He burrowed into the neckline of Harry’s robe to coil around his bare neck, seeking out Harry’s body warmth on the cold, stormy night. With the enchantments on the ceiling of the Great Hall displaying the weather outside as if the roof was made of glass it seemed less cosy inside than usual despite them all being quite dry (thanks to the judicious application of a few spells cast on each other earlier).  The rain pounded down on the roof with a fierce though muted drumming, and the cloudy night sky was lit up by occasional dramatic flashes of lightning which were followed by menacing rumbles of thunder.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“Hufflepuff!”

The young girl who’d just been sorted trotted eagerly over to the welcoming Hufflepuff table. Half the students there had as usual chosen to affix House-proud yellow or black ribbons or yellow canary feathers to their pointed black hats, and many of the girls wore yellow hair ribbons. Branstone’s long, loose brown hair was drenched despite the meagre protection of her hat, dripping onto her soggy black work robes and the floor. Harry saw some older students – prefects no doubt since Diggory was among them – making sure she and the next first-year Hufflepuff who scurried over both had their robes and hair all magically dried out before they settled down at the table.

“Creevey, Dennis!”

Colin’s brother was the tiniest first-year yet, Harry thought. The mousey-haired boy was soaking wet and wrapped up in Hagrid’s enormous moleskin overcoat which dragged on the ground as he walked up to the Hat, looking incredibly excited.

“Gryffindor!”

The newest Gryffindor scurried over to his brother to a chorus of cheers, stumbling slightly as he got caught up in Hagrid’s coat, calling in shrill excitement as he approached about how he’d fallen in the lake and had gotten pushed back into his boat by something that his brother eagerly explained must have been the giant squid.

“Dobbs, Emma!”

“Do you know who got the Head Girl position this year?” Harry asked in general enquiry of everyone around him, ignoring the Sorting for a while now that Colin’s brother had been done. “I heard from Peregrine that he didn’t get Head Boy – it went to a Ravenclaw, Marcus Turner.”

“No idea,” Neville said, shaking his head.

“Lavender might know,” volunteered Hermione. “She has a cousin of some degree who’s starting seventh year who was hoping to get the spot. Do you want me to ask her?”

“If you don’t mind. I’m just curious.”

Hermione passed a note down the table to Brown, who got out a quill to scribble a reply, then passed it back, waving cheerily to them.

“Lavender’s cousin didn’t get it – Tamsin Applebee’s the Head Girl,” Hermione read out. “She’s a Chaser on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and Lavender says she’s a sweet girl. Though it must be admitted that she says that about a lot of people.”

“Is she the team Captain?” asked Neville.

“No, that’s still Diggory as far as I know,” Harry said.

They all applauded absent-mindedly as “McDonald, Natalie” joined the Gryffindor table. She was greeted by Ron as she sat down, who was curious to ask whether or not she was related to “that bloke who owns all those restaurants”.

“Prewett, Mafalda!”

“Oh, it’s Mafalda’s turn!” Harry said, perking up with interest.

“Slytherin!”

Hermione sighed in disappointment. “Oh, that’s a shame. Not that there’s anything wrong with Slytherin, Harry, don’t make that face at me. I mean it’s a shame that she won’t get to be with her family. Where is Ginny, anyway?”

Mafalda seemed a little anxious about her Sorting too, glancing wistfully over at the boisterous Gryffindor table, but she seemed heartened by seeing the Weasley twin’s histrionic sobs at their loss of her to another House, and Harry’s smiling applause at her Sorting. She trotted off to the Slytherin table, which seemed to welcome her heartily (relative to their restrained standards of courtesy).

She was followed to Slytherin by Graham Pritchard, and then there were just a few more students left to Sort before the feast began, ending with Zabini, Maria (who went to Ravenclaw).

Hermione was thoroughly distracted during dinner, chatting worriedly with Nearly Headless Nick about a disruption in the kitchen by Peeves that had terrified the house-elves. She picked at the food on her golden plate and ignored Ron’s attempts to lure her to eat by playfully wafting desserts under her nose.

Dumbledore’s announcements started with the usual warnings. “The Forbidden Forest, as always, is out-of-bounds. As is Hogsmeade to all first and second-year students. I am pleased to announce, however, that your recreational opportunities have been officially expanded. For last year’s ‘club room’ will now be made a permanent fixture of Hogwarts!”

That news got a happy round of cheers across the Great Hall.

“Professor Slughorn has kindly volunteered to be the supervising teacher for the club room – leaders of pre-existing clubs should see him tomorrow, before or after the day’s classes, to discuss meeting scheduling.”

Slughorn waved jovially to the crowd from the staff table, before folding his hands contentedly over his corpulent belly that strained the gold buttons on his maroon silk waistcoat after the evening’s feasting.

“Any new clubs and study groups will need to work around reserved times,” continued Dumbledore. “Please consult the new noticeboard just inside the club room door from Saturday onwards for details. The room itself has been enlarged, with an archway added through to an adjoining previously empty classroom, and many furnishings have been added including some desks and sofas.”

That announcement went down smoothly, however, the Headmaster’s shift to the sad news that the inter-house Quidditch Cup would be cancelled was unexpected and a tremendous shock to all the Gryffindor Quidditch team members whose jaws gaped – they looked too appalled to even speak.

Dumbledore had just started to announce the new event that would be on that year instead – presumably the Triwizard Tournament that Draco had told Harry and his friends about – when he was interrupted mid-sentence by the dramatic arrival of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody. The scarred new professor clomped his way to the staff table with a backdrop of booming thunder, while flashes of lightning streaked across the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall and the majority of the hall watched his silent procession in wary silence.

“I suspect this will not be your year for breaking your run of having Defence teachers attack you, Harry,” whispered Neville, eyes wide with fear at the man’s intimidating visage.

“That’s Alastor Moody,” Harry whispered back. “I’ve met him already. Sirius said he used to be an Auror, but he’s retired now. Fingers crossed he breaks the pattern, surely being an Auror will help me there. But... well… I’m not sure this will be my year either. He’s an odd bloke.”

After a very unimpressive patter of token applause for their unnerving new teacher, Dumbledore explained how Hogwarts would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, with students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arriving in October. He promised that no champion would find themselves in mortal danger, unlike in past Tournaments which had been discontinued due to the rising death toll.

“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed.

Harry shuddered. “Normal schools don’t need to reassure you that no-one will die during an inter-school sports competition. Hogwarts is crazy sometimes.”

“A thousand Galleons! I’m going for it!” vowed Ron excitedly, on her other side.

“Are you going to enter, Harry?” Neville asked, looking thoughtful.

“Did you not hear the bit about the death toll?” Hermione asked incredulously. She was in a minority for being wary about the competition, however, and the Gryffindor table, at least, was abuzz with excited whispers.

Harry felt a little relieved to hear there would be an age limit imposed, with no students under seventeen allowed to enter, but Ron was appalled. “No Quidditch! And no Tournament either?! This is unbelievable. I was supposed to be Keeper this year! Now I can’t even enter the stupid Tournament! I need that money… we need that money!”

Further down the table, his twin brothers could be glimpsed fuming even more angrily, having only missed the age cut-off by a handful of months.

“…I hope you will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected,” Dumbledore concluded. “Now, I know it is late, so before you all head off to bed we shall conclude with two short songs performed by our ‘Frog Choir’, led by Professor Flitwick in their maiden performance. First, we have an adaption of Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Toil and Trouble’, which will be followed by the school song. If you are interested in joining the school choir, please meet at ten on Saturday morning in the club room for auditions. Let us give them a welcoming round of applause as they gather!”

The students clapped politely as a scattering of students left all four House tables to make their way down the aisles to gather in front of the teachers’ table. There were mostly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in the choir, but a few students joined them from the other two Houses.

They choir did a great job and looked thrilled at the enthusiastic applause at the end of their a cappella songs, and their audience (with a few rare exceptions like the Weasley twins) were just as excited to have the school song be set to an actual melody at last.

“Oh, that was so much better than last year,” Hermione said approvingly, as she clapped. “I never understood why Dumbledore thought letting everyone pick their own tune was a good idea. I guess he thought it was funny, but it wasn’t. It was just a chaotic din.”

“Definitely,” agreed Harry, rising from the table as everyone started heading up towards their dorms in a slow shuffling queue down the aisles and into the hallways. “I still remember the horrible shock that was first year’s school song. It was nice to see all the Houses singing together too, wasn’t it? Did you know Daphne was in the choir? I didn’t know!”

“It was a surprise to me too,” Hermione said.

“I knew,” said Neville. “She mentioned the practices once – she said it is a good opportunity to build relationships across the House boundaries. Also, she likes singing.”

One of the Weasley twins came up to them while they chatted, pushing through the tide going the other way. “Say Potter, have you seen Ginny? Did you talk to her, or did you hear what upset her? I heard she left the table in tears.”

“Oh! Sorry, no, nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen her since the train, actually.”

The ginger-haired twin huffed in frustration.

“Do you want me to check on her?” asked Hermione. “Since you can’t get into the girls’ dorm?”

“If you don’t mind. Tell her I was asking after her – Fred, that is – and let her know that if she is upset about me planning to try and get in the Triwizard Tournament even though I won’t be old enough, well… Tell her that the money’s good and that I would of course be very careful not to get hurt. Or… if it’s something else that has upset her – like if someone gave her a hard time about dad – will you find out for us? Things have been hard, lately, and I think she is feeling the strain,” he said, looking pensive.

“I’ll tell her,” Hermione promised, and he shook her hand in thanks before heading back to his friends.

“Poor thing,” she added, once he was out of earshot. “She must be scared she’ll lose her brother. I don’t think she needs to worry – Dumbledore won’t let anyone underage enter the competition, he made that quite clear.”

“Theoretically he keeps the twins out of the Forbidden Forest,” Harry pointed out.

“Ah. Good point,” Hermione conceded, with a nod.

The crowd of students thinned out as the Houses split off, and the Gryffindors headed towards Gryffindor Tower.

Colin Creevey dragged his brother Dennis over to where Harry and his friends were walking and gave a little bow of greeting. “Hello again, Harry!” he said excitedly. “Isn’t it great that Dennis got into Gryffindor?!”

Harry tipped his pointed hat in greeting, giving a short nod as he did so. “It is indeed. Welcome to Gryffindor, Creevey,” he said politely to Dennis.

“Hello! It’s fabulous to be here!” the youngest Creevey said, grinning toothily, and copying his brother’s bow, which earnt him another nod from Harry. “Say, Colin, isn’t he going to bow back?”

“Oh no, he outranks us, remember? Being the Heir of one of the old Noble families!” explained Colin.

“I’m actually now also the Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as well,” added Harry.

“-And Slytherin!” added Finnegan, from behind them.

Harry shrugged. “Yes, I suppose. So really the bow should be a bit lower, technically.”

“Like this?” Colin asked, putting his right hand across his chest as he tried a deeper bow.

“Is this new? When did that happen, you being Heir of the Black family?” asked Hermione, turning to Harry. “Is there a new family connection you’ve uncovered in your family tree? Greg won’t tell me what’s in mine – he keeps saying I have to wait for my birthday.”

“Yes, that bow is better,” Harry said to the Creeveys, before answering Hermione. “It was during the holidays – Sirius made me his Heir, due to the connection through my paternal grandmother. He didn’t want it to be Draco who’s the other best candidate, as he’s not keen on the Malfoys.”

Hermione nodded approvingly.

“The Black family portraits love Harry,” volunteered Neville, with a teasing smile for Harry.

Dennis tried a deeper bow like his brother had, and as Harry was correcting him on the importance of keeping a straight back while doing so. He also lectured about how bowing deeply was really only important when first meeting someone who was very traditional, or at a dance or formal occasion, and shallower bows or covert nods of the head or tipping one’s hat would usually suffice at other times. Professor McGonagall suddenly hove into view. She looked furious.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing, Mr. Potter?! Mr. Creevey!”

“Oh, ah, just a quick etiquette lesson,” Harry said, with an apologetic nod. “Was I holding people up? I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

She seemed relatively content with Colin’s chastened brief and instant apology, but she did not look at all happy with Harry’s response – her mouth got even thinner, and her eyes narrower. “You are teaching the Creeveys to bow to you, Potter. That is not acceptable behaviour here at Hogwarts – you are not the superior to Muggle-borns or anyone else because of your blood status! Ten points from Gryffindor, and it would be more if our House had earnt more but that is all we have accumulated to lose thus far!”

“Sorry, professor. I was just teaching them about the different kinds of bows, professor. Just the etiquette, for formal occasions. I’m not being a blood purist or anything!” Harry said defensively.

“That is precisely what you were being. A word in private, I think,” she said, pointing imperiously towards a nearby classroom door. Harry slunk inside obediently, shoulders hunched in response to the weighty stares of all his classmates as they watched him being dressed down by their Head of House.

“I am deeply disappointed in you, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, the instant the door had closed behind them. “To think that I should have to give this lecture to you! To some of my first-year pure-bloods, perhaps, but you are in fourth year now, and should know better!”

“I’m not a blood purist, honestly I’m not. Hermione and all the other Muggle-borns are just as good as I am, I know that,” Harry reassured her earnestly. “I only follow the etiquette, and I usually keep it quiet, sorry. I don’t promote the beliefs.”

McGonagall shook her head, her mouth in a thin angry line. “No, you are acting exactly like a blood purist, Potter, and you are not just tolerating but actively promoting those beliefs. Every time you do something like scurry to greet someone from an ‘Ancient’ family first when you enter a room because they rank above you in precedence, and every time you demand or expect that a Muggle-born should bow more deeply to you because the Potters are considered a ‘Noble’ family, you reinforce those prejudices. You tell the world with your obsolescent greetings that you think you are better – or more lowly – than someone else just because of who your family is. That you deserve respect because of the family you were born into – as if that is some great accomplishment of yours worthy of esteem, and not simply a matter of luck.

“Is that the kind of lesson you really want the Creeveys to learn? That they should grovel before pure-bloods, and know their place? Is that being truly welcoming of newcomers to our world?”

Harry’s face crumpled in regret at the thought the Creeveys might have taken his lesson that way. “I’m sorry, professor! I was just trying to help them fit in. Learn the customs, so they’d know what to expect and could be polite to people. I wasn’t trying to be insulting!”

Professor McGonagall’s face softened as she laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Potter, I am sure you meant well, but what you just taught them is that Muggle-borns are lesser. That their rank is below that of the old pure-blood families. I won’t tolerate that kind of bigotry at Hogwarts. Not all customs are worth preserving purely for the sake of ‘tradition’. Who convinced you such a thing was a necessary?”

“Pansy told me it was important years ago,” he confessed, “and it seemed like a good idea. To be courteous to everyone and try and fit in. She wasn’t the only one, but I guess she brought it up first. Please don’t get her in trouble, though. It was years ago, and she didn’t mean any harm, and she did tell me I shouldn’t do it at Hogwarts. I just forgot.”

“Why would you give her opinion so much weight, when plenty of your other friends like Longbottom and Weasley don’t follow all those bigoted old-fashioned traditions?”

“Well, she’s family. Of course I should listen to her,” Harry explained. It was obvious, really, but his professor didn’t seem to find it so.

“That’s not a good enough reason at all, Mr. Potter. Other students look up to you, and you must learn to set a good example! I’m afraid to say you and the elder Mr. Creevey will both be serving detention with me on Saturday. Two hours of writing lines – ‘I am no better, and no worse, than anyone else at Hogwarts just because of who my family is. We are all witches and wizards here, and of equal rank. We may all mix with whomsoever we choose. I will not promulgate the doctrines of blood purity.’ I hope it will remind you of what your parents fought and died for,” she finished in stern rebuke.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, cowed and slightly ashamed.

“We are not tolerant here at Hogwarts of prejudice on the basis of rank, Mr. Potter. All students are to be regarded as equal, regardless of family status, blood heritage, or respective level of magical talents. If I hear one more word of you boasting about being the Heir of Slytherin and demanding special treatment because of that, that will be just the start – you will be in detention for months,” she added, wagging her finger at him warningly.

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no ma’am, I won’t.”

She swept off with a swirl of robes to rejoin her place escorting the first-year Gryffindors up to their dorm, and presumably to talk with the Creeveys as well.

Harry was freed to slink out of the classroom and back to his shocked friends, ashamed and thoughtful. He hadn’t questioned the rules of etiquette, he’d just learnt them, trying to make Pansy and all his new friends happy that he was striving to fit in. He still didn’t really see a big problem with bowing in general, but he did get the painful point that it was sometimes very tied in with beliefs about blood purity.

-000-

Early the next morning Harry was pounced upon by Hermione and Lavender Brown the instant he emerged with Neville into the Common Room.

“At last! We’ve been waiting for you to leave your dorm,” Hermione said to him with relief, which Harry thought was a bit unfair as it was still hours before Friday’s classes would start. He wondered if she was going to tell him off about his bowing lesson last night and subsequent detention, but thankfully another matter had her thoroughly distracted for the time being.

“Eloise needs your help,” Brown confided in a whisper. “She’s hexed her nose off.”

“What? How? What do you mean?” Harry said, very confused. “Where is she?”

“She had some awful pimples, and she tried to get rid of them this morning by hexing them off! No nose. It has fallen off – like she Splinched it.”

“Oh Merlin! Is it bleeding? Has she still got her nose?”

“No, it’s not bleeding, and yes, Midgen’s got her nose,” Hermione answered. “Separate from the rest of her, but she has it.”

“She refuses to come down or to see Madam Pomfrey, she is just so embarrassed,” Brown explained. “She wants to know if you can help her, without anyone seeing.”

Harry blinked, and said slowly, “I don’t know, that sounds tricky, and while I’ve heard of the spells to reverse Splinching, I’ve never practised them. I think she should go to the Hospital Wing.”

“She is really mortified to think that anyone might see her like this, though. She has been crying – she is a mess. Are you sure you won’t help?” wheedled Brown.

“I wrote down the spell Midgen used,” Hermione said, “and the wand movements.”

She passed over a slip of parchment to Harry. “I thought it might help.”

Harry looked at it and frowned. “Well, this was a terrible spell she chose, no wonder it went wrong. This is a spot-remover spell for cleaning and restoring marble. I actually read about it recently in a book on enchanted statuary and old stonework. It gets rid of blemishes, but I suspect it’s only intended for statues and balustrades. I doubt you should use it on your face. I’m not even going to try reversing that – too much could go wrong.” He’d been planning to use the spell in his ongoing efforts to clean up the Chamber of Secrets and thought it might help clean Ambrosius’ mosaic (though he was worried it might be too powerful a spell for the tiny glass-like tiles), or at least some of the tougher statues.

“Oh. That’s fair enough,” Hermione said.

“Poor Eloise,” sighed Lavender. “I suppose she will have to just hide her face on the way to the Hospital Wing.”

“Sorry,” Harry apologised. “Tell her to use Boil Cure Potion next time – it’s much safer and more effective. I don’t have any in stock, but if she can help out with the ingredients, I’d be happy to brew some when I have time if she’s not a confident Potioneer. She should remember it’s topical – you don’t drink it.”

“Undiluted Bubotuber pus is an excellent remedy for spots as well,” piped up Neville. “It has to be applied while it is fresh, though.”

The girls hustled off to break the bad news to Midgen, who emerged with her pointed hat pulled low over her face, surrounded by an escort of all her female dormmates as she was hurried off to see Madam Pomfrey.

-000-

The Weasley twins sat with Harry and his friends at breakfast, to gather gossip about their sister and share what they’d learnt about how Susan Bones had managed to return to Hogwarts despite being infected with lycanthropy.

Hermione reported in with her news first. “Ginny’s not upset about the Tournament – the Headmaster promised it would be safe and for good or ill she has faith in that, and wishes you luck, Fred.”

He nodded, but his freckled face still looked grave rather than resuming its typical cheerful expression they were all more accustomed to seeing. “So, what is it then? Is she worried about dad, or Bill?”

“No – it’s not family stuff at all, though no doubt that’s not helping her stress levels,” Hermione said. “She ran off from the feast because some kids were giving her a hard time about the Battles with the Basilisk book. They didn’t believe her about the spirit in the book being You-Know-Who, not Grindelwald’s son, and they were teasing her about being so stupid as to keep writing in a cursed book without telling anyone. Especially given she should know better since spotting things like that is literally her father’s job… or was. You know, Lockhart’s book isn’t very kind to her – pointing out how dangerous it is for students not to learn about the Dark Arts, and how at risk even young pure-bloods can be if left untaught of the world’s dangers – gullible and foolish in their ignorance. It really had a bit of a different style to his other books, don’t you think, Harry?”

Harry twitched guiltily. “Oh, ah, yes. A bit.” He hadn’t thought about the effect Lockhart’s – Voldemort’s – editorial changes might have had on Ginny. “He changed quite a few things in his later drafts. Some at the last minute. I had nothing to do with those, by the way. I think he didn’t want to risk offending… You-Know-Who. By telling secrets or being insulting to him.”

“I haven’t read the book yet,” said Fred Weasley. “His others were such rubbish that I didn’t bother.”

“Me either,” agreed his twin. “They were fun, but useless. It sounds like he changed a lot of details from what really happened, though. We should probably find out what.”

Hermione agreed that Lockhart had made changes but defended her hero on the grounds of “dramatic necessity” and “common sense”. She offered to lend her copy of the book to them since she’d read it twice already, and they gratefully accepted (Harry’s gifted copy to their mother having already been dispatched via owl late the previous night). They also weaselled out of her a couple of names of Ginny’s tormentors, with a concession that they wouldn’t do anything that would harm them.

After that was all sorted out, George Weasley asked, “So, did you want to hear about Susan Bones?”

They were all eager to hear the gossip, and he launched into the story, aided intermittently by his brother.

“She’s not a Hogwarts student any longer – werewolves aren’t allowed to come to Hogwarts. Professor Lupin only managed it because he hid what he was while he was a student. Frankly it’s impressive that no-one got in serious trouble for that.”

“He’s a good man, by the way,” added his twin. “Don’t believe what the Daily Prophet says about him.”

“We don’t,” promised Hermione.

“So, technically Bones is now a Durmstrang student, and is officially part of the contingent come to try their luck in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“She just happens to have arrived a couple of months early,” said Fred Weasley, smirking a little.

“It’s a loophole – Durmstrang allows magically talented young werewolves and vampires to enrol–”

“If their blood is ‘pure’ enough,” his brother interrupted, with a roll of his eyes.

“Under British law she still gets to use her wand until her lycanthropy is proven at the first full moon, which takes her halfway through September. After that it’s only a few more weeks until the Durmstrang Headmaster arrives with the visiting students. So, she’ll only need to be without her wand for a couple of weeks until she falls under their Headmaster’s jurisdiction and can wield it again. It’s a good joke, isn’t it! Nice to see old Dumbledore getting one past the Ministry like that.”

“I am very happy for her, but what about the problem that she is too young to have a chance of competing?” worried Neville.

“Technically, the other schools can bring whomever they like, it is simply that it’s not sensible to bring students too young to enter. Karkaroff – that’s their Headmaster – agreed to Dumbledore’s plan, which must have taken some smooth talking,” George Weasley said, sounding impressed.

“What about next year?” Harry asked.

“Bones is hoping her Aunt Amelia and Dumbledore will have changed some laws by then. May a lucky star shine on that plan. However… she said it can’t happen too fast,” said Fred Weasley.

“We can’t give in to terrorist attacks,” agreed his brother.

“Our dad said if the Ministry starts instantly changing laws in favour of werewolf rights, Fenrir and his ilk will think their strategy works – that if they infect enough people they’ll get everything they want. That it will lead to more attacks, not less.”

“It makes sense,” agreed Hermione, “but it’s horrible.”

“I agree, and Bones sort of does too. Though, she’s obviously pretty broken up about losing her cives class citizenship and wand rights, and maybe having to move overseas next year.”

“How is she physically?” asked Harry. “I know your dad isn’t even out of St. Mungo’s yet.”

“She was not nearly as hurt as dad or Bill – Auror Shacklebolt saved her from that fate, may he rest in peace. She got treated by Healer Obasi, who specialises in creature-induced injuries. She only had a few fine scratches on her back. Shallow, but enough to infect her, unfortunately. It is pretty much guaranteed she will be a werewolf, but you never know.”

Gryffindor prefects dropped off their timetables, and Hermione eagerly looked hers over right away, checking out the column for Friday first, to see what they’d be starting with that morning.

“History of Magic, DADA, and Charms before lunch,” she said, sounding excited. “Double Potions in the afternoon. Arithmancy on Monday – that’s not too long to wait!”

“Is there anything you are not looking forward to?” Neville asked, sounding amused.

Hermione bit her lip with her large front teeth as she pondered his question. “Astronomy,” she decided eventually. “Midnight on Tuesdays. It’s just too late at night – it messes up my sleep and makes keeping to a proper study schedule harder. I don’t think I want to take it at NEWT level. Or History of Magic, for that matter.”

“Anything with the Hufflepuffs, where we can catch up with Bones?” asked Neville, serving himself some extra sausages.

“Herbology on Monday and Wednesday mornings,” Hermione pronounced, after a quick skim of the timetable. “My Arithmancy class is with the Hufflepuffs, but she didn’t pick that elective.”

“Well, I’d better get going,” Harry said, arranging his cutlery in neat parallel lines on his plate – the sign that the house-elves could whisk his plate away whenever they were ready. “I have to check in with some people about Potter Watch before seeing Professor Slughorn – the junior group will need a new leader now Percy’s graduated.”

“Ooh! Can I join in with the senior group too this year, Harry?” Hermione pleaded.

“Sure, I guess. Maybe I should make them less based on year, and more on ability. What do you think?”

“That sounds great!” Hermione said, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “You could set exams to progress to the next group early! Have you worked out a curriculum for this year, yet?”

Harry chatted with her for a while about his nascent plans for new spells to cover from some of the books he’d been reading over the holidays, before she dashed off to talk to Professor Slughorn about reserving the club room for her monthly H.E.L.P. Society meetings. Harry wanted to make sure he had his group leaders lined up before talking to their Potions professor and decided to start by quickly checking in with Angelina Johnson. He knew the dark-skinned sixth-year a little from his brief foray into Quidditch as she’d been a Gryffindor Chaser for years now, but he knew her better these days as one of the senior group Potter Watch members.

He awkwardly explained to Johnson how she was actually his back-up choice to lead the junior Potter Watch group. “I was hoping you might agree to help out if Diggory doesn’t want to lead the group,” he said nervously. “I don’t know if he’ll want to… all things considered. You heard about that, right? He lost his dad in the attack at the World Cup. Anyway, I just think it would be polite to ask him first.”

“Yes, I read it in the paper. It’s alright if you keep me as a back-up. I would be honoured to help out with your club if you decide you need me,” Johnson promised. “Poor Diggory, losing his father like that.”

Johnson bowed her head for a moment, looking sad, before she continued. “If he wants the job of leading the junior group, it is all his, and if he wants me to help out as co-leader, or if he would rather I took over the job on my own instead, that would be alright too. Whatever he prefers is fine by me – I don’t mind either way. Oh, and I could also help you as an extra tutor for the middle group, if you don’t need me for the juniors.”

“Thank you,” murmured Harry, with relief. “That’s a great idea!”

That went well, he thought happily. Even better than I’d hoped.

He headed off to the Slytherin table next. Hopefully Peregrine Derrick would be on board to tutor again, even though it was his NEWT year. He said brief hellos to all his Slytherin friends on his way past them to find Peregrine. Millicent looked very grumpy that morning as she glared at her plate of bacon and toast like it had personally offended her somehow but perked up and looked thoughtful at Harry’s casual cheery greetings to them all as he breezed past.

With only a short consultation required to settle things, Harry quickly confirmed that Peregrine was more than happy to keep leading the senior group meetings twice a month. He then headed towards the Hufflepuff table. On his way past the younger Slytherins at the end of the table, Harry spotted Mafalda Prewett and stopped to greet her.

“Good morning, Mafalda,” he said politely. “Congratulations on getting Sorted into Slytherin, I am sure you’ll make your new House proud.”

“Thank you, Harold!” she said, beaming happily. As he left, Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was subtly besieged by other tiny first-year Slytherins after that, all leaning in to gossip quietly with her.

Harry didn’t see Bones at the Hufflepuff table, and Macmillan whispered to him conspiratorially that she’d left breakfast early with her friends – she’d found everyone’s stares too hard to bear.

Diggory was still there, however, slowly finishing off a bowl of porridge. Diggory’s friends glared warningly at Harry as he approached – one of them, a brown-haired tall boy, pushed away from the table to intercept him in the aisle.

“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” the burly senior warned in a deep voice, blocking Harry’s way forward.

“Umm…” Harry started hesitantly. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. I totally understand he wouldn’t want to talk about… the attack at the World Cup. I wasn’t going to ask him about it, I promise.”

“Thank you. I will pass your message on to him later,” the Hufflepuff said, softening slightly as the warning glare left his eyes.

“Also, could you ask him if he’d like to be the group leader for the junior Potter Watch group this year? He doesn’t have to – Johnson from Gryffindor says she’s happy to do it if he’s not interested, or they can work together. Whatever he wants. I just thought… maybe he would like to stay busy. He’s great with young kids – being a prefect – and good at all his spells. I don’t know,” Harry said, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “Maybe it was a dumb idea. Please let him know he really doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.”

“It’s a kind thought. I will let him know, and I will have someone get a message back to you if he still isn’t ready to talk to anyone,” the boy promised.

Harry caught Diggory’s eye for a moment as he departed and nodded to him in brief wordless sympathy. Diggory smiled wanly back at him, then turned back to his porridge.

While he kept his face calm, Harry castigated himself silently. He’d thought it would be a good idea to invite Diggory to help out in the defence group, but maybe it had actually been a dreadful plan, and not at all well thought through. He should have talked it over with someone else first and gotten a second opinion. The badgers were rallying around their friend Diggory to ward off unwanted enquiries and shallow offerings of sympathy – if the socially savvy house good at friendship didn’t want Diggory bothered, it must be inappropriate. At least in this particular case. Harry didn’t want to be a bother, however, he feared that despite his good intentions that was exactly what he’d been.

Chapter Text

Friday 2^nd September 1994

History of Magic was just as dull as ever and was used as an opportunity for a few panicked Gryffindor students like Ron to furtively finish off their last-minute holiday essays for Charms.

“Writing two feet on ‘What is your favourite charm and why?’ should have been the easiest thing in the world,” Hermione scoffed as they left the classroom.

“Except maybe for the length,” teased Harry. “How many feet did you write?”

“…Three,” she admitted, which made Neville laugh.

“My first draft was four feet long!” she added defensively. “I cut a lot!”

They hurried to Defence Against the Dark Arts, and followed Hermione to seats in the front row, getting out their books.

“I still can’t believe our teacher picked the same book that we used in first year,” grumbled Harry. “I hope we learn some new spells.”

“Shh! He’s coming!” said Neville nervously, and the whole class waited quietly as Professor Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps came down the corridor and he entered the room.

For different reasons, both Harry and Ron were eager to put their books away when Moody growled out an order for the class to do so. After the roll was called, Moody launched into a review of what they’d covered in previous classes.

“Now, this year you’ll be learning about curses. Illegal Dark curses. According to the Ministry of Magic, I am supposed to teach you counter-curses and leave it at that. In their estimable opinion you have no need to know the curses themselves until NEWT level, and they think you are not old enough to cope with that knowledge yet. But Professor Dumbledore thinks otherwise. He has a high opinion of your nerves and reckons you can cope. He and I think the sooner you know what you are up against, the better,” Moody said.

Moody glanced around the room in an unnerving fashion as his magical eye swivelled around the room to catch any hint of movement, like Brown showing Patil her Charms homework under the desk, which earned the girls a swift rebuke.

“You cannot defend yourself against a curse you have never seen, that you know nothing about. You need to be ready,” insisted Moody, as he resumed his lecture. “A wizard about to curse you will not warn you politely about what he is casting at you. You have scant seconds to react with the right shield or counter-curse, and if you take too long to think or you guess wrong, well, you might end up as pretty as me!”

He pointed to his glassy right eye as he finished the last sentence with a grin, and then tapped his nose where a chunk was missing from it, and then pointed to a few of the larger and uglier scars criss-crossing his face.

Lavender Brown wasn’t the only person in the room who shuddered at the thought of ending up like that. Harry felt a bit ill himself, remembering poor Arthur Weasley who might indeed look a lot like Moody now, with a missing eye and all. At least he still had both his legs, even though they’d been badly clawed and bitten.

Moody lectured them on the Unforgiveable Curses: the Imperius, the Cruciatus, and last of all, the Killing Curse. The demonstrations of their effects on engorged spiders horrified everyone, to a greater or lesser extent.

Harry stared at the dead spider on the floor, remembering the memories induced by the Boggart-Dementor last year. His mother running up the stairs with him to the nursery. Carving a rune on his forehead. Pleading with Voldemort for Harry’s life, as he offered to spare her. The flash of green light and the horrifying thud as her body hit the ground.

Neville gently nudged Harry’s side with a covert elbow. “You okay?” he whispered. “That one must have been as hard for you as the Cruciatus was for me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” reassured Harry, forcing a smile as fake as Neville’s own was.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” roared Moody, which caused most of the class to jump. Harry and Neville, however, had been more distracted due to their whispered conversation and had missed what their teacher had been lecturing about, so were even more startled than the rest of the students. Harry automatically ducked down and covered his head with his hands, while Neville let out a frightened “Eep!” and almost tipped over backwards in his chair as he recoiled in instinctual fear.

Moody gave a ghastly grin to them both – perhaps he meant it to look reassuring, it was hard to tell – then resumed his lecture on the Unforgiveable Curses as the class took notes.

As Moody covered the history and casting method of the Killing Curse in more detail, Harry frowned and put his hand up. It startled Neville out of his brooding and quiet note-taking. Usually it was only Hermione who dared to interrupt a teacher in the middle of their monologue with questions.

“Yes, boy?”

“It’s Potter, sir,” Harry said, sounding at least outwardly courteous. He hated it when people called him ‘boy’. “You keep saying that there’s no counter-curse for the Killing Curse, and that’s certainly true, but I wondered if you are going to cover the other kinds of defences against it soon.”

There was a murmur of impressed interest and curiosity from his classmates on hearing his question.

“An expert on the topic, are you?”

“Certainly not as much as you are sir, as a retired Auror. However, I have read every book or story about the Killing Curse I could get my hands on. So, I know that while what you said about there being no magical counter or shield is technically correct, there are still several ways to defend against it.”

“Not counting being Harry Potter,” Moody said, with an odd gruff laugh.

“Yes, not counting that,” he agreed, looking rather embarrassed and glancing away as he thought about his mother’s runic circle hidden under his cot, and the scar on his face.

“Name a half dozen methods that would let a wizard survive when someone casts the Killing Curse at you, and you’ll earn yourself twenty points for Sly… I’m sorry, for Gryffindor,” their teacher said with a toothy grin, making a couple of students in the class snicker.

“Dodging out of the way.”

“One. Easy answer. Give me something better,” Professor Moody demanded.

“Blocking it by hiding behind a physical object, like a thick stone wall or fence. I’ve read about two Aurors who used that to survive multiple Killing Curses being cast at them in the last war. You were one of them, in fact.”

“Good. Two.”

“A conjured or transfigured physical barrier – like summoning up an earthen wall. Or a conjured living barrier, like a snake or a flock of birds.”

Hermione, Harry noticed, was frantically taking notes as he spoke, which was quite flattering.

“Three and four. Keep going, now it’s getting interesting!” Moody said.

Blocking with another person was another method, but Harry didn’t want to say that one out loud. It would sound bad. It was true that some Death Eaters had resorted to summoning their enemies into the way of an Auror’s Killing Curse to kill them off through ‘friendly fire’ in the last war, but Harry didn’t want to talk about that strategy. He thought of something else to volunteer instead.

“Lack of intent – the Killing Curse requires the desire to kill on the part of the caster.”

“That isn’t something you can control. Well… except with the Imperius Curse, perhaps. So, I will grant you that point on a technicality. Just one more, Potter.”

“Apparition. The Killing Curse is a targeted ray. If you can get away in time, you’re safe.”

Moody shook his head. “Not many people can Disapparate quickly and well under stress. Certainly not at your age, without training. Very dubious, that one.”

“But it’s theoretically possible,” countered Harry. “I didn’t say any of them would be easy. Well, except maybe lack of killing intent. If you’re lucky and you can talk your way into getting your enemy hesitating about killing you.

“But, if you don’t think it counts, well… disarming your opponent with Expelliarmus is another method that will work if you’re fast enough to interrupt the incantation. You’d probably need to cast that non-verbally to be quick enough, though.”

“Twenty points for Gryffindor!” yelled Moody, grinning as half the class flinched again in their seats at the sudden noise. “Now there’s a lad who’s not going to be caught napping without a plan. No-one’s going to catch him and give him a matching scar!”

Moody spun quickly and pointed his wand at Harry, who reflexively tumbled out of his chair and ducked down behind a desk in panic.

“Protego!” Harry yelled. A shimmering golden shield of force appeared in front of him where he cowered on the floor, waiting for the spells to start.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” yelled Moody again with glee.

He laughed rather maniacally for a moment before cutting it off with an embarrassed cough. “Thought I was going to kill you, did you boy? Good lad. Trust no-one! Take another ten points for Sl… Gryffindor. Your Shield Charm wouldn’t have helped you if I had been casting the Killing Curse, mind you. It would go straight through, as I think you well know. The desk and chair legs might have helped a little. Work on those reflexes, Potter!”

Harry picked himself up off the floor warily and dropped his Shield charm, eyeing his Professor worriedly. Watching his face for shifts of expression, watching his hands for sudden movement.

“Mental,” breathed Ron in unadulterated awe, watching Moody. “Totally mental.”

Neville – still in his seat – had his wand out and pointed at their teacher. Trembling, but pointed in unspoken threat.

Moody’s false eye had rolled slightly in its socket to look at Neville, while his normal eye kept gazing straight at Harry. “Ten points to Gryffindor for Longbottom, who is the only one in this class of brave lions who was ready to fight, and who is still waiting to be sure the fight is actually over before lowering his wand. Old duelling etiquette that is, and damn good common sense to boot. Alright lad, it’s finished, you can relax now.” Moody’s scarred face looked rather frightening as he grinned again. He lazily swished his wand in a salute against his chest before lowering it and putting it away at last, which Neville took as his cue to do likewise. Neville cautiously helped Harry up, watching Moody warily.

“It’s not over until he puts his wand away,” murmured Neville as he sat down. Harry wasn’t sure Neville was actually addressing to him as he spoke – there was a lost, faraway look in his eyes, like he was thinking of something or someone else.

Neville blinked and brightened up as he added happily, “I got ten points! I was rather brave, wasn’t I, Harry? I shall write and tell Gran all about it.”

Hermione earnt Gryffindor five extra points too, as she finally judged it was socially acceptable to thrust her hand up into the air to eagerly volunteer her own suggestion of the Silencing Charm as being another potential defence against the Killing Curse, or indeed any of the Unforgiveables, which the well-read knew were notoriously difficult to cast silently.

The rest of the lesson went more quickly, as Professor Moody started lecturing about the weaknesses of Shield Charms against the three Unforgiveables, and soon enough they were free from his frankly unnerving and unpredictable gaze. It made Harry tense that he couldn’t really tell who or what their teacher was watching and focusing on at any given moment.

He didn’t linger to ask questions about it though. Professor Moody assigned them homework – a mere foot explaining their argument for which of the three Unforgiveable Curses was the worst, and a summary of its effects. Then Harry and Neville hurried out of class as quickly as they could.

“Thanks, Nev,” Harry said quietly after they’d left the classroom, walking rather solemnly next to each other. Hermione was walking with Ron, chatting about the thrilling lesson. Harry hadn’t found it half so enjoyable as those two had. Neville still seemed in a bit of a daze, but at Harry’s comment he blinked, and shook himself as he turned to focus on Harry.

“It was my honoured duty to come to the aid of my ally,” Neville said formally. He then relaxed as he continued, “With any luck that will be your fated attack by a Defence teacher all over and done with for the year, though I would not want to count on it. I must say I am rather glad I didn’t drop my wand this time – I have been practicing my draw. I regret I did not cast a spell, but as he is our teacher that was perhaps for the best in any case.”

“Probably so. We should keep watching him. That was scary!”

Neville nodded. “Because you never know, with an old wizard like him. You never know what they will do. To test you. To see what you’re capable of.” That distant look was in Neville’s eyes again, and Harry had the suspicion he was thinking of his not-so-beloved Great-Uncle Algie.

“We’ll watch him,” Harry vowed. “Together.”

-000-

Slughorn was delighted to see Harry on Saturday morning and happy to reserve the club room for the second and fourth Sunday mornings of the month for Harry’s Potter Watch club meetings.

He seemed inclined to settle in for a leisurely chat, and after extracting Harry’s promise to come to his occasional evening Slug Club meetings, he started talking about the other groups that had reserved spots.

“The Frog Choir is leading things off with fortnightly meetings on Saturdays, and your friend Granger’s monthly H.E.L.P. Society meetings start tomorrow, of course. The Gobstones Club leader has seen me already and reserved a new extra time slot for a formal monthly inter-House tournament. Good idea, eh? I did love a game myself when I was young, so I am sponsoring them with some prizes of chocolate for the first three places.”

Harry shifted anxiously from foot to foot. “I’m sure that will be very popular, sir. Well, I really must be going, sorry.”

“Oh yes! I heard about your detention at breakfast,” Slughorn said, with a sympathetic look. “Never mind, Potter. Just be a bit more discreet in the future!”

“You don’t think it… means someone is a blood purist? If they’re bowing? Or you do think it means that, but you approve?” Harry asked rashly.

Slughorn smiled at him. “Etiquette is the grease that keeps the world turning smoothly, and everyone demands those little gestures in their own way – your Head of House included. Otherwise she would be happy to be called ‘Minerva’ by her students and would forgo the titles of ‘Professor’ and ‘ma’am’. Some people just have different expectations of what courtesy demands of us.

“Are you a blood purist, Potter? Do you think marriages between those of pure-blood and Muggle-born status should be permitted or not? Should Muggle-borns and sympathetic Muggles be allowed to mix in our society? Are those with purer blood better wizards and witches than those with the touch of earth from their Muggle ancestry?”

“No, I’m not – that is, I don’t think I am. I think people should marry whomever they love, and everyone should be welcome in society. I… I don’t know if those with purer blood are better at magic,” Harry admitted hesitantly. “I mean, I don’t think they are, but I’ve never read any scientific test on the matter. I have heard they live longer and are more inclined to have special talents. But even if that might be true there’s obviously exceptions, and I wouldn’t want to make any assumptions one way or the other without researching it, to be honest. I certainly wouldn’t assume a Muggle-born is going to be naturally worse at magic. Even if there is a trend, it means nothing on an individual level. Look at Hermione! She’s great at magic.”

“What about old Cantankerous Nott’s study comparing the NEWT results of Muggle-born and pure-blood students in an appendix of his book?” Slughorn challenged. “Some cite that as the very proof you are after.”

Harry shook his head. “He had a strong political agenda with his pure-blood directory, so all his results are suspect. We know he left out some pure-blood families he should have included while he ignored some mixed marriages for families he liked… or whose Galleons he liked, perhaps. I think he cherry-picked his data on NEWT results, because he didn’t give a reason as to why he left out the results for 1908 to 1910. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

Slughorn chuckled. “Well said, and it’s not so odd if you know that those three years had some truly exceptional Muggle-born students graduating from Hogwarts. Well, Potter, for what it is worth I would say you are not a blood-purist, you’re just a polite young lad. Myself, I judge people on their merits – family is not the only thing that matters, you know. With a little bit of help a Muggle-born student or someone from an unranked family can go just as far as a pure-blood Heir. Off with you now. No tattling on me to McGonagall, now! Remember, courtesy and discretion.” He tapped the side of his nose as a reminder to be more secretive.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry still wasn’t completely sure about the rights and wrongs of the etiquette of bowing, but his professor’s endorsement of his beliefs as not being blood-purist in nature was heartening.

When he entered the Transfiguration classroom for his two-hour detention, he found Colin already writing away, and three tiny first-year students just settling down at desks – two boys in casual robes, and one girl with a green hair ribbon.

“Potter, you sit next to Creevey. Baddock, Pritchard, you two over there. Runcorn, you take the desk behind the Slytherin boys. All of you start copying the lines off the board, and no talking,” McGonagall said sternly.

Harry settled in with a swift quiet mutter of “Sorry” to Colin and began copying out McGonagall’s lines: ‘I am no better, and no worse, than anyone else at Hogwarts just because of who my family is. We are all witches and wizards here, and of equal rank. We may all mix with whomsoever we choose. I will not promulgate the doctrines of blood purity.’

Half an hour into their long and painful scratching out of lines with their quills, their detention was interrupted as Professor Sprout came in with a rebellious-looking first-year in tow. She was an average-looking short girl with her long brown hair worn loose – tucked back behind her large pierced ears studded with little silver crescent moons – and she was wearing plain black school work robes even though it was the weekend (when most students favoured more casual attire).

“Another one for detention, Minerva,” Professor Sprout said, with a disappointed look down at her student, who crossed her arms and scowled, avoiding her gaze. “Eleanor Branstone, first-year – one of my Hufflepuffs. She will need to do lines on religion – she was caught setting up an altar in her dorm room.”

“Oh my goodness, really? A Muggle-born?! Take a seat then Branstone, on your own or next to Runcorn.”

Branstone complied grudgingly with a noisy scrape of the chair legs on the stone floor as she sat crossly, ignoring her Head of House’s parting injunctions to behave.

Professor McGonagall wrote up another paragraph of lines on the board: ‘Magic is just a force and should not be offered worship; I will offer it no sacrifices. Nor shall I practice Dark magic of any kind, for I wish to remain a student at Hogwarts. I will not evangelise pagan superstitions.’

Harry and Colin exchanged a quick guilty look as they glanced over the new lines Branstone would have to copy. The three Slytherins were also distracted from their lines, taking covert peeks at the newest addition to their detention.

The brown-haired Hufflepuff girl wasn’t quick to get started at her work, and just sat there at the desk glaring at the teacher’s back with beady eyes. When McGonagall turned around, the girl said accusingly, “You told me and my mum that everyone at Hogwarts was a witch or a wizard. Why can’t I be free to practise my religion? I’m proud of being a witch! You promised that the days of witches being persecuted were over. I thought the Statute of Secrecy meant Hogwarts was a haven for Wiccans, but Professor Sprout said I couldn’t have an altar and she even made me take my pentacle necklace off!”

“That is enough,” McGonagall said severely, stalking over to put a pile of blank parchment down in front of her. “We are free from persecution to practice magic as I told you when I visited your family, but that liberty does not extend to Dark magic, which is illegal. Five points from Hufflepuff, and if you do not wish to be spending the next month in detention you will get started on your lines immediately!”

Branstone got a quill and ink out of her bag and started writing, looking angry and miserable about it.

They were all finally released an hour and a half later, hands cramped and spotted with ink blots. One by one they went up to McGonagall’s desk and handed over their long parchments filled with lines to her and offered up their apologetic promises – sincere or otherwise – to act better in the future.

Out in the corridor one of the Slytherin boys, Baddock, dashed off to catch up to Branstone who was hurrying away at a quick, furious pace.

Millicent was waiting outside the Transfiguration classroom door and pounced on Harry as soon as he emerged. “Harry, I need to talk to you. In private,” she said, in a low voice.

“Uh, sure. Just wait a second, I need to say something to Creevey first.”

Harry turned to the young Gryffindor as he emerged and said, “Creevey, I just want you to know that I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

The mousey-haired boy smiled cheerfully at him in instant forgiveness. “Oh, it’s fine! You were just trying to be polite and stuff – so was I. It was my fault too, trying to teach it all to Dennis right there in a corridor.”

“I don’t know if it’s really fine or not, but in any case, I really wanted to explain properly to you that I honestly don’t think Muggle-born students are any better or worse than any other wizards or witches. And I don’t look down on you or think I’m better than you because of who my ancestors are, or what family you’re from. So, I wanted to say sorry if you thought that, because I certainly didn’t mean anything like that…”

Harry trailed awkwardly to a stop, then held out his ink-spotted hand to shake – Creevey shook it eagerly.

“No offence taken at all, Potter. I knew you didn’t think that because you’ve always been really nice to me, not like some of the Sly... some people,” he finished awkwardly, with a sidelong glance at Millicent who was hovering impatiently nearby.

“I hope no-one’s giving you trouble?” Harry checked.

“No, no, it’s fine now.”

Creevey waved a cheerful goodbye as he left, then Millicent promptly dragged Harry by the hand into an empty classroom, just the two of them. She closed the door behind them, dimming the noise of the chattering students heading down the stone corridors off to lunch.

“Shouldn’t we have a chaperone if we’re meeting alone?” Harry asked nervously, as she stared at him intently. “Where are the other girls?”

Millicent bowed low from the waist to Harry, a supplicant abasing themselves before their patron. “Harold James Potter, Heir of the Houses of Slytherin, Black, and Potter, I come to thee in secret in search of thine aid.”

“Millicent, really, that’s not necessary, stand up – we’re friends! Is this some gossip about my detention? I don’t really demand that people should bow to me, you know. You don’t need to be all formal, honestly. Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

She straightened up, and Harry was taken aback by the look on her face. Not grief, or fear, but fierce determination. “I need your help, Harry. The Headmaster has cancelled the Quidditch season.”

“Uh, yes,” agreed Harry.

They stared at each other silently for a moment. “I’m really sorry?” Harry added hesitantly. “It must be very disappointing; I know you love Quidditch.”

“So… I need your help. I want you to convince the Headmaster to bring back Quidditch,” Millicent explained slowly. “You have his ear. You have connections across the Houses, and even in the Ministry, and with Quidditch teams too. You sat in the Top Box at the Quidditch World Cup, for Merlin’s sake! I believe you can do this for me, for all of us, and of course I will be in your debt if you do.”

“Well, I don’t know if I can… the Triwizard Cup sounds like a big deal, and I doubt the Headmaster cancelled Quidditch just because he felt like it. I know it’s a shame, but there’s always next year!” he said encouragingly.

Millicent shook her head. “No, this year. I need to get on the Slytherin team this year. Derrick will have graduated by next year. You don’t understand – I spent practically all the favours I have been saving for the past three years! I used my blackmail secrets I have been hoarding. I sold information – even on you. I claimed all the favours people owe me for services rendered and secrets kept.”

“You sold information on me?” Harry checked nervously. “What information?”

“Nothing damaging,” promised Millicent. “Confirmation for a couple of people about you being a Parselmouth and the Heir of Slytherin – how I saw you commanding snake statues in the Chamber of Secrets, similar to the scene in Lockhart’s book. Also… I told Draco about you being a Metamorphmagus.”

“What?! Why would you do that?”

“Well, because of various deals I have a guaranteed spot on the team if Derrick gets the Captaincy, but if Montague gets it I will only get a preferential try-out. So, I traded the information for a major favour from him – Draco will order Crabbe to not run against me if Montague’s made Captain, and the Malfoys will offer some favour to the Crabbe family of course in compensation. That will practically ensure I get the spot.”

Harry sighed unhappily, giving her a frustrated look.

“I really am sorry, but I could not sit on that information forever with no return on my secrecy, and I wasn’t sworn to secrecy,” Millicent said nervously. “It’s not like I announced it to the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly. I did not tell anyone about us cheating in History of Magic, or ruin your lies about Lockhart or his book, or anything harmful to your reputation! Only good things!”

“If I’d wanted Draco or anyone to know about me being a partial Metamorphmagus, I would have told them!”

“Well yes, obviously. That is why you kept it secret, and that is why it was worth such a big favour,” said Millicent. “If you want to tell other people about that yourself, you may want to do so quickly as I only got a promise from him to wait a week before he will be free to discreetly tell anyone else.”

Harry groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

“Look, Harry, I am sorry, but I need this. Quidditch is my chance. To do something – to be someone. I am not a good student – the only O I get is for History of Magic and we both know that is nothing to boast about. I am failing Potions, and I only get Acceptables for Charms and Transfiguration, and that is with plenty of studying. I am trying, but I am just not much of a witch, and I am no good at essays. I am no beauty either – I am muscular and overweight, and no-one is ever going to compare my face to Helen of Troy’s. I shall graduate Hogwarts with no Apprenticeship lined up, no fiancé who wants me except maybe some old or ugly wizard who cares more about blood purity than matching temperaments or good looks, and no job my parents will consider letting me work at because there’s nothing I’m good at that’s not beneath the family dignity. Except Quidditch. It is my one hope and I will not let my chance be ruined because of some idiotic international competition that cannot possibly take up the whole school year!”

She was yelling for the last sentence of her ranted explanation, chest heaving and plump chin wobbling as she clearly tried not to cry.

“Please, Harry,” she sniffled miserably. “Help me.”

Harry reached out tentatively to pat her on the shoulder. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure you’re not the only person who’s upset by this. The Weasley twins are just as angry about it, and Ron is a miserable scowling thundercloud about his lost chance, too, especially since he’s too young to enter the Tournament. I’ll get help – we’ll work together, and we’ll bring Quidditch back this year.”

Harry thought she might hug him and braced himself for it, but Millicent bowed low again and murmured formally that she was indebted to her patron for his assistance. Harry automatically gave her a short unthinking bow of acknowledgement and left the room with a determined stride, the beginnings of a plan glimmering in his mind. He would need help for this, but luckily, he knew just the people for the job, starting with Professor Slughorn.

-000-

With only an hour left before dinner time the club room was packed, and everyone was glad that Slughorn had overseen its expansion to double its size compared to last year. Harry had plenty of friends eager to help spread word of his upcoming emergency meeting at top speed, and the Weasley twins had been the most determined self-proclaimed ‘priority owls’ anyone could hope for. Working together, they’d managed to gather together everyone from all four Quidditch teams including the reserve players. Harry had also attracted a good handful of extra people who’d heard about the ‘Save Quidditch’ meeting either from gossip or from reading the hastily pinned announcement on the club room’s message board. So, the room was also packed with Quidditch team hopefuls too, as well as keen fans outraged at the year’s cancellation of matches they’d been anticipating watching.

Standing nervously at the front of the room in front of a blackboard, Harry cast his eye over the crowded room with people packed everywhere on sofas and wooden chairs, with a few students lining the walls and sitting on rugs on the ground, and took a deep breath to ground himself.

“Hello everyone, welcome to the first meeting of the ‘Save Quidditch’ group,” Harry started. “Thanks for coming, and thanks also to Madam Hooch who’s joined us this evening as our group’s teacher-supervisor and who I’m pleased to say is of course very much in favour of our goal!”

Madam Hooch, seated comfortably in a plush lavender armchair, smiled and waved as the students gave her and Harry an enthusiastic round of applause.

Harry waited for the room to quiet down again before continuing. “I’m sure the senior years are very excited about the possibility of entering the Triwizard Tournament, but that’s only going to be an option for just one senior student from Hogwarts, and all the junior students aren’t even eligible.

“Hermione Granger has done some quick research into past Tournaments – thanks Hermione – and typically they’ve consisted of between three to five challenges lasting no more than two days in length each, usually set months apart. To uh… allow for the competitors to heal up before the next challenge,” Harry said, with a wince. Hermione’s report based on her hasty research had been gory to hear – so many past competitors had died or been crippled.

“The Tournaments where the challenges were very close together were often the more disastrous ones, so her research suggests that for safety’s sake they’ll be at least two months apart. So, three to five events set months apart, which should take up no more than ten days in total, should allow plenty of time for us to have Hogwarts Quidditch matches, don’t you think?!”

There was a chorus of cheers and applause for that.

“So, first things first! I’m just a fan who’s trying to get things started and organised, so it’s now our four Quidditch captains who’ll be taking the lead for the group.  It’s my honour to introduce our potential Quidditch captains for the year! Roger Davies, sixth-year, is continuing as the captain and Chaser for Ravenclaw-” Harry started, pausing for some House-proud cheering for the handsome brown-haired captain as he came up to the front of the room.

“Cedric Diggory, sixth-year, will be continuing as captain and Seeker for Hufflepuff,” Harry continued, and Diggory was patted on the back and had his hand shook a lot as he joined them at the front. Harry had been a little wary about approaching him directly after his last failure and had cautiously gotten Ernie Macmillan to act as a go-between and talk to him. While not up to much general socializing, Diggory had reportedly been eager to help with their quest to reinstate Quidditch, as his father had been a big Quidditch fan and Diggory felt that continuing to play would be honouring his memory.

“Professor Slughorn sends his regards to all and best wishes for our endeavours to reinstate Quidditch, and has nominated Slytherin seventh-year Peregrine Derrick, Beater, as the new captain should we be successful!”

The Slytherins all looked cheerful and approving of their housemate’s appointment, even Montague, who must surely be hiding his disappointment at the news that he’d missed out on the plum role.

“Last but by no means least, Gryffindor needs a new captain to replace Oliver Wood, who I’m sure will do our House proud in his job as the new reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United! Professor McGonagall has been consulted – thank you to Fred and George Weasley for that – and our new Gryffindor captain is Angelina Johnson, Chaser and sixth-year! Over to you four, now!” Harry led a final round of applause for the team captains, then with a relieved sigh took a seat at the front, squashed into Johnson’s old spot in between Katie Bell and Fred Weasley.

Johnson gave a short speech to everyone when she reached the front. “Thanks for the support everyone! Hopefully we can actually get Quidditch back again really soon and make this our first and last group meeting! If we can’t, we’re still planning to run some unofficial pick-up games – we won’t lose our Quidditch no matter what! So, whether our official efforts succeed or fail, if you’re interested in signing up for try-outs come and see me at the end of the meeting – I have sign-up sheets for all the four Houses. We’ve each picked a morning for try-outs from Tuesday through Friday next week, to keep things simple and fast in case we can only squeeze some games in over the next two months before the international students arrive. I’ll be working with Madam Hooch on match scheduling that could work around the Triwizard Tournament, so come and see me later if you have any thoughts on that.”

Peregrine spoke up next. “My role is going to be coordinating efforts to garner support from the wider Quidditch community. For those of us in sixth and seventh year in particular, cancelling the year’s matches is a very hard blow to our potential careers after Hogwarts as scouts will not be able to see us play. All students young and old will also lose a valuable year’s worth of practice with a consequent loss of skill, and Quidditch supporters will lose a lot of entertainment. I already have pledges from Professor Slughorn and Megan Jones to get a letter of support for reinstating Quidditch at Hogwarts from members of the Holyhead Harpies, which will be sent to the Headmaster. Also, Harry Potter will be writing to the manager of the Appleby Arrows, and the Weasley family are going to get in touch with Oliver Wood whom as you just heard has joined Puddlemere United.

“In addition, Professor Slughorn, Luna Lovegood, and Alice Tolipan stand ready to talk to their contacts in the media, if it comes to that. If you have any valuable contacts with Quidditch teams, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or the press, please come and consult with me about the best approach to take.”

Diggory was next and kept his talk very short. “I am in charge of our petition to the Headmaster. We want as many people to sign it as possible from all four Houses, and the teachers, too. I am sure if the Headmaster sees an overwhelming and united show of support for Quidditch, he will change his mind about the ban. I need helpers from each House, ready to work together to canvass Hogwarts for signatures.”

The Ravenclaw captain, Roger Davies, was the last captain to speak. “I have spoken briefly with the Headmaster this afternoon to ascertain his reasons behind the ban on Quidditch this year. His concerns are focused on splitting the school’s attention from supporting our Triwizard champion, whomever they may be, the possible use of the Quidditch pitch for one or more Triwizard Tournament tasks, and the anticipated additional workload that will be imposed on several teachers due to the Tournament. Lastly, and most significantly, there will also be a strain on the Hogwarts budget this year due to the need to accommodate extra guests, as well as expenses for the Tournament tasks.

“Did you know that Quidditch games aren’t free? They come with some costs, including broom and equipment maintenance and replacement, yearly fees for checking of enchantments on the Quidditch stands, the Bludgers, and the Snitch by a representative from the Ministry, and Madam Hooch’s salary for her work as our referee and match coordinator. As such, I will be in charge of planning and organizing fundraising activities, as well as leading a discussion group looking at alternate venues for matches if necessary. Come and see me if you have ideas about any of that, or any other aspects we might have forgotten about!

“Also, Draco Malfoy – the Slytherin Seeker – will be talking to his father, the chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Directors, about funding allocation. If you know one of the other eleven board members, please join our group.”

“One last thing before we all split into planning groups,” Johnson added, after Davies had finished his speech. “A round of applause for Potter, who worked like a house-elf all day talking to everyone and planning everything, and who got us all moving! Stand up, Potter!”

Harry stood up embarrassedly as people cheered for him and looked around for Millicent. He spotted her against one wall with Greg and Vincent and gave her an enquiring look and a gesture to join him, but she shook her head in determined refusal. So, he just smiled his best Lockhart-smile, gave everyone a wave, and sat down again. As the Quidditch captains moved to different corners of the room and people crowded around them to sign up for try-outs and eagerly volunteer their assistance, Harry thought that while he wasn’t as shy as Millicent was, he still understood a little of how she felt. He’d been happy to hand over the spot in the limelight and the organisation of the group to someone else too. What mattered was that it was happening, not who got credit for it. Or perhaps she was getting quiet credit in Slytherin circles, and that was all that was important to her. Peregrine had spontaneously come and found him like he’d already known Harry was working to get Quidditch reinstated.

It was nice to see the Houses all mixing together and working for a common cause. Over in the Ravenclaw corner with Davies, Vincent Crabbe was loudly explaining his thoughts on how they’d all forgotten about how Viktor Krum went to Durmstrang and might be one of the exchange students. If that was the case, Krum would miss practising Quidditch all year – the Bulgarian team might be happy to help with some funding if their star player came on exchange to Hogwarts. Draco joined in with noises of approval and made supportive suggestions about how someone – implicitly not himself – should research that. Draco also recommended that they should also find out if the other schools had Quidditch teams and would like to have some friendly matches with the Hogwarts teams. An eager Ravenclaw volunteered to research the latter topic, then they scurried over to Johnson’s table to raise that with her as a possible scheduling issue.

Draco started discussing selling ‘Save Quidditch’ supporter badges as a fundraising endeavour, and eager Hufflepuffs volunteered to help him make them, while Ravenclaws and Gryffindors began bickering good-naturedly over the best design and slogan. The Hogwarts squid was a preferred logo option, for some reason Harry didn’t manage to overhear in the hubbub of dozens of cheerful voices. Harry hoped the rare inter-House goodwill and co-operation would last. He wandered over to Derrick’s table, ready to do what he could to help too. Hopefully he could get some tips on the best way to phrase his letter to the Appleby Arrow’s manager.

Chapter Text

Sunday 4^th September 1994

Harry was glad they’d only had one day of classes so far, with minimal homework, because his entire weekend was getting filled up with meetings. Sunday morning was the year’s first H.E.L.P. Society meeting, and after yearly membership fees were collected the more active members were eager to report to the group on their holiday research and plans they’d made for further pushes to improve house-elf welfare.

Hermione started things off by congratulating everyone and talking about the ‘cultural renaissance’ of improved treatment for house-elves in wizarding society, including supplying them with a new toga once a year and dedicated sleeping areas. She also spoke with passionate triumph about the Society’s success in directly providing house-elves with togas, tea-towels, socks, and shoes when they were too shy to approach their masters directly, and when the families were financially struggling.

“We have a long way to go before house-elves have the full rights as citizens that they deserve, but in the meantime we’ve made great improvements in their welfare. The Office for House-Elf Relocation has written a letter to the H.E.L.P. Society thanking us for referring seven house-elves to them last year – I am pleased to say that five Hogwarts house-elves and two house-elves from private homes have found new, caring families to live with,” she said, brandishing the letter proudly. “We have three new house-elves at Hogwarts this year – two babies were born over summer, and we also have an adult female house-elf who was dismissed from her position and is in some distress as a result and sought me out looking for assistance. Winky is refusing to be allocated to a new family at this stage, which is quite unusual, so we’ll be doing everything we can to support her while she considers her options. Could I have a volunteer to help me make her the traditional robe worn by free house-elves? Ginny? Thank you.”

Luna gave a talk about her efforts to look for the nigh-extinct nixies or ‘water-elves’ with her father over the holiday, which sadly had been unsuccessful as they were rare in Europe and doubly so in Britain. “However, we did find some old stories about them,” she said brightly, “which confirmed that they’re bonded to a very particular stream or river and can’t be moved to a new one unless they can swim to it while they’re young. They are also very vulnerable to pollution and require their river to be in a magically saturated area to thrive. As Muggle settlements have encroached on their rivers, or wizards and witches have moved away and forgotten about the shy creatures bonded to the streams on their land, the nixies have gone into decline. Fenodyree – also known as field-elves – are similar in that they can’t be relocated from the land they’re bonded to, though their appearance suggests they’re more related to the Roman fauns rather than to house-elves.”

“Thank you for your research, Luna,” Hermione said, and led a polite patter of applause.

Anthony Goldstein was eager to speak next and spoke about his holiday research of old historical documents. “We have been assuming – as does most of society – that house-elves are bonded to a property. However, we also know that they can have mixed allegiances to both their old and new family if a property is resold and can ‘wither’ in cases of valid inheritance disputes, even if their residence is uninterrupted. I have found old journal entries and anecdotes of a few cases where a House was feuding with another and claimed a property after a duel, or where bribes and influence overturned a valid will. Despite society recognising the claim of a new owner of a residence, the house-elves responded only to the Head of House that they’d originally bonded to, or to their Heir.

“While geographical property bonds are primary ones, I think we should also remember to focus on the bond to the property owners more than we have been. There hasn’t been any scientific investigation of the limits of what house-elves can do, if ordered to by their owners. I think there might be loopholes we could work with, there. There might be the potential for improving house-elf freedoms, if they’re ordered to act more freely, without technically being released.”

“Is that a magical curse, or just tradition, though?” someone asked doubtfully. “Are the house-elves forced to obey the rightful owners of a property, or are they choosing to do so?”

Harry piped up and added, “I agree with Anthony, and I think it’s a curse. When I bonded Dobby to a property, I felt the magic working – like a tingle on my skin, and at the end of the vows it was like the magic slid off me and sank into the ground. There’s definitely magic involved during the bonding process, affecting the wizard or witch as well as the house-elf and I think the property itself.

“Dobby has been doing well overcoming some conditioning or cursed impulse towards self-punishment with encouragement. Or… orders. I guess they’re orders, but I try not to phrase things like that.”

Hermione smiled encouragingly. “Dobby’s been doing very well. In discussions with the Longbottom house-elves we found Dobby responded well to being told by other house-elves that different Houses had different traditions, and that it’s important to respect and follow your House’s ways, and to obey your Master. Now obviously that’s not an ideal mindset, but it’s helped him break free of the mental shackles compelling self-punishment.”

“I met a different house-elf over the holidays who hasn’t been properly bonded,” Harry added. “He is able to rebel, to a certain extent, without feeling the apparent need to punish himself over it. However, he seems to be suffering from ‘withering’ as he has reduced magical abilities and can’t leave his house. I’d be interested in hearing from anyone as to whether it’s common for elderly house-elves to be unable to leave their family’s properties.”

There was a general murmur of concern about that, but Hermione was silent and just looked angrily thin-lipped. Harry had written to her about Kreacher over the holidays, and Hermione had been appalled to hear that Kreacher had been reduced to trying to attach to a family portrait for years, in lieu of a proper human master, and vowed she was going to write Sirius a very stern letter about it. She conceded that Sirius wasn’t at fault for the years he’d been in prison and unable to help Kreacher but remained livid that he wasn’t doing anything to fix it now he had the chance.

“I have been thinking the whole issue of house-elf enslavement might be an ancient bloodline curse,” suggested Tracey. “However, as the Ministry’s banned blood magic, books on that topic are illegal and thus very hard to find. For a book to even mention bloodline curses is rare.”

Harry thought curiously about the ‘bin’ of Dark books that Bill Weasley was going through for him, curse-breaking those that needed it, and looking for the Egyptian curse that Sirius had been hit with in hopes of finding a counter-curse. Perhaps there might be something in there on bloodline curses that would be useful.

“Interesting! Any suggestions on how we can try to legally research that possibility?” Hermione asked. A couple of older students volunteered to check the Restricted Section on the group’s behalf, while Tracey said she would ask Professor Moody about the topic.

Harry volunteered that he’d come across the term briefly in a discussion of ailments that vampires could suffer from. “Ingesting cursed blood can be harmful to them, which is why sensible vampires never feed on known werewolves, as it’s thought – at least in the scroll I read – that lycanthropy is a blood-based curse. Certainly it causes vampires some distress to ingest werewolf blood, including stomach cramps and vomiting, and werewolves will shy away from attacking vampires. It’s part of why werewolves and vampires usually get along – they don’t instinctually see each other as prey.

“Hypothetically, it would be interesting to find out how vampires react to ingesting house-elf blood.” There was a mixed response to that suggestion – some in favour of a hopefully definitive test for a bloodline curse, while others were distressed by the idea of encouraging a vampire to feed on a house-elf, even a volunteer.

“We can’t have true volunteers when they’re cursed to obey,” Hermione argued. “They are not properly able to consent to experimentation, so we should not abuse that.”

Then Anthony interjected with an entirely new suggestion that ignited a new line of eager discussion. “I can’t do it myself, mind you – I’m sort of religiously obligated not to consult with the dead for answers,” Anthony said apologetically. “However, other people might like to consider talking to the school’s older ghosts and portraits about old lore about house-elves, field-elves, water-elves, and bloodline curses in general.”

As the group eagerly divvied up the responsibility of talking to various ghosts and portraits – none of whom predated the tenth century when Hogwarts was founded – Harry sat quietly with his jaw agape in shock. He’d never thought about asking him before, but surely the enchanted mosaic of Ambrosius Aurelianus – Merlin – would know something about the history of house-elves.

-000-

“Hello Ambrosius, it has been a couple of months since I last visited, and it’s now the fourth of September in the year nineteen ninety-four,” Harry said in Latin, as the mosaic wizard woke and stretched. He’d been teaching him snippets of modern English here and there, but conversations were much easier for both of them in Latin.

“Welcome back, Harry. Another year of school begun! I hope you had a pleasant time over your holidays.”

The two chatted for a while about the nicer parts of what Harry had been up to over the summer, like his book signing tours and visiting friends and Sirius.

“There was also some… trouble, over the holidays. Attacks. Stuff with Tom,” Harry said hesitantly. “But can we talk about it next time? I would like to talk about it, just… not now. It’s messy, and it would take longer to chat about that I have free time for, right now.” Harry thought Ambrosius would be a safe confidant, but really wanted to focus on asking his questions about house-elves, after they’d finished catching up. Talking about the burgeoning war and his truce with the Dark Lord would be very distracting. He felt upset just thinking about it all.

“That’s quite alright,” Ambrosius said soothingly. “I am intrigued, but I can wait. We can discuss something else. So, have you heard about your result on your Latin test, yet? I hope it went well. How are your plans for your studies shaping up for the year, without the advantage of a Time-Turner?”

“I got an A for all my subjects: Latin, Maths, and French. That’s top marks, like an ‘Outstanding’,” Harry explained proudly. “Studies without a Time-Turner are going to be harder this year of course, but there’s not too much left to do for English and Biology since I did a lot of the work last year and some more over the holidays. Sirius says he has set up a laboratory – like a potions room – in a house he’s rented near Hogwarts, to help with my Chemistry studies. I should be fine with Human Biology because it’s just so interesting. I’ll be starting Business Studies this year, but I won’t take the test for it until next year – there’s a lot to learn, and along with Biology it’s one of the two subjects I’ll be helping Dudley with.

“So, there’s four subjects I’m planning to take the IGCSE exams for in June: English, Biology, Chemistry, and Human Biology. If I can get those four done this year then I can concentrate more on my magical studies in my OWL year.”

“What do you have in mind for next year? I agree that keeping your load of additional work light next year seems wise.”

“Next year is for my Business Studies IGCSE, and two A-level subjects – the equivalent of NEWTs. Latin and French,” Harry said, with a grin. “There will be some work to learn texts, and cultural information and that sort of thing. But given I’ve already learnt the languages magically I’m hoping I’ll breeze through the actual tests just like I did this year.

“Then, I’ve got four more A-levels planned for sixth year: Biology, Chemistry, Maths and Statistics, and English Literature. Hopefully I’ll be ready for the exams at the end of sixth year, and then I’ll be all finished with my Muggle studies a year early and can concentrate on my NEWTs with nothing extra to study that year. If not, well… there’s still that year to catch up in. Or even after Hogwarts if I must, but I’d rather be able to go straight into medical studies at university. That’s the goal.”

“Not being a Healer?”

“I’m thinking I’ll do that after becoming a proper doctor. Get a grounding in modern medical science, so I can better judge how sensible the wizarding world’s Healing practices are. I already know lots of it is out of date, but I’d like to know more. I think being a doctor first will make me a better Healer and help me revolutionize magical Healing practice.”

“A grand goal, worthy of someone both cunning and ambitious who feels a yearning or an obligation to lead their people,” teased Ambrosius, which made Harry laugh. “It sounds like you will be very busy for the next few years, however. Can you afford to maintain your club memberships?”

“I’m not sure… maybe not all three Potter Watch meetings. The H.E.L.P. Society is going great – I don’t want to quit that. In fact, we just had a meeting this morning, and I realised you might be a great source of information about house-elves. My friends and I in the H.E.L.P. Society have been researching house-elves a lot – we want to free them from serving wizards if we can or improve their treatment if we can’t. We’re pretty sure they’re magically enslaved, but we don’t know exactly how, or how to counter it. Can you tell me something about the history of house-elves?”

“Ah, the little brownies, as I think you like to call them these days?”

“Just ‘house-elves’, now. Luna says that ‘brownies’ and ‘hobs’ were fashionable names a few centuries ago, but only Muggles use those names now.”

“Language does insist on changing! Well, freeing them is a simple business,” Ambrosius started, which made Harry perk up eagerly. “To manumit them, their owner must ritually treat their house-elf as an equal and not as a slave. They must thank them for their service like an equal, instead of taking their work for granted as is their due as the house-elf’s master. Then, their master should give the house-elf the traditional garb of their people instead of the clothing of slaves, then pronounce that they are setting the house-elf free.”

Harry slumped in disappointment. That wasn’t anything new, that was just a fancy ritual way of giving a house-elf clothes. “But that just makes them seek out a new master!”

“Well yes, it is a generational enslavement curse now, bound to their blood. Very powerful and persistent.”

“We thought it might be a blood curse. What do you mean by ‘now’? It didn’t use to be like that?” Harry asked interestedly.

“Not always. There were still a few free elves in the forests left in my time, and even a century or two after, though the curse was spreading fast as the free ones interbred with the slaves. The curse passes from mother to child, of course.”

“It does?” Harry asked, scribbling furiously as he wrote down the story in his journal. “What else can you tell me about it?”

“Oh yes – that’s the strongest way to bind magic across generations, not father to child. Now, house-elves are a Celtic race, originally found in what you know as Great Britain and France, though I understand they have spread across the continent of Europe since my time. Perhaps further? Everyone used to know that if you left out an offering of a bowl of cream or some food by the hearth, an elf might be willing to work for your family in exchange for their sustenance and shelter in your house. However, they were touchy, mischievous creatures who would turn on you if they felt offended.

“It is said that a Celtic druid named Ogmius was furious about a rash of attacks on his people by angry elves. Houses and belongings had been destroyed and many people had been injured, some even killed. Usually in retaliation for minor crimes such as watching the elves work at night, or a paucity of offerings, or people not being appreciative enough of their elves’ labours. Some elves had stronger causes for unrest – they were angered by the use of iron in houses or in the fields and woods they thought of as their own, or by the land being cleared for lumber or to make way for fields and houses. They waged war on the humans who contaminated the lands and their own houses with iron. On other occasions there was no reason at all for their tricks and destruction – they were happy enough to coexist with humans, and simply were just revelling in chaos, with their innate love of mischief.

“Ogmius concocted a curse to bind the elves responsible for attacks on his people as permanent slaves, as both an act of vengeance and a means of controlling the creatures in the future. During his life and after his death he was worshipped as a god by his people the Gauls – he was the god of eloquence who could bind men to his will.”

“Do you know more about what he was like? Are there any old writings that mention him, or how he cast the curse?” Harry asked, still taking notes as fast as he could. “We’d like to know how to undo it.”

“Ah, this modern distaste for slavery is fascinating,” Ambrosius said, with a smile, “though I must concede that the Stoics thought similarly. It used to be that you only freed a slave for services rendered to your family, or if they had saved up enough to buy their freedom. In my day in the Roman Empire one man in ten was a slave. Romans passionate about justice argued for more rights for slaves, not the abolition of the institution, for civilised society relied on the labour of slaves. They advocated for such things as the right of slaves to complain about their masters’ cruel punishment, and that masters should be punished for killing their slaves just like they would be punished for any other murder.

“Numbers were much the same here even a millennium later in the time of the Founders. It was William the Conqueror who limited the practice of selling slaves overseas, and the Normans and some of the Christians who pushed slowly but successfully for the abolishment of slavery over the next couple of centuries. Then of course Britain brought slavery back a mere three hundred years later, when it began conquering Africa in the 1500s. It seems to me that slavery is a more natural state of affairs, and this moment in time when people are against it is nothing but a brief lull. I expect it will come back into favour again, with time.”

“That’s a depressing outlook.”

“I prefer ‘realistic’. It is an outlook your ancestor Salazar shared – he feared that one day mankind’s fear of our kind would be outweighed by our utility as slaves, since we were no longer worshipped by the masses. Either that, or that one day we would see open warfare between our peoples, not just sporadic murders. Hogwarts was thus designed to be both a haven of safety and learning, and a fortress.”

While it was all very fascinating and Harry was writing it all down, he wanted to keep Ambrosius on track while he was in a loquacious mood. “So, is there anything I might be able to look up about Ogmius or his curse? Old scrolls or books?”

Ambrosius stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I believe he is mentioned in one of the works of Lucian of Samosata, though it has been so many years I cannot recall which one. Have you read his works? They’re in Latin.”

“No, sorry. Do you remember what he said about Ogmius?”

“That’s a shame. Well, he was a very popular writer once upon a time; a mortal Roman author of the second century. I remember he described Ogmius in one of his books, based on a painting he saw of the god. Ogmius was an old man, bald and darkly tanned from the sun. He was otherwise depicted in a similar style to Hercules – clad in a lion skin – part of the symbolism to show that words hold sway over men like brute strength, or even more so. He said Ogmius had long chains made of gold and amber through his smiling mouth that pierced his tongue. The multitude of chains were attached at the other ends to the ears of a group of men that willingly and cheerfully followed him, trying to get as close to him as they could. He had the power to influence men’s minds so that they would follow him to the ends of the earth, to bind people to himself and control their actions.

“The oral lore of our people said that he could also craft curse tablets, which let you bind curses to someone, such as cursing a woman to barrenness. I understand that the art of crafting them was lost a century or two before the Founders’ time, so I imagine little is known of them now. Too ‘Dark’ for the modern era. Certainly many men once lived in fear of being beset by curses – Pliny the Elder once wrote in his Natural Histories that there was no-one who did not fear to be spellbound by curse tablets. So the art may be lost now but it was once extremely popular.”

“So, the curse on house-elves might have been a generational blood curse crafted with a curse tablet by Ogmius?”

“Perhaps. If so, it would probably be written in Ogham. It is said that Ogmius emigrated to or visited Ireland, later in his life. The Irish called him Ogma, or at least they did a few centuries later, either when he was an old man or had passed away. The Irish viewed him as the honey-tongued, sunburnt god who invented Ogham, which is why it is my guess that his curse tablets probably used that script. The majority of tablets were of course usually in Latin, with a few in Greek, but some crafters – both mortal and divine – chose to write in secret scripts and I think Ogham may be one of them. The Irish may have more tales of him, though I am not sure how reliable their accounts are, being more recent in origin.”

“What else can you tell me about curse tablets?”

“While a number of materials were used, curse tablets were usually made of lead, the heaviness and dullness of them being a good conduit for weighty curses. However, with a knowledge of magical affinities and the clue from his picture, I expect Ogmius used gold – or perhaps amber – for a better effect on the minds which needed to be made joyful to be subjugated. Obviously, sacrifices would have been required to initially bind the first generation of elves, however it was done. After a few generations, the bloodline curse spread through their populations until few remained free – those were hunted down and killed whenever they became a threat.”

Harry scribbled down notes frantically as Ambrosius spoke, written in Latin so he didn’t need to slow down at all and wouldn’t lose any shades of meaning from translating things to English on the fly.

“How would you free them from this curse? Assuming that the tablet’s been long since lost. Or, if we could find it, would that make a difference?”

“Certainly finding the tablet would help. Gaul – sorry, France – or Ireland may be the best places to search. Perhaps it has been kept as a treasure by a nation or a family. Yet, I have never heard of such a thing, and curse-tablets were usually buried. There may not even be a tablet, it is merely my best guess. In either case, with or without the tablet you would need a blood sacrifice to free the elves. I think your desire to free them is a kind-hearted thought but perhaps not a wise one. Still, the dead must respect the wishes of the living to run their own world. It would not be a light thing, to free a captive nation, and the price would be a terrible one. Thus I would advise in the strongest possible terms that you should seek the permission of your nation’s ruler – the Minister, I believe – before attempting such a task.”

A terrible price, Harry thought warily.

“What kind of blood sacrifice?” he asked slowly. “I guess we’re talking about more than smearing a house-elf with a few drops of blood and doing a ritual.”

“Indeed. For a single elf, perhaps a single mortal or elven death would do. For the freedom of a large group of house-elves spread across the continent? Nothing less than a wicker man set up at a sacred site, on one of the festival days. Imbolc, perhaps, as that is a propitious time for new beginnings. Or Samhain or Yule, to enhance the power of the sacrificial offerings.”

Ambrosius was watching Harry closely as he spoke, and something in Harry’s blanched, shocked expression seemed to satisfy him.

“Not an easy business, you see. I’ve never been fond of human sacrifice, ever since I almost became a victim of the practice when Vortigern wanted his keep built. I imagine almost falling prey to it yourself, just above our heads in the Chamber, has fostered your distaste for it as well.”

“That, and it being just plain wrong!” Harry said emphatically. “Couldn’t we just sacrifice a lot of chickens, instead? Or some cows?”

Ambrosius shook his head. “Not magically powerful enough. Do you even know how to channel the power of a death to a magical purpose?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to learn how?”

“…Not really, no,” Harry said hesitantly. “Not unless it was just a chicken or something… and it could help free house-elves. I’ve only sacrificed fruit and bread and stuff. I saw a pig killed, though. We ate it afterwards – it wasn’t wasted.”

“Then the enslavement of the elves isn’t a problem you can solve. Nor is it one I think you should solve. Elves used to kill those who trespassed in their forest glades, or cursed and toyed with prisoners for their amusement until they grew bored. It is said that they never truly understood the pain of others, since they feel so little themselves, being resistant to injury much like the giants. Nixies – the water-elves – drowned people who ventured too close to their pools and streams when the whim took them. Fauns went on drunken rampages and literally tore people apart. Of the three races that all needed to draw strongly on the magic in the earth or the water, the elves were the most dangerous, as they competed with mankind the most for territory and were the most mobile.”

“Do you think the curse interferes with their ability to draw on ley lines? Sometimes house-elves ‘wither’ if they’re free without a clear owner for too long.”

“Definitely. They have been crippled so they cannot connect to the magic in the earth as their ancestors of the woods and fields once did. They must instead draw on the magical energies of the house and family they’re bonded to, and cannot go against their will, including leaving the house they’re assigned to. They gain strength through servitude, and from being close to their Masters. Too long alone and unbonded and they wither, both physically and magically.

“I do not know for certain, but I suspect it’s an aspect of the curse designed with safety in mind. A restriction added in case the canny creatures attempted to seek their freedom through murdering their masters by some roundabout means – the curse ensured they would die without their master providing them with a link to the land’s magic. No longer can they draw on the ley lines themselves – they may only do so indirectly through their master.”

Harry sighed.

“A weighty burden for a young mind to carry. You are not responsible for their fate.”

“But if I can do something… but it’s so terrible. I want them free… but I don’t want anyone to have to die over it.”

“Well, perhaps there would be another way – the wands you have these days are masterfully crafted innovations that increase your power wonderfully! However, you would have to be more learned in the magic of curses, sacrifices and blood to find an alternative. Those skilled in forbidden arts may not be the most trustworthy people to search out as tutors, however. Be very cautious where you place your trust, Harry.”

Harry frowned. He could only think of a few people – apart from Merlin – who might know a bit about such topics. He didn’t want to ask advice from any of them.

“Well, thank you anyway. Is it alright if I share this information with people? For that matter, am I allowed to mention that you’re down here? Can you be moved? I mean, I don’t want to give away the fact I’ve been coming down here, but maybe you’d be a lot happier up in the Great Hall, where everyone can talk to you? I mean, you’re Merlin, everyone would be excited to meet you. No-one would dream of hurting your mosaic.”

Harry didn’t want to lose his secret hideaway, but he’d been worrying on and off that Ambrosius felt trapped and bored down in the Chamber of Secrets, with only Harry’s sporadic visits for company.

“My presence here – when known about – has been kept a family secret for centuries. You may of course tell people I am here if you wish, but I would advise against revealing it unless you have a good reason for your announcement, as you may be beleaguered by questions, and your family sanctuary here lost for good.

“Moving my mosaic is, I believe, beyond your abilities. I used to be located in a more public area, but Salazar possessively moved me when he quarrelled with the other Founders, since he was the one to find and relocate my mosaic to Hogwarts in the first place. He was convinced Muggles were going to invade and try and ransack the castle. There used to be other treasures hidden in his Chamber of Secrets, did you know? Some – like Godric’s sword – were given to the other Founders when they insisted on him relinquishing them, while others remained here; they were removed piecemeal over the centuries by his heirs, like his favourite locket. When he left Hogwarts he locked things down so only his heirs could enter his Chamber, and it takes an offering of blood to enter this secret alcove, as you know, so that no impersonators may infiltrate here.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten quite good at a minor healing charm to heal the bites. So, I couldn’t move you? There’s a curse? Or are the statues the problem?” Harry glanced over to the stone statues of serpents against the wall. They always watched him carefully, and he was always very careful to announce if he was going to do a spell.

“Certainly the statues are a barrier to my removal. Should you attempt to remove or damage my mosaic, the stone snake guardians would strike to kill. I believe there are other curses that also may come into effect.”

“Like what?”

“I will not say.”

Harry thought about that and nodded. “Fair enough. I guess you feel safer down here?”

“Safe, yes. Though bored. I hope that one day you will have a large family of Parselmouths, so I have more visitors,” he said with a grin.

Harry shrugged, and looked embarrassed. “Maybe. I was thinking maybe I could make a second mosaic one day, or get someone to make one for me, so you could visit it? The paintings upstairs can visit other portraits.”

“That would be delightful, if it could be managed safely!”

“In the meantime, I learnt some cleaning spells over the holidays? Charms to strengthen and clean old stonework. I practised them upstairs – they all worked fine.”

“You must be completely sure they’re non-damaging to my tiles, or my guardian here won’t be happy,” Ambrosius warned.

Harry blanched, imagining the consequences of a miscast spell. “Maybe I’ll practice a little more, first. Just in case.”

Later, up in the privacy of the boys’ dorm that evening, Harry asked a ‘hypothetical’ question of Neville. “Say I theoretically had information about house-elves, about the curse that’s on them. But I didn’t want to tell Hermione how I found that information out. Do you think she’d accept that? Or would she keep bugging me about it until I told her?”

Neville gave him a look, like he was being a bit thick. “Honestly, Harry.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Any ideas?

“About how you could share your ‘hypothetical’ information without being pestered? Not really. You know what she’s like about anything, and that goes double for house-elves. I do not want to pressure you, but… is this some document you found in the Chamber of Secrets?” Neville asked in a whisper.

“Maybe,” Harry admitted cagily. “Not anything I can bring up though, and she can’t go down there safely. There’s curses and other defences. It’s too dangerous for anyone who’s not a Parselmouth.”

Neville nodded thoughtfully.

“Is this information critical to share?” he asked slowly. “Would it change our approach to helping house-elves?”

Hermione was not going to support blood sacrifices. “Probably not,” Harry said slowly. “There’s a way to free house-elves – for good – but it would take the Darkest of magic. Or a lot of knowledge about Dark magic to find another way around breaking the curse. One that doesn’t involve sacrifices.”

Neville looked shocked, then his face firmed in resolution. “Do not tell her,” he insisted. “The temptation might be too much for her. Harry, I know you and she read books from the Restricted Section when you can get away with it but delving into that topic is dangerous. She might become a Dark witch, just to free house-elves.”

“No she… wouldn’t,” Harry said weakly, his denial losing strength the more he thought about it. How she’d secretively brewed Polyjuice Potion – a restricted potion – in second year. How she complained about censorship and how the Restricted Section should be free for all students, not just seventh-years.

“Harry.”

“Alright… maybe she would. Just to learn a way around it, though. Not to actually cast Dark magic.”

“Promise me you won’t tell her! Her very soul could be in danger! You need to be careful too, Harry!”

Geez. Talk about melodramatic. “Okay, I won’t! It was just a thought. I… I’m trying to be more open. A bit. This seemed important.” He didn’t want her asking a hundred questions about the Chamber of Secrets anyway, and it was true, it wouldn’t really change what they did about house-elves. “I’ll be careful as well, obviously.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Neville said, relaxing in relief. “Is there anything safe that you could share? Maybe we could think of a way to get some of the same information from somewhere else? Not the sacrifice part, though.”

Hmm. Probably not the information about curse tablets, if it took a sacrifice to break their magic. “Uh… the curse passes from mother to child. Blood-based.”

Neville nodded. “Elflings serve their mother’s family,” he said, like it was a known fact. “We can talk about that. Anything else? Hypothetically?”

“Well, lots of it we’d already guessed about it being a curse, obviously. What else? Right, so the curse replaces an elf’s natural bond to draw on the magic of the ley lines in the land with a bond to the family and their home, so they gain power more indirectly. That’s why they wither if they’re not properly bonded – they can’t draw on magic directly any longer. They used to attack wizards and well… probably just about anyone. They were regarded as dangerous and mischievous, if occasionally helpful and valued if given a bowl of cream in exchange for housework help. They were enslaved millennia ago after they attacked people in France.”

Neville gave Harry a very odd look. “I might not be prone to Hermione’s level of inquisitiveness, but I am still very curious too. How exactly did you learn all this?”

Harry’s brow furrowed crossly. “I don’t want to say. It’s traditionally a family secret. I feel like I should respect that.”

“Claiming the mantle of ‘Heir of Slytherin’ officially at last, then?”

Harry shrugged, and sighed. “Yeah. Not much point denying it at this point. Except in public. I still don’t want people treating me differently.”

“They already do, Harry. Most of the Slytherins would probably bow in reverence if given half a chance.”

“It’s still stupid,” Harry grumbled. “Zacharias Smith’s descended from Hufflepuff. No-one treats him differently.”

“They do a little, and I've heard he loves the extra respect, but the House of Hufflepuff is not so… formal as Slytherin. They also have more descendants – Smith is not the only claimant, just the loudest who is currently at Hogwarts.” Neville tilted his head curiously at Harry. “Any other secrets you want to share with me while you are full of this newfound spirit of openness?”

Harry thought about it. Most of his secrets… no, he didn’t really want to share them. Definitely not the truce with Lord Voldemort. “I’m a Metamorphmagus,” he said, after a little pause for thought. Since Millicent had told Draco word might spread further, and he’d rather Neville heard it from him than from the Hogwarts grapevine. “A little bit. I can change my hair and eyes, and my nose a little, but it takes a lot of concentration and time. I met someone else from the Black family over the holidays – a young witch named Tonks – she can change her whole body in an instant, easy as blinking.”

“All right…” Neville said slowly, looking Harry up and down. “What do you really look like, then? This? Or something else?”

“I… I guess like this?” Harry said hesitantly. He’d rarely thought about it that much before. “My hair might look… I don’t know. Messier, naturally. It used to be very messy and wouldn’t sit flat. I guess it might be longer. I haven’t had a haircut in uh… years. Since I was nine, I think. Honestly? I really don’t know much about how this all works.”

“You should write to your cousin about it. You do not even have to admit your own ability to her, just ask her about how her talent works, since she is open about it.”

Harry brightened. “I will. Thanks for the advice.”

-000-

After a busy weekend Hogwarts classes started in earnest on the Monday. Herbology with the Hufflepuffs was a class only Neville truly enjoyed that day as they spent it squeezing out Bubotuber pus.

Care of Magical Creatures was next, and Professor Hagrid kicked off the year by dividing up the class to look after Fire Crabs as small group projects, which was an unpopular move with some. They were pretty creatures that looked a lot like large tortoises with dazzling, heavily jewelled shells, but their defensive tendency to shoot flames from their rear ends when startled led to more than a few yelps and burns.

Pansy asked their professor, with saccharine sweetness, to demonstrate the spells that were most useful for protecting oneself from the flames, which left him flustered.

Professor Hagrid stumblingly ordered, “Jus’ get on with lookin’ after yer Fire Crabs!”

The interaction made the Slytherins snicker and smirk at their teacher, an indulgence which they seemed to feel was worth the loss of a few points from Slytherin. After class, Draco loudly complained all the way back to the castle about having a teacher who couldn’t demonstrate simple spells, provoking an argument amongst the whole class about Squibs, criminals, and wand rights, and whether you could be a good teacher or not without a wand.

The only thing they all agreed on was that looking after Fire Crabs was a lot better than having to tend the barely-legal Fire Crab and Manticore hybrid abominations that Hagrid had dubbed ‘Blast-Ended Skrewts’. That ‘treat’ was reserved for the sixth and seventh-years, according to the senior students’ disgruntled gossip.

Harry had a free period before lunch and settled in at the library to work on reading some chapters for Human Biology, since their DADA homework wasn’t due for a few more days. Even though sometimes he wished he’d picked Arithmancy too, like Hermione had, he was glad of the extra free time for study and homework. Neville shared his break period while Hermione was off at Arithmancy. Neville’s Gryffindor Divination class overlapped with Harry’s Ancient Runes class for the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, so the two of them usually had matching free time to study quietly together. Ron and a few other Gryffindors Harry wasn’t especially close to also had that time free but were usually off in the Gryffindor Common Room playing games or roaming about the grounds rather than studying in the library. All their Slytherin friends were busy with either Ancient Runes or Divination during that time slot. So, Harry and Neville usually just studied on their own in the library, with a handful of studious Ravenclaw students from their year employing their time similarly at another table.

Today, however, that changed, as Luna tentatively entered the library, and beamed happily when Neville and Harry waved her over to their table.

She set her bag down on the ground and sat down with a sigh of relief. “How lovely to see you have a free period too! A lot of Ravenclaws from my year are off to Muggle Studies with the Slytherins, and the others do not really want… That is, we are not close. It is nice to have a free period and to see you here.”

“Well congratulations on being a third-year with more free time! You are most welcome as always to join us when you are free,” Neville encouraged. “Right, Harry?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed. “You’re our friend, Luna.”

Luna looked so happy and wobbly-lipped at that pronouncement that Harry feared for a moment she might start crying. However, to his relief she didn’t start sobbing or say a word, she just busied herself getting her books out and silently settled down to study next to them.

When the bell tolled for lunch she stuck with the boys like glue all the way to the Great Hall, enjoying a chat about whether the goat-legged fenodyree were truly a type of elf, or if the term ‘field-elf’ should be discarded in favour of ‘faun’ or ‘satyr’ as a better alternative name.

After lunch, Ancient Runes was Harry’s last class that day. Hermione slid into the seat next to him, chattering happily about how in Arithmancy class they’d started learning how the Floo system worked.

“Think about it, Harry – a fireplace with voice recognition! It converts clearly spoken set phrases into a numerical string, and the whole system takes a lot of Arithmantic calculations to maintain. That’s why you can’t just throw Floo powder into any old fire and just jump in and expect to get where you’re going. The Ministry sends Master Arithmancers to your house to set the charms on your fireplace, or ‘hook you up to the Floo’ as they say. Which really is an immense simplification of a highly complex system developed over centuries and centred at the Ministry,” she babbled happily. “It’s similar to the phone system, really. After the initial connection is established everything seems easy for the user, but elsewhere at a central complex, there’s a lot of work going on in the background to make things work for everyone.”

When Professor Babbling entered the room, some of the students fretted over a white bandage that could be glimpsed on her left arm, insufficiently hidden beneath the voluminous sleeves of her black robe.

“Are you alright?”

“Was it a werewolf? Did you get attacked at the World Cup?”

“Can you still teach us?!”

She held up her hand for silence, and the class quietened with an expectant hush. “Yes, I am on the mend. No, it was not a werewolf, and I can and will continue teaching. I even have a letter from a Healer to attest to that, not that the Headmaster insisted on seeing it though it is now his legal right as my employer. He trusts my word on the matter.

“My wife and I were on holiday in the Aegean Union this summer, in Greece and Turkey. Unfortunately, I got injured by a griffin while we were hiking on Mount Nysa. As it was an injury inflicted by a magical creature, it is of course healing slowly.”

Harry noticed that he and Hermione were the only ones in the class who were even slightly startled by their female teacher’s mention of a wife – currently illegal in Muggle Britain. The rest of the class, all pure-bloods or half-bloods raised in wizarding society, didn’t even blink at that piece of information.

“I’m so glad you’re alright!” Brocklehurst said, with a sigh of relief. “Was your wife hurt too?”

“Constance is just fine,” reassured Babbling. “Now, we must get on with the lesson. Last year we covered the Norse and Anglo-Saxon rune sets, anchoring transfigurations and enchantments. This year we will expand out to cover warding, and working with bone, crystal, glass, embroidery on cloth, and various stones and metals as mediums for rune-carving, and we will discuss elemental and magical affinities. Those of you who discover they have a strong affinity for a particular medium will have my permission to specialise in that, after some trials of the other options. I expect Potter, for instance, will get the strongest results from clay, while Goldstein may find he works best with gold or some precious stones.”

Harry gave Anthony a startled look, but the other boy was just nodding thoughtfully, like he knew this already. Maybe Anthony had covered the idea in Arithmancy already – Harry had heard from Hermione last year about how they’d looked a lot at the magic of names.

Babbling continued her rapid-fire summary. “I will also teach you how to engrave runes invisibly, and how to reveal them.”

The Revealing Charm – Aparecium – makes invisible runes appear, Harry thought smugly. I have that mastered already. Learning how to make them will be awesome, though.

“After Christmas we will begin studying Ogham – you may wish to start learning and memorising this rune set over the holidays. The rest of the school year will focus on introductory warding and runic circles, and throughout the year we will have some practical crafting exercises with all your rune sets in your double lessons on Mondays, with the exception of this first lesson. Homework will usually be due on Tuesdays.”

Ogham, thought Harry excitedly. Of course! I can ask Babbling about Ogmius!

There was no leisure to ask her during class time, of course, as everyone frantically scribbled down tables of notes on all the various species of wood and types of stone and which enchantments they were best suited to when engraving.

At the end of class Harry hung around to ask Professor Babbling if she could recommend any books on Ogma, also known as Ogmius, and left with a couple of suggestions.

Hermione had been waiting for him outside the classroom. “Getting a head start on Ogham, Harry?” she asked.

“I’m curious about a lot of things,” he said with a smile. “If I learn anything really good in my reading, I’ll share it with you.”

-000-

“Three Unforgiveables. All terrible curses, the vilest known to mankind. All striking directly at the soul in one fashion or another. I asked you to think and write about which one is the worst,” said Professor Moody, as they passed their homework up to the front. He surveyed the class with his eerie wandering gaze as they all looked gravely thoughtful.

“Show of hands. Who argued that the Killing Curse is the worst?” About three quarters of the students put their hands up, including Ron and Hermione.

“Torture Curse?” Most of the remaining students put their hands up, unsurprisingly including Neville.

“Last one – who thinks the Imperius Curse is the worst?” Only Harry and Eloise Midgen put their hands up for that one.

Moody pointed to Ron. “Weasley – why did you pick the Killing Curse?”

“Well… if you’re dead it’s all over, right? There’s no chance to escape or anything. The others still give you a chance to survive. Dead is dead. Well, except maybe if you’re Harry Potter.”

A few people laughed at that, which embarrassed Harry a little.

“Good answer! Five points.”

Ron puffed up proudly. He didn’t often earn so many points for their House.

Moody’s gaze drifted across the room and lingered on Neville for a moment before moving on. “Thomas! You picked Crucio – summarise why it’s worse than the others.”

“Because it’s pain so bad you’ll want to die. I’d rather die fast than in horrible agony. You’d have to be a right bas- Dark wizard or witch to want to torture someone instead of killing them quick and clean,” explained Thomas. “Plus to cast it they’ve got to want someone to really suffer, not just want you dead and out of their way. That sounds a lot more evil to me.”

“Another excellent answer, another five points! The last curse wasn’t so popular a pick – Potter, explain your reasoning.”

“Well, I think if the victim can’t break free from the Imperius Curse then it’s the worst for sure. Because with that curse you could make someone kill, or torture – even their own friends and family. Make them do anything you wanted, no matter how horrible. It enslaves the soul and turns people into puppets. So, I think it’s the worst because you could make innocent people do horrible things that they’ll regret for the rest of their lives and kill or torture with it.”

Moody grinned at him. “Superb. Best answer yet. Midgen, do you agree with Potter here?”

“Yes, sir. I also agree because it’s not just theory – Dark wizards have done exactly that in some of the wars. I read up on some Aurors’ stories, and there was this incident in Poland where Grindelwald cast the Imperius Curse on a half-blood witch who refused to join him, and she went home and killed her whole family. Then she emptied her vault and gave all her money and her wand to Grindelwald. He let the spell lapse then, and she tried to strangle him to death with her bare hands. She died in a barrage of curses from his bodyguards. I think that’s a whole lot worse than just one person dying or being tortured – she killed her whole family! That’s a lot of suffering and death from just one spell. Surely you’d rather be tortured or killed yourself than let that happen?”

“Excellent again! You and Potter take five points each for Gryffindor. There is nothing worse than the Imperius Curse! You think it’s bad dying? How about being ordered to kill dozens of people and then throw yourself off a roof? Don’t like the idea of torture from a Dark wizard? How about being ordered to torture your own family and friends, or your own mother being made to torture you?”

Neville looked like he was going to be sick. Harry honestly thought his friend was going to spew over their desks at any moment, and eyed him worriedly.

“If you learn nothing else in my class this year, I want you to learn how to break free of the most horrible curse in existence. But you’ve only got a month at most to master it before we must move on to other subjects, so no slacking!” He seemed to be particularly looking at Harry for this bit, and Harry wondered if it was because someone had told him he was a slacker. He’d gotten great marks in DADA last year! The Dursleys wouldn’t be able to bad-mouth him like they used to, so who was gossiping nastily? After a moment’s further thought, he guessed that maybe someone had in fact said good things about him and his work ethic in Defence class. Perhaps Moody’s challenging look implied that he was in fact expecting Harry to excel, just like how Flitwick and Slughorn did.

Hermione fretted out loud about the legality of casting the Imperius Curse on students, but Moody waved away her concerns.

“Dumbledore wants you all to know what it feels like, and be able to fight it off,” he said, staring at her with his natural eye, while his artificial one rolled around to look at the class. Harry felt like it kept rolling over to stare at him. “He has concerns and doesn’t want his students turned into puppets. If, however, any of you want to be easy prey for any Death Eaters who want to play games with you like a Kneazle with a mouse, then you know where the door is.”

Hermione muttered, “I didn’t say I wanted to leave, I was just wondering.”

Moody cast the spell on them one by one, and students obediently danced, and hopped, and imitated squirrels. When it was Harry’s turn, he found being under the Imperius a lovely sensation. His attempts at Occlumency didn’t seem to help much, for he was braced against what he’d expected would be vicious mind control like talons in his mind, and what he felt instead was a soothing sensation as all his worries were washed away, leaving him feeling fuzzy-minded and happy.

Jump onto the desk…

Harry jumped up onto a desk obediently when he heard the command in his mind. For what harm could that possibly do? It was always best to keep adults happy, as much as possible.

It was jarring to be brought out of the curse. He felt disappointed to have failed miserably at fighting it off.

He had another couple of tries, however, for while everyone in the class had at least a couple of goes, Moody seemed determined to test Harry in particular.

Harry strengthened his Occlumency visualisations as much as possible. However, even on the third try Harry clucked like a chicken after only a moment’s hesitation, flapping his arms for wings.

“How do you fight it, sir?” Harry asked worriedly, once he’d stopped clucking. “I’ve tried being calm with a clear mind, focusing on an image, and also of course being determined. None of it is helping.”

“It isn’t an easy task, Potter. Even the best wizards are still vulnerable to it,” Moody said gravely. “It is all about will, in the end. You have to want to be free more than anything else in the world. Fight the feeling of comfort that makes following the commands easy, stretch for any loophole you can find to exert your own will once more. You must hate the caster with every fibre of your being. You must want to kill, or die, rather than do what they are telling you. It’s not enough to simply not want to act like a chicken. You have to be so determined that you’d rather die than be a chicken.”

A couple of people snickered, but Harry just nodded thoughtfully. “Can I try again, sir?” He hated being under the curse but being able to fight it off? That would be incredible if he could manage it.

Moody grinned, which was a rather terrifying expression on his scarred face. “By all means, Potter, and I think perhaps I have an idea to give you a little more motivation. Imperio!”

Harry braced, trying to remember to think of his professor as a hated enemy, someone who would command Harry to kill all his friends if Harry gave in to the Imperius Curse’s smothering feeling of pleasant dreaminess. He held the thought inside his mental shields as best he could, protected somewhat from the wash of calm even as he felt the floating sensation begin again. Everything was easy again. All he had to do was obey, and everything would be fine. Moody would be pleased with him, and Harry would be so happy.

Give me your wand, then stand still so I can kill you…

Moody’s voice echoed in Harry’s relaxed and empty mind.

That sounds dangerous, he thought very vaguely. Enemy?

Harry reached into his robe pocket and drew out his wand. Perhaps it was better to go along with things. Everyone would be happier. It was safer to be cooperative and obedient.

Give me your wand, then stand still so I can kill you…

The command resonated in Harry’s mind, but a part of him behind his mental walls fought against it. No, that’s a stupid idea. Defence teachers are always dangerous. Remember, think of him as the enemy.

“Nnn…” Harry said in a choked-off refusal, as he shakily and slowly held his wand out. Moody reached out his hand to receive it.

It’s my wand. I won’t be defenceless. Mine! He could kill me!

Moody moved to grab Harry’s wand, and while Harry couldn’t quite muster up the mental resistance to be able to lower his outstretched arm, he managed to force his feet to take a couple of stumbling steps backwards, until he hit a desk and fell over in a tangled heap, still clutching his wand tightly.

The dreamy lassitude fell away as Moody dropped the spell.

“Look at that, you lot! Potter fought it, and damn near beat it!” Moody crowed approvingly. “Watch his eyes, that’s where you’ll see it. We just needed the right motivation.”

With a few more tries before class ended, Harry partially fought off a command to grovel on the floor before Moody and beg to be his servant, managing to chokingly cut off his plea halfway through. He finally managed to shake off a command almost instantly when ordered to close his eyes and put his hands in the air (he really hated the double feeling of vulnerability).

Neville eagerly begged Harry for tips on fighting the Imperius Curse after class, and he wasn’t the only one. Later, Draco in particular was adamant on wringing out every ounce of knowledge from Harry when a large group of Harry’s friends gathered in the library for a study session.

“Moody said my family was known for being weak against the Imperius Curse. He humiliated me in our class,” Draco complained, in a hushed, ashamed voice. “I need every tip you can share on beating it.”

“It was not just you,” rumbled Greg. “He was mean to a lot of us. I think he bears a grudge.”

“My father will hear about this!”

“There’s a surprise,” muttered Neville to Harry, who exerted some effort to keep a straight face.

“You were writing to him about Quidditch too, weren’t you?” Harry asked loudly. “How’s that going?”

“Yes, and he has promised his aid in our cause. Also, my badges are ready, and the first batch is available for sale!” Draco proclaimed proudly. “I have some Hufflepuffs and a couple of Ravenclaws working on making more, and there are at least two students from every House who will be selling them.”

He showed off the badges, which displayed the words ‘Save Quidditch!' in luminous white calligraphy. When pressed the badges would switch to a new image of the Hogwarts Giant Squid holding four tiny brooms in some outstretched tentacles, with the word ‘SQuid’ curling above it – the abbreviation for the movement’s name.

“The senior Ravenclaws are working on tweaking it to display the image and picture in House colours,” Draco explained, “and to animate the Giant Squid so it waves the brooms around. However, these should be enough to get us started, and are House-neutral.”

“What if someone buys a plain badge now, but wants a House badge later?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged unconcernedly. “Then we have made twice as much money.”

“The petition is going well,” said Luna. “I think half of Ravenclaw has already signed it, it is so long!”

“At least three quarters of Gryffindor have signed ours, though there’s some holdouts who side with the Headmaster and think the sole focus should be on the Triwizard Tournament this year. I don’t think we’ll get any more signatures,” Harry said. “The Weasley twins have pressured just about everyone to sign.”

“Speaking of Weasleys,” Daphne said, a teasing smirk on her face, “a little owl told me you and Ronald had a bit of an altercation in the corridor this morning after breakfast, Draco…”

Draco scowled. “He should stop eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.”

Greg and Vincent murmured their dutiful agreement.

“I heard you were spitting up slugs all the way to the Hospital Wing,” Daphne said sweetly.

“At least I wasn’t dancing in my own vomit while my hair fell out,” Draco said smugly. “I believe I won that impromptu duel.”

“What started it?” Daphne asked, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

Pansy and Tracey leant forwards eagerly to listen to his answer too. Millicent, meanwhile, was off somewhere in the library stacks, accompanying Hermione who’d wandered off with Mafalda Prewett. Mafalda had stopped by their table to say hello to Harry and ask his advice about good books for reading up on charms “just for fun”, and Hermione had eagerly volunteered to help a fellow studious soul.

“We were talking about the Daily Prophet’s article on Lockhart from this morning, and the Weaselette took offence,” Draco explained. “Then Weasley started going about the Quidditch World Cup and calling my father a Death Eater.”

There was a strained and awkward silence amongst the group, which Luna broke by asking, “Is he?”

“No! Of course not!” Draco insisted. “He was Imperiused in the last war, and that is all. Weasley was out of line throwing around accusations with no valid evidence.”

He looks sincere, Harry thought. Hurt, even. But then… Draco is a very good liar.

Chapter Text

September 1994

“Hello again, Ambrosius. It’s still September, the uh… eleventh, I think. Sunday evening.”

“Welcome Harry, it is nice to see you again. Where is Storm this evening?”

“Off having a swim. Apparently, there’s an underwater tunnel to the Black Lake in the pool upstairs, that he can get through. He’s promised to stay in the shallows and not get himself hurt,” Harry said, a little worriedly. His mind was dancing with all the possible horrible things that could happen to Storm, but he didn’t want his pet – and friend – to feel trapped.

“How were your ‘Potter Watch’ meetings today? Second Sunday of the month, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They went… mostly well. Diggory bowed out so Angelina Johnson’s teaching the junior group. He said he might help out later, as an assistant. She’s starting them off working on the wood to silver transfiguration, and lecturing about non-magical defences against werewolves like silver, fire, and wolfsbane. Everyone’s still on edge about the attack over summer, so it was a good thing to begin with, I think. Oh, and she’s going to do the Jelly-Legs Jinx next.”

“How did your group go? You are still leading your peers, correct?”

“Yes, for now at least. We’re starting with reviewing and practicing the Stunning Spell – Stupefy – and its counter-charm. Oh, and guess what? Susan Bones from Hufflepuff showed up. She got infected by a werewolf over summer – I’ll tell you all about that in a minute – and she walked in all wary of people’s reactions, and the room went all quiet. I mean, I said ‘welcome’, but it was still all awkward. You know what happened next? Daphne Greengrass walked right up to Bones and hugged her! They’re not even friends, as far as I know, but Daphne just hugged her just like that, and she didn’t let go, and Bones started to cry. It was a mess! Then all the Hufflepuffs, and a few other huggy students like Hermione just piled on and did a ‘Hufflehug’. They were all weeping, and laughing, and it took ages to get the meeting started. But Bones seemed a lot more happy after that, so that’s good. Daphne told me later she has an uncle who’s a werewolf, so Daphne’s very in favour of werewolf rights.”

“It is not too close to the full moon, I hope? Strong emotions can be dangerous for werewolves, at that time.”

“Another week away,” reassured Harry. “Bones isn’t looking forward to it. It’ll be her first full moon. Professor Slughorn’s making her the Wolfsbane Potion, though, so that’s something.”

They chatted about modern developments in potions for a while – which Ambrosius said Madam Hufflepuff would have been fascinated by – before Ambrosius gently asked, “Did you want to talk about the less pleasant aspects of your summer, now?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I suppose. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Ambrosius was as safe a confidant as Harry could imagine, hidden away in a secret room within the Chamber of Secrets. The entry was guarded by a stone snake that demanded a pinprick bite of a blood test every time Harry entered the room, as identification to prove he was not someone impersonating the Heir of Slytherin. (Harry had recently come to suspect that the tiny blood offerings also helped renew the serpent’s enchantments, now he knew a little more about runic magic.) Even should the Dark Lord infiltrate the castle and the Chamber undetected, the charms on the mosaic ensured that Ambrosius couldn’t be forced to reveal any secrets he didn’t wish to. Enchanted snake statues also watched over his image, ready to strike at anyone who physically or magically tried to damage the precious, ancient mosaic.

Harry’s secrets spilled out of him one by one, and it felt both painful and freeing. It started with just a few facts about the attacks in Gabon and at the World Cup, until more and more came pouring out of him, like a boil had been lanced to let out all his fears, guilt, and uncertainties. Harry told him all about his treaty of neutrality with Lord Voldemort, aka Tom Riddle. He shared his continuing bewilderment about why the Dark Lord was focusing so much on him, his guilt about not dealing properly with the diary in the first place and how now Pettigrew had been possessed by it, leading to deaths and injuries. He talked about his pagan beliefs and guilty sympathy for the Dark Lord’s isolationist stance and political goals, except for the depth of the man’s anti-Muggle stance. If it wasn’t for the deaths of his parents and the sheer gory violence of Lord Voldemort and his followers, he shakily admitted that he might have been even more sympathetic to their goals of religious freedoms, and rights for werewolves, vampires, and other oppressed creatures. He didn’t have much love or admiration for the bureaucratically bloated Ministry, either. It wasn’t most of the Dark’s beliefs he disagreed with, just their violent methods, and he felt like he couldn’t tell anyone about it.

His most overwhelming concern, however, that he desperately sought advice on, was his fear for his friends’ lives and wellbeing… and secondarily for himself. For the Dark Lord – or Lords since there were two of them at the moment – seemed likely to increase his, or their, terrorist attacks.

“It’s not that I really want to have any kind of association with him,” Harry explained guiltily, wiping a few tears from his reddened eyes, “and I’m sure it will all go wrong sooner or later… but he said I can ensure my friends’ safety if I maintain a regular correspondence with him, and stay out of the fighting. Do you think I did the right thing?”

Ambrosius wore a sympathetic look as he stroked his grey beard thoughtfully. “Well, it is hard to judge without a complete picture of the situation, and I suspect you don’t have all the details either. That is a heavy burden of secrets and expectations you carry for a young man. A child still by the current standards of your time, I believe. In my day you would have been considered old enough to marry and father children, and go to war for your king–”

Harry made a choking noise, and Ambrosius looked at him sympathetically.

“–and your support for his cause would be irrelevant. So long as he was a good king you should follow him gladly wherever he led. But times change. The kings are gone and a powerless queen rules now; she may sit on the throne but her court of ministers have seized hold of the reins of the country, as they have for generations. No doubt the ancient ties binding the king and queen to the land are long lost. War has changed too. Tom spoke of the Great War and the new war with Germania, so I know child soldiers are not approved of in these modern days, at least by mortals. However a child is defined, a child should not have to fight, and I understand you are still judged to be not of age, not wearing the toga virilis or given your first sword or whatever symbol of manhood they ritually grant these days in your manhood ceremony.”

“I think your closest male relative gives you a watch,” Harry said faintly, “and if you’re part of a House you can assume titles. When you’re seventeen. Muggles count you as an adult at eighteen. I don’t know if there’s a ritual ceremony, I don’t think so. We have birthday parties though.”

“A watch. Tch! No appreciation for liminal ceremonies these days,” Merlin tutted. “Well, I would support your choice to fight if you wished it, but you do not. And a soldier forced to fight – especially an untried youth – is as much a liability on the battlefield as an aid. You are a child of your time and should not be forced into war. So no, I do not think you have done the wrong thing in accepting the offered truce. However, it is a shameful thing for Tom to have demanded one. It should be a matter of course that children are left out of wars, not something that needs to be negotiated and formalised. I think you have made a good choice, given that in many ways all your options are poor ones.”

“Yeah, they are,” Harry said, with a resigned sigh.

“It is difficult to judge from second-hand accounts, but I would caution you to keep in mind that Tom making the safety of your friends contingent on a continued correspondence shows that he is not truly interested in neutrality – one way or another the truce is unlikely to last forever. He clearly seeks an alliance or friendship, or the matter would have been settled more brusquely.”

“But I don’t want an alliance!”

“Yes, he clearly knows that, which is why he is blackmailing you into an acquaintance with him with the safety of your friends at stake. Eventually, I think it likely that he will demand more. There is an opportunity there – if you can discern why your friendship is so important to him, you may gain the upper hand in your negotiations. He may be speaking of war with you, but I suspect that threat is, while not entirely hollow, very much not an outcome he desires. Or he would not, while busily leading a rebellion, take the time to negotiate with and write letters to a single fourteen-year-old boy who would happily stay out of the war even without a truce.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. Some of that he’d figured out for himself, but he hadn’t thought before about how the Dark Lord wanting a friendship more than Harry did gave him power too. “I know there was a prophecy, something involving me and him. Quirrell… sorry, the Dark Lord, said it was why he attacked me and my family when I was a baby. But he also said he believed now that it had already been fulfilled when he was vanquished a decade ago.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I… don’t know. I think so. But it could be a lie. Maybe he is still scared that if he attacks me he’ll be defeated again.”

“What does the prophecy say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ambrosius tutted disapprovingly. “Well, that’s just foolishness. You must find out what it says – your life may literally depend on it. How could you not seek it out the instant you heard about it?”

“Well, Snape hinted he was under an Unbreakable Vow and couldn’t tell me what it was, and the Dark Lord’s certainly not going to tell me, and even if he did I couldn’t trust he was telling me the truth. Who else could I ask?” Harry replied defensively.

“Difficult. Doubly so since you doubt Snape’s loyalties. Yet he appears to have a genuine regard for your welfare, from all you’ve told me of – and complained about – this past year or two. You could ask him to list the most renowned Seers of your age – that might be sufficient to work around his vow. If he knows the prophecy, he most likely knows the Seer who gave it. There must also be at least one other person who knows of it, the one who bound him to secrecy. Think on who that might be. Tom seems a likely candidate, but another may have done it too. That person is unlikely to be a safe person to approach, however, if their need for secrecy is so desperate to resort to binding a man’s soul.”

“It would either have been the Dark Lord or the Headmaster,” Harry said. “I know from Snape’s hints that the Headmaster bound him from directly telling anyone Lupin was a werewolf, so Dumble… the Headmaster probably heard – or perhaps gave – the prophecy.”

“Discover the words and come and recite it to me, and we shall discuss its interpretation. Interpreting prophecies is always a tricky business, and you should certainly not blunder around ignorant of a fate hanging over your head. I am not skilled at many of your modern techniques and charms, but time magic was a specialisation of mine.”

“And prophecies, too?”

“Prophecies are time magic. Divination is peering through the mists of time. Touching objects to learn their history. Gazing into a sacred pool to see visions of the future. Casting the runes to see if a chosen path bears good or ill fortune. Drawing out memories of the past into a chalice for others to see when they drink from it. Physically travelling through time is just the most powerful version – moving your body through the aether instead of just opening your soul to its flow as one with Second Sight does.”

Harry nodded. “I didn’t pick Divination as a subject; I just didn’t feel very talented at it. I did once feel this sense of connection with my parents at Samhain, though. Very faintly.”

“Connecting with spirits who have journeyed on is not quite the same thing, though it is related in that you must open up your soul. Your skill in learning how to call your protective Genius spirit – the hippocampus – shows you might have a little talent for that. Do you know if a talent for divination runs in your family?”

“I don’t know. Lupin told me over summer all about how my dad and his friends learnt how to be Animagi to keep him company when he transformed into a werewolf. He told me over dinner one night that dad was a stag. Dad was good at Transfiguration, and my mum was good at Charms and Ancient Runes. Oh, and I know that the Metamorphmagus talent comes from my paternal grandmother’s family, the Blacks. It’s a Black family talent, but maybe I told you that already? Anyway, I got to meet someone else from that line over summer who also has the skill, but she’s much better at it than I am.”

“You should ask her for tutoring, then.”

“That’s what Neville suggested too. I wrote to her with a few questions, but I haven’t gotten a reply yet. I like the glamour spell we made up better anyway–”

“You should practice that more, too.”

“–and I think I’ve got a hang of the little bit I can do as a Metamorphmagus.”

“It sounds like shapechanging runs in your father’s line, then. Parselmouth abilities from the Parkinsons on your mother’s side, perhaps.”

“Maybe. Or from the Blacks, again. Phineas – that’s a portrait of an ancestor – didn’t know of any Parselmouths in the family, but there’s certainly a lot of snake decorations all over the place at their old home.”

“Either way, those are earth or water affinity talents, and not very compatible with the airy nature possessed by those with innate talent at Divination.”

“I thought maybe my affinity was air? I’m a natural at flying on a broomstick.”

Ambrosius shook his head. “No, weather talents or Flying – unaided by a tool – would show an affinity to air. Using a broomstick well just shows talent at channelling magic.”

“What?”

“The broomstick,” Ambrosius said patiently. “You channel magic into it to make it fly. Like using a staff or a wand.”

“That’s why they don’t work for Muggles or Squibs?”

“Indeed. For mortals, it is nothing but a dead stick and twigs, suitable only for sweeping floors. Incidentally, you should apply the same skill you utilise to summon a broomstick to your hand to practice summoning your wand when disarmed, since you are all so oddly dependent on your wands these days. As it is so attuned to you, it should be one of the easiest wandless magics to learn, after broomstick use or potions brewing. Remember, you also connect to potions with your magic, via the medium of your stirring implement. It is all the same skill. It is something you should consider practising with your senior ‘Potter Watch’ group.”

“I will, thanks. Did you teach… Tom how to do it? Back when he was young?”

“We didn’t speak often, so no. However, I do recall that during in a long conversation about the decline of the wizarding race he was very interested to hear of the talent a rare few have for Flying. I remember it was something he sounded very determined to master – being able to turn into insubstantial smoke or mist in the face of a threat and fly away along ethereal currents. The ley lines provide the fastest travel routes. I don’t know if it appealed to him because he thought it a good defence against the horrors of the ‘world war’ of his age, or whether he thought it would be an impressive talent to show off to his friends. Perhaps a little of both.”

-000-

Hermione dropped her book-laden bag on the ground with a heavy thump and slumped down into a library chair with a scowl.

Daphne gave Harry a discreet kick under the table and flicked her eyes meaningfully towards Hermione. It took him a moment – and another kick – but Harry grasped her unspoken command eventually.

“Uh…How did your tutoring session with Mafalda go, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Fine,” she huffed.

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry said, wondering how to best find out what the problem was, as Daphne glared at him. Maybe a Gryffindor approach would suit best – he could just ignore the problem and focus on cheering her up, or else bluntly demand she tell him what was wrong. Or, since Hermione had a dash of Ravenclaw in her, perhaps an appeal to logic would be the best? He could ask her to outline the problem for them, so they could brainstorm possible solutions.

It was times like this that Harry felt his group of friends could really benefit from the addition of a huggy Hufflepuff who was good at talking to upset people and helping them feel better.

What would a Hufflepuff do? Harry asked himself. They’re good at this stuff.

“Is something wrong?” he asked Hermione. “Do you… want to talk about how you’re feeling? Umm… because that’s what friends do, and we’re all friends here? Do you need a hug?”

Everyone stared at him, wide-eyed, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. “I just figured it might help. It works for Hufflepuffs.”

Hermione snorted in amusement and patted him on the forearm. “It’s a very kind offer, Harry, but no, I don’t need a hug.”

“So, what’s wrong?” Gryffindor method it was. He should have gone with his first instinct.

“It’s silly, really. It’s Prewett… she said… She said Charms theory was a cinch. She said she got her match transformed into a silver needle on her first try and got ten points for Slytherin from Professor McGonagall!” Hermione said, sounding aggrieved. “She kept interrupting me when I was trying to talk, and then she said she didn’t think she’d need my tutoring to catch up with the pure-bloods after all.”

“Jolly good work there for a first-year!” Daphne said, sounding impressed. “She may be one to watch after all.”

“Are you… jealous, Hermione?” asked Millicent. “She is only a first-year – certainly no match for you.”

“A bit, I suppose,” sighed Hermione. “I managed to turn my match a little bit silver and pointy on my first try, but it took me weeks to do a full transfiguration with the right shape, and the needle’s eye! Ten points! I only got five. And McGonagall’s our Head of House!”

“Professor McGonagall tries hard to be scrupulously unbiased,” Neville said, quick to rise to her defence.

“I could arrange for someone to sabotage Prewett in her next class, as a favour,” Millicent offered in a confidential whisper.

Daphne looked appalled. “Slytherin rule!” she hissed to Millicent, reminding her that they weren’t allowed to display any infighting in public.

“No!” Hermione cried. “No. Being good at her classes and being a bit too smug about it doesn’t mean she deserves that. She wasn’t being mean, she was just proud of how well she’s doing. No, absolutely not.”

“I was merely offering to help,” mumbled Millicent, looking put out.

“Thank you, but no,” Hermione said firmly.

“So that’s what’s bothering you? She’s a magical prodigy?” asked Harry.

“And she skips History of Magic classes,” grumbled Hermione. “Even though you’re not allowed to do that. She says most of Slytherin does it, so she’s doing it too. How do you even pass your exams that way?”

Daphne smirked. “We have a roster system in Slytherin. Along with the person on the roster, a few people choose to go to class to do quiet study or to nap, while many others do their own thing elsewhere. There is a single designated note taker per class who has to pay attention and make notes on what Binns says, underlining anything that seems of particular interest which was not mentioned in the textbook. Notes are duplicated and shared amongst the class. It is a grand and efficient system that has worked for years.”

“It’s cheating,” Hermione complained, “and it’s against the school rules. You can’t just skip classes because you don’t like them!”

“Binns isn’t going to do anything about it, though; he doesn’t even notice. Also, Slughorn is just as happy to look the other way as Snape was.”

“It doesn’t make it right,” grumbled Hermione. “It’s like taking advantage of a teacher with dementia. It’s not fair. At least Harry shows up for History of Magic, even though he doesn’t pay attention, and he spends his time studying. I think.”

Millicent smirked knowingly across the table at Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. “I do study,” he insisted defensively, “I even study History of Magic, sometimes. The interesting bits. Binns is doing goblin rebellions of the 18^th century this year – you can’t expect me to pay attention to that.”

“There are weekly essays! You have to pay attention if you want to do well!”

Harry shrugged. “Only final exams matter, and at that, only in fifth and seventh year.” His weekly essays were always perfunctory, token efforts.

“They are vital practice, and mandatory!”

“Just avoid Prewett if you do not like her,” Daphne advised Hermione, smoothly deflecting Hermione from her growing outrage at Harry. “You are not a prefect – you don’t have to talk to a firstie if you don’t want to, and her family connections are close to worthless since the Prewetts aren’t acknowledging her. Making contact with us – through Harry – is the best she has managed, and she is not likely to climb much higher.”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t mind her connections. I promised to join her bible study group.”

Daphne and Pansy exchanged a quick glance. “You need not do that either,” Daphne said cautiously.

“Oh, I want to. It’s a great idea! It’s just…”

“-She’s very annoying?” finished Daphne, as Hermione trailed off.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, with a guilty flinch.

“Where’s Tracey?” Hermione asked, changing the topic abruptly. “And the boys?”

“She is off with her darling Anthony again,” Daphne replied, “and Draco’s dragged the other boys along to a badge-making session for the new House-themed badges. Where’s Luna today, Harry?”

“Off talking to Slughorn about reserving the club room for the nineteenth for Hermione’s party,” Harry replied. “She wants to be a ‘good client’, so I’m trying to give her little things to do now and then, but I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t want to treat her like a servant or anything, so I’m trying to stick to things I’d be happy to ask any friend to do, if they weren’t busy.”

“You are doing fine, cousin,” Pansy reassured. “Nothing is really official until we are seventeen, anyway. This is all just… practice, so it is alright if you make mistakes. Which you rarely do, these days.”

“You don’t need to make a fuss about my birthday,” Hermione said, looking embarrassed.

“We want to,” Neville insisted. “You are our friend.”

“Well, if you insist,” Hermione said, ducking her head to hide the pleased smile spreading across her face.

-000-

Hermione’s birthday party on Monday afternoon was a casual affair, like she’d insisted upon, with a simple buffet of leftovers from lunch for people to snack on plus a honey cake, and an open invitation for any friends interested to come along.

All of their usual group of friends showed up, including Draco, who Hermione greeted with stiff civility. Attendees from Gryffindor included Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Ron Weasley, and Colin Creevey, the latter at Harry’s special request as party photographer. Harry had thought Hermione might like some pictures to send home to her parents, as an extra birthday gift from him along with the book on French history, and Neville had agreed it was a great idea. From Slytherin, Theodore also joined their party, as well as the first-year Mafalda Prewett, and Mafalda’s friend Emma Dobbs whom she’d brought along for company.

Daphne whispered confidentially to Harry that Dobbs was a half-blood with a Muggle father, to which Harry whispered back irritatedly that he didn’t care what her blood status was, provoking a shocked look from her.

The last extra guests were a little startling to some of the more hide-bound students – some house-elves had been invited to attend as guests. Dobby was taking to his role as a guest with eager enthusiasm. He was circulating around the room with an air of confidence – Harry couldn’t tell whether it was faked or genuine – chatting with various H.E.L.P. Society members. Several other Hogwarts house-elves had come along too, including Winky, who seemed positively worshipful of Hermione, if generally downcast in spirit. She, like most of the other house-elves, couldn’t seem to help themselves from tidying away dirty plates and offering food to other guests. The only other house-elves who seemed to have Dobby’s ability to not work, when requested, were Jilly, the elderly female head house-elf who was in charge of the kitchen, and Letry, who was a middle-aged male house-elf who had the responsibility for supervising the house-elves who cleaned Gryffindor tower. He and Hermione seemed very well acquainted, and he was cheerfully chatting with her about house-elf literacy rates, calmly ignoring some dirty glasses rimmed with drying pumpkin juice pulp on a nearby side-table.

Harry asked Letry later how he was managing to fight the impulse to tidy. “Dobby said it’s not his house, so it’s not his responsibility to clean here. But you’re a Hogwarts house-elf, so how are you coping and looking so relaxed?”

“Letry is responsible for Gryffindor tower,” the little house-elf explained in his squeaky voice. “This is not that tower. Miss Hermione wants us to join her party, and Letry wants to make her happy. Miss Hermione is very kind! Letry likes helping with the H.E.L.P. Society too – Miss Hermione says her mother is explaining how important it is that house-elves has a voice in our own futures, and not have things decided for us by someone else. So, Miss Hermione is inviting us to more meetings and things this year. Letry wants Miss Hermione’s family to be happy with her – and being a good guest is Letry’s birthday gift to her, like Miss Hermione asked for.”

“Thank you for explaining, Letry.”

The little house-elf bowed, then wandered back to hover around Hermione again.

Hermione had a great time opening all her presents. While not an impressive pile when compared to Dudley’s typical mountain of gifts, it was still a good haul. Brown and Patil had bought Hermione a jar of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and some hair clips and ribbons in red and gold. Ron gave her an embroidered bookmark, and Neville got her a little pot plant. Most of the Slytherins had pooled their resources and collectively bought her some clothing accessories – a new pointed hat with a lavish display of dyed red and gold owl feathers on one side, a second hat with a purple ribbon and a pretty brass buckle, and a purple satin reticule to wear at her waist to hold her money and assorted small belongings.

Pansy and Greg’s joint gift was the most extravagant of the afternoon, however. They proudly presented her with the result of their commissioned research into her ancestry; a scroll detailing Hermione’s family tree in beautiful calligraphy, plus an old book. Most of the names were written in black ink, but Hermione’s name, three of her ancestors, and one long-deceased relative on a side branch of the family tree were written in a magically shimmering royal purple.

“There, on your mother’s side,” Greg explained happily, pointing at a married couple whose names were both written in glimmering purple. “Your closest wizarding ancestor is Quobna Ottobah Cugoano, also known as John Stuart. Born in Fantyn – that’s in Muggle Ghana now – in the 1750’s. He was a wizard, and we know his father was too – a shaman in Ghana who was a companion to the chief in Fantee. Quobna Cugoano’s wife was Frances Wilson, an English Muggle-born and Hogwarts graduate with no known wizarding family connections.”

“Once while we were chatting about house-elves, my mother told me we had an ancestor who was a slave from the Lesser Antilles who became an abolitionist,” Hermione said eagerly, eyes flicking over the scroll trying to read everything at once. “I didn’t know that he was a wizard!”

“Well, her information helped our researcher immensely,” Pansy said, taking over the explanation. “Cugoano was enslaved at the age of thirteen – he had a premonition that day of trouble but unfortunately his young companions taunted him about being a coward and accused him of getting visions from the devil. So, he went to the woods with them despite his prescient feeling of doom, and was caught by ruffians, and shipped to the Lesser Antilles before coming to England some years later. You can read all about it in his book – we got a copy for you! Thoughts and Sentiments on the Evil and Wicked Traffic of the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species. Your maternal grandfather had an old copy, another piece of evidence! This is a duplicate we found for sale.”

Harry thought with guilty amusement that perhaps Hermione had inherited not just her ancestor’s magic and zealotry about freeing slaves, but also a family hatred for succinctness in writing.

“This… is… amazing!” Hermione gushed. “Thank you both so much!”

“Oh, you are most welcome!” Pansy said, looking pleased.

“Yes, you’re welcome. He was freed shortly after being shipped to England,” Greg added, eager to tell her everything. “Then he did some work writing books, trying to help stop slavery and start a school for Africans in England. Then he joined wizarding society later, around 1791, when he got married to Wilson.”

“They had three children,” murmured Hermione, peering at Cugoano’s family. “A daughter in purple – presumably a witch – who didn’t marry or have children. Two sons in black ink. And his father is in purple, too.”

“That line died out,” Greg rumbled. “The two Squib sons went back into the Muggle world, under the name ‘Stuart’. The eldest was one of your maternal ancestors.”

“Any wizarding relatives on my father’s side, in the Granger family?”

Pansy let out a frustrated huff. “None we could prove and believe me, we tried.”

“We suspect there is a connection to the House of Granger some generations back before they joined with the House of Dagworth, but we cannot prove it, and they refused to acknowledge you,” Greg said to Hermione, sounding disappointed. “We suspect a disowned Squib removed from the family records or swapped for a changeling – about five generations back on Hermione’s father’s side there is a Granger ancestor with no Muggle records prior to his marriage. It was a dead end for our researcher. That might mean a Squib. However, it could also mean a lot of other things, even just bad document-keeping by the Muggles.”

“You cannot claim kinship with the Granger-Dagworth family, but the House of Cugoano was acknowledged by the Wizengamot in the late 1700’s, so you can assume the Head of House title if you wish when you are seventeen, given you are the Heir Apparent and there are no other claimants!” Pansy encouraged eagerly.

Hermione laughed. “Well now, there’s a turn-up for the books. Does this mean I’m a half-blood now? Do I get any privileges for having a family House? Heirlooms and gold?”

“Well… no,” Greg said reluctantly. “You are still a Muggle-born. You need at least one parent or grandparent who is magically talented to be a half-blood of any degree. All your magical ancestors are much too far back. There is no seat on the Wizengamot, and your family vault was closed a century ago. However, you could commission a signet ring with your House crest if you wished, and it is still a nice thing to have an acknowledged magical family ancestry. A family is required to have at least three generations in a row of proven magical blood to be a ‘House’, and since your most famous ancestor had a shaman for a father and a witch for a daughter, that is technically sufficient and was enough for him to complete the relevant Ministry paperwork. It is not Ancient, or Noble, or Sacred, and there are no properties or heirlooms to claim, but it is still a House.”

“I don’t care about any of that, really, but it’s wonderful to have such exciting details of my family history. Cugoano sounds like an amazing man, and I’m really looking forward to reading his book! Thank you both again, it is a wonderful gift,” Hermione said, hugging each of them in turn. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve been dying to hear about your research!”

-000-

As September turned into October and the nights began growing longer and colder, Harry worked tirelessly at his studies, breezing through some of it, like antidotes in Potions, Summoning Charms in Charms class, and his assignments for Biology which while tough were completed relatively easily due to his sheer fascination with the subject and his background studying the topic last year. Others required dogged persistence, like Astronomy. Mastering Switching Spells in Transfiguration was a struggle, and Hermione outshone them all.

After a month and a half of looking after Fire Crabs, Professor Hagrid apologetically announced that they’d have to learn about Kneazles for a couple of weeks, but he promised “somethin’ a little bit more fun” for November and December, and that they’d “have another go” at Hippogriffs after Christmas. A few people glanced in Draco’s direction at their professor’s excited but nervous pronouncement, but Draco bore the news with a stoic expression.

Hagrid seemed genuinely bewildered by the class’ enthusiasm for cuddling and caring for the litter of adorable lion-tailed, big-eared kittens he brought in, and the students’ willingness to do “borin’ but necessary” training activities such as teaching them to fetch or touch objects on command and how to lead a blindfolded student from one place to another.

One gangly kitten took great offence to Vincent Crabbe’s attempt to pluck out a few of its whiskers. (Harry suspected this had been attempted on Draco’s order, but Draco wouldn’t admit to it.) Vincent ended up with a multitude of tiny bloody scratches all over his face and hands despite his willingness to try hitting at and hexing a tiny angry ball of fluff, and the rest of the class gained a newfound respect for the kittens’ ability to turn into a virtual whirlwind of claws and teeth when they suspected some unkind plan was in the works.

Sirius owled Harry a letter as the first Hogsmeade weekend in mid-October drew close, rambling enthusiastically about the detached Victorian villa he’d rented in Grantown-on-Spey that he’d dubbed the ‘Grantown Den’. It was a two-storey stone and brick home on the edge of town on Woodside Avenue, not far from Anagach Woods, and had a private garden “that wouldn’t hurt a fly”. Sirius and Remus were apparently commuting back and forth from London via Apparition, since the ‘tiny’ wood-burning fireplaces were much too small to travel through. They’d moved in some furniture and generally gotten the place liveable. The two of them had set up a room on the ground floor for Harry’s chemistry and biology experiments with “a Bunsen burner and a microscope and all kinds of scientific Muggle stuff”. One of the four bedrooms upstairs had been set aside for Harry “just in case you need it”, and another one had been optimistically and courteously allocated for “any house-elves you can coax to visit”. Apparently Kreacher was being recalcitrant about tending a “Muggle abomination of a house” and refused to leave Grimmauld Place, even despite the temptation of Harry’s promised visit.

Sirius included in his missive an intriguing list of no less than seven secret passageways from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade and promised to be available on request to meet Harry in the Shrieking Shack on any day that wasn’t too close to the full moon. From there, Sirius would Side-Along-Apparate Harry to the Grantown Den, where Harry could study his Muggle chemistry to his heart’s content.

Harry thought that the secret tunnels might come in handy. At least they would if he could get someone to cover for his disappearance from school. They only got seven Hogsmeade weekends a year; one every month except for September (while they were all settling back into their studies), April (which had the Easter holidays), and June (a busy time for exams, followed by summer break starting sometime during that month). Seven weekends were something, and a lot more freedom than the junior years got, but it still wasn’t a lot. Harry liked having the option to sneak away if necessary, with adult approval to boot.

Harry’s meet-up with Sirius outside the Shrieking Shack went smoothly and easily. Neville knew exactly what Harry was up to, since Harry had already accidentally let slip to him about Sirius’ secret Muggle house plan back on his birthday. Hermione was told only that he’d be “studying” after a short visit to Hogsmeade. She and all of Harry’s friends were long used to his habit of occasionally going off on his own for some study in solitude, so his plans passed without remark.

For a Muggle house, Harry thought Sirius’ holiday home looked rather wizard-like in its architecture, being a picturesque construction of old grey stone. They arrived with a lurch in the back garden, which had high fences surrounding a tidy green lawn with an old wooden swing in a simple frame, and a scattering of flowering bushes and leafy trees. A small paved patio area had flowerbeds and bushes enclosing it on three sides, and was set up with a small wooden table and chairs where Lupin was seated. It took Harry a moment to recognise him, as Lupin had bleached or charmed his hair blonde and grown a short, matching trimmed beard. Lupin was enjoying finishing up a late breakfast in the sunlight while reading the paper, obviously the Daily Prophet given how some of the black-and-white photos were moving.

Lupin looked up and smiled as Sirius arrived with Harry in tow. As Harry leant over and breathed deep and recovered from the trip, Lupin folded up his paper, snagged the last piece of crispy bacon off his plate, and wandered over to join them, limping slightly on his left leg.

“Welcome to the Grantown Den!” Sirius said excitedly. “The House of Black is at the service of the House of Potter. The Den is full of all the Muggle conveniences. Except one of those new-fangled ‘micra-waves’ – we had one but it broke. Badly. Apparently, those things don’t like iron any more than wizards do; I tried heating up a can of Muggle food in it and boy was it a mess! I don’t suppose you know if they’re in any way magical, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they’re not. You can’t use any metal in them, by the way, not just iron. I know aluminium foil is a problem too, for example. It’s something to do with how microwaves interact with the metal, but to be honest I don’t know the details. If you ever do get another one, remember just to stick to ceramic dishes and cups only. No gold-rimmed dishes either – even noble metals are a risk.”

Reaching into his bag, Harry fished out Storm, who hissed a sleepy inquiry, and was reminded that he’d begged last night to come along.

“I remember,” Storm hissed groggily. “Put me in the sssun.”

Harry put him down gently on the sun-warmed stone pavers, and Storm slithered into a warm patch of dappled sunlight near a bush and coiled up sleepily. Sitting on Harry was acceptable, but not when better sources of heat were available.

“He’s tired, but he wanted to come along in case there was something fun to hunt in the garden,” Harry explained.

“He won’t hunt the neighbour’s cat, will he?” Lupin checked. “He’s gotten quite big. What is he, five foot now?”

“Around that – he’s growing fast, and he seems a little more temperamental lately. But no, they’d be too big for him. His jaw doesn’t dislocate, so he plays it safe when hunting. He could maybe manage a kitten,” Harry said thoughtfully, looking fondly at his pet. “He’s still officially a juvenile snakeling. He’ll get a mane of elongated dorsal scales just behind his head when he’s an adult. It hasn’t happened yet.”

“What are you going to do when he’s fully grown?” Sirius asked. “Was Lovegood’s article right? Is he really going to be twenty-foot long or even crazily more, big enough to carve out rivers? Lovegood wrote that he’ll just keep on growing. How is that going to work with your plans to go to Muggle university? I suppose you could cast a Colour Change Charm to disguise the rainbow scales, but the size – that would be more of a problem. You could transfigure him smaller, perhaps? I don’t know a spell for that, though, or how it would affect a magical creature. All the ones I learnt in school were for changing Muggle animals.”

“It’s not a viable option,” Lupin said, shaking his head. “That’s why Crups have their tails docked rather than transfigured. The spell duration when enchanting or transfiguring magical creatures is too unpredictable. Some creatures – like giants, phoenixes, and dragons… and werewolves – are highly spell resistant and very hard to change at all.”

“I… don’t know what I’m going to do,” Harry admitted, flattening his hair down with his hands in distracted worry. “I guess I’ll have to find a snake-sitter – he gets on well with Millicent, she might help out. Or I could visit Storm on weekends… maybe build something on the grounds of Potter Manor. I might just set up a wizarding tent and commute every day – they all seemed pretty awesome and just as good as a house. Storm’s nocturnal so he sleeps most of the day away anyway. The grounds there are enormous enough that Storm could slither around happily when he’s bigger and hunt… rabbits or deer or something. He’s looking forward to eating kangaroos but of course we don’t have them here.”

“I thought you would send him back to live on a reserve in Australia when he was grown?” Sirius asked.

“I’d rather not,” Harry said slowly. “I would miss him. But… if he wanted to go I’d make it happen for him. As a holiday or permanently if he wanted. Maybe he’d like to find a lady snake and have a clutch of eggs, one day. He’s happy living with me for now, though. He loves his new big tank thanks, Sirius.”

“Glad to hear it! Well, your snake growing up is a problem for another day, so let’s get started with the tour!” Sirius said, and led Harry into the house. “Remember, as you’re underage you can’t use your wand here, it’ll set off an alarm with the Ministry we’d all rather not have to explain. Just ask if you need any help.”

The kitchen was full of modern appliances, with a fridge and modern stove. The cupboards were full of wizarding-style copper saucepans, however. The tiny wood-burning fireplace in the living room might be big by Muggle standards, but Sirius complained about it grumpily.

“It is much too small to hook up to the Floo, even if I wanted to, and you can’t even fit a proper cauldron in there,” he apologised. “There was a small sixteenth century castle nearby just out of town that I wanted to rent instead, but Moony said ‘no’. He thinks I need to budget more, and said it was ‘an unnecessary extravagance’. It was much nicer though, with six bedrooms, and turrets and everything. Very private. Not so convenient to town, of course. Here you can nip across the road to the pub for a pie and chips for lunch, which I must admit is nice. Neither of us are great at cooking. Moony goes in his disguise – he’s got a pair of glasses he adds when we go out. I tie my hair back and charm it to light brown – I was on the Muggle news a bit too much last year, and I don’t want to be recognised either. Not that I would get in too much trouble – the Ministry would sort it out if the police were called, but I would rather not be spotted here in the first place. Being here’s supposed to be a secret and I don’t want You-Know-Who or his followers to get wind of it.”

Mindful of the implicit hint about cooking, Harry tried calling for Dobby, who popped in only half a minute later, and eagerly agreed to make them all some lunch later. He looked a bit intimidated by the Muggle appliances, however, and started tugging at his ears anxiously and looked ready to bash his head on the cupboards before Harry grabbed at him and reminded him not to and what their rules were about asking for help when needed. Lupin volunteered to take him aside, and Harry left him gently explaining to the fretful house-elf how everything worked.

The lab room was everything Harry had hoped for and more. For chemistry he had a workstation bench set up with a Bunsen burner and a tripod, and against the wall were shelves full of glass beakers, flasks, and jars of chemicals. For his biology studies there was a good quality microscope, a set of scalpels, and a collection of slides. Copies of his correspondence course textbooks and some blank workbooks lined the bottom shelf, and a white lab coat was folded up on the shelf next to them, with some plastic protective goggles sitting on top of it. A plain oak desk was set up next to a sunny window with a view of the street outside, with a poster showing the periodic table was affixed to the wall next to it. Harry set his bag down on top of the desk and peeked in the drawers, which proved to be full of stationery – pens, highlighters, and a top of the range calculator.

“Is it alright?” Sirius asked, hovering anxiously. “I double-checked everything this morning, so there shouldn’t be any nasty surprises. I checked the bedroom upstairs too, twice – even though you probably won’t need it – it’s all fine as well, if a bit Spartan.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry reassured, and Sirius beamed.

Harry returned to Hogwarts hours later in the afternoon with biology worksheets full of labelled diagrams of cellular structures, and his first chemistry assignment done with his best notes about what had happened when he’d mixed up a solution with the formula written neatly underneath. Storm was draped around Harry’s neck, and had been sternly ordered not to bite Sirius even if he got a bit squashed as they were covertly Side-Along-Apparated back to Hogsmeade. Harry bore the trip as stoically as he could. He liked to think he was getting better at it, but maybe it was more that short trips were less taxing.

“I ate a butterfly and two crawling things,” Storm said conversationally, “but I like fairies better. I’m ssstill hungry.”

“You’re always hungry these days,” Harry said fondly.

Harry paused to thank and wave goodbye to Sirius, before continuing. “Which reminds me, Professor Hagrid was very impressed by Flint’ss presentation showing you off last year. He would like to borrow you for a ssseries of lessons with the sssixth-years next month. He promised he’d sssupply a range of creatures for you to eat, and the classs will sssupervise you hunting in the lake so nothing hurtss you. I lent him my booklet ‘For Carers of Rainbow Ssserpentss’ and my book on magical ssserpentss so he can read up on Wonambi and other sssnakess.”

“That sssounds nice. Afternoons only, though. I want to sssleep in the mornings.”

-000-

As Samhain approached, Pansy had an axe to grind with Harry, who she blamed for something that he insisted wasn’t his fault at all. They met outside on the grounds, where they could be assured of privacy by dint of being able to spot anyone approaching.

“There’s all these Muggle-borns joining our celebrations,” she complained. “Creevey’s been leaking like an old cauldron ever since you invited him to join us, and ‘secretively’ gossiping with people about a ‘secret society of pagan druids’. Someone had to get him to sign a contract just to get him to stop blabbing to everyone and anyone.”

“Nothing harmful, I hope?”

“Nothing too bad, he’ll be fine if he stays discreet,” Pansy said, waving a dismissive hand. “Of course his little brother is keen to join too, which Runcorn is not happy about. She let him in too even though he’s a Muggle-born, since others were pushing for it and his brother has proved some familial piety. It just keeps getting worse, though! Do you know Malcolm Baddock from Slytherin? First-year leader, pure-blood boy with big ears and short brown hair? He’s gone out of his way to invite Muggle-borns to join us! There’s a Hufflepuff Muggle-born, Branstone, who’s even worse than Creevey about staying quiet, and he’s invited her to join in the celebrations! And then he said she could invite some random half-blood Ravenclaw boy whom Branstone says ‘might be interested’! You can’t go inviting people from just any family.”

“Oh yes, Eleanor Branstone. A Wiccan, I believe. I kind of met her in detention. She recently asked me about Samhain, too – someone told her I was the person to talk to about that, since you Slytherins keep things in-House for Samhain. She seems very devout for what it’s worth. Don’t you want more people to join in? You wanted me to.”

“Well yes,” Pansy said, floundering a little, “but that is… you are from the Potter family.”

“With a Muggle-born mother and a Light-aligned father,” Harry said pointedly. “There’s nothing wrong with recruiting Muggle-borns. I think it’s a good idea.”

“You are my cousin, though,” Pansy said, “and besides, we did not just go telling you everything the day we met you. I am not saying we shouldn’t let Muggle-borns join in, it is just that these things should be done carefully over time! Secrecy is vital! Doubly so this year, with the Headmaster coincidentally filling up Samhain and the day before it with feasts that everyone has to attend.”

“Yes, it’s tough,” Harry sighed, “with the Welcoming Feast on Sunday and then the Halloween Feast the evening after which will surely run late with Tournament business. Plus, the Ravenclaws have Astronomy lessons after that late in the evening, anyway, so they can’t make it. And there’s Filch and the teachers skulking about everywhere cleaning things and checking on everyone. Thanks for helping to pass the word that non-Slytherins should just celebrate privately in their own rooms, this year. The club room was already booked out by Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn for a ‘Welcome to Hogwarts’ orientation for the foreign students early on Monday morning on Halloween, too, which I guess is fair enough. There are just no timeslots left though, which is a shame.”

“We are keeping things quiet in the Snake’s Den as usual for the Slytherin Traditionalists, but even then it is going to have to be a really short celebration this year,” Pansy complained. “We are used to having to work around the Headmaster’s machinations, but it is the Muggle-borns who are causing the most grief this year, I think. Branstone flatly refused to sign anything! She says faith should not be hidden.”

“Tell Branstone, ‘Never again the burning times’,” advised Harry.

“What does that mean? Is it a book? A quote?”

“It’s a phrase used by Muggle witches. It’s a reminder to avoid witch burnings at all costs, that that sort of persecution should never be allowed to happen again. You might also want to let her know that witches and wizards live longer than Muggles, and that for some it’s only a few short generations ago that people died. Neville says his Gran and his great-uncle have some scary stories from their own grandparents’ time. Let her know people are still nervous, and just ask her to be discreet for others’ sake. An appeal to emotion and friendship should work well on a Hufflepuff.”

Pansy sighed. “Muggle witches. I had never even heard of such a thing until recently. Perhaps it’s a Squib thing. It is all still a big mess, and this increased openness is so risky. Baddock is not being discreet enough, and Prewett in his year is a devout Christian who complained about how Hogwarts should have a chapel, and they are fighting constantly about religion. The prefects had to step in to make sure they keep it restricted to the dorms. Prewett complained to Slughorn, but thankfully he is on our side. He talked to both of them and it helped calm things a little, but there are still lines literally being drawn in the first-years’ dorms. They have divided up their rooms.”

“Surely she’s not the first Christian in Slytherin? There’s pure-blood Christians out there, I know that.”

“Well, no, she is not the first. There are a handful of them, though thankfully not many in our year. Sophie Roper is – snooty cow. She mostly keeps to herself, and that is fine by us. Zabini is a ‘Cafflick’,” Pansy replied, mangling the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word, “but he isn’t so annoying about it. He joins in the Samhain celebration in our dorm because he says he would never hear the end of it from the family ghosts if he didn’t, and he is polite about the other traditions he doesn’t follow.”

“Should you even be telling me all this? Doesn’t it breach your ‘no public infighting’ rule?”

“Well… technically it does. However, you are the Heir of Slytherin. You are regarded as an honorary Slytherin by just about everyone,” she said cautiously.

Harry nodded. “I figured it was something like that.”

Pansy tilted her head. “Have you stopped denying it at last?”

Harry sighed. “In private conversations, yes, I’ll admit I’m the Heir of Slytherin. In public… not so much. I won’t deny it, but I won’t announce it either; I still don’t like the attention. Apart from Parseltongue granting access to the Chamber of Secrets, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. Other people have special magical talents too, or are descended from Founders, like Smith.”

“Well, I suppose the Dark Lord made it a prominent and important thing,” Pansy said cautiously, as if wary of his reaction. “The Gaunt family were the last family who had known Parselmouths, but they were not particularly… esteemed for their talent. You know… this probably means you are related to him, or them.”

“Well, I know you researched my family already and couldn’t find anything connecting me to the Gaunts. And I didn’t see any Riddles in my family tree, either. If there’s a link it has to be pretty far back.”

“What riddles? What do you mean, like other possible Squibs? Or people who changed their names?”

“No, not like a puzzle. Riddle as a surname. You know, Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord.”

“That cannot be his name. He is a pure-blood,” Pansy said, sounding appalled.

“No, he’s a half-blood. Riddle’s not a name in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I haven’t heard it anywhere else, either. No, the Dark Lord’s name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he grew up in an orphanage in London, in World War Two.”

“What? When?” Pansy said, looking flummoxed. “How do you know all this? I thought Tom Riddle – Tim Rydel – was just a spirit trapped in the diary? Something like a portrait? Why do you think he’s the Dark Lord?! That doesn’t even make sense!”

“He grew up during the war with Grindelwald,” Harry explained, with a resigned sigh. Binns needed to be sacked. “I’ve talked with a painting or two, a couple of ghosts, a couple of teachers, that sort of thing. McGonagall and Snape both know who he is, and Dumbledore too. Maybe the Minister. Lord Voldemort is his Name of Power. He didn’t like his birth name.”

Pansy went quiet for a moment, picking fretfully at bits of grass on the lawn they were sitting on. “Am I allowed to tell people about this?”

Harry hesitated. “Technically you could, but it would be unwise. The Dark Lord works hard to keep the details of his background a secret; he wants people to think he’s a pure-blood. They’re saying in the paper that Lockhart is unlikely to ever fully recover his wits, and a lot of the scarring is permanent. He’s lucky to be alive. He’s gone home to his family, as they can’t do anything more for him at St. Mungo’s.”

“Why did you tell me about it, then?” Pansy cried.

“Well, you’re my cousin and my friend, and you asked. I’m trying to keep less secrets from people, and I believe I can trust you with this information.”

“Please do not tell him you told me about it,” she begged. “I am not going to tell anyone, I promise. This is dangerous, Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’m not in contact with the Dark Lord!” he lied.

Harry’s last letter had been sent only last week, requesting safety for Luna. He’d agonised over it – especially since Neville was his best friend – but Luna’s tears one lunch time had changed his mind at the last minute. He’d found her hiding amidst the library stacks, curled up into a ball and sobbing silently, clutching a crumpled letter from her father which begged his daughter to stay safe and out of trouble. Hopefully Neville’s safety could wait until the end of November, for his third pick after Hermione and Luna.

He’d buried his anxieties to write a courteous letter, chatting as requested about how his schoolwork was going. He wasn’t really sure that Lord Voldemort would be fascinated by his ramblings about how Switching Spells were less useless than most of the spells he’d learnt in Transfiguration thus far, Harry’s boredom in Charms class doing spells he’d already mastered, and how much he was enjoying brewing antidotes in Potions (even though he knew many of them already), but it was what the wizard had asked for. The Dark Lord had complained that Harry’s previous letter had been too short, verging on discourteous. So, this one was at least longer, if not particularly fascinating. He’d also succumbed to Storm’s nagging and added a postscript on Storm’s behalf asking for a tiny magical creature for his snake to snack on.

“You know he is alive then!” Pansy hissed.

“Yes. Though ‘alive’ might be pushing the definition. You know too, clearly. How open a secret is it?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps a third of Slytherin believe it. We do not discuss it openly.”

“Are they loyal to him, or scared of him?” Harry whispered.

“Would you tell me which you are?” she asked just as quietly, after glancing around to ensure they couldn’t be overheard.

“Scared, of course,” Harry admitted. “Trying to stay out of it all, and unsure if I’ll be able to.”

“Me too,” whispered Pansy. “I think our world is mostly fine as it is. I do not want a war.” She reached out and held his hand, squeezing it gently.

They sat together in silence for a while, just holding hands and watching the autumnal trees as a cool breeze swirled gold and russet leaves everywhere and admiring the ripples on the lake. Enjoying the moment of companionable peace while they could.

Chapter Text

October 1994

Halloween was getting closer and so was the Triwizard Tournament, which was all some students could talk about, even in the middle of Friday morning’s History of Magic class when everyone should theoretically be paying attention to Professor Binns.

Ron was leaning across the aisle to chat with Neville, while Harry studiously tried to ignore them while he worked on some of his correspondence studies, and also wrote a letter to Dudley patiently giving his best biology tips to his bewildered cousin on how to memorise the names for the different parts of cells, like how the ‘mighty mitochondria’ was the ‘powerhouse of the cell’, and how the ‘vacuoles’ stored waste like a vacuum cleaner and looked like holes. Dudley would remember ‘vacuum hole’ a lot more easily than trying to learn ‘vacuole’ all on its own – he had trouble remembering new vocabulary and always did better with mnemonics that let him build associations.

“The foreign students are coming tomorrow, and then it’s Halloween the day after. It’s going to be non-stop feasts and fun all weekend!” Ron gossiped loudly, eyes bright with anticipation. “Are you going to enter, Neville? I’m going to try – imagine, a thousand Galleons! The twins and Lee Jordan are going to as well, but I might as well try too, right? Honestly, I put a Knut on Johnson to win – better her than a snake or Diggory, but it sure would be nice to score the prize for the family!”

“Mr. Weasley!” snapped Binns, making Ron jerk to attention guiltily and Neville sit up ramrod straight with an apologetic look on his face. “Five points from Gryffindor! Kindly direct your attention to the blackboard and the giant rampage in Wales, and away from chitter chatter with your friend who is trying to work!”

Ron settled down, abashed and quiet, but he wasn’t the only student to lose points that class, for their professor’s oddly sharp-eyed gaze moved on next to Harry.

“Mr. Black. Mr. Black,” Binns repeated sharply, when Harry took a second to look up from his book before responding.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you reading in my class, Black? Five points from Slytherin! Put it away, Black.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!” Harry apologised, assuming a convincing look of repentance as he put his Muggle textbook away. Finnegan snickered in the background. He still found it hilarious every single time Harry got points taken off Slytherin. Finnegan had tried to convince Binns that he was in Slytherin too, but it didn’t seem to stick as well and Binns usually seemed certain that the Irish student ‘O’Flaherty’ was in Gryffindor.

“Mr. Black, kindly inform the class of the cause of the giant rampage in Wales in the eighteenth century.”

Next to him, Neville started frantically scratching out a helpful note with his quill, but Harry knew this. There was a bit about it in their stultifyingly dull textbook, and much more interesting information in the book on giants that Anthony had given him for his birthday.

“Encroaching Muggle farmlands led to giants preying on sheep, as the anti-Muggle and anti-giant wards on the border decayed too quickly after blood wards were banned. The wards eventually weakened enough that some of the ward trees were noticed and subsequently cut down by Muggle farmers, not knowing of their importance. The Ministry was more reactive and less proactive back then, so it was up to the wizarding sanctuary’s landholders to preserve the Statute and maintain the wards, and they didn’t want to spare the expense for Masters in Ancient Runes to look after their wards often enough.”

Binns blinked puzzledly at him. “An interesting guess but incorrect, Mr. Black. The cause of the giants’ rampage was the death of their chief or ‘Gurg’, Crygyn the Mighty. Their chief was killed by the terrified Muggle Cariadoc Jones in retaliation for the slaughter of their farm’s flock of sheep.”

“Well that was a trigger event, but it wasn’t the primary cause,” argued Harry. “The underlying cause was actually the decay of the sanctuary’s wards, and a lack of prey animals within the sanctuary boundaries. That’s what Scamander argues in his book The Giants of Britain, and it sounded pretty convincing to me.”

“I have never heard of this so-called historian or his work,” sniffed Binns.

“Well he wrote it after you died; it’s quite a recent publication – only ten years old. He mostly writes about magical creatures. Scamander says it was a horrific slaughter of an endangered species, and not much of a ‘massacre’ when only two wizards and four Muggles died, compared to the genocide of an entire tribe of over sixty giants whose only real crime was hunger.”

Harry lost another ten points from Slytherin (eliciting another muffled snort of laughter from Finnegan and Ron) for his too-casual dismissal of the deaths of people in favour of giants. Harry spent the last ten minutes of class obediently reading their class textbook and making actual notes on Binns’ lecture, with a resigned sigh.

“Did it seem to you like Professor Binns was paying a lot more attention in class today?” Harry mused out loud to Neville and Hermione as they headed to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“He seemed quite alert, didn’t he?” said Hermione. “I can’t pretend I’m shocked you weren’t paying attention in class, as I’m actually more shocked you knew the material well enough to argue with him about it. Can I borrow your book on giants? I haven’t seen it in the library, and I’m almost finished with the Ancient Runes book. The information about Ogma was fascinating, thanks for passing it on!”

“Sure, I’ll dig it out for you. The runes book is from Professor Babbling’s private collection, so it needs to go back to her as soon as you’re done. Interesting symbology with Ogmius – Ogma – wasn’t it? With the chains enslaving people who were made to be happy about their servitude?” Harry asked, in a leading fashion.

“Very much so! I feel like it might provide an interesting lead to thinking about house-elves. I’m going to look into it some more, including a Latin source text if I can find a copy. Will you help me with some translations if I can’t find it in English, Harry?”

“Of course! I’d be happy to do my part.”

“Thanks! I think it could really help with our research, learning about ancient enslavement spells!” she chattered brightly.

Neville gave Harry a nudge and an enquiring look, and Harry answered his unspoken question with a swift nod.

“Say, what were you actually working on in class today instead of history?” Hermione asked curiously, oblivious to their subtle byplay.

“A TMA for Biology. I have assignments piling up again, and History is a great quiet study time,” Harry said, without a trace of shame.

“You should be more careful until after Halloween,” Neville advised. “After that Binns’ power will wane and he should go back to normal.”

Neville’s two best friends turned and stared at him. A little first-year Ravenclaw ran into Harry’s back when he stopped suddenly and peeped an anxious apology before scurrying off.

“Um. Ghosts are stronger at Halloween?” Neville said, his lack of confidence turning it into a question rather than a statement as his friends stared at him. “When there is more of a connection to… you know… Heaven, or the Summerlands, or stuff. So, his mind is more focused?”

Hermione sighed. “There’s so many things no-one writes down. I’ll add it to my list – I don’t know as much about ghosts as I’d like. I still can’t believe Mr. Sayre insisted my and Greg’s book needed cuts when there’s so many more things that need to go in it! Well, it can go in the sequel.”

“Huh,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Well, that makes sense.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Hermione agreed, a faraway look in her eyes. “So Binns and the other ghosts will be more focused… mentally stronger around Halloween? That’s on Sunday. Will the effect last until Tuesday? We won’t see him again until then, and there’s actually some questions I’ve been wanting to ask him for ages – this might be a good time for it.”

“Yes, it should be fine to wait until then. It is strongest on Halloween itself, but umm… I believe he should still be pretty focused on Tuesday too.”

“It’s the new moon around Tuesday too,” Harry chimed in, “and the dark of the moon is particularly suited for any magic involving ghosts or the dead, and the full moon can actually be quite good too. Not the middle phases, though.” Someone had been very persistent in his letters in instructing Harry about the more arcane applications of Astronomy.

Neville gave Harry an odd look, which made Harry shrug uncomfortably, but Hermione just looked intrigued.

“Fascinating! I will have to talk to Greg about it all. Anything else about wizarding culture that I’ve missed lately and I really should have known about?” Hermione asked Neville and Harry, lead pencil poised to jot down a note as they resumed walking. She used a quill in class but had snuck some Muggle pencils into Hogwarts for emergency notetaking.

Neville shook his head. “No. Um. Yes, actually, now you mention it. The thing with his name that Harry does in class? He really shouldn’t do that so often,” Neville suggested quietly.

“Do what? Get points off Slytherin? Come on, it’s awesome,” Harry wheedled. “Personally, I think it just makes up for years of Professor Snape taking points off Gryffindors for breathing loudly.”

“Thank you, Neville,” Hermione said with a smile. “Impersonating a Slytherin – it’s against the school rules you know, Harry.”

“Well yes, it is… but no, not that is not the real problem,” Neville said, hefting his heavy shoulder bag back up as it started to slip down as they dodged around other students in the crowded corridor. “I mean he should not take on a false name. If you do it too often, it can cause problems. Or be a real name.”

“What?” Harry said.

“Oh, you mean it could cause him Arithmantic problems,” Hermione said, perking up excitedly at that titbit of information, which she scribbled down in her notebook as they walked. “Do you know anything else about that?”

“No? Just that you can get extra names if enough people start using a name, and then it affects your magic or something. It doesn’t have to be bad, though.”

“Like how you can sometimes need a new wand if you formally change your name?” Hermione asked eagerly. “Don’t you have to formally renounce your old name as part of a ritual? I thought you had to marry or take a Name of Power like Professor Sprout did, before a name change affected your magic.”

Neville shrugged, and scrambled to catch his shoulder bag as it tried to slip down again. “Sorry, I don’t know anything more than what I already said. You know I’m not doing Arithmancy.”

“So, I could become Antares Black, from the point of view of post owls and spells?” Harry asked. “But only Professor Binns calls me that, and not very often.”

“No-one else ever?” Neville asked.

“No, well… maybe a couple of others but not often,” Harry said, thinking of how Professor Snape had caught him out, and how Flint had called him that too. Walburga’s portrait had increasingly insisted his surname was ‘Black’ by the end of his stay with Sirius. Did the opinion of a portrait count, magically?

He wondered quietly if being called the Heir of Slytherin was affecting his magic. “Hey Hermione, would you write me a summary of what happens with your magic with a new name or title, if you’re researching it? And how easy it is to accidentally magically add an extra name?”

“I’m not doing your research for you!” she said indignantly. “If you’re worried about being called Black or the Heir of Slytherin, look it up yourself!”

“Sorry, no, of course you don’t have to do my work for me. I just meant if you’re researching the topic anyway I’d like to hear what you learn,” Harry explained. “However, if you prefer, I can dash off to the library and nab all the books on Arithmancy and names myself before you can get to them…”

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione cried in outrage, brown eyes wide in warning.

Neville chuckled quietly as Harry grinned teasingly, and Hermione reached out to slap playfully at Harry’s arm. Harry dodged away with a laugh.

“Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help, help! I’m being repressed!” he called out, which made Hermione laugh and call him a “bloody peasant”.

Neville was bewildered and frowned disapprovingly at her, until they’d explained the Muggle Monty Python reference.

-000-

At dinner on Saturday evening, the Headmaster rose to make some announcements.

“For those of you who haven’t seen the notice in the Entrance Hall, let me remind you that tomorrow evening the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at Hogwarts. All students must assemble in front of the castle at six o’clock to greet our guests prior to the Welcoming Feast, attired tidily in school robes, cloak, and hat,” Dumbledore said.

“I also have some additional exciting news. Thanks to overwhelming and admirable inter-House support and the diligent fundraising efforts of a number of students, I am pleased to announce that this year’s Hogwarts Quidditch season has been reinstated!”

As Dumbledore spoke, excited anticipatory whispers grew into a tremendous outpouring of cheering and clapping. Hufflepuffs were laughing and hugging each other, while the Ravenclaws were applauding excitedly. At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George Weasley had gotten up and were dragging the other members of the Quidditch team and their friend Lee Jordan into a victory dance while gleefully chanting, “We did it!” over and over again. Harry got dragged into it too, as Ron pulled him up and into the mess of happy people. Glancing over at the Slytherin table Harry saw a few Quidditch team members like Draco and Peregrine smugly holding court as badge-wearing members of their House congratulated them. Millicent was clearly overcome by emotion and was ignoring the hovering people trying to congratulate her too as she sobbed her happy tears into Pansy’s shoulder and was gently patted on the back by her friend.

“Of course, the season will of necessity be compressed into a shorter time-frame than usual to allow for the demands of the Triwizard Tournament, but Madam Hooch and some diligent students have come up with a plan that will suit all parties,” the Headmaster added, after the cheers had died down.

“Parties? SQUID VICTORY PARTY IN THE CLUB ROOM TONIGHT!” one of the Weasleys yelled excitedly at top volume, to a roar of Gryffindor approval, and some interested cheering from other House tables too.

-000-

The Gobstones Club had been perfectly willing to sacrifice their booked time in favour of letting the SQuid club hold a massive inter-House party on Saturday evening, and Harry wasn’t the only student who went to breakfast on Sunday morning looking tired and haggard – many were still recovering from the previous night’s celebrations. Some of the older students had even smuggled in some Butterbeer and Firewhisky to share covertly, though Harry had abstained from that when it was slyly offered around.

Despite Harry’s abstention the night before, he was nonetheless significantly grumpier on Sunday morning than the average student, even those with hangovers. He snarled at Neville when his friend offered to pass him some eggs. He snapped angrily at Hermione when she started interrogating him about whether he’d really stuck just to pumpkin juice the night before.

His friends eventually exchanged meaningful looks – which made him scowl even more – and left him alone to eat in sullen silence.

Ron, however, didn’t at first notice Harry’s black mood when he eventually stumbled down late to breakfast, robe crumpled like he’d just scooped it off the floor from where he’d dumped it last night, and his red hair still messily unbrushed. Ron sat down next to Hermione, and started loading up his plate with bacon, toast, and kippers. Percy’s owl Hermes swooped down with a letter for Ron, which he opened right away. His face lit up with happiness as he read his letter while chewing on some toast.

“Hey, Harry!” he said excitedly, a few crumbs escaping his mouth as he spoke.

Disgusting, Harry thought, with a mental sneer.

“What?” Harry said curtly.

“Percy said he’s definitely still got his job! He even gets to be the Acting Head of his Department, at least until they’ve picked someone new to replace Crouch! He is coming to the Welcoming Feast tonight, and everything!”

“Of course he’s bloody keeping his job!” snapped Harry. Did Ron think Percy didn’t write to him? Percy was his friend.

Ron stared at him, eyes wide and goggling in what Harry found a very irritating way.

“What’s with you this morning? It’s great news! Percy’s been worrying about it.”

“Nothing. I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all.”

“What?”

Harry huffed in irritation. “It’s just a Muggle expression, Ron. I woke up angry. You know, how sometimes you wake up in a bad mood, or a good mood, for no reason.”

“I know the expression, but mate…” Ron replied hesitantly, “you don’t need to bite my head off.”

“It’s no excuse for bad behaviour,” Hermione chimed in primly, “and you shouldn’t take your mood out on us. It’s just a saying, Harry. People don’t really wake up in a foul temper for no reason. If it wasn’t ah… the party… did you sleep badly, perhaps? Or have a nightmare?”

Harry froze for a second. It wasn’t normal? No, of course it was, or there wouldn’t be a saying for it. It was just maybe a bit worse than usual, today.

“I did have a bad dream,” Harry volunteered, after a moment’s thought.

“What was it about?” Neville asked curiously.

Harry tried to dredge up some hazy fragments from his memory. “I don’t remember all of it. I remember I was somewhere dark and damp, and someone had stolen something precious from me. It was mine, and they’d stolen it. I had a plan coming up and it was all ruined! They’d taken it and it was ssspecial to me, and they had no right to destroy what belongss only to me! They even boasted about it! I was ssso angry with them!”

Harry’s hands clenched in remembered anger as he retold his half-forgotten dream through gritted teeth. He remembered being incandescently furious in his dream, he’d wanted to kill whomever had stolen from him. He wanted to make them pay and for some reason he couldn’t. He didn’t remember why, or what they’d taken. Mostly he just remembered the feelings of helplessness and of overwhelming fury. He still felt angry.

“Uh, Harry, did you know you were hissing in Parseltongue?” Neville asked. “We missed everything after ‘they’d taken it’.”

“Oh. Sorry, Neville,” Harry said, taking deep shuddering breaths, determinedly reining in his anger so that he wouldn’t snap at his friend. “Just more of the same. They stole something and boasted about it, and I was angry with them. That’s all I remember. I know it doesn’t sound so bad, when I say it out loud. But in my dream, it was the worst thing in the world.”

“Have you been reading The Hobbit lately?” Hermione asked thoughtfully.

Harry shook his head. “No.”

The Dursleys had never approved of Harry – or Dudley for that matter – reading any fantasy books. He’d vaguely heard of the book and knew there were proper elves in it not house-elves which were more like brownies, but that was all.

Ron gave Harry a sympathetic look. “It’s alright, no hard feelings, then. I know how bad dreams can mess you up. I had a dream last week that Percy drowned in a giant vat of honey and mum cried because she couldn’t pull him out. It was too silly to even use for Divination homework, but it still uh… it still made me cry when I first woke up.” He rubbed at the back of his freckled neck, looking flushed and embarrassed as he ducked his head.

“How’s your family doing?” Hermione asked, concerned. “How are you coping, Ron?”

“I am going alright,” Ron said, with a grateful smile at her. “Percy is doing great, like I said earlier. Bill has healed up alright – thanks again, Harry – and has gone off to work for Gringotts in Egypt, where laws against all kinds of shapeshifters are less strict, thank Merlin. He’s not going to be home in England much now, I guess. He says they’re sending him to somewhere in Africa, next. There’s lots of werehyenas in Africa, though not many werewolves. Still, it helps, apparently. People are used to them there, and some of the witches leading werehyena clans have gotten more rights for their people.

“Dad’s out of hospital, but he’s lost his job now it’s confirmed he’s a werewolf. That cow Umbridge has his old job, though there’s been a bit of a shake-up in the Ministry. Dad’s Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, the Hit Wizards, a committee or two, and the Muggle Liaison Office from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes have all been combined into the one big new office within the DMLE. It’s the ‘Muggle Management Office’ now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Hermione said, with a frown. “I don’t like it at all. What I’ve read in the Daily Prophet about Umbridge isn’t at all promising, either. She’s very bigoted against werewolves and is clearly a blood purist.”

“Very worrying,” agreed Harry.

“Well, I have to get going,” Ron apologised, making a hasty folded sandwich of his last bits of toast and bacon. “New Gryffindor Keeper, you know! I have to get to practice.” His chest puffed up with pride.

“We know,” Hermione said, sounding amused. “Everyone was announced last night at the party. Congratulations again, Ron! See you at the Welcoming Feast, I guess.”

Ron waved a cheerful goodbye as he scampered off towards the Quidditch Pitch.

Harry was the next to leave. “I’d better get going too. I have meditation practice with Draco, then private study to do.” Down in the Chamber of Secrets, as he often did. Ambrosius didn’t admit it out loud, but Harry knew he loved being visited, even if Harry was just quietly sitting nearby doing his homework or correspondence studies.

Harry and Draco met up outside in the grounds, as planned. Filch was roaming around the castle snarling at students with muddy shoes or anyone who dared to touch one of the freshly polished suits of armour. It wasn’t very conducive to private meditation.

“You don’t have Quidditch practice today?” Harry asked Draco, as they went to find a secluded patch of lawn that wasn’t too damp to settle down on, or rather, one that could be easily made dry with a judicious spell or two. It was cold but clear – a nice change from the past couple of days of drizzling rain.

“Slytherin has the pitch after lunch. Gryffindors, then Ravenclaw, then us, and the ‘Puffs have the evening before the foreign students arrive,” Draco explained. “With only a few weeks until the first match, everyone is in a tizzy to get in as much practice as possible, and we are all on a tight schedule.”

“Ready to start Occlumency practice?” Harry asked, after they’d dried off some grass to sit on. The ground was steaming slightly from the charm, which probably wasn’t great for the lawn, but at least their robes would be dry.

“Yes. No. Harry, do you know why Granger is still giving me the cold shoulder?” Draco asked, as he sat down and carefully arranged his robes so they wouldn’t crinkle up. “I offered my apologies about leaving her out of the ball and the garden party, but she is still barely talking to me, and keeps making excuses to leave our table at the library whenever I am there.”

Harry sighed. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Obviously, or I would not be asking in such a Gryffindor fashion. Pansy already told me she does not know why Granger is snubbing me either.”

“You could ask Hermione.”

“I tried. She won’t talk to me,” Draco said, sounding very frustrated. “She is not yet sending me to Coventry, but it is rather close to that.”

Damn it, Harry thought frustratedly. I hate being caught in the middle of these things.

“You could ask Millicent?”

“Come on, Harry!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you,” Harry said. “It’s not just being snubbed over summer, or you never using her first name. It’s worse than that. She thinks your father is a Death Eater. She knows about the Wolfsbane at your tent door at the Quidditch World Cup.”

Draco went very still, and his face was calm. “My father is not a Death Eater.”

“Where was he at the World Cup then?”

“Guarding mother and I inside our tent, of course.”

“Really?” Harry said, scepticism thick in his voice. “Are you sure he wasn’t off with Greg’s dad, wearing a mask and having ‘fun’ with some Muggles or some Aurors?”

“My father was busy protecting our family,” Draco said stiffly, staring at Harry.

Harry stared back at him. “That part I believe. I believe he wants to keep you and your mum safe. But what about you, Draco? Where do you stand?”

“Where do you?” Draco snapped back. “What is this, are you a Hufflepuff now? You do not talk about such matters, Harry! Do you want to confide in me openly and honestly about your attitude to the Dark Lord? You never have before!”

Draco barely waited for a moment’s hesitant and abashed silence from Harry, before nodding decisively and adding, “I did not think so. So drop it – do not demand from me what you are yourself unwilling to offer. We are too young, anyway. It is not our fight yet, and we do not truly get to decide anything for ourselves. Well, maybe you do a bit, but I do not, at least. So if we both stay out of it as much as we can, we remain friends and allies - amici. Right?”

There was a note of pleading and insecurity at the end of Draco’s speech, that Harry couldn’t help but respond to. He didn’t want to lose their friendship either and he honestly didn’t really want to talk about the Dark Lord either. What was there to say that would do any good? Nothing. “Right. Friends.”

“Good,” Draco said, sounding very relieved. “Well, let us begin our Occlumency, then. Father sent me a letter with a guided visualisation to try and use, to better build up mental defences against Legilimency or the Imperius Curse. A stone wall guarded by dragons.”

It wasn’t the subtlest redirection of a conversation that Draco had ever employed, but Harry was happy enough to cooperate.

“I don’t think I’m ready to try building active defences yet. I asked Snape about it in a letter, and he agreed I need to keep working on clearing my mind. So, I’m going to try a couple of the element-based exercises from Barnett’s Guide to Advanced Occlumency,” Harry said, happy to move to a less contentious topic. “I’ve usually been using a sky image as my mind-clearing image, but someone told me I’m more likely to have an earth or water affinity than air, so I thought I’d try something different today and see if I can find an easier visualisation to hold in my mind.”

The boys closed their eyes and slowed their breathing. Harry let his anxieties and residual anger all wash away on the imaginary lapping waves of an ocean shore.

-000-

As dusk fell that evening, the entirety of the Hogwarts students and staff assembled ready to greet the foreign delegations. There had been a lot of speculation about how they’d arrive, and some impatient lectures from Hermione about how Hogwarts, A History explained that you couldn’t Apparate on Hogwarts grounds, and only the Headmaster could make Portkeys work within the ward boundaries. Ron, of all people, had argued successfully with her, pointing out practically that his oldest brothers had both learnt how to Apparate in class lessons at Hogwarts, so there had to be a way to do it.

The Beauxbatons students and their headmistress arrived first, as students tucked their cloaks around them in the chill air as dusk fell. The tiny first-years were standing at the front of the assembled Hogwarts students, and were the first to spot the giant object hurtling out of the sky towards them at breakneck speed.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first-years.

“No it’s not!” Dennis Creevey squeaked excitedly. “It’s a flying house!”

“A flying house? I hope no-one here’s wearing red shoes,” Hermione said, with a grin at Harry.

Her grin slid away disappointedly as Harry looked just as mystified as Neville did. “You haven’t seen ‘The Wizard of Oz’?”

“McGonagall said we could wear some red to show House pride,” Neville said, uncertainly. “However, I don’t think anyone has red shoes on?”

“How about ruby slippers?” Dean Thomas asked, with a wink at Hermione, which made her laugh.

“It’s not a house, it’s a giant carriage!” someone called out.

“Look at the size of those pegasi! What are they, Granians?”

“Of course not, look at the golden colouring! They have to be Abraxans!”

There were a dozen palomino pegasi with fiery, red eyes drawing the Beauxbatons carriage, all were the size of elephants with hooves larger than dinner plates. They landed right in front of the assembly at breakneck speed with an almighty crash, but the carriage seemed either robust or enchanted enough to endure the treatment and bounced to a stop without any damage.

A boy in a pale blue robe hopped out of the carriage first, holding the door open for his Headmistress to alight. She was the largest woman Harry had ever seen in his life – only Hagrid had her beat for sheer size, and that was in bulk rather than height. Aside from their size the two couldn’t be more distinct in appearance, however. Hagrid always wore rough linen and leather, with his hair and beard a giant tangled frizz around his face, while Madame Maxime was the epitome of grace as she glided forwards to greet Dumbledore. She wore a long black satin robe, her hair was pulled back in an intricate and tidy chignon at the base of her neck, and opals glittered at her neck and on her thick fingers.

A dozen Beauxbatons students in their late teens, both boys and girls, stood shivering in their thin blue silk robes as their Headmistress chatted with Dumbledore about the proper care of their pegasi, and everyone waited for the Durmstrang students. A couple of them had wrapped up in scarves for a little extra warmth – Harry wondered why they didn’t have proper cloaks as part of their school uniform. Didn’t it get cold in the Pyrenees in winter? Perhaps the school – whose precise location was a mystery to the British, at least – was in a warm valley. In any case, the chill of late autumn in Scotland was obviously a shock to the students. Perhaps Beauxbatons was magically heated. Could the Hot-Air Charm be set on a building?

The Beauxbatons students and Madame Maxime all went inside out of the cold, which seemed wise, while the Hogwarts students politely waited for the arrival of the exchange students from Durmstrang.

Finnigan was right in his muttered guess – the other school clearly wanted to make a dramatic entrance as well. It reminded Harry a little of the tents at the Quidditch World Cup – everyone wanting to show off to each other.

They arrived via what Hermione excitedly whispered must be a large-scale Portkey, in what Harry was sure had to be a heavily enchanted boat. It rose up out of the Black Lake, from the middle of a magically-created whirlpool. Their ship looked eerily skeletal, with tattered sails and dim misty lights at the portholes. It looked more like a ghost ship than something anyone in their right mind would want to sail in anywhere, and it glided towards the bank without the need for any wind to fill its damaged sails. It was solid enough, though, and the students disembarked via a gangplank to the shore without any fuss. Their Headmaster, Professor Karkaroff, was a thin older man with a white goatee who wore a sleek silver fur cloak, while the eleven students following him wore rougher cloaks of shaggy, matted brown fur over the top of their deep blood-red robes.

An excited babble of whispers erupted from the Hogwarts students as they followed the Durmstrang students into the warmth of the Great Hall, particularly amongst those wearing colourful House ‘SQuid’ badges (which remained popular accessories with the Quidditch ban still only very recently lifted).

“It’s Krum!”

“He’s here! There, with the thick eyebrows!”

“Hmph! His eyebrows are perfect.”

“Do you think he’ll join in some matches? I heard someone wrote to him!”

“Do you think he’d sign my hat with a lipstick?”

Sadly, the hopes of Quidditch-mad Gryffindors like the Weasleys, Jordan, and Johnson were all dashed when Krum and the rest of the Durmstrang students settled down at the Slytherin table. Draco, Vincent, and Greg all looked particularly smug as Krum sat down right next to their group.

“They should have sat here,” moaned Ron jealously. “We could have been eating dinner with Viktor Krum!”

“The Slytherins set aside room at their House table for guests,” Harry said, with an uncaring shrug that earned him a brief scowl from the Quidditch fans. “We didn’t. It was a smart idea to welcome them by making room.”

“Cunning and sneaky, you mean,” Ron grumbled.

At Hermione’s recommendation, Harry helped himself to some bouillabaisse, a seafood stew which was one of the many foreign dishes that the house-elves had cooked for the most sumptuous feast Harry had seen yet at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was certainly out to impress that evening. All the students were neat and tidy, and pets – specifically including potentially terrifying snakes – had been banned from the tables, which were set with plates and bowls of solid gold. Freshly cleaned House banners adorned the walls behind the students’ tables, and there was a banner displaying the united Hogwarts crest on the wall behind the teachers’ table. The Durmstrang students seemed to be admiring the golden plates, and the twinkle of stars seen through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, but the Beauxbatons students still seemed to be suffering from the cold temperature and looked disinclined to admire their surroundings.

The Beauxbatons students had settled down at the Ravenclaw table, which didn’t cause the sighs of regret that the Durmstrang students’ selection of their host House table had. At least, not until one of the Beauxbatons witches came over to the Gryffindor table to ask for one of their dishes.

“Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” she asked, gesturing at the tureen in front of Ron, her eyes flicking covertly over to Harry who was sitting nearby. She’d unwound her thick blue scarf as she’d approached, which she’d previously had wrapped around her neck and head almost like a muffler. Her long silvery-blonde hair and deep blue eyes seemed to have more than a few people enthralled by her looks as she approached. Harry knew to assign the credit to her Veela ancestral powers rather than to looks alone, however, and felt sympathy for Ron who was turning purple and reduced to making a faint gurgling noise, rendered totally unable to speak in the beautiful girl’s presence.

“Hello again, Miss… er… Delacour, wasn’t it?” Harry was pretty sure that it was the same young woman who’d accidentally enthralled him at his book signing in Lutèce, but he wasn’t completely sure. He didn’t want to look closely enough at her face to tell.

“Yes, ‘ello again, Mister Potter. The book of your patron was very interesting.”

“That’s great to hear. We’ve served ourselves some soup already, it was very nice, though I’m afraid it may be getting a little cold now and may need a warming charm. You’re welcome to take the tureen if you like,” Harry said politely, thinking hard of an empty and peaceful ocean shore and trying to avoid looking directly into her eyes for too long. He’d read that helped with Veela allure a little, just like it did for resisting vampires’ allure and for preventing Legilimency attacks.

He welcomed her to Hogwarts in French. “Vous pouvez vous servir s'il vous plaît, et Bienvenue à Hogwarts. J'espère que vous appréciez votre séjour ici.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Th-th-the cabbage r-rolls are v-very nice too,” Neville volunteered with a notable stammer, blushing as he stared at their visitor. Ron gurgled wordlessly and nodded his agreement as Neville clumsily pushed the tray of mince-stuffed cabbage rolls swimming in milky gravy towards her, knocking over a little pot of tartly sweet red berry sauce as he did so. Neville looked mortified as he tried to mop up the spilled jam with a linen napkin. His efforts mostly just helped the red stain spread across the formerly pristine white tablecloth.

“Zat is not French cuisine. I sink maybe it is from ze Kalmar Union,” Delacour said with a haughty sniff, looking down her nose at Neville. “Something for ze Durmstrang students.”

“You’re so right; the soup was much better,” Ron said breathlessly, finding his voice at last. However, Harry knew that in fact Ron hadn’t tried either dish, having stuck to more ordinary fare like steak-and-kidney pudding.

Hermione let out a harrumph and cast a cleaning charm on the tablecloth to get rid of the berry stains. “Boys,” she muttered in irritation, as the girl went back to the Ravenclaw table with the tureen of bouillabaisse.

Ron started waxing lyrical to Finnegan and Neville and anyone who would listen about how beautiful the girl was, and how gorgeous Veela were in general (once the origin of her beautiful allure was pointed out to him).

Neville mumbled an apology to Hermione and his thanks for her help and started dishing himself out a generous serving of various desserts, avoiding looking at or talking to anyone.

Wanting to try something new even though his beloved treacle tart was on the table too, Harry nabbed himself a couple of chocolate-drizzled profiteroles, and a glass filled with a layered dessert of granola, cherry compote, and whipped cream. Eating dairy was still a novelty for him and filled him with quiet rebellious delight.

“She’s a Veela, or rather, a part-Veela. So she can’t help the reactions she causes,” Harry said, in half-apology to Hermione on Fleur’s behalf.

 “You were fine. Did you know her?” Hermione asked. “You knew her name.”

“Yeah, but only a little. I met her and her family briefly at a book signing in Lutèce. She has a wizard father.”

“Oh, Lutetia? Your trip to magical Paris?”

“Yup! So that helped – I knew to avoid eye contact and try my best Occlumency. Though it wasn’t really enough at the Quidditch World Cup, with so many of them. Anyway, I’ve been reading up on Veela – I bought a book on them in France. Apparently, they’re the harpies from Muggle Ancient Greek legends, though you should note that in wizarding culture it’s a social faux pas to call them that. ‘Harpy’ is used specifically for their fire-throwing bird-like form, and over time has become quite the insult, so they generally prefer ‘Veela’ now. It’s short for ‘Samovila’, which is the Bulgarian term for them. They call them just ‘Vila’ in Yugoslavia, so I think that’s where we Brits got our term from.”

“Did you know, Harry, that Yugoslavia broke up into separate states a couple of years ago?”

“Did it? Sorry, I don’t know a lot about Muggle politics anymore. As for wizarding history and geography… well, you know. Binn’s not exactly teaching us anything modern, or any geography apart from British, and not much of that. I only know bits and pieces of how wizards divide up the world.”

Harry got stuck into his dessert while Hermione served herself some blancmange.

“Why do you think a Veela is going to Beauxbatons?” Hermione mused. “I would have guessed she would go to Durmstrang, if Krum is there. Veela are Bulgarian too, after all.”

“Her family seems French, though, so there might be a language barrier. Or perhaps the Durmstrang Institute doesn’t admit students who are part goblin or Veela, like Beauxbatons does. They let vampires and werewolves into Durmstrang, but I don’t know about other races?”

“Do you think there’s a Veela enclave in France?”

“Oh! Yes, I bet there is, I know they spread out, but I don’t know how far. Maybe they like the warmer weather in France? Veela don’t like the cold, and Durmstrang is somewhere in Scandinavia, which has to be colder than France surely, even if Beauxbatons is in the Pyrenees. There’s still a large population in Bulgaria, though. I read that Veela there don’t even like to move around much in winter – they practically hibernate all winter in an all-Veela village in Bulgaria called Zmajkovo.”

Hermione looked at Harry and smiled slowly. “You know, my parents used to despair that I’d ever make friends, with the way my nose was always stuck in a book. But you’re almost as bad as me, aren’t you? You know I’m going to need to borrow that one too.”

“It’s not really a bad thing to read though, is it?”

“I don’t think so, obviously. So, what else do you know about Veela? Are they really all women? How does that even work?”

“Parthenogenesis while in their bird-like harpy form,” Harry said. “Not that the author called it that, but obviously it is, since the daughters that they hatch from eggs are identical in every way to their mothers. In their human form Veela can uh… they’re compatible with wizards or Muggles. But usually the children don’t inherit the ability to change shape, in such cases. They keep some of their mother’s allure, but that’s about it. I suspect it becomes like a recessive trait.”

They chatted for a while longer about Veela, and how it was rumoured that their supernatural abilities weren’t as strong as they used to be centuries ago when they spent almost all their whole lives in their bird forms, until Neville drew their attention to the fact that the speeches were about to start. Harry was pleased to see Percy Weasley sitting up there. Percy was introduced as the ‘Acting Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation’, which had him blushing brightly as he got him some House-proud cheers from the Gryffindors and a smattering of applause from other students.

Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, got a much louder round of applause, famous and popular former Beater that he was.

The whole hall went completely silent as the Goblet of Fire was brought out, and everyone gazed at the cup as he held it up. It was a large, roughly hewn wooden cup, and would have been entirely unremarkable, had it not been full to the brim with dancing, blue-white flames. Harry wondered how old it was, and what the enchantments on it were. Ancient ones, no doubt, perhaps similar to those on the Sorting Hat. The Tournament had been going on for centuries – they hadn’t even held a Triwizard Tournament for the past two hundred years, according to Hermione.

Every ear was pricked attentively as Dumbledore explained about the Tournament. “The Tournament will consist of four tasks demanding magical skill, daring, and deduction. The Triwizard champion will be the entrant with the highest points total after the fourth task, and will win a thousand Galleons for themselves, and their school will have the honour of hosting the next Triwizard Cup in four years’ time. Small prizes will be awarded to second and third place champions.

“Tomorrow on Halloween one champion from each school will be impartially chosen by the Goblet of Fire from names submitted over the next day as the ones most worthy of representing their schools. This is a contest strictly for our older students who are both highly capable and willing to enter a binding magical contract. I will be placing an Age Line ward around the Goblet to prevent our younger students under seventeen from yielding to temptation.”

“A few drops of Ageing Potion should take care of that, hey George,” Fred Weasley said, with a determined glint in his eye. “Once your name’s in, you’re in, if it’s a ‘binding magical contract’ like the Headmaster said. Do you want a vial too, after we brew some, Harry? You’re entering too, right?”

“Hey! What about me?! I’m your brother!” Ron objected stridently.

“I doubt anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” said Hermione. “None of us are NEWT level, and one or two spells at that level won’t be enough if it comes to a duel.”

“Speak for yourself,” George Weasley said shortly.

“We owe Harry for years of help,” his twin said to Ron. “You we owe nothing, and in fact we promised mum we’d keep you out of trouble, ickle brother.” He ruffled Ron’s hair, and Ron scowled back at him.

Harry’s mind danced briefly with visions of the whole school cheering for him, before he shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I mean, it might be nice to win, but it would be pretty dangerous. Good luck to you two if you enter it, but… be careful, alright?”

“Careful as a fox in a henhouse,” promised the twins in chorus, each with a wink, as the Gryffindors all pushed away from the table and headed for their dorms.

Ron and some of the other Gryffindors were eager to catch another glimpse of Krum, and the press of bodies heading towards the Slytherin tables pulled the less fan-struck students along with them.

They caught up to the Durmstrang students at the door and got to overhear Karkaroff offering some mulled wine to Krum but refusing it to Poliakoff, another of the Durmstrang boys. The Durmstrang Headmaster froze in place when he caught sight of Harry, eyes locked onto his face, and his famous scar. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought the man looked almost frightened. Some of the Durmstrang students were staring at him too. Poliakoff, the boy who’d missed out on wine, nudged a red-robed girl next to him and was whispering and pointing openly at Harry’s forehead. Harry flattened his fringe down over his forehead and tucked his pointed hat down more securely.

“Yeah, that’s the famous Harry Potter,” growled a voice behind them.

Professor Karkaroff spun around, colour draining from his face as he stared at Mad-Eye Moody in fury and fear.

“You!”

“Me,” said Moody grimly. “Unless you have something important to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move along. You are blocking the doorway.”

“I shall be watching you, Karkaroff!” Moody warned, as the wizard hurriedly led his students away without another word. He glared at Karkaroff’s back, a look of intense dislike on his mutilated face. Harry wondered what that was all about.

-000-

Lots of people were up early on Monday, eager to have a look at the Goblet of Fire before classes began. It had been placed in the centre of the hall atop the old wooden stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line of tiny glowing runes had been magically imprinted on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around the stool and goblet. The Hall itself had been redecorated for Halloween, with convincingly realistic animated bats flitting around the ceiling and displays of carved pumpkins everywhere.

Draco waved to Harry as he saw him enter with Neville, calling them over to where he stood with Daphne, Greg, and Vincent, watching the flickering flames of the Goblet and the crowd of other students.

Hermione wasn’t with them as she hadn’t met Harry and Neville on time in the Common Room that morning to go down to breakfast – the two friends guessed she’d stayed up late reading again, as she often did whenever she had a new book to devour. Mornings were a trial to a late-night bookworm.

“Our Chaser Warrington put his name in at dawn since he’s just had his birthday and is old enough,” Daphne gossiped excitedly, “and Derrick put his name in just a few minutes ago.”

Harry glanced around and saw Derrick sitting over at the Slytherin table, enjoying his breakfast. Harry caught his friend’s eye and gave him a wave and a cheerful thumbs up as he mouthed “good luck”, which got Harry a brilliant grin in return, lighting up Derrick’s plain features with happiness.

“All the Durmstrang students put their names in earlier, which makes sense, otherwise why would they all bother to come?” Draco asked rhetorically.

“I think Krum will win,” Vincent said confidently.

“Being good at Quidditch might not be enough to win,” argued Daphne.

“It shows Krum is magically strong, to be such a good flier,” Neville replied, startling Vincent with his unexpected show of support. “He must be good at classes too, or he would not have bothered to come with the Durmstrang students. He has a successful Quidditch career, so it cannot be the money that draws him. He must truly think he can win.”

“They’re saying Diggory is the best chance for Hufflepuff, and Turner from Ravenclaw. Our Head Boy has to be in with a chance, after all!” Daphne babbled.

“I would agree on Turner, but I think McManus from Hufflepuff,” argued Draco, “the reserve Beater. I know his name is in, and he’s rumoured to be doing excellently at non-verbal casting. Who would you bet on from Gryffindor, Harry?”

“Johnson said she’s going for it, so I think she has the best chance. DADA is one of her best subjects, and gossip says she’s doing well in Care of Magical Creatures too. Hermione says there’s usually a lot of dangerous magical creature challenges in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan are trying for it, though they’re a bit too young,” Neville volunteered, gesturing to where the trio had strutted over to the circle.

“They will never make it to the centre,” Draco said confidently.

“They brewed some Ageing Potion overnight,” Harry said. “They’ll make it.” They’d covertly offered some to him, just in case his prior refusal had been due to their offer being made in public, but he’d turned them down again.

“They won’t.”

The twins looked like they’d made it for a second, both leaping over the glowing circle, but just as one yelled in triumph there was a sizzling sound and they were magically thrown back ten feet and landed on the cold stone floor with a painful thud. They also sprouted long white beards, which got a lot of laughs from the surrounding students.

“Told you so. The same thing happened to Fawcett from Ravenclaw just ten minutes ago,” Draco said cheerfully. “Her beard did not end up as long as theirs, though.”

“Summers from Hufflepuff got caught too,” added Daphne. “He is only in fifth year, so I doubt he would have had a chance at winning anyway.”

“Excuse me, I’d better go check on the Weasley twins,” Harry said, bustling away. Lee Jordan was escorting his limping friends up towards the hospital wing, howling with laughter in a distinctly unsympathetic manner.

“Got anything for bruises, Harry?” one twin asked, wincing as he walked.

“Or injured pride?” added the other.

“Sorry, my Healer bag’s up in my dorm room,” Harry apologised. “Nothing broken, I hope?”

“The beards are tremendous,” Jordan laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You would have earned yourself one too, if you hadn’t been lagging behind,” the more injured twin grumbled.

“We are fine, but do you have anything for wounded pride? Hey, tell me how amazing our attempt was, and how we almost had it,” whined the other twin.

“You were amazing, you almost had it,” Harry reassured. “I’m sure you’ll manage to get your names in. What are you going to try next?”

“Next?”

“That’s it, that’s all we had.” The two walked along with hangdog expressions.

“Maybe they’ll hold it again next year, now it’s restarted?” Jordan offered. “We’ll get it another year.”

Harry tutted in disbelief. “Pranksters like you giving up? I’ve seen your growing list of inventions in your ads you hand out in the common room – you’re making up an inventory of novel potions the wizarding world has never seen. They’re amazing! And I’m saying that even though a few too many students have been brought to me with bloody noses that won’t stop running. Madam Pomfrey says to send all your test subjects or people with bad reactions directly to her in the future, by the way. If you really want this, don’t give up! There’s a dozen ways you could try to get past the Age Line. You’ve only tried one.”

The trio stumbled to a halt. Fred and George exchanged a look and turned as one to Harry and said in pleading tones, “Teach us, o son of Prongs!”

“Sirius told you about their uh, prankster names, huh?” Harry asked, with amusement.

“He’s our patron!”

“He’s going to fund us starting a joke store when we graduate and has invested in our mail-order business until then.”

“He’s the master of merriment, the jester of japes!”

“A white sheep among the black, a king among men. And you, the son of the great and ignoble Prongs!”

“Slayer of serpents and Healer of the hurt! Hero to the… something else beginning with h!”

“Out of lines?” the other twin asked sympathetically.

“I blanked. All I had was ‘hairy’.”

“You should have gone with ‘helpless’.”

Jordan snickered at the duo.

“So, Prongs Junior, what are your best tips for getting past the Age Line?” the injured twin asked more seriously, bruises temporarily forgotten as he leant in close, eager for Harry’s answer.

“Wellll… you should stop thinking so much like Gryffindors, for starters. You don’t need to march straight up and cross the Age Line. The goal is to get the paper slip in the Goblet, that’s all. You could get someone to put your name in for you–” Harry started.

“No-one would go for that and miss their own chance!”

“Surely not everyone in seventh year wants to go in the Tournament. I wouldn’t if I was a seventh-year – the Tournament’s not as important as NEWTs. Also, you could try sending an owl. Errol’s pretty old – is he over seventeen?”

“I think he might be!” one of the twins said excitedly.

“Thanks, Potter! What else have you got?” Jordan asked eagerly.

“Scrunch the paper up and throw it in, it’s only ten feet. If it doesn’t work, just summon the paper ball back and try again. Or make a paper aeroplane,” Harry suggested.

“Fred! What about that charm to animate a message bird!” George added eagerly. “The one they use on paperwork at the Ministry! That might do it, especially if it’s fast enough! The Age Line took a few seconds to react, after all.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds good! Also, runic wards are often a ring, rather than a dome. If you need to put the paper in the cup yourself, you could try getting up high – maybe levitating each other – and then lowering yourself across and down. Oh, and you could try making a runic amulet to get you past the wards, oh… but that would take a lot of study of the ring’s wards and I don’t think you’ll have the time.”

“I doubt we will, and besides, we took Arithmancy and Divination, not Ancient Runes,” said Fred.

“It is a pity we’re not Animagi, the wards might not recognise us like that,” mused George, as they all resumed their progress towards the hospital wing. “A plan for another day, perhaps. How about human transfiguration? What if you’re not human when you cross the Age Line? Oh! A Canary Cream might do the trick!”

They brainstormed ideas in excited whispers all the way up to the hospital wing. “‘Think Slytherin’, hmm… Let’s see if we can get a pass to go late to our first class!” Jordan suggested. “That will give us more time to try things unobserved in the hall while everyone is in the classrooms!”

Madam Pomfrey sighed as soon as she saw Harry walk through her door. “What have those rapscallions dosed people with this time?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, young Poppy,” a twin said, striding forward from behind Harry. “You should respect your elders!” He stroked his luxuriously long white beard to emphasize his point, which evoked an unwilling snort of laughter from Madam Pomfrey.

“Ah, so you are the victims today, rather than the culprits. Well, I have had three others through this morning thanks to the Headmaster’s little joke. ‘Twill be easy enough to counter.”

“They have some bruises too, Madam Pomfrey, at the very least. They landed hard on the stone floor when the ward flung them out,” Harry volunteered. “Say, while I’m here anyway, did you find that book you mentioned with good pain relief charms?”

Madam Pomfrey charmed away the twins’ beards with a practised twirl of her wand and a muttered charm and directed them to sit on some beds. They seemed happy to wait for further attention and went into a huddle with Jordan to plot their next approach to reach the Goblet of Fire, while Madam Pomfrey led Harry to her office.

“Here you go lad, I borrowed it from a friend at St. Mungo’s, so mind you bring it back safely,” Madam Pomfrey said, passing Harry a thick, leather-bound tome marked with a blue-tasselled silk bookmark. “I have marked the page for you. However, you must remember that such charms are for the most grievous of circumstances. Stunning Charms – while your patient is lying down of course – are a better first choice, or a Sleeping Draught if the patient has a weak heart. The charms in this book act to numb an area so no pain is felt at all, which means your patient may ignore their wound and injure themselves further by trying to do too much. Pain is the body’s message to rest and heal and should not be ignored.”

“But surely no-one would try to walk on a broken leg, or anything?” Harry objected.

“Always assume your patients are idiots,” Madam Pomfrey said, with a resigned snort and a weary shake of her head, “and you will rarely be disappointed. That goes double if Quidditch is involved in any way.”

Harry nodded obediently.

“Now, mild pain relief potions such as Stomach Soother Potions and Headache Relievers are alright so long as there’s no serious underlying cause, and they’re not used in conjunction with anything else, or for too long. Remember, Potter, that diagnosing illnesses and combining potions are jobs best left to Healers or mediwitches and wizards. It is far too easy to cause a dangerous imbalance of the humours that can injure your patient.”

“I can combine a charm with a potion, without worrying about possible side-effects, though?” Harry asked, trailing after her with his borrowed book, as she returned to the overly innocent-looking Weasleys. She cast a couple of charms on them before sending them on their way, with a tiny jar of Bruise Balm for them to apply themselves as needed. Persuaded by their pleas, also gave them a pass to arrive late to their first class.

“You can combine charms and Healing potions so long as it is not a charm that affects the humours, like Tarantallegra,” Madam Pomfrey said, as if there hadn’t been a long pause between Harry’s question and her answer.

“The Dancing Feet Charm? Isn’t that just a joke or duelling spell?”

“Not originally. It was originally crafted to cure spider and scorpion bites – it increases the level of sanguine humour in the patient and separates the venom from the blood by heating it up. You should note that it is forbidden to use that particular spell on Muggles or Squibs, as it acts as a contagious curse when cast on them and causes the dancing disease Paracelsus called ‘choreomania’ to spread to any other nearby Muggles.”

“Did that happen a lot?”

“It used to. The charm was used for centuries on the old stone Circles and was also a very popular property ward. However, it was banned from use in wards or on Muggles in the seventeenth century, with the wave of reforms protecting Muggles brought in during King Charles’ reign.

“Off to breakfast with you now, young man. I do appreciate your enthusiasm, but I usually only work with seventh-years who want to earn a reference for a Healing Apprenticeship. I do understand your love for Healing, and I know people are coming to you for aid but please, send them to me. That is my job.”

Harry shuffled his feet embarrassedly. “Sometimes people need help right away, or no-one’s around. Like at the Quidditch World Cup. I do send people to you at Hogwarts, when I can. Honestly, I do! I sent Midgen to you, and that girl with the broken arm, didn’t I? And the first-years with nose bleeds?”

Poppy’s kind blue eyes softened as he spoke. “Yes, you are doing fine, Potter. It is just a reminder. I understand why you are anxious, which is why I am helping find you advanced Healing charms. Just remember that they are for emergencies, that is all. I do not want you numbing a friend’s broken leg so they can keep playing Chaser in the middle of a match, no matter how much they plead, or dulling the pain of an Acromantula bite someone gained when sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest. The former could see them worsen an injury, and the latter could be fatal.”

Harry nodded. “I guess sometimes people are coming to me when they don’t want to get in trouble. I promise I’ll be responsible.”

“Good. Off you go now! Happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween!” Harry echoed obediently, as he left. Hopefully it would be this year, with nothing more dangerous in the offing than another feast and the selection of the Triwizard champions.

Chapter Text

31^st October 1994

The Triwizard Tournament was almost all anyone could talk about on Halloween, and eventually even Harry and Hermione succumbed to the inevitable and gave up their attempt at having a quiet study session in the library in favour of chatting with their friends. They only had an hour or so of free time before the Halloween Feast was due to begin, so Harry figured it wasn’t too much of a loss and packed his books away. Hermione left hers out, however, and Harry suspected that she was using “I have to study” as an excuse to avoid talking to anyone she didn’t want to socialise with. She seemed quite willing to be interrupted in her note-taking by Harry, Neville, Greg, Luna, or Millicent.

Anthony and Tracey were the only others in their group with books still out, but the couple were using them as cover to pass notes back and forth to each other that they were both grinning secretively over.

“We have only got four entrants for the Triwizard Tournament from Slytherin, that I know of,” Daphne said. “There may be some entrants aren’t announcing that they put their names in, however. The safe money is on Derrick or Warrington.”

“Is that a lot of entrants? It does not sound like a lot,” said Luna. “Ravenclaw even has a couple of younger students entering too, though I am bemused as to how they managed it.”

The newly clean-shaven Weasley twins had given Harry an excited thumbs up at lunch time, from where they were sitting with a huddled group of Gryffindor sixth-years. Harry was pretty sure that a few Ravenclaws weren’t the only ones who’d found a way around the Age Line’s restrictions.

“Gryffindor has a lot more students entering,” said Neville. “At least half of the seventh-years, and a few of the older sixth-years. Should the Slytherins not be more ambitious and want to win?”

Draco made a scoffing noise. “The prize money is pitiful for the risk entailed, and as for the alleged fame? The most famous Hogwarts Triwizard Tournament champion is probably Agnes Brown, who got bitten by a Malaclaw during one of the tasks. Her subsequent exceptional run of misfortune ended with her being eaten alive by a tribe of Erklings in the third task after she broke her wand. It is the last known Erkling death – they were supposed to be practically extinct.”

Harry paled. “That’s horrible. Hogwarts should really just host an inter-school cricket tournament instead.”

“Cricket is a Muggle sport that is a bit like competing teams of landbound Beaters who take turns trying to score the most points by hitting an ordinary ball and running back and forth,” Greg abruptly told Draco, who looked confused. “They have to protect their goal which is some sticks poked in the ground. It is very popular with Muggles in England and some of the colonies.”

“Hmph. Sounds odd and interminably dull. Quidditch would be better-” Draco said. He cut himself off as he glanced in Hermione’s direction, even though she didn’t appear to be paying attention to their conversation.

“Well anyway, there is a reason the Tournament has not been held for two hundred years. Too many deaths. If you ask me, you would have to be an idiot or desperately poor to go in it, but please do not tell Derrick I said that,” Draco said. “He cannot help his family’s situation.”

As the group headed down to the Great Hall, they were joined by Theodore Nott, who slid into place to walk just behind Harry, next to Luna. Occasionally studying or walking together through the halls was one of the negotiated conditions of their show of friendship. Harry still didn’t know what Theodore should do in return for such concessions and was just holding a major favour in reserve for the time being.

They bumped into Ron, Finnegan, and Thomas in the corridors on the way to the feast, and Ron’s face was beaming with excitement.

“Hey! Guess what? I got my name in the Goblet of Fire! It changed from blue flames and spat out proper red sparks and everything! I am in!”

“Really, how did you manage that? Neville asked, amazed.

“A little owl told me how my brot… some other underage students got their names in,” Ron said, with an overly obvious wink in Harry’s direction. “So, I used one of their rumoured tips! Imagine – a thousand Galleons!”

Harry knew he hadn’t told Ron how to enter, but it seemed confirmed that the twins’ attempts to put their names in the Goblet had been both successful and gossiped about.

“You can’t just go breaking the rules like that,” tutted Hermione. “The Headmaster set an Age Line for a reason! It’s too dangerous, and you are too young.”

“That’s just a dumb new rule, now,” Finnegan said, in defence of his friend. “It used t’ be open t’ any age!”

Draco smirked at Harry, then turned to Ron and said with a straight face, “I think you would be a perfect Triwizard champion, Weasley, you are just the right type to enter! You might be the next champion to win unexpected fame for Hogwarts!”

Ron narrowed his eyes suspiciously, suspecting a hidden insult but unable to spot it.

“Thanks, I guess, if that wasn’t sarcastic,” he muttered. “Wish me luck, then?” He gave Draco a challenging look.

Draco smiled brightly. “Good luck, Weasley. I hope you get in and end up even more famous than the renowned Triwizard champion Agnes Brown.”

Harry grinned despite himself as the Slytherins and Anthony muffled their snickers, and Ron smiled tentatively at the highly unexpected display of carefully straight-faced support.

“Thank you!” he said politely.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered. “Foolishness all around.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” Draco said happily, as Ron left.

Ron wandered off to the feast trailed by Hermione who was trying to talk him into somehow withdrawing his entry, with a total lack of success on her part and increasing irritation on his.

-000-

The Halloween feast was just as much of a treat as ever, but it was lingered over more than usual as most of the students were waiting impatiently to hear who would be selected as champions. A lot of people were craning their necks – or even standing on chairs – to see if Dumbledore and the other officials at the top table had finished eating yet. Karkaroff and Percy Weasley had eaten their dinners with brisk efficiency, but Madame Maxime and Ludo Bagman were still working their way through full plates, and Dumbledore was lingering over the remnants of his meal while he chatted brightly with everyone.

There were also two new visitors at the head table that Harry didn’t recognise. Gossip from some of the older students who’d done their OWLs identified the wrinkled white-haired witch in a purple robe as Professor Griselda Marchbanks, who always oversaw the Charms and Transfiguration exams, and a few others too as needed. She was rumoured to be tough but fair, tolerating no nonsense or excuses, and used an enchanted gold ear trumpet during exams to hear students’ incantations as she was going deaf. The other visitor wasn’t recognised by any of the nearby Gryffindors. He was an old white-haired wizard in a blue suit with a waistcoat and he was chatting amicably with Professor Hagrid.

Finally, when it was almost time for the names to be picked by the Goblet of Fire, Dumbledore rose at last and the students hushed as he explained how the champions should come up into the chamber behind the staff table after their names were called.

He also introduced the new guests at the table. “Mr. Bagman and Mr. Weasley have worked diligently to select some experienced and impartial judges for the Triwizard Tournament. Mr. Bagman is the first of our three judges. He is the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and his experience as a Beater for the English National team and Wimbourne Wasps and almost twenty years of being a guest match referee for various Quidditch matches, the National Gobstones Tournament, and duelling tournaments should stand him in good stead as a Triwizard judge.”

There was polite applause as Bagman stood up and waved, before Dumbledore resumed. “Professor Griselda Marchbanks, Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, is our second Triwizard judge. She has six Masteries in various subjects and has been scrupulously and impartially assessing Hogwarts’ students’ magical skills for over a century now.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he added, “You can be sure she is good at her job because she gave me an ‘Outstanding’ on my Transfiguration and Charms NEWT exams many years ago!”

Marchbanks stood and nodded her head in recognition of the polite applause. “Thank you, everyone. Remember to study hard this year, if you are preparing for your OWL and NEWT exams!” she said loudly.

“The third judge is someone whose name you may recognise if you are studying Care of Magical Creatures due to his renowned expertise in the field for decades. Please give a warm welcome to the world-travelling famous Magizoologist and author, Mr. Newt Scamander!”

The man ducked his head shyly as the hall applauded for him and waved awkwardly from where he was sitting.

“Our younger students may look forward to potentially competing against some students from more schools than just Beauxbatons and Durmstrang in four years’ time, as Mr. Weasley has nascent plans to expand the Triwizard Tournament and guide it into becoming a true global Tournament with a number of additional schools competing next time.”

The younger students were excited by that news, while many of the fourth and fifth-year students sighed that they were just the right age to miss out on all the fun of both Tournaments.

Percy, Harry noticed, looked particularly smug and proud. Harry remembered that in Percy’s last brief letter he’d mentioned that he was working very hard to prove how capable he was as Acting Head of his department in hopes of retaining the position on a permanent basis.

“Quiet now, please! It is time to see who will be selected by the Goblet of Fire to be this year’s champions.”

Dumbledore waved his wand and extinguished all the lights in the Hall apart from the dim flickering candles inside the carved pumpkins, and the brilliant blue-white flames coming from the Goblet of Fire.

They all waited with bated breath as the Goblet’s flames turned suddenly red, just like it did when a name was dropped in. Sparks began to fly from the goblet and a tongue of flame shot into the air, and a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it – the whole room gasped.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” Dumbledore read, after catching it, “will be Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupted in cheers and calls of support, and Krum slouched past the staff table and entered the chamber behind it.

The flames flickered back to blue, then returned to red as the Goblet shot out a second piece of parchment, propelled by flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

Despite not having Krum’s international fame, she also got a rowdy chorus of cheers and noisy applause from the Hogwarts students, especially the male ones. Two of her fellow Beauxbatons students, however, had burst into tears, while some others looked deeply disappointed as they clapped politely but unenthusiastically.

Under the cover of the applause and chatter about the selection for Beauxbatons, the Weasley twins took a few last-minute bets from excited Gryffindors on who the Hogwarts champion would be.

“A Sickle on Johnson!”

“Done. Thanks, Bell,” a twin said, writing down her name and bet on a parchment sheet with a scratchy quill.

“A Galleon on myself, Cormac McLaggen,” a blond fifth-year said proudly.

“You got it! Got your name in, hey? Good luck!”

“Two Sickles on Diggory!”

“I won’t take that bet, he didn’t put his name in,” a twin whispered apologetically. “I heard his poor mum begged him not to enter, saying it was too dangerous.”

“Oh. Well, two Sickles on Derrick, then.”

The whispered bets died down, and the expectant silence was so thick you could almost touch it, as they waited for the announcement of the Hogwarts champion.

The Goblet flamed once more, and from the tip of a tongue of flame Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

“The champion for Hogwarts is-” he started, then suddenly stopped speaking as he stared at the slip in his hands, while everyone in the room stared at him, as if trying to collectively will him to hurry up. 

“-Harold Potter.”

There was a moment of startled silence, then a tremendous roar of triumph erupted from the Gryffindor table. A swell of cheers and applause came from the other tables too, especially from the Slytherins who sounded almost as excited as the Gryffindors at Harry’s unexpected selection as the Hogwarts champion.

“Harry? You put your name in?” Neville asked, yelling over the din.

“No! I didn’t! I wanted a quiet, normal year!”

“I wish it had been me,” Ron said wistfully. “Oh well. Well done, Harry! Levitation Charm to get it in, right? That’s what I did.”

“I didn’t enter my name!” Harry insisted.

“Didn’t you? Well we did!” a Weasley twin called excitedly. “We put your name in for you, Potter, since we thought you might not have time left to do it without being spotted!”

Johnson gently punched the Weasley twin on the arm for that. “Hey, what about me?”

“Come on, Angelina, no call for violence, you wouldn’t want me punching you now? I didn’t actually think he would beat you to the spot!” the twin pleaded, rubbing his arm and pouting. Neither of them seemed truly upset, so Harry didn’t worry too much about their byplay.

“Oh dear!” Hermione said, chewing her lip worriedly. “Well… good luck, Harry!”

Bracing with hunched shoulders against a gauntlet of back-slapping and handshakes, Harry walked down the Hall in the gap between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, with people congratulating him on both sides.

Colin Creevey was one of the excited hand-shakers, and piped in an excited whisper, “I overheard some of the Weasley twins’ tips, and I bribed a Slytherin senior to put your name in!”

His face lit up even more as he added, “Hey! I’m going to win so much money on the betting pool!”

His Slytherin friends congratulated him as he passed too, though Draco seemed less enthusiastic about it than the others.

Theodore gave him a knowing nod and raised eyebrows, but Harry had no idea how to interpret that – it could mean anything. Maybe he was trying to say a simple, “Congratulations, Harold!”, or maybe it was, “Good job cheating to get in, you’re a true Heir of Slytherin!” with a distinct possibility of, “I put your name in the Goblet for you to repay that favour I owed you! You’re most welcome!” There was no way to know without asking him, and he didn’t have the leisure to do so right now.

After what felt like an age, Harry finally reached Dumbledore.

“Well… through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t smiling.

As Harry closed the heavy wooden door behind him and entered the small antechamber lined with paintings of witches and wizards, he heard the muffled sounds of a raucous burst of laughter and cheering from back in the Great Hall. He hoped people weren’t joking and laughing behind his back at him being chosen.

“You?” Fleur Delacour said, turning from where she stood next to a roaring fireplace. “You are ze ‘Ogwarts champion? You must be brave but your are just a little boy!”

“I guess so. A couple of people put my name in for me – I didn’t do it myself. I don’t mind pulling out if they want to try again to redraw an older champion,” Harry said, with an uncomfortable shrug.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then tossed back her silvery hair with a smile. “Well, I sink you should stay in. You fought ze Basilisk very bravely.”

Harry looked away from her, blushing against his will. He looked at Viktor Krum’s surly face instead, whose thick eyebrows contracted as he pondered the matter.

“You just want a two-school race,” Krum rumbled accusingly to Delacour. “He is too yunk for dis competition. He should be replacet by en older student.” His thick Bulgarian accent put an abrupt trill on his r’s and a throaty hiss on his h’s, but overall his grammar was good and Harry found it wasn’t too hard to understand him.

 “I’m right here, you know,” Harry said, a little irritated, “and I already said I’m fine if they want to do a redraw. I didn’t enter myself – someone put my name in for me without telling me. Two people at least, maybe more.”

“Sorry,” Krum said shortly, looking uncomfortable. “I dit not mean any offence.”

“I don’t sink zey can replace you-” Fleur said, cutting herself off as a procession of teachers entered the room.

The Headmasters and Headmistress of the three schools came in first, followed closely by the three Triwizard Tournament judges, Percy Weasley, and Professor McGonagall.

Percy looked almost smug at Harry’s selection, giving him an approving nod and a wide smile, but his restrained response was overshadowed by Bagman’s, who looked thrilled to bits. Bagman was the first to push forward to shake Harry’s hand, while the other two champions were congratulated by their respective heads of their schools.

“Extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary!” Bagman said eagerly.

Dumbledore shook Harry’s hand next, and said calmly, “Congratulations, Mr. Potter. May I ask, did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, or ask someone to do so for you?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. Though I do suspect a couple of people may have put my name in on my behalf, without my asking them to.”

“I don’t know whether to congratulate you or take twenty points from Gryffindor,” McGonagall said with a rueful shake of her head, but the broad smile on her face suggested she was favouring the former option.

“The papers had your name in your own handwriting,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t do it, I said that already. But… I did autograph a lot of books this summer, and a handful of photos. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone to get a hold of my signature.”

“Your age line does not appear to ‘ave been very successful for ze defence,” Madame Maxime said. “Ze boy’s name even came out of ze Goblet two times. Someone was very determined to see you as ‘Ogwarts’ champion, Monsieur Potter.”

Twice? Harry thought puzzledly.

“Professor Moody, as our head of security for the Tournament, is examining the Goblet now to see how that happened,” Dumbledore explained, sounding a little embarrassed. “He suspects the interference of an adult wizard is responsible for the second drawing, which should not have been possible.”

“I’m sorry, Professors. I really didn’t enter myself as I had no wish to compete. As I’m too young for the competition I’d be genuinely happy to withdraw in favour of an older Hogwarts student who might have more chance of winning,” Harry said, crossing his fingers behind his back in the hope that he’d be able to pull out of the competition.

“You would truly prefer to withdraw, then?” Dumbledore asked, eyebrows raised.

“I sink it would be good,” Madame Maxime said approvingly. “Monsieur Potter is too young and would not have a chance against Mademoiselle Delacour! ‘E can be badly ‘urt in ze challenges.”

McGonagall harrumphed in disagreement. “I would not rule him out so easily! Potter is quite precociously talented in many of his subjects, and a very brave lad! If he didn’t have a decided chance at winning, he would not have been selected by the Goblet. The enchantments are ancient but reliable.”

Harry hunched up his shoulders. He didn’t really believe that was true. It was probably just his usual bad luck, and because his name had been entered more than once the odds had been higher that he’d be picked. “Yes, sir, if it’s possible. I was hoping for a quiet year. Sorry.” As much as it was possible to have a quiet year, anyway, with two versions of Lord Voldemort and a handful of Death Eaters and killer werewolves out there on the loose.

“Interesting,” Karkaroff said, with a native British accent. He watched Harry carefully, with narrowed eyes. “Fascinating, even.”

“The Goblet of Fire uses a form of Divination to pick the candidates from their schools most likely to succeed, you know!” Bagman added excitedly. McGonagall smiled and winced, pleased by his support but no doubt irritated by the reference to Divination, which she wasn’t in favour of. “Potter must simply be destined to be the best candidate from Hogwarts.”

“His name should still not have come out twice, however,” Percy said. “Something odd is going on, but I am sure Professor Moody will get to the bottom of it. You are right of course sir, that Harry will no doubt have an excellent chance in the Tournament.”

Harry gave him a little smile in thanks for his support.

Professor Moody clomped into the room and immediately went over to Dumbledore for a whispered conference.

“Mr. Bagman, Mr. Weasley, is there any way to choose a new champion for Hogwarts?” Dumbledore asked, a moment later.

“I don’t believe so. Weasley, you’ve had your nose in that rulebook for months, what do you think?” Bagman asked, turning to his young colleague.

Percy shook his head slowly. “I cannot see any easy way out of it. The drawing of a champion’s name forms a binding magical contract. The Goblet of Fire’s enchantments are very old and complex magic, an interweaving of charms, runes, and Arithmancy that has the Department of Mysteries very impressed. The consequences of withdrawing are unclear but likely to be dire. In addition to which the Goblet has now gone out and will not be able to be relit for at least another two or three years; it needs lengthy ritual exposure to moonlight to regain its power. Even should Ha… Mr. Potter manage to withdraw safely Hogwarts would be left without a champion.”

Harry looked around the room at the expectant faces. Karkaroff and Maxime looked like they might be fine with that plan, but clearly all the other adults would be disappointed.

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll do my best then,” Harry promised.

Bagman looked very excited at Harry’s capitulation, and rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Well then! Let us get started!”

At Dumbledore’s nod Percy cleared his throat, and announced, “The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the assembled students and a panel of the three Triwizard judges.

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept direct help of any kind from their teachers or any sources outside their schools to complete the tasks in the Tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. A clue will be given about the nature of each of the upcoming four tasks, but only one clue at a time.”

“Mr. Scamander, the clue for the first task, if you would be so kind!” Bagman said.

Mr. Scamander tugged at his blue frock coat to straighten it, then stepped forward and said softly, “Good luck to all three of you.”

Scamander handed each champion a gilt-edged rectangle of parchment with the clue allegedly written down on it. It was completely blank. That was an easy puzzle to solve, however.

“Aparecium,” Harry murmured softly, tapping the parchment with his wand to reveal invisible writing. The other two champions were doing similarly, Krum slightly ahead of Delacour who copied the other two.

Glittering gold calligraphy appeared on the page which read: ‘Brought forth in anger, I have no legs and yet I dance. Food I demand, but I never drink. The unborn need me, but you must shun me.’

The adults chatted amicably for a while about gathering for a nightcap, while the students got officially acquainted.

“Uh, Harry – Harold – Potter,” Harry said, introducing himself a little awkwardly, in the face of a Quidditch celebrity and an almost literally stunning, beautiful young woman. “You flew excellently at the World Cup, Krum.”

“Tenk you. I em Viktor Krum, et your service, but you knowink det already, I guess,” the older boy said gruffly, but not unkindly. In his thick Bulgarian accent his surname sounded a lot like ‘Kroom’.

“You are de ‘Boy Which Lift’, correct? I tink you must be sometink special, to be your school’s chempion et such a young age. Is it true you are a Parselmout?”

Krum didn’t get Harry’s title quite right, but Harry could figure out what he was trying to say and didn’t want to embarrass the other boy by commenting on that particular error.

“Uh, yes. I don’t really think I’m anything that special, though. Well, being a Parselmouth is quite a rare talent, I guess. Storm – my snake – wanted to come to dinner, but Professor McGonagall didn’t want him at the special feasts in case he scared our visitors.”

“I em not scaret of pet snakes,” Krum said, with a casual shrug. “How about you, Miss…?”

“–Fleur Delacour. No, I am not scared eizer,” she said, with a determinedly raised chin. “I ‘ave finished reading your book, Potter – ze one Lockhart wrote about your adventure with ‘im in ze Chamber of Secrets. Could I visit ze legendary Chamber while I am ‘ere, perhaps?”

Harry glanced away from her haunting blue eyes and fluttering lashes. “I’m afraid not – the Headmaster has the entrance warded to keep everyone out. It’s still quite a dangerous location with animated guard statues.”

“Well, I shall ask ‘im about it, zen,” Delacour said, not seeming put off by his refusal. “Perhaps an exception can be made.”

Harry doubted it but saw no need to argue the matter; Dumbledore could do that.

The adults went off for drinks not long after that, while the students were sent off to bed. Well, almost to bed. Harry was waylaid by an excitable herd of Gryffindors the moment he set foot inside the Common Room, and the blast of noise almost knocked him backwards. There was joyous screaming, applause, and piercing whistles for their champion.

Everyone wanted to congratulate him, stuff him full of food and drinks, and hear about the first clue for the Tournament. Colin Creevey and Fred and George Weasley were all excitedly claiming credit for entering Harry into the Tournament, which at least had the redeeming value of convincing most people of Harry’s statement that he hadn’t in fact entered himself, though he did admit to sharing tips on how to get past the Age Line with the Weasleys. No-one seemed to have an idea about how his name had come out of the Goblet twice, but everyone thought it was a good trick, and so hilarious that even grumpy old Moody looked like he might laugh for a moment there, before he’d gone all serious and hobbled over to talk to Dumbledore. Students down the end of the table had overheard his paranoid discussion of suspicious Dark magic influencing the Goblet of Fire, and Moody’s insistence that his help would be needed to provide more security on every aspect of the Tournament.

No-one wanted to let Harry head off early to bed to study or open his mail or sleep, and he couldn’t admit to wanting to sneak off to make Samhain offerings to his parents’ spirits – he’d have to try and do something hasty at midnight. So he succumbed to the inevitable and tried to relax and enjoy the attention and the far-too-frequent hearty backslaps and handshakes. It was nice to feel so… accepted. Everyone seemed so happy and proud of him, and gradually under the warmth of their approving and excited smiles Harry came to feel that despite the danger the Tournament would undoubtedly involve it might all be worth it.

Neville looked proud but worried at Harry’s selection, and Hermione insisted that she was going to help Harry study everything. Harry feared that she might take that promise a little too literally, but politely thanked her for now. He would need every edge he could get, being up against the best students the other two schools could offer.

“Speech! Speech!” cried the celebrating crowd of Gryffindors in the Common Room. Someone – Harry didn’t see who – hoisted him up to stand on top of a coffee table for the room to see.

Harry cleared this throat nervously, and when the room quietened down he did his best. “I’m not the smartest or the strongest student at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “There’s a lot of people who might have been better entrants than me, so I’m not really sure why the Goblet chose me.”

“Well, if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor!” yelled Johnson, to a chorus of laughter and cheers.

“Better than that snake, Warrington!” agreed Jordan.

“As I’ve said already, I didn’t enter my name, but other people did it for me.”

“You’re welcome!”

“I honestly didn’t want or expect this, but I’ll try not to let you all down!” promised Harry. “I think there’s only one way I will possibly have a hope of winning this for Hogwarts, and I think it might be the very reason my name came out of the Goblet-”

The crowd was hushed and hanging on his every word, as Harry finished nervously, “-And that’s my friends. I have a great bunch of friends, from many Houses, and many years. Teachers can’t help entrants with the tasks, but there’s no rule against getting help from your classmates. If everyone helps me with research and training, I think maybe I can win this. So what do you say, will you all help me and make this a win not just for me, but for all of Hogwarts?!”

The whoops and cheers were deafening, as the crowd went wild. Harry was hoisted up onto the Weasley twins’ shoulders and paraded around the room like a conquering hero.

“We’re with you, Potter!”

“Durmstrang and Beauxbatons don’t stand a chance!”

“I’ll help you, Harry!”

“Gryffindor’s behind you!”

“I think I’ve got half the riddle puzzled out already!” Hermione volunteered eagerly, then laughed in surprise when Patil and Brown pounced on her with excited hugs and squeals of premature congratulations.

Chapter Text

November 1^st 1994

Harry woke up late the day after his selection as Hogwarts’ champion, and yawned his way through reading the correspondence he’d neglected the night before in favour of celebrating with his fellow Gryffindors and doing a midnight ritual for his parents’ spirits.

There was a letter from Bill Weasley, which alternately raised and crushed his hopes about a possible cure for Sirius’ damaged arm. Weasley had found the curse used on Sirius in a Dark book from the culled Black library books. He’d checked in with Sirius – without saying where he’d found the curse – and the incantation was a highly probable match. Unfortunately, the book didn’t list a cure. However, he could at least confirm that the spell was not progressive, and if not instantly fatal there should be no further ill effects. He promised that as he was in Egypt he’d consult with more local wizarding Healers and Curse Breakers when he got a chance to see if there was an unwritten cure, but so far he hadn’t had any luck. As he’d made a copy of the relevant page he’d enclosed the book to return to Harry, with the curse bookmarked. He also warned Harry to keep it hidden in case he got in trouble with the teachers for reading up on dangerous curses.

When Harry had paid the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages a pile of Galleons to magically learn French and Latin in July last year, he’d also learnt Ancient Egyptian, to help him breeze through fifth-year Ancient Runes. It would come in handy now for reading through the book himself. He eagerly read through the bookmarked curse, but it looked just as unhelpful as Bill had said. It was a curse traditionally used by priests to instantly mummify bodies, and alternatively was sometimes inscribed on sarcophagi or inside tombs to strike down tomb-raiders. There was no counter-curse listed; none was needed or wanted by the long-lost casters.

Tonks had written to Harry as well, with a few rambling anecdotes about how her Metamorphmagus powers worked. Some tips were kind of obvious; theoretically helpful but unexciting suggestions about the importance of concentration, visualisation and willpower in getting the right results. He’d read all about that in Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with them Now You've Wised Up, and knew it was mostly a matter of acceptance and practice. Other information was new and interesting, like how she had trouble with her centre of balance and estimating her reach due to regularly changing her height and gender; she tended to be a bit clumsy as a result. She also chatted about how one time she’d stayed in an altered form for over a year while at Hogwarts due to feeling self-conscious about her looks, and when she finally “relaxed” back into her natural form her nails were inch-long talons and her hair had grown half a foot.

Harry looked down at his hands in bemusement. Fingernails grew? They needed regular trimming? He kind of knew they grew because if he nibbled or damaged them they’d repair themselves overnight. But… it seemed like that wasn’t what they’d normally do. If he ‘relaxed’ would his nails be talons too, and his hair be a long, messy tangle? Was his face even his real face? He thought it was. He’d returned to it after using his Metamorphmagus powers before… but it hadn’t felt relaxing to shift back, it had been a conscious effort.

He wrote a swift letter back to Tonks asking how she relaxed back into her normal form, and also asked how she returned back to a form she was impersonating if she took a break. He’d drop his replies off with the school owls on the way to breakfast. Egypt might be pushing it a bit for a school owl, however, so he wouldn’t reply to Bill today – he’d pay for intercontinental delivery at the Hogsmeade Post Office later. There was a nice clerk there who always gave him ten per cent off, being a bit of a Boy Who Lived fan; hopefully he’d be working when Harry next stopped by.

Ovid Mortalem, one of the fans he’d met on his book-signing tour, had sent a brief letter wishing Harry a peaceful and joyous Samhain and asking how he was doing. He was writing to Harry increasingly regularly, trying to strike up a friendly correspondence, it seemed. Trying a bit too hard, Harry thought. He dashed off a polite reply wishing him a happy Samhain and letting him know about being chosen as a Tournament champion. That would hopefully satisfy his pushy fan for now.

Peregrine’s sister Flavia had sent another drawing of Storm, this one with a rainbow in the sky above him, and a sprinkling of rain from a blobby cloud falling on stick figure Quidditch players. Harry lifted Storm out of his tank and prodded him awake to admire it as he magically affixed it to the wall above his bed.

“She is a good artist,” Storm hissed sleepily. “Tell her she is a favourite, and a good hatchling.”

Harry dutifully printed out Storm’s message and attached a plain white “Save Quidditch” badge for Flavia. He carefully wrote – in easy-to-read print – a chatty letter about how Quidditch would be on after all at Hogwarts, and how he’d been chosen as a champion even though he hadn’t entered but would be trying his best, and how he hoped she was studying all her lessons at home as best she could.

The next piece of mail of particular interest was a very small wrapped wooden box with an attached letter. He sighed in resignation. Another letter from Lord Voldemort.

To My Gryffindor Knight, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin,

Thank you for your last missive which was a significant improvement on your previous correspondence.

I am sorry to hear that Charms is currently tiresome for you, and Potions repetitive. I too found school tiresome at times when the spells being taught were beneath my abilities. With the exception of the start of my first year, when I struggled to master basic magic and concepts that young pure-bloods had already been taught at their mothers’ knees, I always found mastery of spells came swiftly. My advice is to speak flattering words to your teachers about how due to your love for their subject you are already familiar with the work being covered. Few teachers will resist a sincere request from a diligent student to be assigned more difficult work. If you are still concerned about standing out then ask if you may be permitted to discreetly demonstrate the required spell to a high level of proficiency in class and then after then be free to spend the remainder of the lesson reading ahead or completing homework. With such an arrangement your less observant peers will remain unaware of your skills, and your evenings may be free for your own research and practice. You are an intelligent and talented young wizard, and to be held back by a wish to not stand out from your peers is a wretched waste of your abilities.

Harry didn’t know whether he wanted to roll his eyes at the Dark Lord nagging and encouraging him in his schoolwork again, or to guiltily preen under his praise. His advice seemed generally sound.

Nagini sends her greetings in reply to Storm and wishes him good hunting. We have enclosed a treat as requested, a magical frog of a species originating from Storm’s native land. Nagini asks that you inform Storm that he can’t have her rabbits or gnomes because they are hers to hunt.

With my sincere wishes for success in your studies, young Heir,

Lord Voldemort

Harry snorted with laughter as he relayed Nagini’s message to Storm, who was worried rather than amused.

“She eatss creatures that big? Then, she must be larger than I. But I am ssstill the best sssnake, am I not, Harold?”

“You are the best sssnake in the whole world, Ssstorm,” Harry reassured. “Certainly better than Nagini.”

“You won’t let her eat me?” Storm asked, coiling up Harry’s arm to drape around his neck.

“Never!”

Storm quietly reflected on this for a moment. “Alright. I would like my sssnack now.”

“That’ss it? You’re not worried anymore?”

“No, I’m not. You will protect me, as you would from Custoss. We look after each other. Sssnack, please!”

Harry prised open the tiny box to reveal a small blue-skinned frog in hibernation or an enchanted slumber, nestled in the middle of a ball of damp loose wool used as packing material.

“Sssmell-tastess good! Mine!” Storm hissed happily, as Harry dangled it by a leg for his pet to swallow whole. It began twitching slightly as it slowly woke once removed from the box but was too drowsy to escape his hungry snake’s lunge.

The last letter was from Snape and continued his and Harry’s discussion of antidotes and improvements on the recipes in the textbook. His letter included some fascinating notes about modern variant recipes for the cure-all antidote potion Mithridate – later renamed Theriac. He rambled for ages about improvements on Galen’s most famous formula (which their textbook used, and Snape seemed scornful of).

…As Pliny correctly argued, fifty-four ingredients is excessive and unnecessary. Careful selection of ingredients with Arithmantic calculations of the best quantities and stirring methods can reduce the list to thirteen or eleven ingredients, of which either dried salamander, or dragon flesh or fresh dragon’s blood, is an essential component if you wish the potion to be powerful enough to cure the Black Plague for Squibs, or to counter the most potent poisons. Medieval witches included three drops of dragon’s blood at the fifth stage of brewing Theriac, not the fourth, Potter, and of course only an idiot would forget to stir widdershins.

I know you are, regretfully, not doing Arithmancy, so as a rule of thumb remember that highly magical ingredients should not be added at an even-numbered step in your brewing as that reduces their potency. You are correct that stirring can usually be in either direction; it depends on what properties you are trying to enhance for your potion.

It was Snape’s longest letter yet, as he included a couple of recipe variations and some bossy notes about how you must include ‘poppy tears’ in any good panacea, and how only Cretan carrot seeds would do for a proper Theriac, not just any carrot seeds. Harry wished Snape had taught like that in school, instead of just putting instructions on the board (which didn’t always match the recipe in their textbooks and didn’t explain why Snape thought his variation was better) and yelling at anyone who got their potion wrong.

At the end of the third page Snape had squashed in a few notes on Occlumency like an apologetic afterthought, agreeing with Harry that since he’d responded well to water (and to a lesser extent to earth) in his elemental affinity tests in Ancient Runes, that a river or ocean shore or another water-based visualisation was likely to work well for clearing his mind of wandering thoughts.

Harry was enjoying the practical exercises in Ancient Runes, and magically inscribing invisible runes on seashells and glass was proving a lot easier than working with wood, marble, or obsidian. Clay worked well for him too, but the other materials were newer and thus more fun to experiment with. Everyone in the class now got homework projects tweaked to be customised to their preferred materials, which delighted everyone. Harry was working on making a mirror’s glass unbreakable, using chained runes of Haglaz and Odal, which was a standard combination for that purpose. Haglaz, the rune of hail, represented a damaging force that could also melt away into nothingness, while Odal, the rune for inherited property, was highly protective when used on possessions. The most difficult part for him wasn’t planning the runes, it was channelling his magic with sufficient precision to inscribe tiny glowing runes (without any wobbly lines) that would fade properly into invisibility without damaging the glass.

Harry worked hard on replying to all his correspondence, and while Harry was finishing up his short but polite reply to Lord Voldemort promising to consider his advice, Neville’s voice called through Harry’s closed bedcurtains. “Harry? Are you awake? Make haste, we are late for breakfast.”

Harry looked at his dad’s fob watch and cursed softly – it was later than he’d thought. “Thanks! I’m up! I’ve been doing my mail. I’ll see you down there, I have to swing by the Owlery first!”

He hurriedly changed out of his pyjamas, tossed on a black school robe, and cast a quick charm to remove the wrinkles. He unwound Storm and put him back in his tank to nap the day away and hurried through the Gryffindor common room towards the Owlery, dashing straight past people eager to greet and chat with him.

By the time he made it down to breakfast the tables were crowded, and there wasn’t a spot to sit next to Hermione, who was seated next to Ron and Thomas and was busy reading the Daily Prophet and distractedly finishing off a cup of tea. Harry instead squeezed in next to where Neville was sitting with Brown and Patil.

“Good morning! Any more ideas about the first task?” Patil asked eagerly.

“Not since last night,” Harry said, with a shake of his head. “I think Hermione’s right and I’m sure it’ll be something to do with fire, though. We’re going to head to the library at lunch and after class and see what we can puzzle out with a bit of research. Pass the toast?”

“Ugh, research,” Brown said, wrinkling her nose as she handed over the toast rack. “Good luck, though!”

“Hey Brown, I was wondering… do you uh… do you know any good spells for hair and nails… like haircuts and nail trimming and stuff?” Harry asked shyly.

“Oh! Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just wanted to… look better,” Harry mumbled. “And you always look so… tidy. So I thought you might know some. Since you helped Hermione make her hair less frizzy and more curly.”

Neville winced, but Lavender Brown looked rather pleased by Harry’s awkward praise and patted her red headband (topped with tiny feathers and a gold fabric flower) that held her long, wavy brown hair in place.

“Her main problem was simply that she was brushing it too much and too furiously. Wavy or curly hair needs a gentler hand, and Parvati and I also introduced her to some excellent hair care products, though she says she’s too busy to use them every day.

“I think it is an excellent plan to pay more attention to your appearance now you are Hogwarts’ Triwizard champion. Not that you look bad at the moment, Potter,” she added reassuringly.

He shrugged and muttered his thanks.

“Also, you should consider growing your hair longer, as you will be seventeen in a few years and the Head of your House.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promised. He hated to think what Uncle Vernon would say if Harry showed up at Privet Drive with long hair in a ponytail. Mrs. Weasley’s tutting disapproval of her eldest son’s long hair would be nothing compared to what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were likely to do or say should their son or nephew show up with long hair and an earring.

“I could copy you out some of my favourite spells from Witch Weekly, if you like?” Brown offered.

“I’ll help!” Patil volunteered.

“That would be great!” he said with relief.

“You are most welcome,” Brown said, echoed a moment later by Patil.

Harry started on his toast and jam but had barely eaten half a slice when he was interrupted by Patil.

“Umm, my condolences on your family loss, Potter,” she said, with a soft expression in her dark eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, surprised. “Really, I mean it. Most people don’t remember that it was at Halloween that I lost my parents. Everyone’s too busy celebrating.”

Patil and Brown exchanged an awkward look.

“Oh. I uh… Sorry,” Patil stammered. “My condolences again… I did not mean them, though of course I am sorry about that too. I did not mean direct relatives. Gossip says you are the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… Have you not yet read the paper this morning? I’m sorry. Uh… no-one has written or spoken to you?”

Harry’s face blanched, and Neville glared angrily at Patil.

“I need a paper,” Harry said, and pushed away from the table to where Hermione was sitting. As he left, he overheard Neville hissing an angry rebuke to the girls about how Harry only received his mail in the evenings.

Hermione looked up from chatting with Ron as she saw Harry approach, and her sympathetic look had perhaps the opposite effect to what she intended for it only made him more anxious.

“Who… was it Sirius?” Harry asked, as she wordlessly passed him the paper.

There was an animated picture of a house’s damaged roof with the Dark Mark floating in the sky above it. The main headline read, “NIGHT OF HORROR! DEADLY ATTACK ON HALLOWEEN!”

“No, not him,” Hermione said, and Harry let out a shuddering breath in relief.

Harry read the article quickly, as Hermione got up from her seat and pushed him gently to sit down in her spot.

The Tonks family had been attacked. While Hogwarts had been busy choosing Triwizard champions and celebrating with a feast, masked Death Eaters had set out to kill and terrorize people.

His new acquaintance Nymphadora Tonks was fine. However, her parents weren’t so lucky. Her father Edward had been killed, and her mother Andromeda had been tortured and was in a ‘serious condition’ in St. Mungo’s.

The article had a quote from Tonks about the attack.

“When I came home I knew instantly something was wrong. My mother was screaming and I could hear men inside yelling at her. I sent off a Patronus message for help, but I knew my mother might be killed before backup arrived, so I had to go in.”

Her dark eyes were full of pain and welled up with tears at the memory of returning home to hear the sounds of her mother being tortured, gentle readers. Yet this brave new Auror barely out of her Apprenticeship was not broken by a scene that would devastate even the most stalwart and lion-hearted witches and wizards. And she had a plan so cunning that it makes one wonder that she was Sorted into Hufflepuff rather than Slytherin.

“I knew I couldn’t take them all, even with surprise on my side. So, I had to hope that I could scare them off. I’m a Metamorphmagus, as I guess everyone knows now. When I went in, I changed my appearance to look like Dumbledore – the only wizard You-Know-Who ever truly feared. I entered firing off spells as fast as I could – I Stunned two before they knew I was there, and a couple of the other masked Death Eaters instantly Disapparated away with their unconscious allies, like the cowards they are.”

Auror Tonks insisted that You-Know-Who himself was there, his face in shadows, and that she scared him off with her show of force and bravado, leaving him only time to cast the Dark Mark and vow vengeance before departing with the last of his followers. I think we can forgive this overwrought young woman for mistaking Dark Lord Pettigrew for You-Know-Who, for we all know that Pettigrew is claiming his deceased former Lord’s title of Dark Lord for himself. Never fear, for this brave young woman who drove off Death Eaters and saved her mother’s life will have time off from her duties to recuperate and recover her serenity of mind.

Minister Fudge took time out from his busy day to share these words of praise:

“Our brave Auror will be in consideration for an Order of Merlin for her courageous defence of her family. I would, however, like to remind the public that confronting these few dangerous criminals is a job best left to professionals such as Auror Tonks. If any members of the public sight an Azkaban escapee in Death Eater regalia, they should avoid confrontation and should contact the DMLE immediately.”

Harry was still rereading the article when the low resonant tones of Hogwarts’ bell rang out through the Great Hall to let students know it was time for class.

“You can keep it and read it again later,” Hermione said gently, as students shuffled off to class around them, and Neville moved up to join them. “Are you alright to go to Ancient Runes? You’re cousins of some sort with the Tonks family, right?”

“Yes, uh… same degree as Narcissa and Draco, so I’d be um… second cousins with Andromeda, and second cousin once removed to Nymphadora,” Harry explained. “Nothing officially acknowledged, but that’s the family relationship.”

“Oh no, I sent her a letter this morning,” Harry moaned, as a memory struck him like a brick to the head. “Just asking questions about being a Metamorphmagus. Now I’m going to look like an idiot who doesn’t have any feelings at all, sending her a letter like that at a time like this!”

“I can help you write a formal letter of condolence at lunch time, if you like,” Neville offered.

Hermione nodded. “Good idea – send a second letter. You can borrow Diana to send it off. She’s very fast. You don’t even need to ask, actually, she’s happy to take extra letters any time.”

-000-

Harry struggled to concentrate all through Ancient Runes, wondering what Voldemort was up to and how the Tonks family was coping, but was consoled by Hermione’s whispered reassurance that she’d share a copy of her notes with him later if he just wanted to focus on listening to Professor Babbling. He was looking forward to the less demanding History of Magic class they had next and was planning to use that time to covertly work on his draft letter to Tonks.

However, he’d forgotten that Hermione had plans for that class, and almost as soon as they’d all seated themselves at the old slanted wooden desks and set their inkwells in their holes in the desk tops Hermione’s hand was up and waving at their Professor.

“Do you know that you’ve passed on, Professor Binns? That you’re a ghost?” Hermione asked loudly. A couple of students gasped.

Professor Binns slowly turned around from the board. “What was that, Miss Grant?”

“I said, you do know you’re dead, sir?” Hermione asked bluntly, albeit with genuine concern lacing her voice. The class was dead silent, waiting for his answer.

“Well, yes, I do rather notice that when I float through the walls,” Professor Binns said dryly, and Weasley and Finnegan laughed.

“Why do you stay here? Is it fear of going to the Other World, the Summerlands? Or heaven? I’ve never heard anyone talk about your ties to family, or dramatic stories of revenge or betrayal. My research says that ghosts have either a particularly shocking death, or a strong motivation to stay on earth. I’ve been wondering what your motivation is to stay. No-one seems to know.”

The whole class looked riveted and hanging on every word – a rare change for History of Magic that hadn’t been seen since they’d questioned their teacher a couple of years ago about the Chamber of Secrets.

“I’m not staying long, Miss Grant,” Professor Binns reassured Hermione, with a soft smile. “Just until Dippet brings on a new History of Magic teacher. I’m sure it will be any week now. The poor man is so busy, but he promised to sort it out soon. I simply cannot leave my NEWT students in the lurch – I haven’t even covered the goblin rebellions yet! Until he says I can go I shall wait to enter those pearly gates. We ghosts have to obey the Head of our House you know, and at Hogwarts that’s the Headmaster.”

As he shifted as if to turn back to the blackboard Hermione stuck her hand up in the air before immediately saying, “But Professor Dumbledore is the Headmaster now.”

“Of course he is,” said Professor Binns, not seeming at all confused to be corrected. “Fine young man, Dumbledore. He makes a good Headmaster. Now, enough chatter. We were discussing…”

“But you’ve been a ghost for decades! Dumbledore is old now, and those students you’re worrying about graduated years ago!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, young lady. Now, we were discussing the giant rampage in…”

“Don’t you want to move on? They will have to find a new teacher if you do! Your students will be fine!”

“Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Grant! If you do not settle down and act like a lady I shall be forced to give you a detention, and if that is not enough I may speak to Headmaster Dippet and have an owl sent home to your parents detailing your disruptive behaviour!”

Hermione stopped trying to talk him around, cowed by his threat. She also looked extremely upset, and began letting out hiccoughing sobs, with tears started running down her face. Brown leant over to pat Hermione’s back in gentle circles and talk soothingly to her.

While Hermione had a cry and pulled herself back together, Harry took careful notes of everything Binns said that class despite their teacher’s soporific droning. Hermione had done it for him in Ancient Runes, after all. They could do a notes swap later.

Their class was full of chatter as they headed off to Charms.

Ron shook his head in wonderment. “I didn’t know he was trapped here…”

“Poor Granger! Did you see her face?” Midgen whispered.

“So that’s why he’s still around!”

“How do you get a ghost to leave if they don’t want to?”

“Good job, Granger. Maybe we’ll get someone new if he moves on,” Thomas said approvingly.

Brown still had a sympathetic arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “I have an ancestor – Agnes Sampson – who haunts Holyrood Palace. She says she will not leave until King James is dead – she wants vengeance for being tortured and burnt as a witch. Our family has never managed to convince her he died centuries ago. Sometimes she understands he is dead, and curses his descendants instead, but then she forgets again. She made a vow and cursed him as she was dying, you see. Most ghosts are very stubborn and set in their ways – you did your best.”

“But what can we do?” Hermione sniffled. “We have to help him!”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Maybe the Headmaster could order him to move on?” Harry suggested.

“They do listen to their Head of House, sometimes,” Brown agreed. “The Sampson name died out as her descendants married into more prestigious families, so that has posed a bit of a problem for poor Agnes.”

“I blame old Headmaster Dippet,” Neville said, jaw jutting out angrily. “He should have found a replacement for Professor Binns decades ago.”

“He was very old by the end of his tenure – centuries. Perhaps he forgot?” suggested Harry. “Like old people do, sometimes?”

“Dumbledore probably doesn’t even know why Binns is still here,” Ron said thoughtfully.

“If he doesn’t know, I’ll make sure he learns,” Hermione vowed.

“I think you should. After all, with great power comes great responsibility,” Thomas said, and Hermione gave him a wan smile for his attempt to cheer her up.

-000-

At lunch in the library Harry’s friends split into a couple of groups. Hermione had temporarily shelved her concerns about Professor Binns and grabbed a large table for them all, which attracted a large group of friends and bystanders eager to talk about the Triwizard Tournament. She and Harry were both convinced that the answer to the first riddle was something to do with fire, since fire both danced and ate in a figurative sense but wouldn’t ‘drink’ water. Anthony and Luna were among those eager to help puzzle out the remainder of the riddle, and their table was rapidly piling up with teetering stacks of books fetched by them and other keen Ravenclaw assistants and a handful of students from the junior years in other houses, including both the Creeveys, Mafalda Prewett, and the pagan Hufflepuff Eleanor Branstone. It was a busy, chatter-filled table.

Harry meanwhile had foregone his plans to research spells and creatures associated with the element of fire in favour of sequestering himself more privately at a tiny library study desk to write condolence letters, aided by Neville, Pansy, and Draco.

Draco started out by offering Harry his condolences, but not for any family losses. “I am so sorry that you were selected as a Triwizard Tournament champion, Harry. My condolences. It is such a shame that busybodies entered you without your consent. Naturally, I stand ready to support you in making it through the challenges ahead as safely as possible.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” said Harry, with just as much sincerity as he’d responded to those offering congratulations, perhaps even more so.

“Keep the riff-raff off myself and Harry while he writes his letters,” Draco ordered Greg and Vincent, and the duo stood with arms folded like burly sentinels against anyone who tried to approach or bother anyone at the smaller table. With them keeping away random well-wishers, Pansy acted almost like a second line of defence – intercepting any friends who approached with what they thought were valid reasons to interrupt and talk with Draco or Harry, and only letting a few through to actually speak to them.

Mafalda Prewett was one of the few who successfully made it through their collective social blockade, with an instruction from Pansy to keep it brief.

“I just wanted to say I will keep an eye on Krum for you, Harold,” Mafalda promised, in a covert whisper. “If he puzzles out the riddle, I will let you know.”

“I think we’ll get it ourselves, but thank you,” Harry whispered back politely.

After sharing his best tips, Neville was quietly writing his own letters to the Tonks family, while Draco and Pansy kept coaching Harry through what to write to them, and to Sirius. When Neville hesitantly asked if Draco was going to write to them too, Draco seemed very torn as to what he should do.

“Perhaps. Family should write, at such a time. However, they were cast out of the Black family,” Draco fretted. “The Malfoys don’t acknowledge our relationship.”

“Did old Arcturus Black make it formal, though?” Pansy asked. “If not, you are still obligated to send your condolences. You should wear mourning for a month, for an uncle. Avoid bright colours, at the very least.”

“That hardly seems necessary; I never even met him.”

“I don’t think it was formal,” Harry said. “Sirius said his mother just blasted a lot of people off the family tree tapestry but didn’t really have a right to do so.”

“Mother never speaks to Mrs. Tonks, though; I’m sure she won’t write to her, and father certainly won’t. She is a family pariah for marrying a Muggle-born, so I doubt we will visit her in hospital or go to her husband’s funeral. Perhaps I should limit myself to a short letter to Cousin Sirius – his relationship is acknowledged, and father says I should make an effort to present myself well to him.”

“Even if Arcturus did cast her out, Sirius thinks of Andromeda and her daughter as family, and he’s the Head of the Black family now,” Harry argued, crossing out a line on his draft letter and starting again. “He probably reinstated them, if you can do that. Besides, you don’t have to do the same things as your parents. You could just write a generic condolence letter if a family letter is inappropriate.”

Neville had a very stiff, drawn expression as he said, “I think you should write to them. It is the right thing to do. Family feuds have no place at a time of grief – families should come together.”

“Black would surely think all the better of you for going against your parents in this, in fact,” Pansy said quietly.

Draco gave her a swift, searching glance. “Yes… he would, wouldn’t he?”

Neville’s lips thinned as he watched Draco start writing his own letters with a satisfied air. It was clearly the result Neville was after, but not stemming from the right motivation.

“You should not write to them unless you mean what you are saying,” Neville said, with an angry bite to his words, unable to stay silent for long. “Do you not truly care at all? Miss Tonks’ father was killed, and her mother was tortured.”

Draco furrowed his brow and gave Neville a defensive, cross look. “I can express regret for my uncle’s death and my aunt’s injuries whilst staying neutral in House squabbles and out of the politics around the incident. As I am not yet seventeen I have that luxury should I wish to position myself thus.”

“Politics. Is that what you call it? It was murder, Malfoy! Where was your–”

“Perhaps you should take a walk, Neville!” Pansy hissed.

“I think I shall,” Neville said, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. “My apologies, Harry. I know you are writing your letters for the right reason.”

“Neville…” Harry started uncertainly, but Neville waved him off.

“’Tis alright. Come and join us when you are done.” Neville pushed past Greg and stalked off to Hermione’s research table in a righteous huff.

Harry glared at Draco and Pansy. “Can’t you see he’s thinking about his own parents too? The… You-Know-Who and his followers killed and tortured Tonks’ parents. Her mother might even be in Mrs. Longbottom’s old hospital bed right this moment, never to recover. Can’t you two show some sympathy or at least fake it more convincingly?!” He cast a quick spell to dry the ink on his parchment and packed up his half-finished letters.

Pansy winced. “Oh dear, I am so terribly sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the Longbottoms.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have upset Longbottom, but how am I supposed to sound genuinely grieved about someone I have never met, whom my parents practically forbid me from even speaking of? Did you ever meet Edward Tonks?” Draco said accusingly.

“No, I’ve met his wife and daughter, though,” Harry said, looking down at his draft letters. They were full of a mix of genuinely sympathetic phrases and the sort of polite lies that society deemed appropriate at such a time. How he was sure Edward was a wonderful wizard and father, and how he would surely be greatly missed. He had no idea what kind of man he’d been, or who would miss him apart from his immediate family. “I can still be sympathetic to his family’s loss, though, as you should be. Imagine if your father was killed, or your mother was tortured, and people… weren’t kind or sympathetic about it.”

Draco’s face went very still and pale.

“Yes, I can imagine it. Far too well,” Draco murmured, as Harry stalked away from their table in search of Neville, drawing him aside for a quiet word. Draco crumpled up his draft into a ball of parchment and started a fresh letter.

-000-

Late that evening, just before curfew, Harry sent out one final letter with a school owl. His mind had been looping all day ever since he’d been talking over the attack on the Tonks family with Neville, stuck on thoughts of what had happened to them.

Neville had cried, once they were in private. Sobbing over and over, “Why did they do it, Harry? I don’t understand!”

Harry didn’t understand either. He had only bewildered sympathy and uninformed speculation to offer. He’d shared a whispered confidence about Miss Tonks fighting against You-Know-Who, but that didn’t seem enough of an explanation – for it had been her parents who’d been targeted. He’d offered awkward hugs and a promise to pass on any information about Mrs. Tonks’ recovery that Sirius was willing to share.

He’d thought hard about who to ask, who to write to. He thought about writing to the Dark Lord directly but winced at the thought. He didn’t want manipulative justifications or lies from Lord Voldemort, nor did he want someone like Dumbledore offering sympathy and empty platitudes.

He’d written to Snape, in the end. He was well-positioned to know the truth behind the conflict, on both sides. He’d seemed open to talking honestly about the war before – perhaps he would do so again.

He’d left larger than usual margins on his letter waffling about potions theory and defence-oriented charms, as a bit of a hint. Snape, being a Master of potions and a professional spy, might also detect the faint scent of lemon on the parchment that invisible ink left when it was still quite fresh, and would hopefully remember Harry’s habit of scribbling invisible notes in the margins of his Potions textbook. Hopefully Snape would be better at spotting Harry’s hidden message than Harry had been in a similar circumstance, when he’d tragically failed to spot Lockhart’s plea for help. He still felt guilty about that and had scrutinised his letters more carefully ever since.

If Snape did miss Harry’s addendum – no big deal. It was curiosity, not life and death. In the letter’s copious margins, Harry had invisibly added some cramped extra sentences, in tiny writing.

Master Snape,

I wanted to ask you some private questions as an impartial source. Why did Lord Voldemort and his followers attack Mr. and Mrs. Tonks? Neville and I don’t understand.

If it was a terror attack, it seems too private. If it was for information, why not use Veritaserum? If it was strategic, why not attack the daughter who’s an Auror? Her parents don’t even have Ministry jobs. I just don’t even understand why he and the Death Eaters kill witches and wizards in the first place when there are so few of us, really. Why are they so violent? Doesn’t Lord Voldemort see how Hogwarts is half-empty after two wars, with half the classrooms and dorm rooms closed up? How does that advance his goals? Does using too much Dark magic really make someone want to kill and torture people? Is he mad, do you think?

I honestly can’t understand why Lord Voldemort or his followers would torture a pure-blood woman who wasn’t working against him in any way that I know of. Was he mad at Mrs. Tonks for helping Sirius at his trial? Why kill Mr. Tonks – he wasn’t even involved in that? I can get why he ordered the werewolf attacks. It was horrible, and I hate it more than I can say, but I at least understand the politics of it. But I don’t get this random murder and torture. Aren’t there better, sneakier ways to achieve his goals? He’s not a fool, or he and his escaped followers would’ve been caught by now. Why risk capture just to openly attack the Tonks family?

If you can’t say I would totally understand, but if you can share your honest thoughts it would be greatly appreciated. I would really rather you didn’t but if you need to share the rest of the contents of this letter with someone, I would understand. It’s just questions. I’m not trying to get involved in the war here, I want to stay out of it, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.

Additionally, I would appreciate it if you could provide a list of some prominent skilled Seers residing in Great Britain whom I could consult about their insight into a personal matter, if it would not inconvenience you. I hear differing reports from my fellow students about Professor Trelawney’s abilities (some say she’s a charlatan, some say she’s amazing) and I don’t know her at all, so I don’t know if she’s any good or if she would be discreet or would gossip about me and my questions to a reporter.

Yours sincerely,

Harold Potter, Heir Etc.

P.S. If you’ve heard about the Tournament, it’s true, I’m in it but I really didn’t enter myself. However, I know three students who’ve admitted putting my name in for me, and I’m suspicious of a fourth student who’s staying mum on the topic. I didn’t actually want to be in this at all and I’m already hating how it’s interfering with my studies and is probably going to be really dangerous. Just about everyone’s congratulating me and assuming I’m thrilled to be in it apart from a few close friends.

Harry didn’t honestly mind if Snape showed his letter to Lord Voldemort or to Dumbledore, which was why he’d carefully omitted any reference to Miss Tonks being in the Order of the Phoenix, and had avoided outright saying if Snape was a spy, and who for. Snape had to report in something occasionally. Maybe it would help him to gossip about Harry. Even if either of the two leaders saw the invisible writing it wouldn’t be the end of the world (though he expected Lord Voldemort wouldn’t be in a good mood about Harry’s questions about him). Lord Voldemort had already discussed the prophecy with Harry, though not the details. If Dumbledore found out Harry was asking questions, maybe he’d even be inclined to talk about it openly with Harry later on, if Snape led his and Dumbledore’s discussion in the right direction. Snape could be sneakily manipulative when he wanted to be. Harry was confident Snape would spot his roundabout enquiry about whom Harry could consult to learn more about the prophecy about him, since Snape was clearly under an Unbreakable Vow (or something similar) not to discuss it.

Hopefully he’d have some answers soon.

Chapter Text

November 1994

In the fortnight following Halloween, Harry found that having the almost universal approval of teachers and his fellow students quickly became more wearing and less fun than he’d expected, as his free time and privacy disappeared under an onslaught of students all keen to befriend and support him. After the first week, Draco’s badge production team switched from making SQuid badges to pushing out a new range of badges for sale, which read ‘Support Harold Potter!’ in bright red luminous lettering on a yellow background. When you pushed the button it switched to alternate text which read ‘Rule Britannia!’ in glowing green on a blue background. Draco proudly explained that he’d picked the colours to appeal to members of all the Houses as a show of unity, and the second phrase was selected to be “both patriotic and friendly to Muggle-borns”. Harry didn’t have the heart to do anything but praise him, since Draco was trying so hard.

The push from friends and acquaintances for Harry to research and train up for the first task was cutting badly into his homework time, though all the help was still appreciated. Hermione seemed to positively revel in the opportunity to boss around a team of assistants eager to suss out clues to the details of the first challenge. So far, Harry, Hermione and their team of book-loving assistants had narrowed the challenge’s likely focus down to a few main possibilities: Fire Salamanders, various species of dragons, Fire Seed Bushes, and djinn.

Some seniors also whispered dark warnings about the hybrid abominations of Fire Crabs and Manticores that they’d been learning about in ‘Fear of Magical Creatures’ (as Professor Hagrid’s class was universally known by senior students).

“Hagrid must have gotten an exemption on the ban on experimental breeding of magical creatures somehow,” Peregrine warned Harry, after telling him all about the vicious baby monsters. “Using his ‘Blast-Ended Skrewts’ for the Tournament could be seen as a valid justification if the plan is that the creatures will all be slain during the competition. I am not sure the riddle’s line about ‘the unborn need me’ applies, however. We do not know if fire was involved in their birth or hatching in any way, however, it is a possibility we should not discount with undue haste. I shall ask Professor Hagrid more about them. No doubt he shall be delighted to talk all about the nasty little creatures with a touch of liquid encouragement and judicious flattery.”

Fire Salamanders were born only in magical fires and, more rarely, in volcanos. The latter wouldn’t be feasible for a challenge, but the former certainly would be. A fire that had birthed a salamander would keep on producing more salamanders until it was extinguished. Cedric Diggory was leading a mix of students from various Houses that he dubbed ‘Team Salamander’ in their research efforts, learning about how to encourage the birth of salamanders, and how to safely deal with them afterwards.

Dragons were a popular pick for people to research, and Draco swiftly established himself as the king of that group, boasting proudly about how he knew “everything there is to know about dragons”, with some justification. He pontificated about how the clue had to refer to dragons, whose eggs needed the mother’s flaming breath to ensure the development of the unhatched young. He magnanimously and loudly let a lot of first-year students, Gryffindors, and assorted Muggle-borns who thought dragons were cool or ‘ace’ join his ‘Dragonologist’ table, with a pointed glance over at Hermione as he welcomed them. Harry wasn’t sure she noticed, however, as she was busy glaring at some Durmstrang students lurking amongst the library shelves whom she seemed to suspect of spying on the Hogwarts study groups.

Neville already knew quite a lot about Fire Seed Bushes, having researched them before, and was rewriting up some notes on how to deal with them, especially in regard to harvesting their fiery seeds without getting harmed, or pushing past their incandescently hot branches without injury. He was disappointed to hear Hermione’s rebuke reminding him that potions and equipment wouldn’t be allowed under the rules for the first task – only wands – and had to scrap a number of his best suggestions. The Weasley twins were helping him brainstorm creative charms that could be applied instead of the more usual fire-retardant potions and dragonhide gloves that Herbologists typically used when dealing with the bushes.

The Hogwarts library didn’t have much information on djinn, as they were found primarily in the Middle East and the library’s collection focused predominantly on European magical traditions and creatures. However, there were some brief references to them that explained their origins as being powerful ancient beings brought into existence by being shaped from fire. They could apparently be magically contained in enchanted vessels with a seal embossed with their true name and the correct magical sigil, but none of the library books gave any details about how you’d actually go about doing that. Anthony was keen to research that topic further and had attracted a small cluster of Ravenclaws eager to research the exotic beings.

Hermione and Harry teamed up with various students including Greg, Luna, and the Ravenclaw Head Boy Marcus Turner to work on the least focused but potentially most useful line of research – fire spells in general, and spells that dealt with protecting oneself from fire. Fiendfyre was a particular concern, but experimenting with casting or defending against it was judged too dangerous and they stuck to the theory only (which is all Turner had learnt despite being a seventh-year).

Every day Hermione had a new collated list of spells for Harry to try, suggested by the various study groups or her own research, and she wasn’t the only one trying to cajole Harry into endless spellcasting practice and Tournament study sessions at the expense of his free time and homework. Harry was rapidly regretting his speech calling for people to support him in the Tournament.

“Can I kill your brothers for entering me into this, Ron?” Harry pleaded pitifully one afternoon after Hermione dropped off yet another list, this one with ice and water creation spells, while Draco simultaneously delivered a five-foot essay on the Antipodean Opaleye with a level of unnecessary detail that put Hermione’s essays to shame.

“Nah, my mum never lets me knock them off, no matter how annoying they are, so I reckon you aren’t allowed to either,” Ron said, leaning back in his library chair while he leisurely read up on the Swedish Short-Snout dragon.

Branstone bustled up to Harry, her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail with a House-proud bright yellow and black ribbon, which showed off her silver crescent moon earrings (which had slipped past McGonagall’s radar as not being overtly pagan enough to ban). “Potter, did you know that dragon’s blood is regarded as Dark magic when it’s applied to runes or during item creation, but is legal and acceptable when used in potions and salves? Perhaps they’ll ask you to get a blood sample and brew a potion!”

Warrington, a stocky, tall sixth-year Slytherin who was lounging nearby, shook his head in disagreement. “Leeching blood from a dragon is no easy task, but brewing potions is not dramatic enough for a challenge. They have historically focused on duels and magical creatures. Potter, have you mastered silent casting yet?”

“No.”

“You had best hurry up, then. Marchbanks is strict on that in the NEWT exams, and she is one of the judges. In addition to which, it will be a great advantage to you in duelling. I can do it a little, and so can Krum. You need to be able to as well, even though you are only a fourth-year.”

Harry sighed and slowly started reading through Hermione’s latest list, and obediently accepted a book about silent spellcasting that Warrington fetched for him to borrow from the library.

Ron snickered softly as he watched how Harry barely managed to read a couple of lines of notes before he was interrupted again. Millicent came over to tell Harry all about how to cast the Arrow-shooting Spell beloved of Appleby Arrows supporters, which fired arrows from the caster’s wand and which she thought might be useful for dealing with magical creatures resistant to spells from a nice safe distance.

“Conjuring arrows is banned at Quidditch matches these days, but the spell is not banned for general use,” she reported eagerly.

“The money would be nice, but I’m starting to think better you than me, mate,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I knew there would be danger, but I never thought there would be so much studying.”

-000-

Professor Slughorn could never resist an opportunity to mingle with the crème de la crème of wizarding society, or those who may fall into that category in the future… perhaps with a little bit of judicious help from himself. As such, the two-dozen visiting foreign students, all cherry-picked as the best and the brightest their schools could offer, were an irresistible temptation to network with.

With an excuse for a party of ‘fostering inter-school relations and celebrating the selection of the Triwizard champions’, Harry was invited to Slughorn’s soiree in the club room, even though he was two or three years younger than all the other invitees. There were only a tiny handful of people there Harry was familiar with, but it was enough that he didn’t feel too lost and intimidated in a room full of much older students. Slughorn had invited all the exchange students plus his sixth and seventh-year Slug Club members who were from a mix of all the Houses.

Fred and George Weasley seemed to be particular pets of Slughorn’s, and Slughorn proudly introduced them around the room as, “The most ambitious and talented young Potioneers I have taught in decades, who have already secured a wealthy patron who is investing in their products with a guaranteed storefront on graduation.”

Harry was glad Sirius was helping them out, even though the twins said it was causing a bit of tension between Sirius and their mother, who didn’t think a joke shop was a promising career.

“Slughorn’s a great patron, though,” Fred Weasley said enthusiastically. “He’s talking with her about it on our behalf, trying to get her to come around. He’s already convinced dad.”

His twin nodded. “He has also been chasing up someone who owes us some money. Good man. He says they’ve had some productive talks and things are looking good for repayment.”

“Well, you must excuse us, Harry, but this is a superb time to try and foster some international interest in our products. Sluggy hinted that one of the French boys – Yvon Maizière the brown-haired boy over there at the buffet table next to the dark-skinned girl in the blue headscarf – is a pure-blood from old money, whose family invests a lot in new businesses.”

“Sure, go ahead and schmooze, I’ll be fine.”

There were only a few people there, however, that Harry knew better than from a passing acquaintance in Potter Watch, and most of them seemed so busy now that he hesitated to interrupt them.

Diggory was there and had joined Hogwarts’ Head Boy Marcus Turner in the crowd of boys vying for Delacour’s attention. Harry would’ve sworn that Diggory was dating Chang. Perhaps he was, but the part-Veela’s charms might be too irresistible. At least Diggory seemed to be making less of a fool of himself than some other boys were.

Though his potions were nothing to boast about Peregrine was at the party too, thanks to his Quidditch prowess, growing connections, and a judicious gift of crystallised pineapple. He seemed caught up in a discussion with Krum and some other Quidditch enthusiasts about the various English Quidditch teams and their chances this year, and the possibility of organising a three-way interschool tournament with a few matches (odds of that seemed low, however, as it didn’t sound like enough of the exchange students played Quidditch to form a viable team). Diggory eventually got lured into a discussion of alternatives, as a fellow captain.

Slughorn noticed Harry standing on his own looking a bit awkward after the Weasleys left his side, and smoothly guided him over to meet a couple of quiet girls who sitting on some sofas in a secluded corner, avoiding the crowd.

“Harold Potter, our Hogwarts champion, may I introduce you to some of our guests from Durmstrang? This is Astrid Rosen from Sweden, in the Kalmar Union, and Idunn Torsdóttir, from Iceland, also of course in the Kalmar Union.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, bowing automatically, before straightening up nervously with a glance at Slughorn.

Slughorn chuckled. “McGonagall’s not here to tell you off tonight, Potter, and Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are both sticklers for etiquette, though they shall all be trying to adhere to local customs while they are visiting.”

“Indeed,” Rosen said, holding out a hand for Harry to peck. “Hogwarts has been… very different. Durmstrang of course upholds many Old traditions, and Beauxbatons has a foundations subject of Deportment all students must take for the first three years, which covers etiquette and dancing and the like.” Rosen was a plump blonde girl with a round face, and her long hair was tied up in a complex knotted bun with some hair flowing out from it like a ponytail. Her accent seemed flawless to Harry, who thought she sounded like a BBC television announcer, though a bit more nervous.

“That sounds… interesting,” Harry replied thoughtfully to the blonde girl as he sat down with them. Slughorn wandered away, content to have done his duty as a host of fostering mingling and keeping his guests happy. “Hogwarts teaches Muggle Studies, but there isn’t any course teaching etiquette or other wizarding traditions. Well, unless you count Flying, which we have in first year? Does Durmstrang have a Deportment class?”

“No,” Rosen said, “but we have Citizenship for two years as one of our Foundation subjects. It teaches various Wizarding traditions, broomstick flying, law, and basic information about the government.”

“What kind of traditions? Etiquette?”

Rosen glanced awkwardly at Torsdóttir, a lean girl with a friendly smile. Her straight light-brown hair was bound up in a similar knotted-ponytail style to her friend’s. Her arms had a muscular look to them that Harry associated with Quidditch Beaters. He wondered if she played that position for Durmstrang.

Torsdóttir whispered to her, also without a notable accent, “Some Slytherin students assured me that Potter shares our faith in the Old Ways.”

“Oh!” Rosen said, sounding very relieved. “Well, the class covers etiquette, yes, but also magical theory, a bit of introductory Latin, and religious instruction. It is encouraged at Durmstrang, not suppressed like it is here in Britain.”

Harry shifted in his seat. It was a bit worrying that people were gossiping about his faith to strangers behind his back, but he guessed there wasn’t much he could do about that. “The class teaches ritual magic?”

“Not exactly, though there is a little of that as part of discussion of religious celebrations,” Rosen explained. “Ritual Magic is a completely different class, actually. Its area of study overlaps with what Hogwarts separates out into Arithmancy, Divination, and Astronomy. Though you can take Arithmancy as an elective subject in its own right from third year onwards. I have signed up for both Arithmancy and Astronomy while I am here at Hogwarts. It is a delightful opportunity to specialise in Astronomy, which is not offered at Durmstrang, and I am sure it will help improve my Potions studies, too. Professor Slughorn recommended it – he seems a most estimable teacher.”

Torsdóttir let out a soft snort and smiled. “Congratulations. You spoke for almost five minutes without mentioning potions.”

Rosen shrank back into her chair, her air of confidence lost. “I… like potions. I apologise if I bored you, Potter.”

“Sorry, Rosen,” Torsdóttir said, with a genuinely apologetic look in her eyes. “I was just teasing you.”

Rosen shrugged uncomfortably.

“I’m not at all bored by talking about potions,” Harry volunteered. “I enjoy Potions too. My godfather was a bit bewildered that I spent some of my free time in the holidays doing some brewing.”

The two of them chatted about the brewing he’d done, and Rosen overcame her discomfort and clearly was in her conversational comfort zone talking about what was her favourite subject, despite the apparently lacklustre Potions class at Durmstrang where their over-cautious teacher didn’t let them brew any potions with any element of risk until their senior years, and even then made her class repeat brewing potions multiple times until they perfected them.

“It is not bad as such,” Rosen said, sighing, “but it is so slow and those who are ready to progress must still repeat dull potions over and over again. Professor Slughorn has covered so many potions already! And he gives his best students permission to brew personal projects unsupervised outside of class hours!” Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

“You should talk to the Weasley twins some time,” Harry suggested. “Fred and George Weasley – they look identical and have bright red hair, you can’t miss them. They’re in sixth year, but I think Slughorn might be right in boasting that they’re our best Potioneers at Hogwarts.” He waved vaguely in their direction across the room, which was really all that was needed. They stood out a mile off, both due to their appearance and their gregarious nature – all loud boasts and laughter as they entertained a small crowd with a display of their latest creation, a Canary Cream which when eaten temporary transformed the recipient into a bird.

“Dear Merlin, look at that!” Rosen said. “Full human transfiguration! Was that from a biscuit? Not even a draught?”

“Yup, and they invented them, too. Only seven Sickles each, while they’re still testing their prototypes. Sometimes there’s a few feathers that don’t come off, but Madam Pomfrey can fix you up easily if that happens.”

“Go and talk to them,” Torsdóttir encouraged, giving Rosen an encouraging nudge with an elbow.

“Without an introduction?” Rosen fretted, twisting her hands into anxious knots.

“You can introduce her, I’m sure,” Torsdóttir said, turning to Harry. “In return, I would be happy to introduce you to Ericksen. He’d be happy to talk to you about your unguent for vampires that you mentioned brewing, as he is a great proponent of vampire rights. He’s been looking forward to meeting you, actually.”

“Uh, sure. I would be happy to introduce you, Rosen. Astrid, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Pure-blood, of course, if you are including blood status in your introduction. I understand it’s not usually the done thing at Hogwarts.”

“Not counting the link to the Muggle van Rosen family,” Torsdóttir teased.

Rosen shrugged uncomfortably. “That was so many generations ago you know it does not count. Besides, they were nobility, not just common riff raff.”

“You are ashamed of having Muggle ancestors?” Harry asked, a little stiffly.

Rosen sighed. “Not proud, but not ashamed, either. More embarrassed that everyone always tells the story of how my many-times great-grandfather cast spells to make everyone think the castle he’d inherited had burnt down just because he didn’t want to be visited by his annoying Muggle relatives who were trying to pressure him into marrying some noblewoman he didn’t fancy.”

Torsdóttir grinned and nodded. “We shared a dormitory until sixth year when we got our own private rooms, and whenever Astrid got too caught up in studying or just didn’t want to talk to anyone, Mayer would always say, ‘Don’t disturb her, or she’ll burn down the dormitory. She’s a Rosen, you know!’ Everyone knew the story from first year. The Rosen family is infamous for that.”

“Mayer?”

“Johanna Mayer – a friend of mine from the Holy Roman Empire. She’s one of us four girls from Durmstrang. We’re sadly outnumbered by the boys – there’s seven of them. Ridiculous, given how women are usually magically stronger,” Torsdóttir said, with a dismissive snort, “but that’s Karkaroff for you. Sexist pig.”

“What’s with the names? Like Kalmar Union? Holy Roman Empire?” Harry asked.

“I’ll tell you after you go introduce Rosen to those twins before she loses her nerve.”

“Idunn!” Rosen whined.

“It’s true, though. She gets nervous about meeting new people. It’s why I’ve been over here keeping her company. She’s almost as bad as Krum.”

“Viktor Krum?” Harry said, glancing around the room and seeing the dour Quidditch star still surrounded by an eager, attentive crowd. “He looks fine.”

Torsdóttir shrugged. “He’ll do his duty and talk to people, but he hates it. Given the opportunity he would rather hide in a corner with a book.”

“I always end up saying something stupid and boring people,” Rosen mumbled. “Maybe I could talk to them later.”

“Go!” Torsdóttir insisted, with a laugh, and Rosen got up obediently.

Harry led Rosen over to the twins, politely tucking her hand into the crook of his arm like he was her escort for the party. “Don’t worry, they’re quite nice, if a bit inclined to tease. Just ask them about their potions, and they’ll do all the talking for you.”

The introductions went smoothly, if less formally than Rosen perhaps would’ve liked, and Harry left her listening raptly to their excited sales pitch about their prank potions business.

As Harry stepped away from the group Torsdóttir rejoined him and led him towards a tall fit young man with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and the wispy beginnings of a moustache and beard. He was busy flirting with one of the Beauxbatons girls, who was giggling and toying with her hair. Harry suddenly felt very young in comparison.

“I don’t want to interrupt…” Harry said awkwardly, backing off a little.

“Hmm, yes. Maybe in a minute,” Torsdóttir said, with a light laugh. “Ericksen wouldn’t thank me for interrupting him right now.”

“So, uh… are there really only three magical schools in all of Europe?” Harry asked.

“Only three that count. There’s also a large school in Russia of course, and some children from eastern Europe go there. There are also a few smaller, less prestigious schools scattered around - day schools for locals, mostly. I’ve heard there’s one in Rome that’s not too bad if you can stomach all the religion, but they say it only covers half the subjects that Durmstrang does.

“A lot of families home-school, too, but my family obviously is well-off enough to cover the fees, and the mandatory language acquisition. There’s only a small population of witches and wizards in Iceland, so we all tend to go to Durmstrang – it’s that or home-schooling.”

“You speak English really well,” Harry said. “I guess your native language is uh, Icelandic? What language do they teach in at Durmstrang?” She spoke just like a Londoner, in fact, and without the overly formal grammar and scattering of archaic words that characterised a lot of British wizards’ speech. He would've sworn she was born and raised in Peckham, if he didn't know better.

“Well, you have to be at least bilingual to attend as teachers instruct in either German or Norwegian; the seiðrsdialekt of Norsk, to be precise, so I took some potions for both of those. They weren’t cheap, especially the latter, obviously! I also know Old West Norse which is very handy for Ritual Magic and Ancient Runes, as well as reading old sagas. My mother paid for an English potion for the trip over here, of course, which makes five languages in total including Icelandic.”

“I paid for some potions to be fluent in French, Latin, and Ancient Egyptian,” Harry volunteered. “I studied a little Spanish ages ago, but I’m very rusty and can’t really do much more in that than say hello and count up to ten.”

Torsdóttir nodded in obvious approval. “Latin and Ancient Egyptian?! Nice! That must have cost you a lot of Galleons. Good to see you don’t have any qualms about the language potions being unethical.”

“What?” Harry asked, a bit bewildered.

“Like Krum, and a lot of the Beauxbatons students. Terrible accents, don’t you think? They all fuss about ‘natural’ learning being the only right way to do things.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Terrible waste of time, if you ask me. I learnt Old West Norse the hard way and though it’s similar to Icelandic it was still a lot of work – I think potions are much better if you can afford them.”

“Well, not everyone can,” Harry said diplomatically.

“Krum certainly could, if he wanted to. Say, you asked earlier about the Kalmar Union?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Well, I’d rather make it quick – I don’t want to spend all night at a party in a corner giving a geography lesson. No offence. I was just staying with Rosen so she wasn’t all on her own.”

Harry nodded understandingly. “None taken. The short version is fine. We don’t learn magical geography at Hogwarts – or at least, I haven’t learnt it yet – so even the basics would be helpful.”

“Right. So, the short version is that the magical population of Scandinavia isolated itself in the fourteenth century and decided pretty quickly to ignore how the Muggles were constantly changing their countries’ borders and names. So we stuck with Kalmarunionen – the Kalmar Union – as a good name to show solidarity. A show of unified strength to preserve our borders against the witches and wizards in the Holy Roman Empire to the south, and Russia to the east which was quite expansionist at that time. We formed an alliance of witches and wizards in Iceland, Greenland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and parts of Finland and Estonia, with a governing council and regional administrators.”

“That’s a couple of centuries before the International Statute of Secrecy,” Harry mused. “Of course, that statute was formalising something that had been the status quo for quite a while, really, wasn’t it?”

“True. We were already heading towards an isolationist stance, but it was the Black Death that really pushed things along, I think. For example, Norway lost two-thirds of its Muggle population, and almost all of its Christian priests. There was an especially big push to isolate ourselves from the disease-ridden Muggles, even though we didn’t catch their plague. So there were a lot of land grabs, and a resurgence of the old faith on the mainland.”

“They’re not disease-ridden,” Harry said irritably, “and it wasn’t right to steal their lands.”

“They get sick more than we do. They have weak constitutions,” Torsdóttir said, frowning.

“We catch many of the same illnesses they do, and there’s only a handful of illnesses that don’t overlap. Muggles can’t catch dragon pox or spattergroit, for instance.”

“We would be even healthier than them if people didn’t keep breeding with them and polluting the purity of our blood-”

“You’re a blood purist?!” Harry hissed angrily. “Having magical talent doesn’t make us better, just different!”

“You’re not a blood purist?! How can the Heir of Slytherin – a Parselmouth – not be a blood purist?” she quietly hissed back. “I’m not going to judge you for your ancestry – you can’t help what your ancestors did – but surely you can’t support mixing with Muggles any more than is strictly necessary?”

“My heritage doesn’t have to make me a bigot! Look at Grindelwald, look at Voldemort – my own damn parents murdered – look at all the people they killed and the suffering they brought, and ask me again why I don’t like talk of blood purism!”

Harry glowered at her.

Her lips thinned and she gave him a curt nod.

“Alright. Your parents. I grant you that. Those Lords’ methods were… excessive. Damaging to our own people. But the overarching goal of preserving our ways and putting ourselves in a stronger position to deal with Muggles-”

“Well sure, but it is no excuse at all for mass murder,” Harry whispered back.

“It doesn’t excuse everything, but it’s understandable! They kill us too! Every time they’ve found us, they’ve slaughtered us! The Statute’s there for a reason!”

“That hasn’t happened for centuries!”

“Yes it has! It’s happening even now, or they’re trying, at least! Why do you think every government has people to deal with dangerous Muggles! Laws to stop every idiot witch and wizard from showing off magic to them? They are a threat and anyone who’s not a total troll-brain knows that!”

“There’s a difference between Obliviating someone – like the Ministry does – and advocating bloody mass murder! There’s like six billion people in the world! We have to live together, even if you don’t like it!”

“We have to live separately!” she cried, looking flabbergasted.

“Look, I agree on that-”

“Good!” she said, sounding relieved.

“-but I can’t and won’t support murder as part of that!”

“You already do!”

Harry’s face blanched. What does she know? Has someone talked about my truce with Lord Voldemort? Who?

“What?” he said. “No, I don’t!”

Lie with confidence, Draco always said. Getting caught in admissions was Harry’s weak point and he knew it, but he was working on it. Deny, and be consistent in your denials even when challenged.

“Two words,” Torsdóttir said, with soft intensity. “Hit. Wizards. They’re part of your own government. If you support your own Ministry you’re already accepting that sometimes Muggle threats need to be dealt with. Permanently. When someone kidnaps or kills one of our people or creatures, or threatens to expose us.”

“They… they’re just specialist Aurors,” Harry said uncertainly. “They’re just more highly trained. To deal with dangerous criminals. They don’t kill-”

“You tell yourself whatever you need to, to sleep at night,” she interrupted, leaning in close as she whispered intensely. “You know Muggles are a threat. Think about it. What they’d do to us. What they’ve already done, over and over! If they knew-”

A tall blond wizard pushed his way in between them, muscling in to grab and shake Harry’s hand, ‘incidentally’ turning Harry away from Torsdóttir as he clapped his other hand on Harry’s right shoulder. It was the young man with the wispy beard that Torsdóttir had been planning to introduce Harry to.

“Mr. Potter, I do so hope you don’t mind me interrupting your conversation to introduce myself!” the young wizard said, in an overly cheerful tone. “Do excuse us, Miss Torsdóttir – I believe Bahnsen and Mayer were looking for you.”

His very serious stare at her seemed at odds with his cheerful voice. Both Torsdóttir and Harry could figure out the unspoken message there.

“Yes, do excuse me,” Torsdóttir said stiffly. “Perhaps we can resume our conversation later, with calmer spirits. I am sure we still have some common ground.” She gave a short bow and stalked off.

Harry turned to his saviour with a sigh of relief, bowing politely. “Thank you, uh…”

“Bjørn Ericksen, of the Sacred House of Ericksen, as you say in Britain, right? Pure-blood, but not from a ‘Noble’ family, and we don’t trace our line back to the Romans. We’re proudly Norwegian for many, many centuries! It is berserker blood we claim for our family. My name means bear, you know! It’s a very old family name.” He had a pronounced Scandinavian accent but spoke English very fluently.

Harry’s face fell. “So, you’re a blood purist too.”

“Don’t mind Torsdóttir,” the man said, shaking his head. “She’s usually a very friendly soul, and she’d never harm anyone outside of a formal duel of magic or staves. Did she insult your family?”

“Not exactly. Well, a bit. She just… she said lots of stuff about blood purity.”

“Well, I don’t mind that you’re a half-blood,” Ericksen said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You are a Parselmouth! That is very special! You should transfer to Durmstrang, like my aunt wrote to you. Do you remember her letter? I think they don’t appreciate your talents properly here. I heard you could not even bring your snake to the party tonight in case people were frightened – such a shame!” He tutted in disapproval.

“I like it here, and I’m not a blood purist,” Harry said defensively. “Even Salazar wasn’t exactly one either, you know. Not completely. He just wanted to protect the students from Muggle attacks. He didn’t mind some Muggle-born students so long as their families weren’t going to panic or gossip and pose a risk to Hogwarts – that’s what he was worried about. Not the students themselves.” Harry clenched his fists.

“Hey, easy now,” Ericksen said, softly but sternly. “I am not your enemy unless you choose to make me into one. I was trying to help you, interrupting Torsdóttir. It looked rather… heated. In a bad way. Would you rather I left you alone, now?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, hunching as he apologised. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… she seemed so friendly, and we still ending up arguing. I guess I just wanted to know… if we’d end up fighting too.”

“Do you think all vampires, giants, trolls, and hags should be killed? Werewolves killed or chained up with silver?”

“No! None of that!”

“Good. Should people all be forced to follow one religion?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Do you think we should allow Muggles to know all about magic, for nothing could possibly go wrong because we are all good people deep down and no-one would hurt each other once the truth is out?”

“…No. I don’t think it would go at all well.”

Ericksen clapped him on the shoulder again, making Harry stagger and hunch up from the unexpected blow.

“Then that is good enough for me! You have an open heart to Dark creatures, but you are no fool. We shall be friends, and you may call me Bjørn if you wish.” He smiled charmingly at Harry, momentarily reminding Harry a little of Lockhart.

“Oh. Uh, I appreciate the offer, but let me think about that, I don’t know you very well yet. Perhaps at a future date when we’re better acquainted.”

Ericksen beamed happily at him. “Fair enough, Potter. Let us get acquainted then. Now, tell me all about being a Parselmouth! It is such a rare Dark talent! You are truly blessed by Magic.”

Harry sighed. This was going to be a long night. He looked wistfully over at the cheerful group of Beauxbatons students and settled in for another talk about why-I’m-not-Dark. Eventually to his relief they shifted to a less touchy topic and had a pleasant enough talk about vampires (who were permitted to attend Durmstrang if they were young and needed to study).

With a promise to Ericksen to introduce Storm to him as soon as he could, Harry was then free to mingle elsewhere and chatted in French with a couple of the Beauxbatons students including a dark-skinned young witch whose French-speaking family lived in Senegal. However, despite his best intentions he only got to chat to the other two Triwizard champions very briefly (since they were so busy mingling) before the party grew too late and Slughorn jovially sent them on their ways with promises of more Slug Club parties to come.

-000-

On a Friday afternoon in mid-November, Professor Slughorn obligingly let Harry leave Potions early to attend the Weighing of the Wands ceremony for the Triwizard Tournament.

Rita Skeeter had tried to drag Harry away from the other champions prior to the ceremony, but a frosty, “Excuse me, madam!” as she tried to grab his arm had put a quick stop to that, and her injured feelings were soon soothed by Harry’s promise of an interview after the ceremony had finished.

After the champions’ wands had been demonstrated to Mr. Ollivander’s satisfaction as not being in any way defective (which could have proved highly dangerous in a life-threatening tournament), the judges and other officials lingered to chat with each other and the school principals. Skeeter had a perfunctory handful of questions for the foreign champions, after which she, Harry, and her Daily Prophet photographer went to an adjoining classroom for a more in-depth interview.

Rita spread out her magenta robes as she sat decorously on one of the old wooden chairs and extracted an acid-green quill from her scaly handbag. She sucked on the tip of the quill for a moment, before setting it to float above the parchment laid on an adjacent desk. In bright green ink it scratched out what seemed like Skeeter’s thoughts and opinions rather than what she was actually saying or hearing.

“Shall we get started?” Skeeter asked eagerly, pushing up her jewelled spectacles with a manicured crimson-nailed hand as she leant forwards.

“How does the quill work?” Harry asked, watching with fascination as it wrote down his words as well as a description of him as being a ‘handsome young man in silver-rimmed spectacles, with his tidy fringe concealing the disfiguring mark of his tragic loss’. It didn’t appear too fussed about perfect accuracy for its quotations, as it amended Harry’s recent question to refer to itself as a ‘marvellous enchanted emerald quill’.

“My Quick-Quotes Quill is perfectly legal,” Skeeter said defensively. “It is attuned and activated by saliva, not blood.”

Skeeter swiftly moved the conversation along with a few quick starting questions about how Harry felt about the Tournament (very nervous but determined to do his best) and why he’d entered (he didn’t but some friends had entered his name for him, and he’d try to live up to their faith in him).

“Now, Mr. Potter, can you tell me if you remember your parents at all? How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament?”

Interesting question. “Well, I can’t be sure of course, because I barely remember them. But, from what people have told me my dad was a risk-taker, and a very brave man. I think he would have been proud and excited. I think my mum would have worried a lot more, maybe nagging me to study hard to help me get through the tasks. Muggle schools don’t have the dangerous sports and competitions that the wizarding world does, so I think it would have been scarier for her, being Muggle-raised. The level of risk that’s regarded as acceptable here is pretty daunting for newcomers.”

Skeeter smiled encouragingly at him, and Harry caught a glimpse of a couple of gold teeth as she did so.

“Ah, your parents were quite the forbidden romance, weren’t they? The pure-blood heir who won the reluctant heart of the feisty Muggle-born!” Rita said, pressing a palm to her chest as she let out a melodramatic sigh. Her acid-green quill kept busily scratching out notes for her in the background. “What young witch have you set your pining heart on, Mr. Potter?”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “No-one, Miss Skeeter. And uh, just so you know, technically, my mother was a half-blood.”

The reporter gasped excitedly. “Really?!”

“Uh, yes. My maternal grandmother, Heather Evans nee Parkinson, was a pure-blood Squib, though I don’t believe she ever told her children about her background. Grandma Heather had two magically talented parents, so I believe that makes my mum a half-blood since she had magical grandparents. You can confirm it with the Parkinson family if you like,” Harry added helpfully, as Skeeter hung on his every word with bated breath. “Our family relationship is formally acknowledged and there’s a properly researched family tree.”

Harry glanced over at Skeeter’s notes and caught a glimpse of her quill jotting down phrases like ‘lonely young Heir’, ‘scandalous family secret’, and ‘shocking revelation’.

Hmm. I’d probably better encourage her more to talk with the Parkinsons to help her get a more well-rounded take on things, or she’ll drag them over the coals.

“Before you leave Hogwarts you might like to talk to my cousin, Pansy Parkinson, in Slytherin. She’s a good friend of mine as well as one of my closest relatives in the wizarding world,” Harry volunteered. “The Sacred House of Parkinson has been very kind and welcoming to me, including gifting me with Storm, my pet rainbow serpent.”

Leaning over for another peek at her notes, he spotted ‘welcomed into the bosom of this proud Slytherin family’ and nodded approvingly. Much better.

-000-

On Sunday morning before the Potter Watch meetings were due to start, Hermione’s attention at breakfast was as usual divided between her toast and her copy of the Daily Prophet.

“It seems you’re seen as quite the eligible young bachelor, Harry. Skeeter’s article got the front page, and she’s gone to some effort to point out you’re the Heir to ‘at least two wealthy Houses’, and that your children – of which she seems to assume you would have many – would be counted as pure-blood if you married the ‘right sort’ of witch. There’s a five-generation family tree on page two, with your ‘closest relatives’ the Black, Parkinson, and Malfoy families on it. Oh, and a teaser of ‘more shocking revelations’ to come. They left off your aunt and her family entirely, which is pretty typical for the tone of the paper lately,” Hermione added, tutting disapprovingly. “It’s increasingly anti-Muggle with her as their main feature writer instead of Smudgely.”

Harry sighed. “Well, I did my best. You should have seen her draft notes! It could have been so much worse. I guess I’d better brace for more mail. Can I borrow your owl this evening?”

“Like I told you, any time. Are you looking forward to Potter Watch? It’s the Incarcerous charm and silent spellcasting today!” Hermione said excitedly.

“I guess. Turner – you remember him, our Head Boy from Ravenclaw – volunteered to take over teaching the Middle group so I can focus just on being a student in the Senior group, and spend more time preparing for the first task. But I guess I’m going to miss working with my friends.”

“You’ve still got me in the Senior group,” Hermione comforted. She’d tested out of the Middle group since she knew most of the spells they’d be covering, but despite that she actually still went to all of the meetings – even the Junior group ones – when she wasn’t too busy panicking about an assignment due on Monday. She said it was all good practice.

“And Draco’s there too,” Harry added, “but I think I’m going to miss everyone else.”

“You need not quit the Middle group just because Turner thinks you should,” Neville encouraged. “It is entirely up to you. You will still see me and all your other friends at other times, however, so you should not fret about that.”

“Thanks, Neville. Well, I don’t exactly want to, but I think it’s a wise decision. My study time is so miniscule right now, I need every spare hour I can get. I really wish I had a Time-Turner this year too,” he said, with a wistful sigh.

His Slytherin friends had completely different takes on the Potter Watch situation, and they weren’t united in their opinions. Pansy had fretted about Harry giving up control of the group (even on a temporary basis), and the potential loss of status from not being in charge. Draco on the other hand had argued in favour of Turner’s offer to take over, saying that delegation was part of being a patron and that Harry giving the impression that Hogwarts’ Head Boy was at his beck and call only enhanced his reputation. That it would allow Harry to focus on the Tournament he thought was just a bonus. The others mostly just thought that leading a group was a lot of work for very little benefit, and that it should be Harry’s call as to whether it was worth it.

“Say, did you hear that some of the exchange students wanted to join our Senior group?” Harry said. “Peregrine turned them down though, with some polite excuse. Some of them are making up their own Duelling club, instead. What he’s actually worried about is that they might spy on how my spellcasting is going. That it might give the other schools’ champions an edge in the Tournament.”

His friends looked thoughtful.

“It could be a legitimate risk, or it could be typical Slytherin paranoia and over-thinking things,” Neville said. “It feels rather ungracious of us not to properly welcome our guests to Hogwarts, however.”

“I think it’s a good call, on the whole,” Hermione mused. “They might try to spy on us. I ran into Krum again in the library while I was busy studying on my own in a quiet corner. I think he was trying to hide from some fans! He asked what I was reading and tried to start up a conversation about new charms I’d been learning. But I just wanted to read my book so I told him I wasn’t going to discuss anything remotely related to the Tournament and to come back when he had something intelligent to say about the issue of house-elf enslavement or the origins of the various magical humanoid races. He looked shocked and just slunk off.”

Harry found Potter Watch rather trying that day. He had the knack of the Incarcerous Spell well enough – it just needed more practice. However, silent spellcasting was another story and Harry found it impossible to get even the slightest response from the simplest charms. Still, only a very few sixth and seventh-years could do it at all, so he tried to keep that in mind and not to feel too down about his utter lack of success. Everyone watching him (and a few people badgering him to try harder) didn’t help his equanimity about his failure, though.

It was in a very distracted state of mind that Harry collected Storm and some books from his dorm room and snuck off to the boys’ bathroom on the Fourth Floor near the library, ignoring passers-by calling out friendly greetings and affirming their belief he’d win the Tournament for Hogwarts. Harry wasn’t in the mood to chat – he was headed straight for the secret entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Surely Ambrosius – Merlin – would have a few good tips about silent spellcasting. He also wanted to have a bit of privacy to look through his book on Ancient Egyptian curses again, so see if there was anything in there that might help Sirius.

Harry locked himself in one of the toilet cubicles, and hissed at a tiny carved snake to open the secret entrance. The back wall of the cubicle – which looked like solid stone blocks – sank into the ground without so much as a whisper of sound. A very sensible enchantment, Harry thought, to prevent anyone overhearing anything unusual. Harry squeezed past the toilet into the space revealed behind it and headed down the spiral staircase. Carved snakes hissed their welcomes to him as he passed them.

“Greeetings Ssscion!”

“Welcome back, young master!”

Harry put Storm down in the main Chamber when they reached it. It was looking much nicer after his work with restorative spells. He’d cleaned up the decorative pool last year, and the water was, if not crystal clean, at least no worse than the Black Lake. Storm was having fun exploring a little underwater tunnel out to the lake, which was how the occasional fish strayed in now that Harry had cleared out some bits of rubble that had been blocking things.

The stonework walls were now clean thanks to some masonry-specific cleaning charms Harry had researched over the summer, and the enchanted blocks that glowed with a soft radiance were even brighter after their cleaning (and a judicious top-up of magic and a smear of saliva in lieu of blood had helped too), making the whole room less gloomy. The stone serpents that spiralled around the many pillars in the room had appreciated having their delicate carved scales clearly revealed from beneath the former layers of grime and dust, and had been even more thrilled to see Harry cast some cleaning and strengthening charms on Salazar’s imposing statue.

Downstairs through another secret passage (Salazar sure did love those), Harry added a loaf of bread and a sealed pot of raw honey to his single ‘fridge’ shelf low on the bookcase he’d added last year to Salazar Slytherin’s old study, where he kept a few emergency snacks. Honey would keep for years if needed – centuries, even. Bill Weasley had gossiped in a letter about how explorers had even found honey in Egyptian tombs that was still edible despite being three thousand years old. The bread should hopefully keep for a couple of weeks, thanks to the charms he was about to set up.

Harry spent some time carving a set of Younger Futhark runes on the bottom shelf so he wouldn’t need to reapply the cooling charms so often: Bjarkan for freshness, Ur in murkstave to inhibit mould growth, and Is for the preserving and cooling power of ice. They were all chained to Ar as the base rune, which represented bountiful, healthy crops and would ensure the spells focused on the food placed on the shelf. He’d found the rune set in a library book, Practical Household Magic, one of Hogwarts’ more recent texts. It was basically instructions on how to make your own magical equivalent of a very simple fridge.

He cut a little nick with a sharp potions knife on one of his fingers and smeared some blood onto the runes and sealed them with a touch of magic from his wand as he cast a Cooling Charm to link into the rune set. The blood, he was interested to note, disappeared as the spell was cast and the runes sank into invisibility. When he used the Revealing Charm the invisible runes glittered more brightly than any of those he’d previously created with saliva or with magic alone. Ever since Snape had insisted over summer that blood would empower runes more strongly than the other options, he’d been a little curious to find out the truth of the matter for himself, and certainly no-one would be spying on him down in Salazar’s old quarters in the Chamber of Secrets. It looked like it was true. He nodded in satisfaction at the results of his test. He didn’t want to go mucking about with blood magic willy-nilly (especially since the Ministry had long since banned it), but it was good to scientifically conclude that it could be effective. The book instructions had called for saliva but substituting in blood had yielded the good results as he’d expected.

“Greetings, young Heir! It is good to sssee you again!” the tiny snake carving hissed from Salazar’s scroll-storage shelf. It was practically empty – Harry didn’t really have anything to store in there. Last year he’d kept some of his homework scrolls in there, but this year his visits were too infrequent to warrant leaving any half-finished homework behind. He did still have a few spare rolls of blank parchment in the shelving, plus some extra ink and quills on the desk and a pile of blankets and pillows in the bedchamber, but not much else was stored down here right now.

“Your casting went well, I sssee,” it continued, with an approving note to its sibilant hisses. “Let me taste your blood and you may passs within.”

Harry let the little snake bite him as usual, in what passed a millennium ago as an unbeatable identification check, and after a quick Episkey headed inside to chat to Merlin.

He tapped politely at the edge of the mosaic to wake up its inhabitant. “Greetings Ambrosius, it is the afternoon of Sunday the thirteenth of November, nineteen ninety-four.”

“Ah, hello again!” Ambrosius said, waking up and giving his back a stretch. “It has been almost a couple of weeks since I saw you last, then. You have been busy preparing for the Triwizard Tournament, I suppose?”

“Exhaustingly so, and I have so many people wanting to help me out that it’s been hard to get a moment to myself. Sorry I haven’t been able to visit much lately.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ambrosius promised.

They chatted for a while about Harry’s studies and his swarms of research helpers for the Tournament.

“I don’t suppose you have some good tips for mastering silent spellcasting?” Harry asked optimistically.

“I usually said my incantations aloud,” Ambrosius admitted. “Speech is one of the components that adds power to one’s magic; it is a powerful tool for focusing and channelling your intention. Yet, it is not essential, and if others can cast spells silently with their wands alone, there is no logical reason you cannot do the same. I can only advise you to remember that you must always focus. Waving your wand and hoping is not the same thing as mastering your magic. You said that your delightfully-named friend Peregrine started you with Wingardium Leviosa?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to make things float?”

“Well, of course. I wanted to succeed. It was pretty embarrassing that I couldn’t make a feather even twitch.”

Ambrosius shook his head. “Not enough. You must focus more on the goal of the spell itself, and less on your feelings about the spell or your companions.”

“Oh! Like resisting the Imperius Curse!” Harry said eagerly. He explained how he’d progressed in throwing off the forbidden curse.

“Precisely!” Ambrosius agreed. “Well done. Yes, apply that same determination to other areas of your spellcasting, and you should see great improvements. Perhaps try the exercise I suggested where you attempt to summon your wand to your hand, too.”

“That’s wandless magic, not silent magic.”

“It is an application of the same principle, however.”

“I’ll try it, then. When I get a moment in private. Which I haven’t had for weeks,” Harry grumbled.

They also talked about the sad attack on the Tonks family, which Ambrosius agreed was unconscionable.

“I heard back from Miss Tonks with some more tips about being a Metamorphmagus – she wrote to me just before the attack,” Harry said. “She said when she turns back to her natural form it feels relaxing – which it never does for me – and if she’s been shapeshifted for a long time her hair and nails have grown.”

“Yes, returning to your natural form should always be freeing. There should be no tension left.”

Harry frowned. “I’m… I’m thinking that maybe I’m not ever in my natural form. Because uh… my nails and hair don’t actually change. Unless I nibble my nails and then they grow back overnight. I haven’t actually had my hair cut in years. I think the last one was about when I was nine years old.”

“Hmm! Your hair should certainly be longer, then. Do you want to try relaxing into your natural form? With enough focus on your goal it should be simple enough – it should come easily to you.”

“Well… yes. But… I’m a bit scared. Like, what if I look really different? Or I can’t change back? I learnt some hair-trimming and nail-cutting charms from Brown, since I figured I’m likely to look kind of crazily unkempt.”

At Ambrosius’ puzzled look Harry explained, “She’s a girl in Gryffindor, one of Hermione’s friends. She’s one of those girly-girls who like to look pretty with headbands and nail polish and stuff. She’s from a wizarding family so she knows heaps of cosmetic charms.”

“A ‘pure-blood’ as you say these days?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m trying not to introduce people with their blood status. Professor McGonagall said… well, she pointed out that things like that are a bad habit. I don’t want to act like a bigot or accidentally offend any Muggle-borns, so I’ve been trying to pay more attention to that stuff. It’s hard though, and I keep slipping up.”

“I did tire of being whispered about as being a cambion, back in my day. That was from the mort… Muggles, however. Most wizards and witches merely admired my skill, once it was proven. Power is more important than family.

“So, are you ready to try shifting?”

Harry sighed. “I suppose so. That was one of the things I wanted to do down here, where no-one will see me. I even brought a recent photo of myself… just in case I need to study it. And a mirror I made in Ancient Runes.”

Taking off his shoes and socks in case of catastrophic toenail growth, Harry sat stiffly on the chair as he concentrated. First, he spent a minute shifting his hair to something curly, and then he focused on the feeling of letting the shift go and relaxing back into his usual form… and then relaxing more. Letting go of all his own expectations of what he was supposed to look like, and of his care about maintaining his appearance to meet the demands and expectations of others. Breathing in and out, and letting his body relax into bonelessness.

There was a tingling feeling on his scalp, and Harry tried not to startle as he felt a scratching sensation on his hands as they twitched – his fingernails were definitely growing. He let it all go, focusing his mind on the peaceful waves of a deserted ocean shore and relaxing everything.

“That should do it, I think,” Ambrosius said in a satisfied tone, and Harry’s eyes snapped open.

“Do I… do I look different?” Harry pleaded.

“Not in essentials, I think,” Ambrosius said thoughtfully, and Harry huffed in relief. “You will need to tidy up of course, but you look otherwise much unchanged.”

Harry looked down at his hands, where his nails were so crazily long they’d curled into surprisingly heavy twisted weights on his hands. “A manicure first, I think, so I can actually hold things properly.”

The first of Lavender Brown’s charms that Harry tried was a variant of the Severing Charm – the base charm of which Harry was very proficient at – and it worked a treat. Harry’s fingernails and toenails were magically snipped to a tidy length. He even tried out a couple of extra charms – one to file the edges of your nails smooth, and another to lightly buff the surface of the nails to a gentle shine.

“Aren’t you going to look in your mirror?’ Ambrosius asked expectantly.

“In a minute,” Harry said, not wanting to admit he was stalling.

He patted behind his head and found a long mass of hair which reached down to his waist in a mess of tangles. He pulled a hank over his shoulder and sighed with relief. Still black.

He cast a de-tangling charm on the clump of hair he’d drawn forward, and it took a few tries to get right, but it worked eventually to fix the worst knots so he could brush it properly until his hair fell into long, straight lines. He did the rest of his head, then gritted his teeth and got out a mirror.

He sighed with relief. He was still himself. Same eyes, same nose, same scar… everything. His dark hair was long and straight with only a slight wave to it – and not at all the uncontrollable short mess he remembered from his childhood – but other than that everything seemed the same. He pulled his hair forward with one hand and cast a hair-trimming charm to even up the ends. It didn’t go too well, and he lost a little length trying it a couple of times until he’d mastered it. He decided not to experiment with any of the more intricate hair-dressing charms, lest he accidentally cut off an ear or make a dog’s breakfast of his hair. It wouldn’t do any harm to leave it fairly long for now.

“Anything different, do you think?” Ambrosius asked.

Harry took stock, poking at his face and pulling faces in the mirror, then patting himself down and looking at his arms and legs.

“Apart from the obvious hair length? I think my teeth are whiter,” he mused, “but it’s hard to tell for sure? I don’t look at my teeth that closely.”

Pulling up his sleeves he noticed a shiny smooth patch of scar tissue on his right forearm that he’d never seen before. “Oh. I remember… I think I know what this is from. When I was six… maybe seven? I burnt breakfast, and Aunt Petunia hit me with the frying pan – right here. It burnt my arm, and it got black and blistered and it hurt so much. I think I might have wished it away overnight because the next morning I felt fine. I guess I didn’t so much heal it as hide it away. Well, maybe hide it and heal it.”

He checked his body for other scars or differences, but there was nothing else obviously different.

“Do you think my skin’s a little paler? I think I might’ve lost some of my tan.”

Rummaging in his satchel, Harry got out his photo of himself for comparison. Yup, his skin was a little lighter. He glanced over at Ambrosius to get his opinion and saw the wizard standing with his hands clasped behind his back, and a stony expression on his face.

“What?” Harry asked nervously, checking the mirror again. Good, he still looked fine. He checked his teeth, too – also fine.

“Your aunt… beats you with hot metal pans? Until your skin chars?”

Oh. Harry tried to remember if he’d ever talked about the Dursleys with Ambrosius. Obviously not that much.

“Just the once,” he reassured. “And not for years – we get along much better now. And it was only hot just that one time – I think she forgot it was hot because she honestly looked so shocked.”

“It was not hot the other times she swung at you?” Ambrosius asked carefully.

“No, of course not! She didn’t actually want to hurt me, I don’t think she meant to. It was just a warning – I should’ve ducked away like I usually did. Then I wouldn’t have gotten burnt.”

Ambrosius’ face still looked worryingly fierce.

“It doesn’t happen anymore,” Harry reassured. “I know it’s not right, now I’m older. She doesn’t even fake-attack me now, I swear. We get along… well, it’s fine.”

“And your uncle and cousin?”

“Fine. It’s fine,” Harry insisted, wincing as a memory welled up again of Snape talking about how everything was always ‘fine’ with his family too.

“Dudley and I get along great and Uncle Vernon… well, it’s not great, but we’re alright so long as everything’s normal. They don’t hurt me. We got along fi… very peacefully during summer. Dudley even came to a picnic at the Weasleys’ house – he’s alright with magic.”

Maybe the diet Petunia had put them all on over summer hadn’t been great, but he’d packed his own food so that had been bearable, right? And despite his uncle’s threats Storm had been safe in the end even though Harry couldn’t keep him at Privet Drive. The incident with thinking his guard Fletcher was an invisible Death Eater, however, and his family wanting Harry to go off to face him alone… even Harry had to admit it wasn’t great. Alright, not everything was fine. He knew that, even though he hated to think about it. It wasn’t fine, and it had never been fine. But it was better, it was bearable, and that was enough, wasn’t it?

“No family is perfect, and I only have to see them a few weeks a year, anyway.”

Ambrosius stared at Harry’s troubled, strained face, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“This is why your family never trained you in magic. This is why you never speak of them, except of your cousin and his continuing demands to help him with his studies despite your own burdens. They are petty, spiteful mortals who dislike magic and mistreat you.”

Harry closed his eyes as he took a slow, deep breath and let it out again, letting his troubled emotions wash away with an image of cerulean waves lapping at a sandy beach shore. “Yeah. That’s basically it, I guess. Though, it’s much better than it was when I was a child… things weren’t great then. I’ve got my own room, clothes… I have all the basics now. They do alright. They might not be the best carers, and they shouldn’t… they’ve done some things wrong, even recently. They weren’t right in what they’ve done, and I’ll certainly do things differently if I ever have kids one day. But they try.”

“Do they love and care for you like you were their own son, as one should for a fosterling?” Ambrosius asked gently.

Helpless tears welled up in Harry’s eyes, and his throat felt like it was seizing up, like his emotions were choking him.

“No, but I think they do the best they know how,” Harry said weakly. “It was like asking a family of dogs to raise a duck. It was – is – hard for them, raising someone who isn’t normal. They don’t like magic, you see, and wizards haven’t usually been kind to them, so it’s understandable they’re scared of it. Once I learnt how to be more normal and could suppress my accidental magic, things got better. I’ve figured out how to get along with them.”

“They shouldn’t have hurt you like that,” Ambrosius said gravely. “Not for any reason. It is not like you were guilty of murder or treason! A burnt breakfast, of all things!”

“I know, really I do,” Harry said, scrubbing at his teary face with a sleeve. “It wasn’t fair. Or right.”

“Wanting you to suppress your magic… they should have encouraged it! Been awed by it! You need to find a new family to care for you,” Ambrosius pronounced sternly.

“…Maybe I do. Sirius has offered to adopt me,” Harry said, with a sniffle. “I’m thinking about it. He’s not perfect either, but he’s trying really hard to act like a good guardian, which I think counts for a lot, right? Because I think he might actually care about me and want me to be happy, and that’s… really nice. I’m not sure, though.”

They talked for a while about Harry’s concerns about the blood wards on Privet Drive and Ambrosius wheedled out a few more details about Harry’s life with the Dursleys and got angry again when he heard about Harry’s cupboard. Ambrosius demandingly pushed for details of Sirius and Lupin’s behaviour over the summer while Harry had stayed with them, and also insisted on discussing other potential adoptive parents, like Pansy’s family and the Malfoys. They even talked briefly about Snape, whom Ambrosius thought showed a good level of care for Harry, but Ambrosius conceded he should probably be ruled out due to his explicitly expressed disinterest in caring for children and dubious connections to Lord Voldemort. Sirius certainly seemed to be the prime contender for the spot of a new guardian for Harry in Ambrosius’ eyes due to his explicit offer of a home, willingness to formally adopt him, and his nomination of Harry as his Heir.

“Take the time to consider your options,” Ambrosius advised. “You have some months yet before the next summer.”

Feeling emotionally exhausted Harry determinedly put a stop to the discussion of his personal life after that, and they spent most of the remainder of the visit discussing the curse that had withered Sirius’ wand arm to a mummy-like state. Harry read out Latin translations of descriptions and incantations of various Ancient Egyptian curses in the book he’d brought with him. Harry also carefully told Ambrosius the incantations in Ancient Egyptian, with his wand set aside for safety’s sake, when the old wizard expressed curiosity about a few of them.

“Any ideas on a cure?” Harry asked optimistically, after over an hour had gone by and his voice was getting croaky from non-stop reading aloud.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Ambrosius said, “but I shall give the matter serious thought.”

“Thank you.”

Before Harry left, Ambrosius did some last-minute follow-up nagging. “Any progress on researching the prophecy made about you?”

“Yes and no. I’ve asked around about our Divination teacher, and opinions are mixed as to her skill. Hermione’s been particularly severe and says she never gets any predictions right and is a fraud. I’ve written to Professor Snape and asked him to recommend some Seers – I should hopefully hear back from him soon as it’s been a while since I wrote to him.”

Harry said his farewells and exited the Chamber, collecting Storm on his way out. Storm hissed happily about catching a fish in the lake and nagged to be taken to dinner that evening.

“If the young Clever-men from far away already know about me, I shall not ssscare them,” Storm insisted logically. “In any case, if they do fear me they can just hide, and you may let them know I shall not hunt them down or dry-ssstrike at them even though they are in my territory. I want to meet my new admirerss you told me about.”

Leaving the Chamber of Secrets via the boys’ bathroom, Harry flushed the unused toilet – just in case anyone else was in the bathroom to see him emerging from the cubicle – and exited the bathroom after washing his hands. Outside in the hallway he passed Draco, who was sitting on the cold flagstones reading a book.

Draco glanced up with a pleased smile as he saw Harry emerge, and rose to his feet immediately, tucking his book away in his bag. “There you are, I have been waiting for you.”

“Oh, were we supposed to meet up?” Harry asked carefully.

“No, I simply wanted to talk to you. I’ve been waiting–”

Draco cut himself off abruptly as someone walked past, then resumed speaking after the boy had moved on, but more quietly.

“–waiting right here for over three hours.”

“Really?” Harry said, with studied casualness. “You must have missed me then, wrapped up in your book. I’ve been in the library for ages. This was my second trip to the bathroom this afternoon. You should’ve looked for me in the library.”

Draco looked impressed. “Oh, splendid! You are getting better at this, and a good expression too, well done. That excuse would suffice for someone who knows you less well than I. Or who was less secure in the reliability of their observations of everyone’s comings and goings. I haven’t moved an inch for hours, however, so I know I didn’t miss you going back and forth.”

“Alright… you caught me. I actually fell asleep on the toilet,” Harry said, affecting an embarrassed expression. “Don’t tell anyone! I was up past midnight studying. It’s taking its toll!”

“Good, always keep denying!” Draco said with patronising approval, patting Harry on the shoulder. Storm raised his head to look curiously at Draco, then sank back onto Harry’s shoulder sleepily. “Now, what will you do since I very clearly do not believe your secondary excuse either?”

Harry sighed. “Well bribery and Obliviation are out, so as a friend I will have to hope you will leave well enough alone and understand that I don’t want to admit to anything. I’m hoping you’ll understand it would be to your advantage and mine to keep your mouth shut about a hypothetical secret I don’t want you to spread. Even to your father, or our friends. I want your word on that.”

Draco nodded. “You have my word as a Malfoy, my tongue is tied,” he promised, gesturing in the air with his empty hand towards his mouth like he was waving his wand in the motion used for the Silencing Charm. “I shall share this secret with no-one. I just wanted to know for sure where you were.”

Harry rolled his eyes at him and gave a wry smile. “You already guessed where I was. Hours ago.”

Draco grinned back at him and puffed his chest out proudly. “Yes. Yes, I did. It is only fair there is an entrance suited for boys as well as girls.”

“Don’t trade this secret away, Draco,” Harry warned, “not to anyone. Not to your dad, or your mum… not even to any portraits. Neville’s the only other one who knows about it. I need this way in, I don’t want the Headmaster warding this one too. I will be so mad if you gossip about this to anyone else. Seriously.”

“I swear I shall not, Heir,” Draco swore, bowing to Harry, “on the Malfoy family honour.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Thanks, but c’mon, cut that out before someone sees you.”

Chapter Text

November 1994

On Wednesday, Harry caught Professor McGonagall at the start of their class before lunch and got her permission to bring Storm to dinners in the Great Hall again, with wheedling assurances that the foreign students wanted to meet Storm, and that Harry would make sure he wouldn’t threaten anyone in any way.

After a determined and flawless demonstration of proficiency, he also got her permission to skip the lesson on transfiguring guinea fowls into guinea pigs (a relatively easy cross-species switch due to the Arithmantically similar names). Instead of repetitively practising what he secretly considered a completely useless spell, he got permission to work on the Vanishing Spell, a fifth-year Transfiguration spell several senior students had recommended as being potentially useful for the Tournament.

Hermione’s hand shot up eagerly. “Can I test out too, Professor? I could partner with Harry!”

No other interested students apart from Hermione passed McGonagall’s impromptu test and managed to produce guinea pigs without at least a couple of feathers remaining amidst their fur. So, it was just Hermione and Harry in a corner working on vanishing loose feathers, as their professor wasn’t game yet to let them try vanishing even simple animals like snails.

“It gets too messy,” their teacher explained, “if you only vanish part of an animal with Evanesco. You do have to go to lunch afterwards, after all, and you would not want your appetites ruined.”

Harry was certain his appetite was robust enough to withstand the sight of half a snail but out loud agreed amicably and with profuse thanks for her consideration.

McGonagall smiled benevolently at him. “We all know you are anxious about getting ahead for the Tournament, Potter. Flitwick says he has given you a pass for his class to work on any charms you need to focus on. So it would ill behove me to deny you the same opportunity in my class. So long as you keep up to date with class work and stay focused on Transfiguration, that is.”

Professor Flitwick had been eager to see Harry – his top Charms student – push forward even more with his studies. He spoke enthusiastically (if squeakily) about looking forward to seeing him ‘live up to his true potential’ in the Tournament and reminisced about how Harry had cast a fantastic Incendio in first year against the rampaging troll.

Having finished their studies of the Summoning and Banishing Charms (which many students had mastered the year before in Potter Watch), the Gryffindor Charms class was now forging ahead and working on mastering the Scouring Charm. However, Harry – and he alone – was granted permission to attempt to cast Summoning and Wand-Lighting Charms either non-verbally or wandlessly. Progress was slow, and Harry got a bit dispirited when despite his most focused and determined efforts he couldn’t manage more than making his wand roll over when trying to summon it wandlessly but with the incantation (progress which Flitwick was nonetheless exuberant about) and couldn’t cast non-verbal spells at all. Harry also practiced the Flame-Freezing Charm a lot on a candle (especially when he needed a break from persistently failing at non-verbal casting), as evidence suggested it may be very handy for the first task so it was a priority spell to master.

Not all his teachers were so flexible, however. Pruning Flutterby bushes seemed unlikely to help him in the Tournament, and Professor Moody was following in Professor Sprout’s footsteps and was also sticking with his planned curriculum. However, Moody did after a little wheedling from Harry agree to write Harry some library passes for Defence books from the Restricted Section. Neville and Hermione stuck around to help keep a wary eye on their surely-cursed teacher when Harry met with him after class and agreed that their teacher’s smile when he’d agreed to Harry’s request had been ‘creepy’.

In Care of Magical Creatures Harry was – just like everyone else – working on learning about Winged Horses – the Abraxans that had come from France in particular. The Slytherin students still needled their teacher occasionally, ‘sweetly’ asking if he would demonstrate the Hoof-Cleaning Charm they’d read about. Hagrid continued to be flustered about it, and Harry joined Hermione when she lingered one afternoon to encourage their teacher to get his conviction for opening the Chamber of Secrets overturned, and his wand rights restored.

However, Hagrid shook his large shaggy head sadly. “It’s not that easy. It’s not ‘cause I went to Azkaban that I lost me wand. It’s ‘cause I was expelled an’ never finished school.”

“Oh. Well… you could take on an Apprentice?” Hermione suggested. “Someone to study the practical stuff with you, and to demonstrate the charms in class? Or, you could self-study to get the minimum number of OWLs? The other teachers would surely help you.”

“Reckon I can’t take an Apprentice when I’m not a Master,” rumbled Hagrid. “But I’ll have a think about doin’ somethin’ about me OWLs. Thanks fer thinkin’ about it, I appreciate yer help.”

He shook her hand gingerly in thanks, his massive paw of a hand engulfing her comparatively tiny one.

Harry took Storm down to dinner with him for the first time in weeks, which greatly pleased his pet who insisted it had been “forever”.

The Gryffindors greeted his snake’s return with their accustomed equanimity borne of a couple of years’ exposure to him at dinners and in the Common Room, but some other students were more startled or delighted. Millicent was quick to pop over to the Gryffindor table to coo a greeting and praise for Harry to translate, accompanied by Pansy. Pansy was back to being notably loud and proud of being Harry’s cousin, which Harry didn’t mind but which seemed to be irritating Hermione. After Millicent and Pansy’s visit broke the ice some of the exchange students decided it would be fine for them to visit too.

A handful of Durmstrang students came over first. The big, blond boy Ericksen led the way, and just managed to get out a cheerful greeting before the others joined them.

Ericksen was swiftly followed by a male student with light-brown hair, plus Krum, and the two female students from Durmstrang that Harry hadn’t met yet.

Ericksen did the honours of introducing the newcomers, albeit with only some of the usual formality that Harry was used to from pure-bloods. The words were formal but abbreviated, and the bows left out entirely. “Mr. Harold Potter, of the Houses of Slytherin, Black, and Potter, may I introduce you to Mr. Bahnsen,” he said, gesturing at the new boy, “Miss Mayer, and Miss Caldaras. Mr. Krum you already know, of course.”

Bahnsen nodded briefly as he was introduced, but the Krum and the two girls stood stiff and still like someone had warned them not to bow or curtsey in public, but they weren’t sure what to replace the courtesy with. Mayer was a skinny, pale girl with her dark-brown hair in a plait, while Caldaras was a brown-skinned girl who let her long, jet-black hair flow free around her shoulders.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Harry said politely. “I would be curious to know where you’re all from. Also, I’d like to introduce you to Storm, he is a rainbow serpent or ‘Wonambi’ who was born in Australia, whom I’m guessing you might like to meet. Bow, Ssstorm.”

Storm bobbed his head obediently in greeting at Harry’s hissed command.

Mayer said in perfect English, “I’m from Germany, from the Harz mountains – a wizarding village near the Brocken, to be precise. Is your snake safe to hold? Is he venomous? He’s very beautiful.”

“He’s safe to hold so long as you don’t squeeze or scare him. He’s a constrictor – not venomous – though he does have sharp teeth. You can pass him around, if you like.”

Harry held Storm out to Ericksen first, since he’d gotten to the table fastest, and was already reaching out with eager hands to pat at Storm’s tail. “Behave Ssstorm, these are new admirers for you to impresss.”

“Good. Tell them I accept giftss of tasty creatures. Not too big.”

Harry smiled, and translated Storm’s soft hisses, adding, “He didn’t explain it, but he means nothing wider than around three inches – he can’t unhinge his jaw and might choke. He also prefers eating magical creatures or their eggs, if you ever want to bribe him into being friends. But he only eats a couple of times a week unless he’s being greedy. He won’t really be hungry for anything bigger than a bug for another day or two.”

“I am from se island of Föhr,” Bahnsen said, with a strong German accent. “It is a small island in se Nort Sea wery close to se German coast. My father runs a senctuary for Otterbanches, and my mother has a fishink bisness. I am et Durmstrank on a scholarschip, like Krum.”

“Otterbanches?” Hermione asked curiously.

“A rare megical creature wis green skin end blinkink red eyes. They used to live in se hills, but Muggles have forgotten to respect them, especially since we started hidink them due to se International Statute of Secrezee. Farmink has driven them from seir traditional homelands.”

Harry semi-formally introduced Hermione and Neville to their visitors.

“I hope I cen come to your next H.E.L.P. meetink?” Krum asked Hermione, shaking her hand. “I em very interestet in megical creatures, includink de welfare of house-elfs.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh! Well… yes, then you would be most welcome.”

Storm was carefully passed around the visitors who all seemed comfortable with him, though some were more eager and fearless than others. The wariest Durmstrang students were watching the interactions from way over at the safety of the Slytherin table.

“Caldaras and I are the top students in ‘Magical Creatures’ at Durmstrang,” Ericksen boasted. “A five-foot snake is nothing compared to a field trip to see Jötunn.”

“Ericksen was the best last year, but I did better on my OWLs,” Caldaras said. “I am Elena Caldaras, from Transylvania. My family currently lives in a wizarding-only village in Hoia Baciu forest near Cluj. So tell me, what powers do rainbow serpents possess?”

“Storm can summon lightning, and swim through the earth. Well, he swims in water, too – he’s semi-aquatic and a great swimmer; I don’t know if you’d count that as a power, however. Oh, and he can conjure up mist and rain. Just a very tiny, localised raincloud, or a moderately harmful electrical strike.”

“Swim through the earth? Can he go straight through solid rock like Draugar? Can he turn into mist?” Ericksen asked curiously.

“Eww. He’s not undead! He’s a sweetheart, yes, who’s the prettiest snake in the world? It’s you! You are just like a rainbow, yes you are! Don’t mind the silly wizard,” Mayer cooed.

Harry hissed some translations for Storm, who was most gratified at the babble of praise.

“Storm thinks you are very smart, Mayer. He wants you all to know that as he’s still quite young, he will be stronger with his powers when he is grown, and able to kill and eat even dangerous animals like bunyips or drop bears.”

And humans, Harry added mentally. Storm had also boasted that his lightning would be fatal when he was grown, instead of just leaving scars like it had on Sirius (something Storm was still a bit disappointed by, even though he didn’t mind Sirius on a personal level).

“Five-foot-long and he’s still a baby?” Ericksen said, letting out a low whistle.

“He is getting close to two years old, but he’s still got his baby scales around his neck,” Harry said, pointing out the band of pearly scales with a faint rainbow shimmer. “He’ll grow a mane of long dorsal scales there when he’s an adult; almost like hair. He’s been getting darker brown across his body every time he sheds though – still with his rainbows of course – rather than the light grey-brown of a hatchling. He’s like a child or teenager snake, now. Wonambi – rainbow serpents – can grow much bigger and are very long-lived. They grow quickly for their first year or so, then continue to grow their whole lives at a variable rate which some Clever-men – native Australian wizards – speculate is dependent on how magical their environment and diet is.”

“Fascinating!” Caldaras said.

“I agree! So… you’re from Transylvania? Isn’t that part of Romania?” Harry asked Caldaras.

Caldaras shook her head, with a tired and slightly irritated look. “No, unfortunately that is only for the Muggles. There was a secession led by vampire lords a long time ago. Romanian wizards and witches are still furious about it, mind you. Officially we don’t recognise Transylvania as its own independent magical nation, but it is what it is so I introduce myself as being from Transylvania. For now.”

Harry tried to remember if he’d ever seen the girl out and about during the daytime. He’d never paid that much attention to what the Durmstrang students did during the day – he only knew that they had some lessons shared with Hogwarts students, and some on their own. “Ssstorm, does thiss girl sssmell-taste like a vampire? All cold and sssnake-like?”

“No,” Storm replied. “She sssmell-tastess like you and the other humans, and a bit like flowers. I like her. She thinkss I am beautiful.”

“So, do vampires really–” Hermione started to ask.

“I don’t answer questions about vampires,” Caldaras interrupted, sounding increasingly irritated as she crossed her arms.

Ron, sitting nearby, suddenly paled, freckles standing out more sharply. “Are you a va–”

“No I am not a vampire, and no you may not check my teeth to be sure!” Caldaras said loudly. “While I am covering all the usual stupid questions: yes I am Roma and I am proud of that, no I will not tell you your fortune, and no you may not call me a gypsy or a țigani or anything else insulting. Yes, I’m pure-blood and an Orthodox Christian, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about tradition – I care about my peoples’ traditions a lot. Clear?!”

There was a chorus of apologies from the Gryffindors, even from some of those who hadn’t even spoken to her. And a few muttering people who were at least keeping their less charitable thoughts quiet.

“Sorry! That’s perfectly clear! And good for you!” Hermione said, in approving tones that won her a small smile from Caldaras. “I promise I won’t bother you again. You’re welcome to come along to our Bible Study group if you like.”

“I may do that, thank you.”

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry too, I apologise if I offended you.”

“Sorry,” Ron mumbled. “I guess it was a dumb question.”

“Caldaras…” Ericksen said, giving her a rebuking look.

She sniffed. “Yes, yes, I know. I am just tired of answering the same bigoted questions over and over. I am going to make up calling cards to hand out with all the answers on them.”

The Durmstrang students headed back to the Slytherin table after that rather awkward end to their visit. Harry noticed that Cho Chang stopped Caldaras as she passed close by her spot at the Ravenclaw table, to shake her hand and chat to her.

The French students’ visit was marked by Ron and Neville’s babbling attempts to impress Delacour (totally ignored), an unaccented complaint from a French boy named Laurent Durand who’d been jealous Harry got to keep a snake at Hogwarts and he’d had to leave his pet bat at home in Lutèce, and a couple of startled shrieks from the girls when Storm tried to ‘kiss’ someone’s hand with his snout and a girl panicked and thought Storm was going to bite her. Harry rattled off a quick apologetic explanation in French but was perhaps a little too late as they’d already attracted attention from the staff table.

“Mr Potter!” McGonagall said, striding over with a stern look. “Did we not discuss that you and your pet must be on your most exemplary behaviour if you wish to bring him to meals?”

“He was kissing her hand, not biting it,” Harry pleaded. “I explained it to them, it’s all alright now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is fine, isn’t it Dubois?” Delacour said, encouraging the startled – but totally unbitten – student to back her up. “Potter ‘as explained zat it was just a trick ‘e taught ‘is snake. Zere is no ‘arm done, and ‘is snake is very good educated.”

“Yes, I was frightened, but ‘is snake did not try to bite me,” Dubois agreed.

With several witnesses earnestly averring no harm was done, Storm was allowed to remain at the table and McGonagall left in the end without taking points from Gryffindor, to their House’s relief.  

-000-

Harry’s burden of correspondence didn’t stop just because he needed more time to study. In fact, it was overwhelmingly worse ever since the news about him being selected as a Hogwarts champion had come out in the Daily Prophet. When he’d complained to his friends about it Pansy had been the biggest practical help. She’d written to her family, and her parents had sent him a gift set of enchanted Triplicate Quills. If you laid out multiple sheets of parchment next to each other and set out three inkpots in matching positions, what you wrote with one quill would be precisely duplicated by two others hovering in the air and scratching out words on their own. It was much better than the Gemino duplication charm, because that only made temporary copies of an object, which would disappear after a while and was thus no good for answering fan mail.

A lot of fans got identical replies with only the name at the start being different, or maybe an extra line or two added at the end. A handful of letters required more specialised attention, such as replying to those who were upset with Harry for being chosen as the Hogwarts champion over other older possible competitors and called him a glory-hog. There weren’t a lot of those, thankfully, and of course Harry’s owl ward caught any Howlers before they reached him.

Tonks had written back thanking him for his letter of condolence and letting him know that her mother was out of hospital now and recovering well.

Percy had written again, including a careful warning that he couldn’t discuss any details of the Triwizard Tournament tasks. However, he did gossip about the topic in general, sharing that he had been sworn to secrecy about the Tournament – on his honour, not by magic – and had thus had to talk about duller side projects like cauldron bottoms all summer. Percy vented about how frustrating it had been when his brothers teased him.

Their friendship was growing slowly but steadily with a trickle of letters back and forth, which Harry liked. Harry sometimes got the impression from Percy’s work-focused but increasingly rambling letters that Percy didn’t have a lot of friends to confide in about his troubles and triumphs.

Apparently, Mr. Crouch had been originally slated to be one of five Tournament judges including the Heads of each of the schools, but after Crouch’s untimely death Percy had been judged insufficiently experienced and unbiased to be permitted to act as a judge in his place.

…It certainly seemed initially to be quite the social blow to be so dismissed, however, it afforded an opportunity for me to push through some changes for the Tournament which – with some support – were wildly successful and have advanced my reputation as a ‘go getter’ in the Ministry.

For if I was to be considered too biased due to my being a recent Hogwarts graduate, how much more biased would the schools’ Headmasters and Headmistress prove to be? Ludo Bagman is the only remaining original planned judge, while Mr. Scamander and Professor Marchbanks were added at my instigation as being impartially fair and highly knowledgeable judges. They were both eager to assist and have also been instrumental in bringing about some changes to the Triwizard tasks that everyone agrees should result in a superior Tournament. It has been quite the professional coup for me and has pleased almost everyone!

Those who dislike Professor Dumbledore were happy to see him ‘snubbed’ by being cut as a potentially biased judge, while those who favour him were delighted to hear that I’d consulted with him about the new judges and gained his whole-hearted support for my initiative. Some sensible individuals of course simply generally supported my logic of selecting the most impartial judges possible.

Thank you for asking after my father; he has recovered as much as is possible and is doing well. I have passed along your recommendation for Muggle ‘physiotherapy’. He sends his best wishes to you for luck in the Tournament and he and mother urge you to be careful and stay safe. Currently father is working on some house repairs he’d been meaning to get around to for some time, and I am assisting him some evenings. William, Charles and I are supporting our family with a portion of our incomes, and our mother has plans to look around for a job or other source of income now she has an ‘empty nest’ with no children living at home all year except for myself. She claims she has wanted to return to the workforce for some time, and no-one contradicts her… at least not in front of father.

I am saving up as much money as I can to help pay for my siblings’ Hogwarts fees, however, it is difficult. Even the highest Ministry jobs do not pay as much as you might imagine, as there is an unwritten expectation that such positions should be held by independently wealthy individuals who take on their roles out of a heartfelt wish to work for the betterment of society and will thus be theoretically immune to the lure of bribes. Admittedly an imperfect system but the Ministry as a whole functions well.”

Next was a letter from Dudley complaining about how Harry hadn’t sent through any tips helping him with a Business Studies assignment, and begrudgingly thanking Harry for his study notes for Biology, which he eventually admitted had helped a lot. Dudley also relayed that his parents wanted to know Harry’s plans for Christmas as they were planning to go overseas, then gossiped about how his mum was researching their family tree.

I think she’s worried there’s more wizards in the family that she never knew about, not that she’s admitting it. She just insists there certainly aren’t and I shouldn’t worry about it.

Harry wrote back explaining about how he’d been super busy studying for the Triwizard Tournament.

It’s like a super-dangerous interschool competition that has killer magical animals and magical duelling instead of just playing cricket matches like any sensible school.

He also wrote defensively about how friends had entered him without telling him, and now he had to represent his school even though he was technically underage for the competition.

He included a careful description of Rita Skeeter and asked if Dudley had heard if she’d been spotted nosing around asking questions of Aunt Petunia about their family tree. She seemed like the type, and she’d promised ‘more shocking revelations to come’ in her last article, after all.

In regard to Christmas Harry said he’d make alternate arrangements for that holiday and should have somewhere to stay.

Snape had finally written back, and Harry rushed through reading the long letter on potions theory discussing proper stirring procedure and how all potions required at least one magical component, the detailed questions and discussion about how his studies were going, and Snape’s closing best wishes for the Tournament (which included a gory and dispiriting anecdote about someone dying messily in a previous Tournament).

It was interesting enough, but not as interesting as the invisible writing revealed in the broad, empty margins of the letter with the Revealing Charm. Snape’s revealed writing spilled over onto the blank backs of the parchment sheets, which was an obvious and easier place to write in that Harry wished he’d thought of himself.

Well done, clever boy. This is superior to Lockhart’s method, which others are now watching for. If possible kindly pre-write your correspondence a week before sending it, so that the aroma of lemons and acidic herbs has time to fade. Discreetly destroy this letter after reading it as a matter of gravest and most urgent importance, for there are opinions and information below that may endanger myself if revealed to any. I hope I can trust in your honour to do so.

That sounded promising for getting some honest answers. He’d definitely destroy the letter as he’d been asked.

You asked why Lord Voldemort attacked the Tonks family. In short, it was for information, about a presumed-deceased member of the Black family: Regulus Black. A select number of Death Eaters have been made aware that Black stole a Slytherin family heirloom from their Lord many years ago – a locket with a stylised letter S on it. A crime only recently discovered, to his great displeasure. The locket is presumed destroyed, by parties on all sides, but should you ever stumble across such an item, keep it hidden and safe. For judging by the Dark Lord’s towering rage it is of immense importance to him and would prove a bargaining chip of incalculable worth. Dumbledore also knows of this item – for the Tonks family were asked about it over and over again, and their house ransacked in a fruitless and pointless search for it – and he suspects it may be another item similar to one you have already encountered.

Harry guessed that Snape was hinting here that Dumbledore thought the locket might be another item with a malignant spirit impression like the cursed diary.

He believes the Dark Lord is the type of man who would make a back-up plan in case the first failed but will share no more of his thoughts and remains irritatingly inscrutable when pressed and will not confide in me about the matter.

You queried as to why other methods like truth potions or Legilimency weren’t employed. They were. The problem is that such methods are not infallible. A skilled mind successfully hiding a secret and a mind truly innocent look much alike.

The general order to kill Sirius Black if at all possible has been commuted to an order to apprehend him for questioning first, but he remains elusive. Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy – once of the House of Black – were also questioned under duress about the stolen item but were unable to give Lord Voldemort the answers he demanded, so he consequently sought elsewhere for the information, to the relief of themselves and their husbands. Neither dare complain to anyone about their treatment.

Oh dear! That probably meant Narcissa had been questioned, even tortured, though it hadn’t made the news. Probably Bellatrix Lestrange too, but Harry didn’t care about her. She’d helped torture Neville’s parents into insanity; she had it coming. He guessed that the change in orders would help Sirius, so that was a good thing. Sort of.

Young Mr. Malfoy is unaware of his recent family difficulties, and his mother wishes to shield her son and have matters remain that way, so I would remind you again that all information shared here is to be kept in the strictest confidence. She does not wish to involve the authorities either, for she does not want to draw any attention to her family. The Malfoys feel that accusations of willing collaboration would be more likely than unbiased offers of assistance.

Awkward, but fair. Draco seemed stressed enough already without knowing about something like that. Harry wondered if the Malfoy family was willingly collaborating with the Dark Lord or if the Imperius Curse was involved, and if Cousin Narcissa being tortured would change their allegiances one way or the other.

“Is the Dark Lord mad?” A dangerous question and I would remind you again to destroy this letter after reading it. Leaving aside any discussion of whether one agrees with his goals or not, I would say that he is somewhat mentally unbalanced at present. Overuse of the Imperius Curse has left him intolerant of failure and anything resembling insubordination. You are correct that Dark Magic affects your state of mind if over-used. This is also the case for any spells with a heavy emotional component or that forge any kind of mental link between caster and subject. Regular use of Legilimency, for example, can influence one into wanting to covertly gather more and more information.

Harry figured that Snape knew that from personal experience. While it might be seen as a necessity for survival for a double-agent spy to be well-informed, Harry thought that Dumbledore had no such excuse for using Legilimency when it suited him, or for getting the Hogwarts portraits to spy for him.

Similarly, the Patronus spell, which forges a link between yourself and a spiritual guardian, can become tempting to rely on and leaves one unjustifiably cheerful and inclined to be over-protective of others. What a wizard says and does bears more weight for us than for Muggles for whom ‘I give my word’ is naught but a hollow phrase.

Your next questions addressed why the Dark Lord was not using more covert means to achieve his goals. He is doing precisely that. There have been several major successes that are not reported on, which is precisely what the Dark Lord wishes. Enemies have been removed or suborned, information gathered, followers recruited and trained, people placed in positions of influence, auguries consulted, and alliances forged. He currently believes firmly in the dictum that ‘No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the enemy until it is ripe for execution.’

Dumbledore and his followers fight in secret too, though typically without coordination with Ministry efforts as he feels – with some justification – that the Ministry has been infiltrated by the opposition. Few battles reach the ear of the Daily Prophet, and even fewer are reported on. Some alliances have been interfered with, resources cut off, lost individuals have been found, and others freed from the Imperius Curse. Many so freed chose to flee Britain rather than stay and fight. The Ministry has at times encountered some Azkaban escapees, but prefers not to publicly report on their failures to apprehend dangerous criminals.

Do not be one of the fools – which even the Dark Lord’s own ranks include – who expect a mass attack against the Muggles. He may hate or sneer at them, but he wishes for isolation of the magical world from the Muggles, and an unmistakable magical attack against Muggles would draw undesired attention. He will attack Muggles only when it suits his goals and does not endanger the wizarding world. Sorties, perhaps, but nothing more. He is increasingly well-positioned to make a serious attempt to take over England in due course, and it would thus be wise to maintain your current truce of neutrality, to help ensure your survival however events play out.

Yes, I have heard of that truce, as have some others in his inner circle, though it is not widely known. I have heard rumours you are in ongoing negotiations with the Dark Lord. Be very careful, for he is openly smug in his certainty that sooner or later you will be fully won to his cause.

Harry knew it! He knew that neutrality wouldn’t be enough for the man. Damn it.

Your youth shelters you for now, but know that such neutrality cannot last forever, and eventually you will be pressed to without reserve openly declare for one side and stand against the other.

Snape, he guessed, got around that by declaring firmly to both sides that he was their most loyal and trustworthy follower.

Dumbledore is increasingly uncertain that your sympathies lie with the Light side, having heard unsettling bits of information from various sources. He likewise seems keen to ensure your allegiance lies in the right place (i.e. with himself and the status quo of the current Ministry) and I understand he has some plans in mind to work on that this year with you, so expect attempts at manipulating your opinions from both sides. I cannot comment on why your allegiance is of particular importance to these parties.

That would be one of his Unbreakable Vows tripping Snape up again. Probably something to do with the prophecy. Harry thought Ambrosius was right – he really needed to find out exactly what it said.

You may be pleased to hear that the Dark Lord has issued a general instruction to his followers to refrain from attacking magical children, unless given specific orders to the contrary to target a particular family. The grapevine grants credit for this policy partially to yourself, as it is a condition known to be part of your truce (with dire consequences for those who break it), though the specific details of that truce are unknown. I would be interested in hearing the full details and am willing to advise you impartially on the matter, should you wish counsel held in confidence. I would call you a fool for entering into such an agreement, yet I understand the urge for survival, and I laud your achievement of brokering safety for the children of the magical world – or most of them, at least. Some few chafe under this ruling, yet many followers have families of their own that they fear for, or have consciences that nag at the thought of killing children, or are more dispassionately concerned at reducing the magical population of Britain unnecessarily. You are welcomed by some as a moderating influence on the Dark Lord, even at a distance. Know that Pettigrew – in his infirmity – is your most determined enemy and barely hides his desire to go against his Lord and slay you at the least opportunity. Defend yourself by any means necessary should you encounter him.

Harry wondered if Snape was trying to subtly encourage pre-emptive murder. Pettigrew was a highly wanted man, with Voldemort’s continued existence not officially acknowledged by the Ministry. Harry thought he could probably get away with it, if it came to that. He’d be more likely to get a medal than get sent to Azkaban.

With limited space remaining, I must close by answering your remaining questions. I cannot recommend a reliable and discreet Seer to help you with your query. I can say only that Professor Trelawney is in general a charlatan with extremely limited Second Sight but does have a small gift for issuing rare true prophecies that she does not recall. Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood is rumoured to have the gift of Second Sight more strongly, but I doubt can help you with your specific needs. Divinatory talents are also known traditionally to run in the Sacred House of Weasley, though if any currently possess abilities as Seers they are keeping it to themselves.

You might like to note as a piece of general information that witnesses of what they believe are true prophecies can submit copies of their memories to the Department of Mysteries for archival and consideration. A fact that other parties are also interested in. I do not recommend a solo expedition to the Ministry at this point in time, as it may entail significant risk on your part.

Interesting. Who wanted to stop him viewing a memory of the prophecy about himself? It sounded like maybe both sides did. Maybe trying to win over Dumbledore would be the best way to learn what had been said, especially if Trelawney – whom it seemed likely from Snape’s hints was the prophet in question – didn’t remember the prophecy she’d given.

I shall not dwell on a discussion of the Triwizard Tournament. It is a moronic idea from start to finish. I am reassured to hear that your entry was not at your own instigation, as I had briefly thought you mentally deficient to think you could win when only a fourth-year student, despite your hidden talents. Remember that your goal should be to survive, not to win. Survival no matter the cost is what your mother would have wanted for you.

Let me close by thanking you for your unusual understanding about my precarious position. Should you write any letter that you are content for me to share with any interested parties, kindly include a mention of the current weather.

Yours sincerely,

Master Severus Snape

Harry read over the letter twice more, then burnt it to ash with a whispered charm. Then he got to work on his various replies. First there was a letter for the Dark Lord politely chatting about the Tournament and his studies (including an ingratiating mention that he’d followed his advice about asking for special consideration from his teachers) and asking for safety for Neville. Along with his other assorted outgoing correspondence was also a letter to Snape without any magically hidden extra messages. He carefully mentioned the bitingly cold weather, waffled about potions theory, asked for tips on silent and wandless spellcasting, and slyly expressed his heartfelt wish that he knew for what ‘weird reason’ Lord Voldemort had attacked him when he was a baby. He speculated as to whether Dumbledore – being a war hero and all – might know why.

If he does know, I wish he would tell me. I wish someone would. The history books are pretty useless, and Binns needs to move on to the afterlife since he knows so little about modern history like the last war.

-000-

The rest of the week passed by in a blur of unrelenting study, and even his theoretically relaxing and fun Hogsmeade Saturday was spent hiding away in either an empty classroom or the Chamber of Secrets, working on mastering various spells that might be useful for the Tournament. Sunday, Harry was resolved, would be spent studying his Muggle subjects. Hermione was off to the Bible Study group since it was the third Sunday of the month, along with a handful of students from other Houses and years, plus a couple of exchange students. She politely invited Harry and Neville to join her, and gracefully accepted Harry’s explanation that he needed that time to catch up on his correspondence studies for Chemistry and Biology, and that he wasn’t a Christian, anyway.

Neville tentatively agreed to join her, however, as did a number of other students. Harry saw Susan Bones – who looked exhausted and stressed, perhaps because of the recent full moon – being supported in her journey by a gaggle of Hufflepuffs including Finch-Fletchley, Abbott, Jones, and some senior students including Hogwarts’ Head Girl, Tamsin Applebee. Bones was never left to walk anywhere alone. Harry didn’t know for sure, but he suspected that some people were trying to bully her about being a werewolf. It was possible she was just wanting support, however, for the loyal Hufflepuffs were likewise still clumping around Diggory.

With Draco delightedly willing to act as Harry’s alibi if anyone asked where he was, Harry snuck off to Grantown-on-Spey. He didn’t tell Draco he was meeting Sirius – as his presence in town was a big secret – and left his friend with a vague explanation that he was going to do ‘Muggle stuff’ and contact his tutors.

Harry did a little bit of shopping in Hogsmeade first, picking up some sweets at Honeyduke’s and some more bottles of Invisible Ink and some Muggle-style notebooks and pads of lined paper at Scribbulus Writing Implements. He preferred the small shop to Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop on High Street because it was run by a Muggle-born who was willing to stock Muggle stationery.

Sirius picked Harry up at the Shrieking Shack and Side-Along-Apparated him back to the ‘Grantown Den’. Lupin wasn’t there this time due to it being “that time of the month”, as Sirius explained with a wide grin. Sirius hovered until he was sure Harry was happily ensconced in his study area, then left him to some hours of determined and productive work.

When Harry took a break for lunch they had a chat about the attack on the Tonks family.

“Dreadful business,” Sirius said, with a sigh. “It’s all to do with something Regulus stole from You-Know-Who and destroyed, back in the last war – a locket, apparently. I always thought he was loyal to the end and had died on some stupid mission. But it turns out Regulus turned against him right before he died, and went out trying to thwart his plans. It’s all topsy-turvy now, I don’t know what to think.”

Harry hadn’t really thought about that part of it. “Oh, I guess that’s a really big… Yeah, that must really change how you see him.”

Sirius nodded sombrely. “I really regret some things I said to him now, near the end. I called him names… refused to see him. I wonder now if he was trying to switch sides, and I never gave him the chance. He was so young… just barely eighteen. We were all so young, not that we felt it at the time. We thought we were so grown up.”

“He’s definitely dead?”

“Yes. I’ve had a Master from France look over the family tapestry. The enchantments have been double-checked, they’ve repaired what burnt patches they can, and it’s generally been given some much-needed maintenance. She was absolutely sure the charms that recorded his death were – and are – working properly. It’s not set to record deaths of infants under a year old – an old tradition – and it is a little iffy on whether or not it records marriages and children of people whose lineage and membership aren’t clearly part of the House of Black, but apart from those exceptions it’s very thorough.”

“How is Kreacher taking it, the news about Regulus?” Harry wondered what the old house-elf thought of his beloved former Master turning out to be some kind of traitor to the Dark Lord. (He also absent-mindedly wondered what the infant mortality rate in the wizarding world was.)

“He seems pretty upset, and kind of lost. It turns out he knows how Regulus died, and it wasn’t a pretty death so don’t ask me – or him – for the details, alright? He got really upset about it when we made him talk about it, and frankly I don’t want to think about it either. I don’t blame him for clamming up.”

“I promise.”

Sirius cleared his throat, before continuing. “Your house-elf, Dobby, seems to be supporting him, though. Thick as thieves those two are now, though you wouldn’t have thought they’d bond when they first met, would you? Kreacher’s not loving the makeover of Grimmauld Place, but Dobby doesn’t have his attachment to how things used to be, so he does the heavy lifting when we change things up.”

Harry nodded.

“I think you should know that I have offered to host Tonks and Andromeda at Grimmauld Place – aside from being generally polite to help people in need it’s kind of an Old tradition called Sanctuary, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it? Anyway, we are making over a couple of bedrooms for them, just in case. Do you want to keep staying in Regulus’ old room? The other one’s all fixed up now, but Regulus’ is bigger, and we’ve replaced the wallpaper. It looks really nice now too.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. I like Regulus’ room, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it. But if you want to move me, that’s alright too – I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother.”

Harry shrugged. “Say, did you find anything interesting while renovating the house?” he asked, thinking with guilty distraction of the ‘rubbish’ in the attic.

“Nothing worth mentioning, unless you count some furniture in good nick. Apart from that, there were a couple of old broomsticks with the charms going a bit wonky but still usable, my mother’s wedding robes, a box of old toys… that sort of thing.”

Harry nodded in guilty relief. The house-elves must have squirrelled anything dubious away elsewhere.

“Sirius? Um, I was wondering… if I could stay with you over Christmas? The Dursleys are going away.” Harry wasn’t really sure if Dudley’s message meant if he was invited to travel to Majorca with the Dursleys or not but figured it was better to play it safe as they’d never previously wanted to take him anywhere. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go with them anyway, even if they wanted him to. The more people like Ambrosius talked with him about it, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought he’d be better off on his own – or with Sirius – than with the Dursleys. Even if it was only a week or two here and there.

Sirius lit up with happiness. “Of course! That would be great! Grimmauld Place will be just packed full of people for Yule, then! You don’t mind if the Tonks family stays with us too, do you?”

“Of course not! They need somewhere safe to stay, and it’s not up to me, anyway. It’s your house.”

“Well, yes. But… I hope it will be your house too, one day,” Sirius said hesitantly, “so your opinion matters too.”

Harry looked down shyly and mumbled something noncommittal. It launched Sirius into a recitation of all the things he’d been doing lately as the Potter Regent. He’d renewed the anti-tourist and anti-Muggle charms on Potter Cottage and the boundary wards of Potter Manor. He’d also earnt some income for the Potter Family Vault by agisting some pegasi on the manor’s grounds and seeing to the harvesting of some bark and twigs from a grove of Wiggentrees.

With Sirius eager to prove his usefulness in fulfilling his legal vow to be at the service of the House of Potter for a year – or perhaps his fitness as a guardian – Harry sacrificed a precious hour of study time in getting Sirius’ assistance to help him update his will, in advance of the first task.

Sirius was at first reluctant but was won over by Harry’s calm pragmatism about the matter. “I’ve got a will drafted already,” Harry explained, “but I don’t know if it would stand up to goblins doing, you know, sneaky stuff to seize my money. Plus, I’m pretty sure I need a witness and to sign with a blood quill and all that, like you did.”

Following the rules of legitima portio, the family vault and rights to the Potter name went to Sirius, as the current next in line to the House of Potter. Harry also named him as executor and Regent (if required in the future), followed by Perseus Parkinson (Pansy’s father) as a close relative who was good with dealing with the goblins, then Severus Snape.

“Snape?” Sirius whined unhappily.

Harry shrugged. “I think he’d be fair and distribute things properly. And you never know how the war might go.”

“A snake like him will probably survive either way,” Sirius muttered darkly.

“I’m leaving him my mother’s gold potions cauldron in my will, please don’t make a fuss,” Harry warned. Sirius mimed a silencing spell with a grumpy look.

As gifts for his friends to receive when they turned seventeen (as advised by Sirius for legal reasons), Harry left the money in his personal vault and his wand to Neville, his photo album to Sirius, various family keepsakes, books and jewellery to Pansy, Draco, Luna, and a few other friends, Storm to Millicent, his father’s pocket watch to Dudley, and a copy of his ‘personal notes about house-elves’ to Hermione. If Sirius predeceased him, seven Black family heirlooms were to each go to Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks, chosen alternately starting with Cousin Narcissa, and overseen by the executor.

Sirius seemed to approve most of his plans. “I’m not sure how many heirlooms will be left, but I’m sure they’ll find something to fight over, and I’ll be dead and not in a position to care anyway,” he said. “I think we had best note that Bulstrode is to receive Storm immediately, even though the other gifts should wait until they’re of age. What’s that letter for Granger about, then?” Sirius asked curiously.

Harry hesitated before explaining cautiously, “Don’t tell anyone, but I found out some snippets of information about house-elf enslavement – don’t ask me how. But… I don’t want to tell her, because it involves Dark magic. And I guess I’m worried that if I tell her about it now, she’ll be tempted to research it a lot and maybe do stuff she shouldn’t. Neville thought I shouldn’t tell her – I talked it over with him.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “She’s pretty fanatic about house-elves, isn’t she? I didn’t want to say anything, but I think perhaps you should know that she’s sent me three letters nagging me to properly assume my role as the Head of House, on the off chance that it would help improve Kreacher’s health.”

“Um. Well, have you thought about it? I guess I think it might help, too?” Harry ventured cautiously.

“Perchance it may. However, ‘tis none of her concern and I am under no obligation to justify or continually explain my actions, and I did not appreciate being told that if I didn’t do it I must be ‘an abusive, amoral slave-owner’ in her final letter.”

“Ouch!” Harry said, with a wince. “I could ask her to stop writing?”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. The rest of the letters were polite enough, and she’s already stopped now. Don’t let it affect your friendship,” Sirius urged, in a more relaxed and informal tone. “I am simply trying to express – rather badly – that I think your decision to hold off on sharing information with her right now is wise.”

Sirius gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t think I’m not curious about where or how you found out your mysterious information. However, I’m not going to cast the first hex when I did some things as a teenager that I wouldn’t want looked at too closely, either. I will stay mum. Just… be careful. You’re already aware that Dark magic can be tempting, so that’s good. It can be addictive too, did you know?” he said gravely. “The easy path.”

“Yes, I know. I won’t… that is, I’m not interested…” Harry said awkwardly, and cleared his throat. “It’s good to know how to counter nasty curses, that’s all. Of various sorts. For being a Healer, and just… knowing a few things to protect myself. For the Tournament, and in general.” His eyes lingered on Sirius’ dry, withered arm.

Sirius’ worried face cleared, and he smiled. “Good to hear.”      

“So, uh, how have you been?”

“Fine,” Sirius said, with a toothy smile. “Just fine. How about you? Studies all under control now? Stressed about the Tournament?”

Mm hmm, Harry thought sceptically. That sounds exactly like me, and his smile looks hollow. I didn’t know him well enough before, but I can see it now.

It wasn’t the same tight, thin-lipped smile that Aunt Petunia wore when she was congratulating a neighbour who was boasting about their own child’s accomplishments. She and Sirius couldn’t look more different, in fact. But all the same, there was something eerily similar about their expressions to Harry’s eye. The falsity of them.

Sirius wasn’t happy. He was just trying to look cheerful because he thought that was the expression he should be wearing right now. That it was what he thought Harry wanted to see. Harry knew all about acts, and how tiring they could become. He decided he would summon up his small reserves of Gryffindor courage and talk to Sirius about it.

“Uh huh. How have you really been doing?” he asked again, more pointedly.

Sirius cleared his throat and glanced away. “Are you sure you want to hear the details?”

Harry nodded gravely. “Yes.”

“Well, uh… I guess… mostly well? Guy Fawkes Night wasn’t fun. Red and green lights in the sky, and the loud bangs… Fireworks sound a lot like people noisily Apparating, you know?” he admitted. “I spent half the night trying to guard Remus from non-existent attacks; good thing he’s so patient with me. Apart from that it’s been fine. Remus and I have split our time between here in Grantown-on-Spey and Grimmauld Place. We’ve done some work for the Order, too, but I can’t talk about that. Hunting Pettigrew, and some other secret missions. Guarding ah… somewhere important. Dangerous work, but we are both okay, with no injuries that couldn’t be easily healed.”

“I understand. And… thank you for sharing.”

Sirius nodded uncomfortably. “So, what else? I’m still getting used to casting with my left arm, but it’s going well. I have a new wand now. My old wand was a 12” cherry wood wand with a Welsh Green dragon heartstring core – good for duelling and charms. The new one is an 11” cypress wand with an Ironbelly heartstring core, a little more bendy than my last, but it’s working really well. It’s a combination allegedly suited to the brave and the bold, and those willing to confront darkness. Remus has a cypress wand too, though he has a unicorn hair core.”

They chatted lightly about wandlore for a little while, then Harry spent another couple of hours studying before heading back to Hogwarts.

Sirius might make a good guardian, he mused to himself. He’s trying so hard. It wasn’t comfortable, thinking of leaving the Dursleys. However, maybe that way everyone would be happier… and safer. Himself included. Maybe it was time to start thinking more about what he wanted, not what the Dursleys or anyone else wanted. So long as his family would still stay safe with functioning wards, anyway.

-000-

With only two days left before the first task, Harry should have been either studying or sound asleep. However, late on Tuesday night, well after curfew, he was skulking down the Hogwarts corridors and out of the castle. He moved at a slow shuffle, because he was wasn’t alone under his invisibility cloak.

“I do not see why Draco needs to talk to you alone at such a late hour,” Neville whispered very quietly, once they were out the doors of the castle and into the grounds. “It is most improper.”

“Ew. It’s no different than being alone with you! You can chaperone us, okay? And it’s not like that, anyway; I have a funny feeling he likes Hermione, though he’s never said anything about it. I told you already – it’s something to do with the Tournament.”

“You noticed, did you? I think so too, though I sincerely doubt the feeling is mutual,” Neville said. “I am sure she is not fond of him. You know, it could be a trap. Tonight’s meeting, that is, not Hermione. Are you sure the message was from him?”

Harry sighed. “Yes. He passed it to me himself, after Potions.”

There was a pause, then Neville whispered, “Will he not be mad I came along, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a little cross? But… I think whatever he’s got in mind is something dangerous, since he told me to bring my Healer’s bag ‘just in case’. I promised you ages ago I’d bring you along next time I did something horrifically dangerous, so here we both are. He’ll understand it’s a debt I had to repay, and if he doesn’t… well, too bad. You’re my friend and I want you to come along. He’ll live.”

Even in the darkness of night there was just enough moonlight to spot Draco’s pale head, where he hid behind the Slytherin Quidditch stand.

“Psst! Draco!” Harry whispered, as they approached.

Draco span around in a panic with his wand drawn.

“It’s me, Harry!”

Draco relaxed and lowered his wand. He squinted into the darkness. “Merlin! You gave me a start. Have you got a charm up? I can’t see you.”

“Invisibility cloak.”

Draco whistled. “Very nice!”

Harry drew the cloak off himself and Neville.

“Surprise!” Neville said, with a nervous grin. “You have a chaperone for your assignation this evening, Malfoy.”

Draco was indeed startled, and glanced at Neville briefly as he spoke, but Draco’s eyes were more focused on staring at Harry. For Harry had a second layer of disguise up; he had used his Metamorphmagus abilities to give himself curly light-brown hair and blue eyes. Draco lit up his wand with a muttered charm, to get a better look at Harry’s face.

“Harry? Is that you?”

“Yes? Um… I thought Millicent told you? About how I was a Metamorphmagus? A bit? I do hope you haven’t gossiped about that, by the way. I kept meaning to talk to you about it, but I’ve been so busy. And I forgot.”

“Well yes, I knew. I haven’t told anyone except my parents.”

Not ideal, but Harry guessed it could’ve been worse. It was his own fault, really, for not talking to Draco earlier. At least the whole school didn’t know.

“I am just surprised because… well, look at you! Amazing! You look like a completely different person. Though your bone structure’s the same. It’s mostly the hair, I think. How did you change your glasses?” Draco peered curiously at the green frames.

“Oh, that’s just a Colour-Change Charm. It’s not part of the power – I can’t change my clothes.”

Harry gave a cheeky bow of introduction, swishing his fancy green winter cloak about with a flourish as he did so. “Antares Black, at your service. Third-year Slytherin.”

Draco blinked. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, I suppose. Nice to see you Sorted into Slytherin where you belong this time, Harry. Antares.”

“It is a sensible measure in case he gets caught,” Neville said, with a grin. “Slytherin will lose points instead of Gryffindor.” He flinched as Draco glared at him, his smile falling away.

“That is not fair,” Draco said crossly.

“Then don’t get us caught,” Neville rebutted. He grabbed Harry’s invisibility cloak and tossed it over himself, disappearing from sight.

“Why did you bring Longbottom?” Draco whined. “I told you to come alone!”

“Well yes, but he’s my friend and besides, I owed him a favour,” Harry explained.

Draco subsided with a huff, clearly accepting that as sufficient excuse without the need for further elaboration. He led them off towards the Forbidden Forest.

Neville’s footsteps crunched along behind them, like the ghost of Eurydice they weren’t allowed to look for but had to trust was still with them by sound and faith alone.

Draco’s eyes darted around looking ahead of them as they walked, watching for any of the many dangers of the forest.

“So, what’s this all about then?” Harry asked.

He had his wand out too, just in case, and his black Healer’s bag in his left hand. He really hoped he wouldn’t need either of them. Casting spells was dicey in the Forbidden Forest. Some people said it was monitored year-round by a rota of teachers, while other students swore Dumbledore only bothered keeping watch on festival dates and Hogsmeade weekends. No-one had ever gotten warning letters from the Ministry for casting spells in the Forbidden Forest, so that was something, at least.

“You will see,” said Draco, puffing up proudly. “I heard a rumour and I investigated last night. It’s about the Tournament, and I think you should see for yourself. In a minute we’ll reach the boundary wards. You will feel an urge to turn around, that it is unsafe to proceed and you should go back to Hogwarts. Strengthen your Occlumency barriers and you can push through it, though.”

“Lead me through?” Neville whispered nervously to Harry. His cloth-covered hand fumbled for Harry’s in the dark, and Harry gave it a squeeze.

“Of course.”

As they walked forward Harry indeed felt an inexplicable urge to turn back for the castle but pushed through it with a determinedly clear mind full of ocean waves and dragged Neville along with him, who was lead-footed and reluctant to follow, muttering about how he was sure the castle would be safer.

“Not far now,” Draco whispered. “There are some kind of silencing charms or wards up but stay quiet just in case. Do not venture past the fence – there are runes on the corner posts and I am unsure what they do but there might be alarm charms tied to them. Besides, it would not be safe. There are some wizards in tents on the other side and we don’t want them to spot us. Hopefully everyone – and every thing – will be asleep.”

They walked around a clump of trees, and in the clearing ahead they could suddenly see three dragons, each to his anxious eyes looked to be the size of a small hill, and thankfully they were all asleep. The smallest dragon (at a mere twenty feet or so) was a glossy smooth-scaled light green one with two horns on top of its head, while the largest was a forty-foot dark green one with two smooth golden circles on its brow where horns would normally be but had been cut short, and a smaller bony circle on the tip of its snout. The medium sized dragon was curled up in as tight a ball as the chains around it would allow, making an estimate of its length difficult, and was a rough-scaled black dragon.

“Dear Merlin,” whimpered Neville.

“I told you it would be dragons,” Draco whispered smugly. “There was no way the first task would be plants, and salamanders are too small to impress an audience.”

Harry watched them for a while. Dear Merlin, indeed! He had to face a dragon in the first task. Well, at least he’d studied them, with help from Draco’s dragon-researching team. It would still be horrifically dangerous, but so long as he wasn’t expected to do something insane like try and kill one, he hoped he would be alright. He had a couple of ideas to try.

They watched the dragons in silence for a while, and Harry studied them as best he could, assessing them and looking for weak points. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to have an obvious missing scale on their bellies, like Hermione had optimistically hoped might be the case if he had to face a dragon. All three dragons were chained down very thoroughly, with thick leather straps around their necks and each limb, to which were attached enormous silvery chains leading to metal pegs in the ground as thick as Harry’s leg.

Harry gave a tug of his hand to Neville, and a jerk of his head to Draco, and they all backed slowly away from the dragon’s clearing.

“I want to go back to the castle, it’s not safe here,” Neville fretted, as they passed back through the boundary ward. Harry spotted an out-of-place rune-carved stone propped against a tree, which had clearly triggered Neville’s anxiety up an extra notch as they crossed the ward.

Back hiding behind the stands at the Quidditch pitch, they talked over what they’d seen.

“Weren’t they amazing?” Draco gushed.

“Gryffindor!” Harry teased. “Professor Hagrid would be proud of you.”

“There is no call to be insulting,” Draco sniffed.

“I think you should keep your fingers crossed for the Welsh Green,” Neville said, with a sigh. “Not that any of them are safe. Was that a Romanian Longhorn, the big one? I didn’t recognise the black dragon.”

“Yes, a male Romanian Longhorn, with its beautiful golden horns cut off and the stumps ground down. Either to harvest them for potions ingredients, or to protect the dragon from poachers,” Draco said. “Probably a little of both, in addition to which now it will be less likely to kill other males during mating season. The black one was a gorgeous Hebridean Black. It has purple eyes – I saw them last night – and an arrow-shaped tail tip. You couldn’t see them since it was asleep, but it has the characteristically smaller feet and claws of a male.”

“The Common Welsh Green is a male too?” Harry checked.

“I would not swear on it by Merlin, but the keepers – thankfully asleep in their tents this evening – were yelling ‘Chain him down!’ and so on last night, so I think we can assume it is.”

Draco talked enthusiastically about the differences between the three breeds and agreed with Neville that the Welsh Green should be the one to hope to face in the Tournament.

He also ranted extensively about the problem of poachers ‘harvesting’ endangered dragons for parts, including the stony gem dracontias, which was found in their brains. “They should stick to toads,” he concluded with a huff. “Dragons have been in decline for centuries, thanks to Muggle knights, poaching wizards, and declining territory. You had better not kill one, Harry. I doubt they will want you to, anyway.”

“I doubt I even could,” Harry reassured. It’s not like it was easy. “How do poachers even kill them, anyway? They should just harvest them when they die for those magic stones.”

“It wouldn’t work. The dragon must be drugged and killed with its head cut off, unaware of its impending death. If it knows death is coming the gem is destroyed so natural death is unwanted by poachers keen to obtain the gem. They usually kill young dragons, as the easiest targets, though that is still dangerous as some species are protective of their young. Toadstones are much easier to obtain, and almost as powerful.”

“Kill a dragon…” muttered Neville. “It seems unlikely. Mayhap you shall need to just get past it or draw first blood. Or even simply touch it and get away without dying. Definitely hope for the Welsh Green, in any case.”

“Though if you face the Hebridean Black, you might have an edge if you can distract it with a transfigured deer. It has a great weakness for venison. You have been reading my notes and have got a plan for dragons, right, Harry?” Draco asked.

Harry let out a determined huff of breath. “Yes. Yes, I do. A couple of plans, in fact, in case the first one or two fail.”

Chapter Text

Thursday 24^th November 1994

The first task was coming up in the blink of an eye. Harry hadn’t been thrilled to find out that he’d have to face dragons when he’d been secretly hoping for Ashwinders (not that any of his research helpers had thought the fire-born serpents were a real contender, as they wouldn’t be dramatic enough). He had only a day and a half left before the first task was to be held on Thursday after lunchtime, so Harry was eager to scrounge as much free time for last-minute Tournament preparation as he could. Hogwarts’ teachers were unofficially complicit in supporting his efforts; some more so than others. Professor Flitwick immediately sent Harry to a vacant adjoining classroom when he showed up on Wednesday morning, then spent the lesson flitting back and forth between his actual class and Harry’s room like an uncertain butterfly with too many flowers to visit, periodically nipping in to give Harry tips and correct his wand motions.

In Herbology Harry tried to covertly read a book on dragons while Neville did his own and Harry’s pruning. Ron spontaneously leapt into action on Harry’s behalf, loudly telling Professor Sprout that Harry looked “peaky” and should “go have a cup of tea and a nice lie down”. A chorus of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs agreed that Harry looked unwell, and Professor Sprout let Harry off class entirely with a knowing wink for Harry, and a note for Neville to pass on to Professor McGonagall permitting Harry to waive his next class too.

Harry scurried off with relief to practice his spellcasting down in the Chamber of Secrets where no passing stray Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students might overhear him and guess at his strategies. He only emerged after lunch was over (having snacked on some of his emergency supplies) for Care of Magical Creatures, during which Professor Hagrid – who clearly knew the first task was dragons – tried clumsily to check that Harry was ready for the challenge ahead without actually telling him anything directly but giving very obvious hints.

The evening before the first task Harry’s friends were over-eager to help – too much so for Harry to feel safe sneaking away again to the Chamber of Secrets, or indeed anywhere on his own. So Harry instead dispatched people to find him some tutors to help him brush up on some selected spells, and spent the afternoon and evening in a dusty, empty classroom repetitively drilling in tricky transfiguration spells and charms under the watchful eyes of his friends Peregrine, Diggory, Alice Tolipan, and Fred Weasley, who were all whizzes at Transfiguration or Charms classes (Fred was apparently slightly better at Transfiguration than George, who had the edge on his brother in Potions). It was a united Hogwarts effort with one tutor diplomatically selected from each House. Observers were kicked out apart from Harry’s closest friends who were all sworn to secrecy (some formally on their Houses’ honour) about Harry’s plans on how to tackle the first task. The group also included Theodore Nott in a calculated public display of friendship, and George Weasley who simply refused to leave. Neville and Hermione were there to support him of course, along with Pansy, Draco, Millicent, Tracey, Luna, and Anthony, while Greg and Vincent stood sentinel outside the door since Harry was nervous enough without people interrupting to watch and judge his successes and failures. Not that any of his friends were being unpleasant about it, but it was already weird enough to have people clapping, gasping, and commenting on his spellcasting. After a flurry of hissed whispers amongst his audience the applause subsided and morphed over the evening into them instead calling out encouragement, urging him that the spells were easy and he could do it, that he ‘almost had it that time”. His successes were met with encouraging shouts and calls from his friends to “do it again, but faster”.

A whisker after curfew Harry flopped into bed, sinking with relief into the feathery softness. He was utterly exhausted from his day of intensive spellcasting but felt a lot more prepared for the Tournament.

“Owlss brought thingss for you again,” Storm hissed helpfully, poking his head out of his tank and resting it on the glass. “Check if there is sssomething for me.”

Harry groaned and obediently ripped open a couple of envelopes. There was some junk mail, assorted dull letters wishing him luck in the Tournament which he put in a pile to answer later, and two letters saying variants on the theme that there was no way a scrawny boy like him would beat Viktor Krum. One of those threatened to ‘ruin’ Harry if he hurt Krum enough to end his Quidditch career. Harry snorted. Quidditch fans. There was just no arguing with them. Those he tossed into the bin.

“No sssnackss,” Harry reported, opening the last two letters which were from people whose writing he recognised.

“Millicent is ssstill giving me a sssnack tomorrow? I’m hungry,” complained Storm.

“Yess, you’re sssitting with her while I fight dragons. She has a magical rat for you if you behave.”

The letter from Dudley was short but his cousin’s attitude was interesting. He wished Harry luck in the ‘wizard death tornement’ and said that he wanted to come and watch the ‘final’ as it sounded ‘wicked cool’. Harry didn’t even know where to start organising something like that since he didn’t know where or when it would be, or if Muggles would be able to watch it or not. He dashed off a quick reply to Dudley promising he’d see what he could do, and another hasty note for Sirius, asking him to find out if Dudley’s attendance could be arranged or not, without letting his aunt and uncle know about it. It felt like the kind of problem a regent and potential guardian should take care of for him.

The final letter of note was from Voldemort, promising Neville’s safety, and confidently wishing Harry luck in the Tournament in an odd way that seemed to suggest that failure from a fellow Parselmouth in the face of such a challenge would be totally unacceptable. Harry wasn’t quite sure whether the letter was expressing faith in his abilities, or a veiled threat not to stuff up. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Voldemort also requested in formal tones verging on a demand that Harry’s next letter contain at least a foot on which Healing charms and rituals had been banned by the Ministry over the centuries that Harry thought should be made legal. The Dark Lord also ranted in his letter for some time about the ‘evil scourges’ of polio and dragon pox, and how short-sighted the wizarding world was about banning vaccinations since many believed it was all blood-based and thus evil, and that any kind of stabbing people with needles was either Dark magic, voodoo, or ‘intolerably Muggle’. Judging by his impassioned anecdotes, Lord Voldemort had obviously seen a couple of children badly afflicted by polio during his youth, and it had left quite the impression on him. Dragon pox apparently had a particularly high mortality rate amongst infant wizards and witches, ‘literally decimating’ each new generation.

Harry huffed and put the letter on the bottom of his pile of correspondence to answer later, before tucking the whole bundle away in his chest and magically locking it. Great, the Dark Lord was giving him homework now. Well, he’d worry about Lord Voldemort trying to tempt him into learning forbidden magic and hating the Ministry and the medical establishment later. Right now he needed to get some sleep, because tomorrow was going to be trying enough without facing it while exhausted.

“Harold, I’m cold. And bored.”

Harry sighed, and scooped Storm out of his tank, letting his pet coil up on his warm chest, under the thick feather duvet. He fell asleep with his hand on Storm’s smooth, cool scales, listening to hissed speculations about whether dragon eggs would be too big to eat or not.

-000-

Thursday morning went by in a nervous blur, and Harry was only vaguely aware of losing some points in Transfiguration. He couldn’t focus on anything at all, and spent the class trying to talk himself out of a panic about his imminent public failure, and half-heartedly casting a couple of spells while his mind whirled. He wished he could use his invisibility cloak in the task. If only they were permitted things other than their wands, it would be easier. There were a few potions he would’ve liked to use, too, like a cauldron full of Sleeping Draught. Still, he had a plan. A couple of plans. So long as he didn’t need to kill a dragon Harry thought he’d be alright. Maybe he wouldn’t win… but the goal wasn’t to win, it was to survive. Winning was very secondary, not that he’d say that aloud to some of his over-eager Gryffindor supporters who seemed to favour the ‘come back with your shield or on it’ approach to danger.

After a lunch which Harry’s anxious stomach kept down only because of Harry’s sheer dogged determination not to see food wasted, it was suddenly time for the Triwizard Tournament to get underway, lessons having been cancelled for the afternoon.

Dumbledore led Harry from the Great Hall, and Harry plastered a falsely confident Lockhart-approved smile on his face to hide his nerves as he waved goodbye to the raucous cheering crowds of Hogwarts students. Madame Maxime led Fleur Delacour out, while Karkaroff accompanied Viktor Krum, to less enthusiastic but still noisy applause – both students were also popular with Hogwarts students, for different reasons.

“Are you ready, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore asked murmured, with a concerned look. “I cannot offer any specific advice; however, it would be a great comfort to me to know you felt prepared for the challenge ahead of you.”

“As ready as I can be, sir,” Harry replied, trying to look confident. “The clue was a big help, and I don’t know if I can win but I’ll at least do my best to make everyone proud.”

“Do keep in mind that there will be a number of adults ready to intervene should… matters get out of hand,” Dumbledore said more loudly, addressing the other champions as well. “Our mediwitch Madam Pomfrey is also standing by in a Healer’s tent we have erected and will be assisting an experienced Healer from St. Mungo’s should there be any injuries.”

“Sank you, zat is very good,” Madame Maxime said, with a gracious smile.

Delacour didn’t look any more reassured than before, however, and looked rather pale. Krum looked grumpy, but not at all afraid. Harry envied him his confidence, as his own had withered that morning in the face of imminent danger, and dread-filled daydreams of all the spectators hating him after he let them down with a miserable showing in the first task.

As they approached the Quidditch arena Harry saw there was a new wooden fence ringing the Quidditch stands, over ten feet high and blocking the view of the grassy stadium inside. The champions were led to a tent outside it, near a giant pair of wooden gates. Given what Harry expected he and the other champions would soon be facing, it was oddly quiet. Once inside the tent, even the distant noises of birdsong from the forest and the chatter of those yet to enter disappeared entirely. Silencing Charms, obviously. Expansion Charms too – the tent was a wizarding one with a capacious main entry room, and a couple of canvas doors leading off to other rooms.

The three Tournament judges awaited them inside the tent and rose as they entered; white-haired Newt Scamander in a brown suit with a gold-embroidered waistcoat, and a greatcoat with bulging pockets. Professor Marchbanks in the same purple formal robe she’d worn at the Halloween feast (close up the deep violet velvet looked rather faded), and Ludo Bagman, who was the only judge who didn’t look as old as Dumbledore. He’d foregone his old Wimbourne Wasp robes this time in favour of a bright red robe which looked far too tight for him, clearly also dating from a time when he was younger and fitter. He was holding a shimmering purple bag and looked delighted to see them all, especially Harry.

The Headmasters and Headmistresses murmured farewells to their charges and exited the tent, leaving the champions standing in front of the judges.

“Good morning, students!” Professor Marchbanks began, in a loud, demanding tone that expected a response. She held a golden ear trumpet to her ear to listen to their polite return greetings.

“In one hour the first task will begin,” she explained. “However, so as to allow you a little extra time to plan your strategy, we will now explain the full details of your task. I hope you have done your research! However, if you feel unprepared or endangered during the task, you may send up a shower of red sparks and a team of witches and wizards will move in to deal with any danger and remove you to safety. Your lives are more important than winning, and there is the possibility of receiving partial points for an incomplete task. You will also be evacuated if any two of the three judges deem you too badly injured to continue.”

Harry nodded in understanding and relief, and there were also no objections to the safety measures from either of the other two champions.

“You will each compete consecutively, with the remaining champions awaiting their turn in this tent, which has been charmed for silence and warded against all manner of spying spells. This is to prevent any champion from profiting off the experience of those who precede him or her.”

Bagman took his turn speaking next, eagerly holding out the purple silk bag. “Inside this bag are small models of the thing you are about to face! There are different – er – varieties, you see. Your task is… to rescue the princess! You will gain a golden prize on successfully returning the kidnapped princess from being imprisoned in a tower and threatened by – well, you’ll soon see – and returning her safely to her castle.”

“Ladies first,” Bagman said, holding it out to Delacour.

She put a shaking hand into the bag and drew out a perfect model of a dragon – a Hebridean Black. The little statuette blinked its tiny amethyst eyes at her, and its tail twitched. She looked resigned, but not surprised, and Harry got the feeling that she wasn’t any more shocked to be facing a dragon than he was.

Harry took a turn next and drew the dark green Romanian Longhorn. He noted that the model, which flapped its tiny wings at him as it stood on his palm, still had its signature long golden horns, unlike its real-life counterpart. It also had a tiny number ‘three’ tied around its neck.

That left the Common Welsh Green for Krum, who looked perfectly satisfied with his pick.

Damn it, I wanted the Welsh Green, Harry thought unhappily. Not that any dragon can be described as placid, but the Welsh Greens are less aggressive towards humans compared to the other breeds.

The advantage of the Krum’s dragon breed being easier to manage would at least be slightly counterbalanced by the fact that Krum would be going first – his dragon’s collar had a number one on it. That would give Harry and Delacour slightly more time to plan.

Ambrosius had told Harry that the white and red breeds of British dragons – now sadly extinct – had been more aggressive and territorial than the Common Welsh Green. In addition to killing any perceived invaders in its territory, the Welsh Red Dragon had had a particularly fearsome shrieking cry which could stun or kill animals and Muggles by magically evoking sheer terror in their hearts, and had thus been subject to deliberate extermination. The Saxon White Dragon had been – unluckily for it – extremely magically potent, and had been hunted to extinction in the quest for magical components like blood and heartstrings, and its easily-dyed beautiful scaly hide. The population had reached unsustainable levels and finally died out a few centuries ago.

After giving the competitors a few moments to ponder their choices, Mr. Scamander continued the explanation of the task ahead of them all.

“Ah, so on to the specifics. You um, have to rescue the princess, as Mr. Bagman said. From a dragon, obviously. The one you selected. Keep the figurine in your pocket.”

“Not a real person, I em hopink? A… pretent princess of… straw ent clothink?” Krum asked, rolling his r’s.

“No, no,” Scamander assured him quickly. “Not a real person. However, you will have to protect them as if they were. You must make your way to the top of the tower, retrieve your princess, and return her home to her castle on the other side of the arena. So there will be two structures on the field, and also the dragon you have selected will be there, of course. It will be right in the middle between the tower and the castle.”

“Zat is good,” Delacour said approvingly.

Harry nervously raised his hand like he was in class.

“Excuse me, but what will get us the most points? Are you expecting us to fight our dragons?”

“Good questions!” Scamander said approvingly. “You will lose significant points if your dragon is killed or mortally injured, but you will not be penalised for um, minor injuries.” Harry noticed Scamander winced at that idea, however, and knew that he’d get more points from Scamander if he somehow left his dragon entirely uninjured. Prewett had eagerly gossiped that her research said that Scamander had been in Hufflepuff, which seemed to fit the man. Harry had read a few of his books and knew that Scamander was rather Hagrid-like in his love of magical beasts. While more willing to defend himself than Professor Hagrid against ‘jus’ a friendly nibble’, he was stalwartly against unnecessary violence towards magical creatures. Well, Harry didn’t have many dragon-killing spells in his repertoire anyway, with the Dragon Pox Curse being illegal Dark magic and thus a foolish choice to cast with an audience watching. He’d restrict the Cutting Curse and Ossio Dispersimus to limbs only… if either even worked through the dragon’s spell-resistant hide.

“These are all males past ahh… optimal breeding age. However, they are still rare and umm… wondrous creatures. Your goal is to get your princess past your dragon to safety. Without suffering injuries to yourself, or any damage to or loss of your princess.”

“What was that?” Professor Marchbanks said, tapping on the side of her ear trumpet. Scamander, who was a quiet man, repeated himself a little louder for her benefit, with a little less stammering the second time around.

“Quite right!” she agreed, after he’d finished. “Additionally, you will receive a higher score by displaying quick thinking and skilful use of spells, in terms of both the type and range used, and their successful and useful execution. You will also receive a small number of bonus points for completing your task faster than your fellow contestants, though that is weighted as less important than the other factors so take your time if you need to. Wait for the bell to ring – no spellcasting ahead of time or points will be deducted.”

Ravenclaw, Harry reminded himself, and made a mental note to try and use some of the NEWT-level spells he was better at during his turn. He’d probably need them, anyway.

“And give the crowd a good show!” Bagman added. “Try and avoid being burnt or killed, of course!” He laughed and winked, but Harry wasn’t terribly amused.

Gryffindor, Harry thought. Or an idiot. Draco would say there’s not much of a difference. He probably wouldn’t win a lot of points from Bagman with his planned strategies, so he’d have to hope the other two gave him good scores.

Warrington – one of the senior Slytherins who’d helped Harry with his researching in preparation for the Tournament – had told him that Marchbanks would likely give more points for silent spellcasting, but Harry hadn’t managed to get the knack of it at all yet. In fact, he’d made better progress with wandless casting, which was supposed to be harder (though Ambrosius disagreed, being used to a style of spellcasting more reliant on chants and rituals and less based on utilising a powerful focus for channelling spells). Being able to whisper spells, or cast a flickering Wand-Lighting Charm without a wand in his hand, probably wasn’t going to cut it fighting a dragon, though. If Harry dropped his wand he knew it’d definitely be easier and faster to simply pick it up again than to cast a shaky wandless Summoning Charm of dubious reliability.

With no more questions or tips forthcoming, except that they’d see their ‘princess’ in her tower upon entering the Quidditch stadium, and the news that the stands had apparently been temporarily enchanted for the crowd’s safety, the judges shooed each champion to a separate room in the tent, sequestered away from each other to await their call to glory or fiery doom.

-000-

The next hour and a half seemed to simultaneously both drag interminably slowly and be over in the blink of an eye, and Harry was eventually retrieved from his seclusion by none other than Charlie Weasley. He was then led through the wooden gates to an amazing roar of excitement from students, staff, and assorted guests in the four Quidditch stands. The stands looked even more packed than usual, with what looked like some adult guests squashed in amongst the hundreds of students, and Harry couldn’t spot any of his friends apart from Luna. She stood out in the front row of the Ravenclaw stand due to her enormous lion-head hat which let out a tremendous roar as he entered that could be heard even above the din of cheers.

The leonine roar was echoed by the forty-foot dark olive-green dragon chained up in the middle of the Quidditch arena, as it stretched its thick neck to the sky and bellowed its anger to the crowd, who cheered even louder in excitement. It reared up on its hind legs with wings outstretched for balance, displaying its yellow clawed talons and tossing its hornless head threateningly.

“Ambrosius, if your spirit ever actually listens to people’s calls and helps people, now would be a great time to watch over me,” Harry muttered, as the dragon flapped up into the air and let out a small gout of fire in the direction of the Ravenclaw stand. “Merlin, protect me from the dragon.” He’d try to remember to ask Ambrosius later if he heard people saying his name. If he survived this.

Charlie Weasley clapped him on the back, making Harry jump and point his wand at him. Charlie grinned. “You’ll do fine. Remember, red sparks if you need us. Wait in this rope circle on the ground until the bell sounds – no spellcasting until then.” He walked off to join some other fit-looking wizards and witches ringing the edge of the arena who were similarly clad in old, scarred leather tunics and trousers.

Harry stood obediently in his starting spot, let out a deep breath, and tried to calm his mind with the sights, smells, and sounds of a peaceful ocean shore as he looked around.

The formerly pristine grassy arena was now marred with long swathes of burnt turf and gouged earth, presumably from the other competitors’ efforts. A few logs and boulders had been placed in the area and might provide possible cover for someone trying to sneak past the dragon. One of the logs closer to the dragon was already on fire, however, and was still smouldering. Harry would avoid that one.

The dragon was secured by a thick leather collar which had a chain leading to a tremendous metal peg in the ground. On the far side of the rearing dragon was a square, fenced stone enclosure; the crenelated six foot high walls reminded Harry vaguely of Hogwarts, and the school crest was emblazoned on the wooden gate at the front, lest there be any doubt about how it was supposed to represent Hogwarts castle.

The green medical tent was set up at a safe distance behind the mock Hogwarts, and Harry felt a little reassured to see the now-familiar blazon of a glowing lime-green snake wound around the Rod of Asclepius.

The judges and Heads of the schools were in the front row of the Hufflepuff stand, which had perhaps the best view of the action. They were all watching the field with Omnioculars, which judging by the dozens of pinprick glints of reflected sunlight off glass seemed a popular choice amongst others in the crowd, too.

Safely away from the dragon and fairly close to Harry was a narrow wooden platform raised up high on a pole, with a rope ladder leading up to the top. It looked a bit like a tree house, minus the leafy top. The platform at the top had a crenelated fence, and Harry’s ‘princess’ paced in fear at the noise from the dragon and the crowd. She also let out a loud bleating “baa”. His ‘princess’ was a white sheep, with a conical bright pink princess hat with a small trailing veil magically affixed to the top of her fluffy head.

“It’s a sheep,” Harry said, blinking in surprise. Okay, he could do this. He’d planned for an inanimate dummy, but he could adapt.

A loud bell rang, and Harry leapt into action to the tremendous cheers of the crowd. He hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed by his plan, which leant more towards Slytherin tactics than Gryffindor ones.

“Accio sheep,” he incanted softly, pointing at the rickety tower. The sheep didn’t budge.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” he tried next, and was similarly unsuccessful. The sheep didn’t so much as twitch in his direction – it was probably warded against that. Or the tower was. Damn. Still, it had been worth a try. He’d have to climb the ladder to retrieve his princess.

“Zat was good tentatives at ze Summoning Charm and ze Levitation Charm. A similar start to Monsieur Krum, and just as unsuccessful.” A woman’s loud voice boomed out over the stadium, and her accent was unmistakeable – Madame Maxime was commentating on his task with a Sonorus, just like Lee Jordan did for Quidditch matches.

“Celoro,” Harry said confidently, incanting in lightly altered Latin as he twirled his wand and tapped himself on the head. He’d been practising this charm since second year, and the cold trickling sensation over his skin told him that it’d worked perfectly.

“A very fine Disillusionment Charm! Zat ASPIC spell is well above ‘is level,” Madame Maxime said, sounding surprised. “You will ‘ave to watch for le flou… euh… ze blurring to see ‘im now.”

With the dragon thoroughly distracted for the moment by the cheering crowd, Harry was optimistic that the charm would help him sneak around. It wouldn’t be enough on its own to get him past the dragon with a sheep, however, for dragons had an excellent sense of smell. However, he had a plan for that, too.

Harry dashed over to the tower and climbed up the ladder, to some commentary from Madame Maxime about the rungs of the ladder being seen to shake as he climbed. The fluffy sheep at the top bleated as he climbed onto its platform and wiggled about slightly but didn’t move an inch. Harry was pretty sure its hooves were stuck fast with a Sticking Charm. There was a slatted wooden fence around the border of the platform, with the tops of the wooden boards carved into a decorative crenelated pattern, however, it wouldn’t be high enough to stop a determined and panicked sheep from trying to scramble over the edge, potentially plummeting to its doom.

“Aparecium,” Harry cast, looking for invisible runes. Around the rim of the sheep’s pink silk conical hat, a string of faintly glowing runes shimmered into view. A smaller number appeared on the corner posts of the platform’s fence – those were obviously for fire resistance, with Sowilō and Algiz linked together. The runes on the hat were more complex, and Harry didn’t have time for a full analysis. He spotted the reversed form of Raido which would prevent a safe journey, and lots of protective runes linked and chained to Fehu for sheep or livestock. He was pretty sure the sheep was protected from a number of transformative spells. At the very least, successfully casting spells on it would be more challenging, and take a lot of trial and error.

What he didn’t see was anything protecting the hat itself. He’d have to work quickly before the sheep panicked.

“Diffindo,” Harry started, trying to carefully cut through the pink ribbon holding the hat snugly on the sheep’s head. It didn’t work, however, probably due to the protective runes.

“Evanesco,” he incanted, vanishing a portion of the ribbon with precision. “Finite incantatem.” Together that did the trick – with the ribbon severed and a Sticking Charm undone, the conical silk hat toppled off the sheep’s head.

Before the sheep could do more than scramble slightly with a clatter of hooves, Harry shot off a strong Stunning Spell. “Stupefy!”

The sheep was hit squarely by the jet of red light, and fell to the ground with a soft thump, out cold.

“Poor Princess ‘Ogwarts! Ze Severing Charm did not work on ze ribbon, ‘owever, she ‘as lost ‘er pretty ‘at to a Vanishing Charm and General Counter-Spell, and been knocked out by ze Stunning Spell!” boomed Madame Maxime. “Zis is no gentleman-prince zat comes to ‘er rescue today. More like ze thief in ze night!”

Alright, that’s fair, Harry mentally admitted, with a wince. But I’ve got a better chance of keeping her alive this way.

Harry had planned his next few spells on the presumption that he’d be carting around a dummy, but so long as he didn’t make an error with the Shrinking Charm (which could be unsafe for living creatures if cast incorrectly) the spells should still be fine for a sheep.

“Pluma obol, silencio, reducio,” Harry incanted, making the sheep feather-light and silenced (just in case it woke up while he was sneaking about). He also successfully reduced it to the size of a cat (much to his relief). He picked up the miniaturised unconscious sheep and held it against his chest as he cast a Sticking Charm. That would keep Princess Hogwarts safe with him, while leaving his hands free for spellcasting. He thought it was a great plan… so long as some of the charms didn’t wear off before the end of the task, anyway. It’d be bad to suddenly have a heavy sheep stuck to his chest and frantic to get away.

One more spell before he tried to get past the dragon – it wouldn’t do to have it spot a tiny sheep floating suspiciously in mid-air, so it needed to be disillusioned too. “Celoro.”

He scrambled back down the ladder to the accompaniment of narration of his recent spells, with the miniaturised sheep stuck to his chest like it was in an invisible baby carrier. The pungent, musky smell of the wool right under his nose was irritating but not unbearable.

Safe on the ground – for now – Harry looked ahead to the dragon, and the wooden mock-up of Hogwarts beyond it. The Romanian Longhorn was roaming around to the maximum extent permitted by the chain around its neck that tethered it to the ground, breathing out occasional gouts of fire to the delighted shrieks of the crowd. Flames licked at the bases of the Quidditch stands, thankfully without effect due to enchantments on the stands, backed up by some extra spellcasting from the dragon handlers. There would be no sneaking around it – Harry would have to pass through its territory to get Princess Hogwarts to safety. He had a plan, and a back-up plan too, but just in case both failed he wanted some additional protection from being burnt alive.

He waved his wand around his head, and then cast the same spell on the sheep too, for good measure. “Incendio reicio!” he said strongly, wanting this charm to be as powerful as possible.

“Zat flash of white light you saw was ze Flame-Freezing Charm!” Madame Maxime narrated over the top of the cheering crowd, sounding more impressed by his latest spell than some of the others, which were admittedly pretty basic. “I did not sink it is taught at ‘Ogwarts now, but it was very useful in ze witch hunts. But will it be enough to protect Monsieur Potter and ‘is princess against ze dragon?”

Disillusioned, Harry jogged closer to the dragon, hoping to get past it without incident. So far, his charms were holding up and as he passed the halfway mark his heart hammered wildly as he dashed past the dragon, at a cautious distance. However, he wasn’t safe yet, for the dragon stopped its futile roaring at the crowd and its nostrils flared as it scented the air. Its feet thudded to the ground as it finished its rearing display of wings and missing horns – it went temporarily silent, a predator on a hunt. Harry couldn’t help but notice how tremendously sharp its golden claws looked, as they gouged the earth. Its toothy maw looked easily big enough to swallow him in a single gulp.

Despite Harry looking like more than a shimmer of heat haze in the air, the dragon’s great green head turned in Harry’s direction. It huffed, and sniffed, and began lumbering towards him.

Don’t panic, Harry told himself frantically. Time for the backup plan. As quietly as possible. He wished he’d mastered silent spellcasting. He’d just have to whisper.

“Fumos,” he cast quietly, and a great gout of grey smoke spewed out of his wand to encircle him, leaving a smoke-free hole in the middle where he stood. The dragon wouldn’t be able to see him now, but more importantly, the ashy smell of the smoke should confuse its sense of smell. The downside of this plan was of course that he now couldn’t see where the dragon was. Harry had tried to find spells that hid one’s natural scent, but without success. The cleaning charms he’d found that were used on people had a tendency to leave behind a scent of soap, lavender, or roses. Hexing the dragon’s nose would be unlikely to work due to its spell-resistant hide, so scent-bombing the area with smoke to confuse it was Harry’s best plan.

“Finite.” Harry took care casting the General Counter-Spell on himself, removing his Disillusionment Charm without disturbing the charms on the sheep. He had to reapply the Flame-Freezing Charm, however, as that had been stripped off too. “Incendio Reicio!” The crowd cheered to see Harry reappear, but they didn’t get to see him for too long, as he dashed off blindly into the cloud of smoke. He hoped Bagman wouldn’t make him down too much for doing the exact opposite of putting on a ‘good show’.

Hopefully the noise of the crowd would stop the dragon from hearing his murmured spellcasting, his gasping breaths, or his footsteps. Somehow, Madame Maxime was still able to discern what he was saying. That must be one good eavesdropping charm!

“Zat is interesting! I wonder why Monsieur Potter ‘as taken down ‘is Disillusionment Charm. Ze Flame-Freezing Charm ‘as been cast again.”

Harry estimated he still had a quarter of the way to go to reach the mock castle that was his finish line, when the dragon tired of the smoke obscuring its vision. With tremendous flaps of its bat-like wings, powerful gusts of wind started dispersing Harry’s smoke.

It could have been worse, Harry thought. I’m just glad it didn’t try to burn the smoke away.

He cast a quick spell on himself that he’d left to the last minute as its duration was still unimpressive. He hadn’t practised it as much as he should since he’d made it up with Ambrosius’ help but had been drilling in it in private since he’d been picked for the Tournament.

“Transvorto visagus,” he cast, twirling his wand in an upwards spiral from the ground to his head. He dropped to his hands and knees, and as the smoke cleared the crowd – and the Romanian Longhorn – could see what he looked like now.

A small olive-green baby dragon with tiny nubs of golden horns was walking awkwardly across the field. Harry couldn’t make the glamour perfect, but so long as the adult dragon wasn’t too suspicious about his awkward gait (since underneath the illusion he was actually crawling on hands and knees) it might be enough. He didn’t need to fool it forever, just long enough to reach safety.

Romanian Longhorns weren’t the best parents. When their young were old enough to hunt on their own, the parents would drive their children out of their territory. However, they would never harm a hatchling or very young Longhorn. It was an instinct that Harry was hoping would protect him for just a few critical minutes as he frantically crawled to safety.

Please don’t breathe fire, please don’t breathe fire, he thought over and over, as he scrambled over the ground, trying not to let ‘Princess Hogwarts’ bump the ground.

“Do you know zat spell, Monsieur Dumbledore? ...No? Monsieur Karkaroff? …Well, zat is new to us all here. Some kind of glamour or illusion charm, I sink, rather zan a transfiguration. ‘E makes a beautiful leettle dragon, does ‘e not?”

The crowd cheered its approval, and a repetitive chant of “Go little dragon!” started up in the Hufflepuff stand, and many students quickly added a repetitive clap to the rhythm of the words. Soon the chant and clapping spread to the rest of the audience.

“GO LITTLE DRAGON!”

The adult Longhorn did breathe fire, but not in Harry’s direction. After some curious huffing and a low rumbling noise directed at him, it lumbered towards him for a moment, making Harry’s heart beat frantically as he curled up on the ground trying to look as inoffensive and dragon-like as possible. His wand was at the ready to cast protective spells against a possible blast of flames, hidden by his glamour.

The crowd screamed in excitement and second-hand fear as the dragon moved towards Harry – he was in its range now, so close he could make out the pattern of its scales. It didn’t seem to have the aggressive body language as it approached him that Harry had read about, however; it didn’t look ready to pounce, thought the crowd clearly feared it would. Harry feared it too but tried to stay confident in his conclusions and not panic. Moving would be the worst thing to do right now; he didn’t want to look like prey if it was perceptive enough to realise he wasn’t really a hatchling.

While Harry didn’t seem to be deemed a threat to it, it was, however, growing irritated by the noise of the crowd. It turned its back on Harry and spread its wings threateningly as it roared its defiance to the noisy crowd, breathing a threatening gout of flame into the sky.

It’s working! It’s even trying to protect me! Harry thought with delight and relief. Seizing the moment of distraction, he shakily scrambled the last couple of hundred metres to safety, heart still pounding in his chest like a drum.

At last he reached the mock castle where he needed to deposit his ‘princess’. The stone enclosure looked magically manufactured when seen close-up – the bricks were just a pattern on the surface of transfigured stone, rather than actual blocks. The wooden gate at the front was locked, but a quick Unlocking Charm got him in easily enough, and he closed the gate behind him.

Harry cast a quick “Finite” on himself to remove his illusionary appearance, and then wondered how to safely reverse the charms on his fluffy princess. He lay down on the grass on his side before casting a General Counter-Spell, which simultaneously enlarged the sheep back to its regular size and detached the sheep from being stuck to his chest.

“Rennervate!” he incanted as he stood up, waking up his ‘princess’.

A loud bell sounded with a deep clang, and there was a final explosion of cheering, whistles, and applause. His first task was over, and Harry didn’t think he could feel any happier as he waved up at the crowd. This was a Patronus-worthy moment to cherish.

-000-

After a quick check-up from Madam Pomfrey, who fussed over Harry and healed the minor scrapes on his hands and knees, Harry went up to the judges to receive his score. Each judge had up to thirty points each to allocate, and an additional potential ten points were available depending on how quickly he’d completed the challenge. As he’d been the second fastest competitor after Krum, Harry was awarded seven points for speed, starting off his score out of a hundred.

“Marvellous work today, you demonstrated a good range of spells including a new glamour spell that I would love to learn myself,” Mr. Scamander said, his soft voice enhanced by a Sonorus. “Importantly, you ah… achieved your objective and in the process did no harm whatsoever to a frightened, endangered creature. You displayed superior knowledge of dragons and their behaviour, to your advantage. I award you twenty-five points out of thirty.”

Amidst the cheers, Harry overheard an excited Hufflepuff nearby shouting, “That beats Krum!”

Professor Marchbanks went next. “Mr. Potter, your range of spells was indeed good, and your Disllusionment Charm was particularly well cast. Your invented charm was superb. Unfortunately, you did not cast silently, which would have worked to your advantage during your attempt to sneak past the dragon.

“You should note that some spell selections were ill-advised. In particular the Flame-Freezing Charm was a risky choice. It would have ameliorated the effects of dragon fire somewhat but would still have left you badly burnt. Your Summoning Charm, had it been successful, may have left Princess Hogwarts badly injured, or yourself, as she crashed into you. Your removal of her enchanted hat was highly strategic but against the spirit of the challenge; your rivals left their sheep’s hats in place. Nonetheless, it was overall an excellent effort for a young lad, and I award you seventeen points out of thirty.”

There was less cheering this time, some grumbles of discontent, and a few unsportsmanlike boos. Harry wanted to explain that he wasn’t going to only rely on the Flame-Freezing Charm if the dragon breathed on him. He’d practiced overpowering the Freezing Charm – Glacius – and some variant Shield Charms too, but it was a bit pointless to try and argue when he’d already been given a score, and it was all hypothetical anyway.

Ludo Bagman rubbed his plump hands together eagerly as he took his turn. “Mr. Potter, I think we can all be proud of how you did today! The enchanted hats that stymied your competition in transporting their respective princesses were easily fixed by your cutting of the Gordian knot! I believe that was an inspired solution, and the challenge was after all to get your princess to safety, with no mention of her millinery! Excellent spellcasting, no injuries to yourself, your princess, or even your dragon! I award you… twenty-eight points!”

After an explosion of cheers, and a spot of quick maths, Bagman continued, “That gives Hogwarts’ champion a total of seventy-seven points, putting Hogwarts into second place just a whisker behind Durmstrang!”

Professor Marchbanks handed Harry what looked like a golden egg, with hinges in the middle. “Inside this golden egg is your second clue, which will help you prepare for the second of your four tasks which will take place on the twenty-fourth of February. Open it later, and for now enjoy celebrating with your friends!”

-000-

Potter Watch had – under Peregrine’s direction – reserved the club room for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, in optimistic hopes of celebrating Harry’s success in the first task. Making it through unscathed and in second place was enough to satisfy his fans, and the room was packed full of jubilant students eager to congratulate Harry and enjoy the spread of cakes, fruit, and pumpkin juice supplied by excited house-elves (including Dobby, who seemed to have invited himself along), and a range of enchanted sweets being hawked by the Weasley twins. In fact, the room was so full they had to start turning people away at the door.

Harry’s closest friends crowded around him to talk over the first task, allowing a trickle of well-wishers to stop by to greet Harry.

“How did Krum do in the task? What did he do to win?” Harry asked Hermione loudly, over the din. He shook someone’s hand absent-mindedly as they congratulated him on his performance in the first task.

“He tried casting a spell on his sheep to slow its fall – which wore a little historically inaccurate Viking hat with pointed horns, by the way – and then tried summoning it like you did, but it didn’t work. Dumbledore said it was a logical approach-”

“He was doing commentary?” Harry asked, giving a Lockhart-grin and a passing thanks to someone else who wanted to say congratulations.

“Yes, and Karkaroff did the commentary for Delacour’s attempt. So, as I was saying, Krum went up the ladder fast after his Summoning Charm didn’t work, unstuck his ‘princess’ and put a leash on her, then leapt off the tower and floated to the ground with a silent spell. Dumbledore was very polite about Krum’s attempt, all the way through. He said that Arresto Momentum is a life-saving spell in Quidditch matches used often during practices, and best cast silently like Krum did due to the length of the incantation.”

“He was quite the show-off!” Pansy grumbled, around a mouth full of chocolate cake. “It was terrifying, and unnecessary. It impressed Marchbanks, however, and Bagman loved it. He gave high scores to everyone, actually.”

Hermione jumped back in with her recount as soon as Pansy took another bite of cake. “Krum transfigured a large number of rocks into sheep, and the Welsh Green chased them while he sprinted for the enclosure, pulling his sheep along behind him. The dragon went for him at one point, though, and he cast a Conjunctivitis Curse on it, which made its eyes swell shut. He also cast a transfiguration on the ground that made spikes of rock spear up from the earth – the dragon hated that. It was like walking on thumb tacks while completely blind, I guess!”

“Scamander marked Krum down for injuring his dragon,” Draco said, sliding into place next to Pansy. “Your score was the highest he gave, Harry.”

“Marchbanks gave her highest score to Krum, and Bagman gave high scores to everyone, so his influence on the results was fairly minimal in the end,” Hermione said.

“Someone said Delacour was injured?” Harry said leadingly. “What was her strategy?”

“Her sheep wore a beret,” Daphne said, with a grin. “She made such a face when she saw it.”

“She focused mostly on mind-affecting spells,” Hermione said. “Calming and Feather-light Charms on her sheep, and Confundus and a couple of powerful sleeping charms on the dragon. It worked, but not for as long as she expected, and her Shield Charm didn’t block all of the dragon’s fire when it breathed on her. So she and her princess got a bit singed, but she still managed to get it to the enclosure in the end.”

“Hey, does anyone know how Madame Maxime knew what I was casting?”

“I do!” Neville volunteered eagerly. “I asked Professor McGonagall, and she said you’d all been given a miniature dragon that was enchanted to transmit sound to a speaker in front of the judges.”

“Oh!” Harry said, digging in his school robe pocket. “I forgot about that. Hey Draco, would you like it, for your collection?”

Draco perked up at hearing the offer and happily took the little animated figurine. It stretched its neck and shook its golden-horned head, as he accepted it from Harry. “Isn’t it beautiful? Thank you so much, Harry. I will have to get the Wireless Charm taken off of course, if it has not worn off already. Lovely, just gorgeous.” He cooed over the craftsmanship of the figurine for a while and admired the coloration of the dragon.

“Harry, you have to teach me your new glamour spell! Please?” Hermione insisted, tacking on the courtesy at the end of her demand.

“Sure, I will,” he promised.

“Speaking of Wireless Charms, did you know that the task narration went out on the Wizarding Wireless?” Pansy asked, ignoring Hermione’s interjection

“No, I-” Harry started, but was interrupted.

Across the room from amidst a cluster of senior students, Angelina Johnson let out a shrill, piercing whistle, while made the hubbub dim for a moment. “Hey Potter! Let’s hear what the next clue is! How about you open up the egg?!”

Her suggestion was met with general approval, and a chorus of agreement.

“Second task!”

“Let’s hear it!”

“We’ve got your back, Potter! Hogwarts for the win!”

“Quiet, everyone! Let Potter read it out!” Johnson yelled, and the room hushed as Harry fished the egg out from his robe and cautiously prised open the hinged lid.

The most terrible cacophony issued forth from the hollow metal egg, as a loud and screechy wailing filled the room. It sounded like a cross between a scream and a tortured violin.

“Shut it!” bellowed one of the Weasley twins, with his hands over his ears.

“That sounded like a banshee!” Finnegan said. “Maybe you have to fight one of those next!”

“No, it was someone being tortured,” Neville said, his face white.

“That wouldn’t be a task, though,” Hermione said, patting Neville comfortingly on his arm.

“Maybe it’s broken?” Mafalda suggested. “You could give it a shake, and try opening it again?”

Harry thought it was worth a try, but it didn’t change the resulting screech, which sounded the same as before.

The Revealing Charm showed some runes magically imprinted on the engraved metal. “We’ve got some runes here, if anyone good at Ancient Runes wants to help me figure them out!” Harry called.

A cluster of eager assistants pushed forwards to join Harry and Hermione in examining the egg, including Daphne, Tracey, Theodore, and Anthony. Tamsin Applebee, the Head Girl, turned out to be a whiz at Ancient Runes, and she and Fawcett from Ravenclaw quickly dominated the discussion. Hermione switched from babbling excitedly to listening eagerly to the two senior girls’ speculations.

“We have got some Ogham here around the middle; Ór and Nion, representing gold and a fork or division, if I remember my Ogham kennings correctly,” Applebee said.

“Yes, that’s right!” Fawcett agreed eagerly. “Look, there’s also nGéadal chained to it as well, and the rune goes across the groove where it opens, so it only activates when the egg is closed.”

“NGéadal… killing?” Applebee said thoughtfully. “So, it stops the noise when it is shut? The default charm has the sound play constantly, but when the severed rune is repaired, the noise is killed?”

“Exactly! Now look, under the filigree at the top there’s some Futhark,” Fawcett said. “Hard to read though. The creator has hidden those on purpose.”

“Hieroglyphs too, they really used everything on this, didn’t they? It’s a wonder the rune systems aren’t clashing. They must have really taken their time on this egg. Let’s see, there’s a sistrum… fishing net… and what’s that one on the end?” Applebee mused, pointing to the third and last tiny Egyptian hieroglyph enclosed in the oval cartouche.

“Scribe equipment,” Harry volunteered, eliciting an impressed murmur from the watching crowd.

Applebee grinned delightedly at him. “Yes! That would be it. So, the hieroglyphs say we’ve got music that’s been trapped, and recorded.”

“Does that tell us anything new?” Harry asked.

Applebee and Fawcett both shrugged. “Not really,” Fawcett said.

“It tells us the recording is working as intended,” Theodore suggested. “That the egg is supposed to play a musical noise when opened and stop when shut. So, the clue is in the noise itself.”

“It’s interesting they used the fishing net hieroglyph,” Fawcett mused. “I would have linked the sistrum with a bird trap, for the airy nature of music and birds. More complementary.”

“Perhaps it clashed with the other runes,” Applebee suggested.

They all talked over the runes a bit more, trying to peek at the hidden Futhark runes without much success or consensus on which ones they were, as only the bottom stems could be glimpsed poking out from under the filigree covering. Without being able to see the whole runes, they could only do things like speculate as to whether a straight line at the bottom meant a rune was Algiz or Laguz, and rule out runes with distinctive bottom halves like Daguz which they were sure weren’t used. They did manage to narrow it down to Elder Futhark and identified one rune for certain – Naudiz.

“Need or hardship,” Hermione mused. “‘Constraint gives scant choice…’ I think it’s setting some requirement… a trigger. But we can’t tell what without knowing what it’s linked to.”

The recording was replayed a few times (a few students not so coincidentally decided they’d had enough partying, around that time), until Hermione was certain that the screeching was repeating in a noticeable pattern.

Eventually after a mix of much feasting, partying, and studying of the egg clue, Applebee was the one who called a halt to the evening. “Curfew for the junior students! We are only booked until this time, so everyone get moving before the teachers have to step in or we prefects have to dock points. Senior students, please set a good example and escort the younger students back home. Badgers, let’s go!”

The party broke up obediently, and Harry headed back to the Gryffindor dormitories with a crowd of fellow lions.

On the way there, Midgen pulled Neville aside for a quick chat, and then Neville subsequently approached Harry.

“Midgen says she has a good idea about deciphering the egg, but she doesn’t want everyone listening in,” Neville whispered, leaning in close. “So, we should meet her tomorrow morning by the lake before breakfast.”

Harry perked up. Any lead would be a good one, as he hadn’t found the recorded cacophony of wails as helpful and straightforward as the clue for the first task had been. “Tell her thanks, and we’ll see her tomorrow if I can get away from everyone.”

Neville nodded. “I shall play owl and let her know.”

As they went through the hidden entrance to the Gryffindor dorm, a wave of cheers greeted Harry.

“Surprise! Gryffindor after-party!” yelled the Weasley twins in unison.

Harry supressed a tired wince and plastered on another smile. It was nice to be appreciated, after all.

Chapter Text

November – December 1994

The sky was still pitch black and the air was bitingly cold with a frosty, crisp wind when Harry and Neville went out early the next morning to meet Eloise Midgen on the pebbled shore of the Black Lake. The sun wouldn’t be up until after classes started, as daylight hours in winter in the north of Scotland were very short indeed. As the duo trudged outside with their boots crunching on the frost-rimed grass, their path lit by the glowing wands they held aloft, they grumbled together about why Midgen couldn’t have simply met them in the library, instead.

“I don’t know why she even needed to meet in private,” Harry complained, his breath steaming in the air. “I mean, I’ll probably just share things with the whole research gang anyway.”

“Perhaps it is information acquired by eavesdropping,” Neville suggested. “Still, that is no reason to have to meet outside at this hour.” Neville recast his waning warming charm on his plain black Hogwarts robe, then relit his wand with a muttered Lumos.

To their relief, Midgen was already waiting for them by the lake shore when they arrived, and they spotted each other quickly since their lit wands cast little halos of light around each of them.

Midgen was quick to get down to business after token pleasantries were out of the way. “So, I know what the noise the egg recorded is. I mean, I don’t know what it’s saying, but I know what language it’s in.”

“It’s a language?” Harry asked, startled.

She nodded. “It’s Mermish. I’m almost positive. In the air, it sounds just like that – a horrible screeching sound. It’s only comprehensible underwater, and from what the rune experts were saying last night, there’s some water runes on the egg. If you try listening to it when it’s underwater you might be able to make out what it’s saying.”

“Well, thanks very much for the tip! I don’t speak Mermish, though. So uh, do you know it? Could you translate?” Harry asked optimistically.

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I only speak it a little. But you won’t need my help, I expect. It’s a magical language, perhaps a bit like Parseltongue. If you’re underwater with a native Mermish speaker, what they’re saying is comprehensible to you. Well, to any witch or wizard, that is. At least some Muggles too, but I don’t know how reliable it is for them – I’ve never looked into it. Anyway, you only need to learn it if you want to be able to communicate in air or want to read the written form. Because it’s not actually English, it’s something you magically hear in your own native language.”

Neville looked a bit confused after her explanation, but Harry thought it all made sense. “It does sound a lot like Parseltongue then, in a lot of ways. To me it sounds like English, but apparently to everyone else I’m hissing and saying stuff like ‘Hassah shassa srass!’ or something. But I get the feeling sometimes when I’m talking to Storm that some words aren’t translating well, like ‘smell-taste’ which we don’t have a word for in English, but I guess snakes only use the single compound concept.”

“Yes!” Midgen agreed eagerly. “Mermish has a lot of words for currents and water conditions that we don’t have, so there’s things like ‘forceful-current’ and ‘oscillating-tidal-current’ when you hear it underwater. There’s also some odd words when it comes to directions as they’re more three-dimensional.”

“So… Mermish is its own language, but we’d hear it as English, if we’re underwater? As best English allows a translation?” Neville asked, checking his understanding.

“That’s right.”

“So, why didn’t you just tell me about this last night?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t want a lot of people asking me difficult questions about how I knew all about it,” Midgen said, shrugging and looking uncomfortable. “It’s not common knowledge, and Mermish is barely even mentioned in our Care of Magical Creatures textbook. I don’t know if there’s any books in the Hogwarts library that talk about Mermish, and even then, it wouldn’t explain how I can recognise it just by hearing it.”

“I thought you just liked mermaids?” Harry offered. “I study all kinds of things that aren’t in the curriculum. Hermione does too.”

Neville, however, seemed less inclined to think that was the end of the story, and was staring at Midgen more thoughtfully, head tilted. “How exactly do you know-” he started but was interrupted by Eloise tugging off her thick black woollen gloves and thrusting her hands out towards them.

“Look,” she insisted, wiggling her fingers. “My hands. But… keep it secret. I don’t want to be gossiped about. You owe me for sharing my clue, anyway.”

Harry peered at her hands, lit wand held close, but didn’t see anything unusual about them.

Neville took hold of her left hand and turned it over to peer at her palm. “No thick skin or scales. Your palms look smooth?” he said thoughtfully, which clued Harry into what he was checking for – possible merperson ancestry.

Harry took hold of her other hand and looked more closely. Hidden in between the joints of her fingers and her thumb, there were thin white lines of scar tissue on the sides of each digit. Only a keen observer would spot them, and even then only if her fingers were splayed out. With her fingers close together the scarring would be unnoticeable.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, before letting her hand go.

“I have a grandfather who’s a selkie,” Midgen said quietly, putting her gloves back on. “We see him every spring tide, and he’s taught me a little Mermish.

“I was born with webbing between my fingers. Not enough to actually help me swim. Certainly not enough heritage to let me shapeshift into a seal, or anything useful. It was just enough to flag to the world that I’m a mixed breed; worse than a half-blood. So, my parents had it cut away, just like my mother did when she was young. She has it between her toes, too, and has to hide the rough skin on her palms as well.”

“I swear on the honour of the Noble House of Longbottom that I will not share information about your selkie heritage without your permission,” Neville promised gravely.

“I accept your vow. Thank you, I appreciate that a lot,” Midgen said, sounding relieved.

Harry quickly joined in with a similar promise, and his inclusion of ‘the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin’ to the more expected Houses of Potter and Black got him an odd look from Midgen and wide eyes from Neville.

Harry turned to address Midgen. “You’re being open and honest about something embarrassing and potentially socially damaging, just to help me in the Tournament,” he explained. “I felt it demanded some kind of show of trust in return. Since we’re being all formal adding my extra title in felt appropriate. Besides, it’s pretty common gossip now, anyway, thanks to Lockhart’s book. From what I’ve learnt in the Chamber of Secrets, being the Heir is something you can prove simply by being a Parselmouth and there not being any other claimants, since it’s such a rare trait in British families. Post owls are finding me that way too, so I guess it’s as official as it can be. I’m the Heir of Slytherin.”

“I’m shocked,” Midgen said dryly.

Well, perhaps it’s not that much of a secret anymore, Harry thought. Alright, something else then.

“Okay then… I’m a Metamorphmagus,” he admitted quietly. “Not very strongly, but I have the talent. You’re now one of only four people at school who know, along with Neville, Millicent, and Draco, so please keep it to yourself.”

“Why would you hide that?” she said, with a quizzical look. “That’s a very respectable talent, and not linked to any magical creature heritage.”

Harry shrugged and looked away. “I don’t like standing out and being different. Not that I have much of a choice this year. Stupid goblet. I still wish people hadn’t put my name in.”

“Well, I don’t understand why you’re bothered about it, but I will try to respect your wishes,” Midgen promised. “Do you not want people gossiping about how you’re a Seer, either? Is it true that you didn’t do Divination because you don’t want people to realise the full extent of your power of Second Sight?”

“I’m not a Seer of any kind,” Harry said, blinking in puzzlement. “It’s not one of my talents.”

Oh yes, the rumours last year. He remembered now.

“Then how did you predict the Dementor attack last year? You and your friends trained up for it in advance.”

“That was just common sense. The Dementors were used to living in a big stone building filled with food – wizards and witches. Then the Ministry moved them here, to a big stone building filled with more delicious food – kids overflowing with happy emotions – and told them not to eat anything. They were like hungry animals placed next to a scrumptious all-you-can-eat buffet and ordered to sit and starve. It was inevitable it’d go wrong eventually.”

“Common sense, the rarest magical talent of all,” Neville said with an amused grin, and they all laughed.

-000-

A crowd of eager volunteers was shooed away from the large table Harry and his friends had settled down at in the library in the afternoon. In fact, they need to repeat the process a couple of times.

“My cousin has not yet deciphered the Tournament clue, but he has a possible lead and a plan to do so,” Pansy told another batch of students who’d wandered over to their table. “We shall spread word when further research or training assistance is required and thank you for your offer of help. For now, my cousin needs quiet to catch up on his schoolwork.”

“Thanks again,” Harry muttered, as Pansy sat back down next to him with a self-satisfied air.

“It was my pleasure to aid you,” she said, returning to her Charms essay.

While on the surface everything looked amicable at their inter-House study group, the seating at the long wooden table had required a little shuffling and negotiation. Greg had wanted to sit with Vincent, and Vincent wanted to sit with Draco. However, Hermione wanted to sit with Greg but pointedly not next to Draco, and Neville didn’t seem to want to sit with any of the Slytherins today (but there were so many that was difficult to arrange). Too many people wanted to sit next to Harry, who just wanted to study quietly and was having difficulty doing so with both the constant trickle of students stopping by. Plus there was the distraction of Luna, Theodore, Daphne, Tracey, and Anthony gossiping excitedly (and too loudly) about the rumours of an upcoming Yule Ball that were buzzing around the school (started by the Slytherins, some of whom had heard it ‘confidentially’ from Slughorn).

Draco was too busy helping Vincent with his Charms essay to want to take the time to shoo away interlopers, so Pansy (who’d already finished her own essay) was placed next to Harry as his social guard. Hermione was on his other side, with Millicent and Neville opposite them, both studying quietly. The noisy chatterers discussing the ball were at one end of the table, joined unusually by Lavender Brown (not a regular in their social group) who was eager to hear the latest gossip.

Draco, Greg, and Vincent were at the other end of the table, talking quietly. Theoretically. In practice Harry couldn’t help but listen in. It was more interesting than the chatter at the other end of the table about who might be asking who to the Yule Ball, and what dress robes everyone had brought to Hogwarts. He didn’t think he was being alone in being distracted by that more studious group either – Hermione seemed to be listening in too, despite her affected disinterest.

“I can see what you were trying to say but it is not coming across clearly,” Draco said to Vincent, drying the freshly inked notes on a sheet of parchment with a quick charm and handing it back to him. “Try rewriting it and start by explaining what charm you are talking about, and then talk about its effects. Also, you forgot to finish your sentence in the fourth paragraph; I’ve added in a suggested conclusion. Spelling corrections are in blue today, I have run out of green ink. I shall get some more at Hogsmeade in a couple of weeks. Watch your letter formation as always – I have circled the ones you need to fix in your final version.”

“Thank you. I hate essays,” Vincent grumbled. “I want to get at least an Acceptable on this one, so my mother will stop calling me lazy.”

“You are not lazy, you just have difficulty with writing,” Draco said sternly. “You work hard at your reading, over and over until it sticks, if I don’t have time to read to you, and you practice your spells every day until your enunciation is perfect. That is the opposite of lazy. You are a diligent student.”

Vincent looked embarrassed. “I guess. Just dumb, I suppose. You do not forget what was at the start of a page by the time you are at the end of it.”

“Well I do not read as fast as Granger does nor can I cast the range of spells that Harry can,” Draco said. Harry noticed Hermione’s eyes flick down the table as Draco said her name. “However, that does not make me dumb. We all have different strengths and you are excellent at your practical spellcasting once you have drilled in the incantations – better than at least a third of the class, even – and that is what will matter most for your OWLs and NEWTs. You are not dumb and I do not want to hear you calling yourself that again, Crabbe!”

Draco’s voice was bossy and stern, almost angry, but despite that Vincent looked incredibly happy at his friend’s words. He hung his head to hide the traces of tears glimmering in his eyes, but his irrepressible quivering smile said they were tears of happiness.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, his deep voice a little choked-up.

“You are also good in the physical sphere, and you are an excellent Beater.”

“I did not make the team, though. Just as a Reserve again.”

“Well not this year, of course. However, you are guaranteed Derrick’s spot next year,” Draco promised. “Which reminds me, I have a gift for you that arrived from father this morning.”

Draco rummaged in his bag and pulled out a thin rectangular box tied with a green and silver ribbon. Vincent opened it to reveal what looked like a plain white feather quill with an attached silver tip a bit like a fountain pen.

“What does it do?” he asked.

“It is a Dictation Quill,” Draco said, drawing the words out slowly as if very smugly proud of his announcement.

Vincent hastily scrubbed the traces of tears out of the corners of his eyes with the back of his robe sleeve and looked at Draco in amazement.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Top quality! Guaranteed not to fail for at least three years. You will have to attune it before it will work, of course.”

Vincent packed the quill back in its box with such reverent care that you would think the quill was more precious than gold.

Mind you, knowing how devalued gold is in wizarding society, it probably is more precious, Harry thought.

Greg importuned Draco to read over his draft essay next, which Draco did with a sigh. Harry wondered if Draco would get a chance to work on his own essay at all. At least they were all quieter now.

Harry wrapped up his own essay and got his wand out to dry the wet ink.

“Are you finished already? Professor Flitwick said three to four feet. You’ve barely reached that,” Hermione commented, craning her neck to peer at his essay. “Do you want to borrow my ruler to check?”

Harry shook his head. “No, it’s enough. I’ve covered all the important information, and some extra things.”

“May I read it? I promise I won’t copy anything.”

“Sure, I guess.”

Hermione read through his essay eagerly. “Why did you talk about the Vanishing Spell when the essay was on the Scouring Charm? You barely spent a third of the essay on that part, which is the actual assigned topic. Oh! There’s a few other cleaning charms in here too.”

“They’re all related,” Harry explained. “The point is to show we understand the theory, not to tell Professor Flitwick a hundred details about the Scouring Charm that he already knows. You could write about the Vanishing Spell too – you practiced it with me in class, after all.”

“But that was for Transfiguration, it wasn’t even for Charms! It doesn’t belong in a Charms essay!”

“You got to learn a fifth-year spell in class? That is so unfair,” Draco complained. “Professor McGonagall is biased in favour of her Gryffindors.”

“Not as bad as Snape was for his Slytherins,” Neville retorted.

Draco hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. Slughorn seems more even-handed with points.”

Neville smiled. Harry was happy too, that their mild argument hadn’t boiled over into something bigger.

“Besides, it was just an exception for the Tournament,” Harry explained. “I usually have to stick with studying the same spells as everyone else, even when I already know them.”

Hermione’s head jerked up then stilled, like a cat that had spotted a mouse, but she didn’t say anything and silently returned to reading Harry’s essay.

“I’m going to have to edit my essay,” she admitted once she’d finished, sighing as she handed Harry’s essay back, and pulling out a roll of fresh parchment.

“Try not to make it too much longer,” Pansy warned her. “Remember, he marks down for that.”

“I know, I know… but thanks for the reminder.”

-000-

On the way back to Gryffindor Tower to drop off their bags and collect Storm before dinner, Hermione talked about Arithmancy and their recent lessons on the importance of prime numbers until Lavender Brown got bored and ran ahead of their little group of Gryffindors.

“…That’s why wizards come of age at seventeen. Prime numbers are powerful for grounding or empowering magic. Have you noticed the currency rates are all prime numbers? Seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. That’s not a coincidence. There are also seven players per side for Quidditch – another prime number. They’re the purest numbers because they’re indivisible. Composite numbers aren’t as magically powerful because they’re divisible and thus breakable – less strong.”

With Brown away from their group, Hermione seized the opportunity to drag Harry aside for a chat in one of the empty classrooms, trailed (without objection) by Neville.

“Harry, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while,” she started hesitantly, “but I didn’t want to say anything earlier in case I upset you or distracted you from your preparation for the Triwizard Tournament. Which was obviously important and needed to be your top priority, given how dangerous we thought the first task might be.”

“Um, thanks? So, what’s this about, then?” Harry asked.

Hermione took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “I think… no, I’m sure, that you could do better in class than you generally have been. I thought it was just Potions, and I didn’t even realise for ages that that had been on purpose. But… you’ve been underperforming in class in multiple subjects for quite some time, haven’t you? I’m not just imagining it, I’m sure I’m not. Every year you get better, but I don’t think it’s just that. You could be answering more questions in class, but you never do. I’ve seen you lately, in the Senior Potter Watch group, and in the Tournament. You’re even doing better in Astronomy, and you’ve never done well in Astronomy – never better than an Acceptable – and you certainly haven’t had time to study for it lately.”

“That is why he’s doing better,” Neville said, very quietly.

“Is… that okay?” Harry asked. “That my grades are going up?”

“That you’re doing better in classes? That you’re good at magic? Of course it’s okay!” Hermione said emphatically. “What I just don’t understand is why you haven’t been doing the best you can all along! Is it… is it because of me?”

Hermione looked at him with worried eyes, biting at her lip. “Because we’ll still be friends even if you’re better than me at some – or all – of our classes. You know that, don’t you? You came top of the year for Charms and DADA last year, and we were both alright with that, weren’t we, Neville? And I tried my hardest to be supportive in Transfiguration, wasn’t I encouraging enough?”

“It’s not you, it’s fine. I mean, I worried about that for a while, I’ll admit, but you were fine last year, so…” Harry trailed off and shrugged. “But it’s not you. It’s… well it’s complicated.”

“Is it your family? The Dursleys? Did they ah… threaten you with something if you didn’t improve your grades?” Hermione asked anxiously. “I could get my parents to talk to them, if that would help? Or we could talk to Professor McGonagall? I’m sure we can find some senior students to help tutor you in History of Magic and Astronomy if you’re wanting to bring your grades up!”

“Oh no, please don’t!” Harry said. “It’s not that at all, anyway. They don’t care about my grades; the only time we talked about it they even wanted me to do well. I just… we didn’t even talk about my results over summer. Any of them – magical or Muggle subjects.”

“What?” Hermione asked, brow furrowed. “Not at all? Why not? Did you write to them earlier? Why wouldn’t they talk things over with you?”

“They don’t care, Hermione,” Harry said wearily. “They don’t care about my grades. At all. I was glad just to get a lift to go and sit my IGCSE exams.”

Hermione still looked bewildered. “If they don’t care if you do well or not – which I find hard to believe – why aren’t you just trying your best at Hogwarts?”

Harry sighed. That was harder to answer, and a bit of a mess. He looked over at Neville for support.

“It will be fine, Harry. You can tell her,” he encouraged.

“I hope so, and if I don’t, she’ll probably just go running to my teachers like she did with Snape,” Harry said, a touch of old resentment sneaking into his voice.

“What? You mean back in second year? He was giving you Acceptables for Outstanding quality potions! It was outrageous – I was sticking up for you!”

“Yes… but you should have talked to me first,” Harry said, chin jutting forwards. “Professor Snape and I had a deal. I was trying to raise my grade slowly. So people wouldn’t think I was cheating, or the subject of favouritism, or anything. I didn’t want to stand out.”

“That’s why you went from a D in first year to getting an E in second year, and an O in third year,” Hermione said slowly. “If you’d tried harder and done your very best, would you have beaten me to top of the class last year?”

“Do you memorise all my grades?” Harry asked, with astonishment.

Hermione folded her arms. “I have a good memory. I can’t help that any more than you can help being a Parselmouth.”

“Fair enough. And no, you got top of the class fair and square. I’ve been doing the best I can in Potions already. In most of my classes, actually.”

“But not all.”

“He cares not for his History of Magic results,” Neville said. “Nor do I, honestly. It is not a very useful subject, doubly so in Binns’ hands.”

“I have a plan I’m working on about that,” Hermione said, waving a hand vaguely, “but let’s not get off-topic. Harry, what aren’t you trying your hardest in?”

“You figured it out already. History of Magic and Astronomy, though I’m relaxing on the latter. People keep nagging me.”

“You get Es sometimes in Transfiguration?” Hermione said, making the statement into a question with a lilting rise to her voice. “And Ancient Runes?”

Harry shrugged. “Yes, well, I’m still trying. Transfiguration spells are just so stupid, a lot of the time. I mean seriously, beetles into buttons and guinea fowl into guinea pigs? They’re such useless spells. Not that I’d dare say that to McGonagall’s face, but it’s true.”

“It’s an application of theory to build on–” Hermione began justifying, before Harry cut her off.

“Yes, I understand all that, but I still don’t enjoy practising them, and I don’t always get the Arithmancy behind why transforming into similarly named things is important. The theory is dull and confusing, and my spells aren’t always as strong as they should be. And I love Ancient Runes but it’s just plain hard and I haven’t read much in advance for that. I have so many things to study for and I can’t be good at everything. There was barely enough time last year and that was with a Time-Turner! This year is worse. I’m trying really hard to bring my Ancient Runes grade up, though.”

Hermione frowned, and looked thoughtful. “Who’s nagging you about your Astronomy grade? Neville?”

Neville shook his head. “Not me. I have known since our first year that Harry does what he wants with his grades and that he is not worrying about them until fifth year, for his OWLs.”

Lord Voldemort is nagging me, Harry thought, but certainly couldn’t say. There was someone else he could mention, though.

“Snape bugs me about it sometimes,” he admitted. “He knows I’ve been planning out my grades. He tricked,” – blackmailed – “me into doing better in Charms.”

“Back in second year,” Hermione said slowly, “when you went from being an E student to top of the class.”

She bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. “And it wasn’t because of me?” she asked, in a muffled voice, face obscured by her hands and her mane of curly brown hair. It was less frizzy and bushy than it had been in first year, now her dormmates had pushed her into using more hair-care products and cutting back on her furious brushing, but it was still a thick riot of long curls.

Harry sighed again. “It was worry about what the Dursleys would say if I did well, because they hate magic so much. Though Dudley at least doesn’t, not anymore. Then it was just not wanting to stand out and have people talk about me being special, because that’s tiring and uncomfortable. I also didn’t want to look like a cheat whose grades went up suspiciously fast.

“There was a little bit of worry about what you and Neville might think if I did better than you,” Harry said, understating his concern from that time, “but I trust now that you won’t mind and we can still be friends. Besides, Neville’s genuinely better than me at Herbology, and you’re better at History of Magic and Potions, so I think it’ll all be okay.”

“Brace yourself, I’m going to hug you,” Hermione warned, and moved up slowly to wrap her arms around Harry, then reached out an arm to drag Neville in to share a group hug.

“You will always be my friends,” Hermione said seriously. “Both of you. Even if you beat me at everything. I want you to do the best you can, Harry. You’re my first and best friends and I will never let you go.”

“M-me too,” Neville agreed, with less eloquence but just as much sincerity shining in his eyes.

Harry squeezed them both tightly, hiding the tremble in his hands.

-000-

“Ask him now,” Storm hissed. His body was coiled around Harry’s shoulders, and his head was curved around to look Harry in the face from inches away. It was making Harry go cross-eyed.

“Dear Merlin, ssstop nagging me! I already sssaid no!” Harry replied crossly, carefully manoeuvring a spoonful of porridge past Storm and into his mouth. His snake was making eating breakfast a very difficult task today. At least it was the weekend and Harry could take his time.

“Now, now, now! Before it’s too late! Please, I want to talk to them!”

“No.”

Neville and Hermione snickered quietly to each other as they watched Harry argue with his snake. They couldn’t understand what the two were hissing to each other, but Harry’s expression said a lot, and he’d curtly explained to them earlier that Storm had been nagging him all morning like a particularly wearying toddler.

“What’s the line-up of the Slytherins, Ron?” Neville asked, trying to distract his rather white-faced friend from thinking too much about his imminent debut as Keeper at the year’s inaugural Quidditch match. “How does it compare to the Gryffindor team?”

“Please!”

“No!” Harry repeated, more forcefully.

“Uh, well Bulstrode got out of the Reserves and made Beater, so Bole’s out. That may work well for us, he had a good arm and didn’t care if he fouled. We’ll see how she works with Derrick. Pucey’s taken Flint’s old spot as the third Chaser, and Montague and Warrington have kept their spots as Chasers. Pucey’s a sixth-year and was a Reserve last year, so probably a strong opponent,” Ron said. “I expect he’ll coordinate well with them. Malfoy’s still Seeker, of course.” While he still sounded nervous Ron looked less panicked the more he talked.

“Greg didn’t get Keeper,” Hermione added, sounding disappointed. “He’s still a Reserve. But he’s practically guaranteed the spot next year because Bletchley’s going to concentrate on his NEWTs as he doesn’t want a career in Quidditch. Crabbe’s in the same boat – waiting for an older player to age out. He’s got his eye on the second Beater spot for next year, when Derrick will have graduated.”

“Please, Harold! Just a little talk! Clever-men hatchlings need my wisdom!”

“They really don’t. They’ll think I’m being ridiculouss.”

Harry tried to listen in to the discussion of Andrew Kirke’s performance at the tryouts that had led the former Reserve Seeker for Gryffindor taking Dunbar’s position from her, and something about Ginny Weasley trying out for a spot, but Storm kept hissing right in his face. It was very distracting.

“They do. Do. Do. Do! They do need my wisdom. Don’t you care about me? Thiss is important to me! How would you feel if an Elder wouldn’t let you talk to sssomeone about sssomething important? I would talk to them on my own if I could, but I cannot. You have to help me.”

“Alright!” Harry shouted, giving in. “Fine! I’ll ask him!”

“Peregrine!” Harry called, jogging up to catch up to the older Slytherin boy before he left the Slytherin table. “Um. I didn’t want to ask you, but Storm’s insisting–”

“Ask him! Tell him I am very wise!”

“Shush! I’m asking!”

Harry held a weary hand up to his forehead. “Okay, look, I know it’s silly, but Storm wants to give the Slytherin Quidditch team a pep talk before today’s match. He thinks he’s a strategic expert. He’s not in the slightest, he barely understands Quidditch at all, but he wants to motivate you to win and he just won’t take no for an answer.”

The team seemed generally delighted by the notion, embarrassing though Harry thought the idea was.

“Aww!” Millicent cooed.

“He’s such a good fan!”

“What’s a pep talk?”

“Some kind of encouraging speech, I expect.”

“I have never been given a ‘pep talk’ by a snake before.”

“My sister would never forgive me if I did not agree,” Peregrine said, with a laugh. “Come on then, join us in the change rooms for a moment before the match. We do not want any eavesdropping Gryffindors getting the benefit of Storm’s words of wisdom.”

Harry dragged Pansy along too, since she was going to snake-sit. Storm wanted to sit with the Slytherins for the match, and his usual favourite Millicent was going to be playing Beater today for the first time. Luna had knitted Storm a tiny snake-sized striped green and silver scarf and a little matching hat (stuck on with a charm) to help him show what team he barracked for, and he looked frankly adorable.

The Quidditch team assembled ready to play the first match of the season, and Peregrine gave a quick “beat them all into the ground and remember our plays” pep talk to his team before turning the floor over to Harry and Storm.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Well, at least he wasn’t having to do this in the middle of the Great Hall.

“Storm wants Slytherin to win today and insists on me translating some advice and encouragement for you, so here goes,” Harry began, then switched to a fairly accurate translation of his pet’s hisses.

“The House of Snakes is the best House. Snakes are always the best. Your practice-hunt will show that snakes are better than the other animals, so don’t let the lions win! Remember you are sneaky predators. Don’t let your prey see you coming! Hide until you are ready to strike, just an innocent stick floating in the sky not bothering anyone. Don’t let your prey know your intention until it is too late! Catch and strike the flying things and make the Snake House proud. Be stealthy and bite hard. Do not bite each other, only dry-strike and bite at the lions. Since you cannot eat them, make them limp away today knowing it is foolish to challenge snakes because snakes will win.”

There was laughter mixed with the applause for Storm’s pep talk, and with a blush staining his cheeks despite the positive reception, Harry passed Storm over to Pansy with a sigh of relief.

“That was great,” Draco said. “There was some good advice in there.”

“And it was funny!” Millicent added. “He’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

“Tell Storm I promise to ‘bite’ the lions,” Montague said.

“We’ll all be sneaky, vicious snakes, it’s what we do best. Now, are you going to listen to his wisdom and barrack for your true House?” Peregrine asked Harry, with a teasing smile.

“C’mon, I was Sorted into Gryffindor,” Harry said, with a hint of a whine. “I can’t sit with Slytherin. But… I will cheer for my friends, here and there.”

“Glad to hear it!” Millicent said.

“Did they listen?” Storm checked. “Do they understand the plan?”

“They loved your talk. They promised to be sneaky and do their best to win. And be sssneaky and viciouss and bite the lions.”

“Good,” Storm said, and was carried away to the Slytherin stands, a very satisfied snake among his fellow fans.

Harry went off to sit in the Gryffindor stands and to cheer for both teams. An uncomfortable neutrality that earnt him some cries to shut up from angry Gryffindor fans around him. McLaggen was particularly upset by Harry being a “traitor to Gryffindor” by cheering when Millicent scored her first good hit with a Bludger, almost knocking the Gryffindor Captain and Chaser Johnson off her broom, but he wasn’t the only one giving Harry dark looks. Being neutral was tough, and meant it was impossible to please everyone once tensions rose. Those around him weren’t happy with his fluctuating support, and those on the other side wished he’d leave his old House and support them whole-heartedly instead.

Harry sighed. The analogy wasn’t lost on him; it was the war in miniature. The problem was, he had friends on both sides and didn’t want to see anyone get hurt.

Draco triumphantly caught the Snitch in the end, winning glory for Slytherin (and for one delighted scaly fan) by a narrow margin. Harry wondered if it was an omen.

-000-

December’s H.E.L.P. Society meeting focused on a discussion of Yule traditions about giving house-elves the day off, and on encouraging society members to write letters to their relatives reminding them of old traditions.

“Remember, only gifts of clothes from Heads of Houses can free house-elves, so most people here can give house-elves clothes without harming them. Just remember to reassure them that they’re not being cast out, and that the clothes are from you, not your parents or relatives,” Hermione said.

Harry and Neville, as possible exceptions to this rule, had prepared gifts for their elves of plain swathes of cloth and embroidery supplies. They’d also done a swap – each had bought shoes for their friend’s house-elves. As such, they didn’t need to join in the sewing circle that the meeting developed into after the speeches from people reporting on their progress researching and helping house-elves had concluded. Neville joined in anyway, however, just to be social, sitting down next to Ron’s sister.

Susan Bones had attended the meeting, and Hermione had pointedly welcomed her so thoroughly that Bones was looking a bit embarrassed by the attention.

She slunk into a seat and was promptly flanked by Justin Finch-Fletchley (who hovered protectively and glared at anyone who looked at Bones funny) and Daphne Greengrass, who’d never before attended a H.E.L.P. Society meeting. It looked to Harry’s eye like she and Bones had formed a bit of a friendship, as her quiet presence seemed to be welcome.

A few of the international students had come along to the morning’s meeting. From Durmstrang Viktor Krum and Hark Bahnsen had chosen to attend, and from Beauxbatons there were two girls to air-kiss the hands of: a skinny, flat-chested blonde girl named Sophie Dubois, and her dark-skinned pretty friend Aminata Ndiaye, the latter of whom Harry had met very briefly at Slughorn’s soiree. If he recalled correctly, her family was from Senegal. The girls settled down with the sewing circle, made up of both male and female Hogwarts students, Dobby (whom Harry had specially invited, much to his delight), plus two cheerful house-elves in togas monogrammed with the Hogwarts crest.

In French-accented English the Beauxbatons students taught the Hogwarts students some good spells to speed things along, like a spell to press a fold of cloth into a hem ready for stitching, and a handy little charm to untangle a knotted thread. Apparently all Beauxbatons girls had to take ‘Homemaking’ as a core subject for five years to OWL level, but male students were allowed to drop it after only three years and could thereafter take two years of Duelling if they preferred that to Homemaking (which most did).

“Madame Maxime sinks it is egalitarian and not sexist,” complained Dubois, “just because ze boys must do some of ze économie domestique classes too. We in les Femmes Savantes – you would say ze Learned Ladies – at Beauxbatons, we are trying to change ze classes. But it is not fast to change sings. So, we study duelling for ourselves at our association meetings.”

Anthony and Harry had a bit of a quiet chat about exactly why at the last meeting Anthony had suggested that someone else talk to paintings and ghosts about house-elves but wasn’t willing to do so himself.

“It’s a combination of religious obligation and loopholes,” Anthony explained. “It’s not technically against Jewish law to be a wizard, though a lot of people say it’s completely forbidden for women to learn magic. A lot of it has to do with how you translate things though. Really the Torah only prohibits a list of very particular kinds of magic. Devarim chapter 18 – that’s Deuteronomy to you – is where it’s really spelt out in detail. So, I don’t dabble in necromancy, or consult spirits of any kind – the law’s clear that we shouldn’t talk to ghosts or spirits. My parents don’t even want me learning the Patronus Charm. Basically, anything involving the dead, spirits, or divination is banned. That’s part of why I didn’t take Divination as a subject.”

“Portraits aren’t really dead though. And it doesn’t take necromancy to talk to ghosts – they’re right there already,” Harry pointed out.

“Well that’s true, and some Jews will certainly make that argument, but others say it’s better to err on the side of safety. To avoid giving even the impression to others that you might have summoned a spirit or be disturbing their rest. It’s not a hardship to avoid them, so that’s my own personal choice.”

“Are any other Hogwarts subjects a problem for you, apart from Divination?”

“Astronomy’s fine but astrology’s not, because you’re arrogantly guessing at a future that only HaShem knows, and probably deceiving people. Though there’s still a little wiggle room there I think – Joseph interpreted prophetic dreams for the Pharaoh, after all, and we know he had a silver cup for divining. Which presumably he did without consulting spirits. There are a few other specific banned things like how you mustn’t practice malignant knot-based magic where you hex someone by tying or weaving a thread, though tying knots in your tzitzit is alright. And uh… you should not charm snakes.”

“Oh.”

“But you can do what you like!” Anthony hastened to add, looking just as uncomfortable as Harry felt. “I mean, just because I don’t talk to ghosts or eat pork or shellfish it doesn’t mean everyone else has to observe all the mitzvot. I don’t mind… that is, you can talk to your pet. I guess it’s just that it’s potentially dangerous. Aside from the story of Eden – obviously there’s an issue there in talking to evil serpents instead of obeying HaShem – snakes were feared and deadly threats centuries ago. Still are, I guess? Yours seems nice, though.”

“What about that whole thing of ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?” Harry asked, determinedly ignoring the awkward slur on Parselmouths and Anthony’s consequent babbling apologetic disclaimer. He also didn’t want to discuss how ‘nice’ Storm was. He liked Storm but had to admit that his scaly friend could be rather violently minded at times. He could also easily imagine how a tribe of shepherds in ancient times might have been terrified by someone who could control a Basilisk, or even ordinary poisonous snakes.

Anthony let out a huff of breath, looking relieved to move on. “Shemot 17? Mistranslations of mekhashepha, if you ask me. Or if you ask my dad, or my rabbi. It’s an old word we’ve honestly lost full context for. We know it’s feminine, and singular, and the root of the word involves either muttering or ‘to cut’, as in cutting herbs. Probably. ‘Poisoner’ I think is usually a better translation, and that’s what the Greeks went with for some versions of the Christian bible – herbalist or poisoner. ‘Potioneer’ I think is another option – a witch brewing harmful potions. And there’s plenty of places in the Torah where herbs are fine, so I don’t think potions in of themselves are prohibited. I don’t have a problem with Potions so long as we’re not using them to harm people. There’s always exceptions allowed in the law for things that may save someone’s life, after all.”

He looked very animated as he explained, all excited babble and gesturing hands, like he relished the opportunity to talk about it.

“So that’s what Jews think about that line that led to so many witch burnings?” Harry asked.

Anthony snorted. “You can blame Christians and the patriarchy for the witch burning mania! Nothing to do with us.

“Now, I certainly can’t speak for everyone about how to interpret the Torah, only myself. Poliakoff – a Jewish student from Durmstrang – isn’t against being a wizard either, obviously. Nor is my family, or a few other Jewish magical families we know. But no, I’d say in general plenty of Jews are against all forms of witchcraft and wizardry, not just Dark magic. However, there’s a sizeable minority who’ll make an exception for wizards learning Kabbalah – our own tradition of wizardry. There’s a relatively newly established yeshiva in Jerusalem that teaches young wizards – but not witches – however, my family’s gone to Hogwarts for generations so here I am.”

“So, there’s generally not a lot of Jewish wizards learning our style of magic, and almost no witches?”

“Pretty much. I know it sounds a bit sexist but it’s not as bad as it used to be – once we might all have been executed for any kind of spellcasting! The prejudice against magic remains, though. It’s the main reason why Israel doesn’t have a lot of wizards and witches working for their Ministry of Magic who are trained in the kind of broader European style of magic. I’m thinking about making Aliyah and going there after I graduate; I might join a specialist magical group in the IDF for a couple of years and join in the fight against the djinn that people keep sending to Israel. They really need as many wizards and witches as they can manage to recruit, and those yeshiva boys try and avoid enlisting as much as they can, maybe out of fear they’ll have to talk to women or something. Anyway, there’s some great incentives and the Israeli Ministry is actually pretty practical about what’s the ‘right’ sort of magic when people’s lives are on the line from enemy spellcasters or magical creatures.”

While they chatted quietly, Colin Creevey and a couple of older eager Quidditch fans had cornered Krum (and incidentally his companion Bahnsen) and were eagerly trying to talk non-stop to him about Quidditch.

Hermione set her knitting needles and half-finished tiny beanie aside and bustled over to the overly loud group. “That’s quite enough, thank you!” she ordered. “If you want to talk about Quidditch you can leave. We’re here to talk about house-elves and to work on assisting them.”

“You could come and sit with us and do some sewing while we talk?” Creevey suggested to Krum, with bright eager eyes.

“No tenk you,” he said shortly. “I woult rather talk ebout house-elfs.”

Hermione looked a little startled but gathered herself with a quick shake of her head. “You heard him, shoo!”

Creevey scurried away obediently to the sewing circle, but others were not so promptly biddable.

“Charming manners,” grumbled one of the older boys, with a dismissive sneer. “Just what you would expect, really. Come, let us depart.” He and a friend left the meeting, which Hermione didn’t seem to judge was any great loss. Harry was pretty sure they’d never attended before.

Another couple of students ambled away to another corner of the room to finish their conversation more quietly, before mingling to join some amateur genealogists (aided admirably by Daphne and Bones) researching the Crouch family tree. Apparently the new elf at Hogwarts, Winky, had been coaxed by Hermione into admitting apologetically – but insistently – that she needed to find the Heir of the House and wouldn’t accept any other position with another family.

“Tenk you, Miss Granger,” Krum said, his scowl lifting. “I em much… tenk you for your help.”

“You are most welcome,” she said primly. “I’m sorry I didn’t interfere earlier. I didn’t realise your fans were bothering you.”

“I do not always want to be talkink of Quidditch,” Krum said. “I haff more interests. Um. I wrote dis for you.”

Rummaging in a dark, heavy cloth satchel, he drew out a scroll of parchment and passed it to Hermione. “It is about de nykr – is what we learnink at Doormstrank,” he explained, pronouncing the name of his school with a heavy accent. “You woult say de nixies. We haff many near our school. Water-elfs. Dey luff music end is sad when dey are away from deir rivers end lakes. Dey cennot stay away from de water for very lonk.”

Hermione looked shocked but intrigued, as she unrolled the parchment scroll and started reading. “Why, this is excellent, Krum! Do you study Care of Magical Creatures at Durmstrang, then? Oh, should I call you Krum? Mr. Krum? What’s appropriate?”

“I em not studyink it for my NEWTs, but it is interestink. I taked it for my OWLs. Krum is fine, or Viktor if you want,” he offered, pronouncing his surname like ‘Krroom’. “We are tryink to use de British customs here, so we not say ‘Mister’ like for Doormstrank. I use Krumov when I em talkink wit Muggles in Bulgaria. We are not always goot in Bulgaria follow de Statute of Secrecy, like in de Worlt Wars when we helpink, end many are friends wit some Muggles. Anyway, it is like de difference between John end Johnson. It soundink old-fashion for Muggles to just say Krum, which is like just say John. It is alright for wizards, dough; dey know it is goot family name end name of de famous Khan.”

“That’s very interesting! And thank you. You can call me Hermione, if you like,” she said, finishing with a brilliant smile, before returning to reading his essay that she was clearly very absorbed with. “This is very good! Excellent research.”

“Tenk you, Hermione,” he said carefully, with a roll to his r and a little hiss on the h a bit like a cat. It was close enough that she didn’t worry about correcting his pronunciation. He sat quietly and watched her read his essay, not looking in the least put out at being essentially ignored.

Bahnsen – who’d been listening in very quietly as the two talked – patted Krum on the shoulder and grinned at him, before wandering away from the two to talk to Harry and Anthony (who’d similarly been quietly eavesdropping, if a little more discreetly).

“Have you ever discussed se idea of settink up a Sanctuary for mistreated or elderly house-elfs, or those who does not haff a decent home?” Bahnsen suggested.

Their discussion of whether house-elves could live in a self-run village on a large estate or whether they needed a proper house or not went on for some time, drawing in more people as it continued. Some favoured the idea of semi-independence for house-elves, while others worried it would be more be more like a feudal set-up with a lord and a village of serfs.

“We could let them keep a good share of the profits from their labour! Orchards, or some kind of workshop.”

“They could reinvest it into their village,” suggested Harry.

“That’s what lords did with serfs! We don’t want wizarding society becoming more feudal!”

“What about independently-owned land then?” asked Luna.

“I sink that is se best idea,” Bahnsen agreed.

“Owned by who? House-elves? It wouldn’t work!”

“We would nots be wanting paying for our work,” a horrified kitchen elf said.

“But if there’s no recompense for your work then that sounds worryingly like the start of plantation labour,” Hermione fretted. Krum’s essay all finished, she was drawn over to join in their increasingly passionate discussion. “Like the satyrs or fenodyree were bound to work – field-elves toiling in vineyards.”

Krum trailed after her, like a shy sheep. He didn’t seem to have anything in particular to add to such a noisy and heated conversation but looked interested in listening in to it all.

-000-

That night at dinner Harry picked at his food while reading a copy of an older scroll in the original Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs that Ambrosius had suggested he read. He’d borrowed it fair and square from the Restricted Section thanks to a permission slip from Professor Moody, who’d been happy to help by signing a permission slip despite the dubious title The Egyptian Book of the Dead. It really wasn’t that bad, honestly. Alright, maybe the giant snake and crocodiles that would eat you might frighten nervous first-years, but the former in particular held no fear for Harry, and crocodiles were nothing compared to a dragon.

“A little light reading?” Neville asked, peering curiously at the incomprehensible symbols.

“I thought you were working on the next Tournament clue?” Hermione asked.

“Done. I know what the clue is,” Harry said quietly, after swallowing his mouthful of potato.

He’d recently nipped down to the Chamber of Secrets and submerged the golden egg in the pool down there. Eventually he’d applied a warming charm to himself and ducked down underwater to hear the screeching and warbling turn into comprehensible singing. Storm had been delighted to see Harry swimming with him but was unsuccessful in tempting Harry to go exploring underwater with him. Harry promised to do so next time. He’d first need to learn a charm that would let him breathe underwater.

“Well?!” Hermione asked eagerly.

“I’m not saying, sorry. I want a break from researching until after Christmas,” Harry whispered apologetically. “Sorry. I just… it’s been a lot of pressure and my other studying is suffering for it, not to mention my free time. I have a lot of reading to do for Business Studies, and a Chemistry assignment that’s going to be overdue if I don’t get it finished next Hogsmeade weekend. If I keep the clue secret, no-one will bug me about it.”

“That book isn’t for either of those things, though. Is it related to the clue?” Hermione asked, in a wheedling tone of voice.

“No. It’s mostly a how-to manual about making your way through the Egyptian afterlife, but there’s interesting snippets about the nature of souls, and it also has some cool spells, like controlling snakes, or how to turn into a phoenix. Though I’m not completely convinced they’d all work; they’re kinda long and weird. There’s one to turn into a snake too, but don’t tell Storm – he already nags me enough about how I should learn to be an Animagus.”

Harry paused briefly as he rethought his own request. “Never mind, obviously you can’t tell Storm. Anyway, I just wanted to research souls. For fun. Sort of. It’s medical research, theoretical stuff. It’s uh… for your parents, Neville, among other things. Thinking about what the soul is and what it’s made of. I’ve been wondering what Dementors affect exactly, and why people live when their soul is missing or damaged. Did you know that’s how the Ministry knows the Cruciatus and the other Unforgiveables affect the soul? None of the Unforgiveables work on people who’ve had their souls sucked out by Dementors.”

“I didn’t know that!” Neville said.

“I would be surprised if you did. It’s buried in some rather gory old books on curses from the Restricted Section; Moody gave me a pass to borrow them. I was researching why those three were banned in 1717; it turns out they did some pretty unpleasant experiments on prisoners back then to determine what was horrific and should be outright banned and what was just nasty.”

“So, they all definitely affect the soul, and being soulless is another defence against the Killing Curse! Just… not a useful one,” Hermione summarised.

“That’s right; they won’t feel pain from a Crucio, or die from the Killing Curse, and can’t be controlled with an Imperio.

“You know, I think it’s fascinating how people in general can be controlled by the Imperius Curse, but part of their mind underneath is still trying to fight back. What ghosts are, all that sort of thing. The Ancient Egyptians thought the soul is made up of multiple parts, and that’s really interesting. Part of your parents’ souls are probably still alright you know Neville; perhaps just bits are damaged. Maybe. It’s just a theory. I haven’t found any soul-healing spells yet, but I’ll keep looking when I can.”

“Thank you again, Harry,” Neville said, with a tremulous smile. “I know of course that you do not have any answers but thank you for not forgetting about them.”

Neville gave a quiet whispered update about the miniscule but noticeable improvements his parents were making being at home with his Gran, such as his father developing some preferences for favourite meals, and his mother humming along to some music. His eager whispered recitation was interrupted by the Headmaster standing to make an announcement; the rumours were true, and there was to be a Yule Ball in a couple of weeks’ time, from eight in the evening until midnight on the evening of the twenty-fifth of December. It would be for fourth-years and up, and dress robes – long ago listed on their latest Hogwarts supply lists – were mandatory.

“As per an old tradition for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore added, “the ball will be opened by the champions and their partners.”

Harry blanched. Merlin save me, he thought hopelessly, as a multitude of girls eyed him avariciously. He shrank down where he sat and avoided eye contact with anyone.

“You sssmell-taste like prey,” Storm commented curiously, sleepily lifting his head from Harry’s shoulders. His tiny tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air.

“I feel like prey right now,” Harry hissed back quietly.

“Fight? Hide?”

“Hide. My plan is to ssstay very ssstill and hope the girls find other prey.”

Harry looked around at the students watching him speculatively. “And possibly a few of the boys, too,” he added. He really couldn’t tell the difference between someone watching him who was wondering if he’d make a good date, those curious as to why he was hissing at his snake, and those pondering if Harry might poach their planned dates or not.

“I am ready to bite or attack with lightning,” Storm promised. “Just sssay the word.”

It was briefly tempting. A warning zap would surely cut down the numbers of pushy would-be dates.

After the applause and eager chatter had died down (and also some speculative giggling), Professor Slughorn stood to make an additional speech of his own. “We expect that the younger years will return home for the holidays; however, I and the rest of the faculty cherish the hope that some of our senior students – fourth-years and up – shall remain at Hogwarts for the first of the two weeks of your winter break, concluding with the Yule Ball. This first week will offer the opportunity to mingle with our exchange students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and I and some of your other professors have arranged for some additional diversions and entertainments from the end of classes until Christmas and the Yule Ball.

“Professor McGonagall and I will be offering some dancing lessons, Professor Flitwick will lead the choir in some carols, and Professor Sprout will be judging a snowman competition should the weather allow, which Professor Trelawney assures us it will. Professor Trelawney will also co-host some evening lessons in astrology with Professor Sinistra, and Madam Hooch in collaboration with Professor Burbage will be overseeing a pickup game of ‘Dodge Quidditch’ open to all! Also, the Gobstones Club will be holding a special Yule tournament for a small charge, with the resulting pot of money going to the first three places! There will be feasting, and games, and diverse amusements and merriment!”

“Bite now?” Storm asked impatiently, as Harry sat quietly.

Harry sighed. “No. I’ll just have to pick sssomeone to dance with so the others will leave me alone. There’s no way out of it. I think I’ve got a couple of ideas about who I could ask, though.”

“Clever-men may be sssmart, but you are also confusing,” Storm complained, subsiding sulkily.

Chapter Text

December 1994

“Oh Merlin, another pack of girls,” muttered Harry, pulling a book out of his satchel and pretending to look engrossed as he walked to Care of Magical Creatures with Neville.

Ron, Thomas, Patil, and Brown were trailing just behind them, and the two girls giggled at him. It seemed he hadn’t been quiet enough in his instinctive exclamation.

The group of fifth or sixth-year Hufflepuff girls eyed Harry – and Neville – speculatively as they passed, but to Harry’s relief they didn’t ask him to the ball, or giggle at him like the Gryffindors. He avoided eye contact and hid in the middle of the group of his classmates, just in case.

“Mental,” said Ron, after they’d passed. “How many girls have asked you out, now?”

“Eight,” Harry admitted with a sigh. “And one bloke, after he’d heard gossip about how many girls I’d turned down.”

“Ohh, who?” Brown asked eagerly.

“I’m not saying. Someone from another year.” Harry didn’t want to embarrass Marcus Belby (fifth-year Ravenclaw) if he wasn’t ‘out’, even though wizards didn’t seem to worry about that sort of thing half as much as Muggles did. He’d seemed pretty nervous so better to play it safe.

Brown pouted. “When are you going to ask someone or accept an invitation, Potter?”

Harry flinched away from her.

“Oh, not me!” she said, with a light laugh. “I’m going with Seamus; he asked me right after the announcement.” She looked pleased as punch with her catch, primping her long curly hair and smiling proudly. “I just think you should pick someone.”

It set Harry’s mind at ease. Here was one more girl he wouldn’t have to fear. “Um, I did ask someone, actually. I asked Hermione but uhh… she said no.”

Brown and Patil giggled, making Harry add hastily, “Just as friends! Honestly!”

Ron looked around and asked, “Where is Hermione, anyway?”

“I know where she is!” Patil said, in a sing-song voice. “She is asking Bulstrode if she’s found out if someone in Slytherin is going to ask her to the dance or not. She wants to know if they like her too.”

“That was my idea,” Brown said proudly. “She does not want to ask herself if they will only say no.”

Probably Greg or Draco, Harry thought quietly to himself. She and Greg always get along well, and Draco likes her and he’s studious like she is. She might be mad at him right now, but maybe she wouldn’t be if he publicly acknowledged her and asked her out to prove he’s not a blood purist like his father. The conspiratorial glances the girls exchanged suggested they might know whom Hermione was hoping would ask her out, too.

“Slimy Slytherins,” Ron muttered.

“Hey!” Harry objected.

“You’re a Gryffindor!”

“And I’m proud of that, but I’m also the Heir of Slytherin and I’m someone who is friends with a lot of Slytherins.”

“Whatever, you shouldn’t be proud of that middle bit given who used to be the Heir, you know? And most of the Slytherins are blood purists, you know that, right?”

“Because you know them all so well due to your extensive socialising with them,” Harry snarked back, his posture stiff.

“I know all I need to know. More than you are willing to think too hard about.”

“Sooo… who are you going to ask to the ball, Longbottom?” Patil asked loudly, interrupting Harry and Ron’s bickering.

“I asked Hermione too, but alas she turned me down as well,” Neville admitted, slumping.

“That was brave!” Patil said admiringly. “Your family would be furious at you dating a Muggle-born.”

“I suppose some of them would be. Uh, thank you,” Neville said. He gave her a considering look and straightened up, pulling his shoulders back from their slight hunch.

Then he suddenly gave a small bow and blurted out, “Miss Patil, would you perhaps do me the honour of being my date for the Yule Ball?”

Brown squealed and clasped her hands together with a delighted clap, and Patil giggled at her friend.

“I would be delighted to accept your invitation, Mr. Longbottom,” Patil said, dropping into a small curtsey, “and I shall save you the traditional first dance and the supper set, should you wish.”

Neville gave her a shy, relieved smile. “That is very kind of you to offer, Miss Patil, I would appreciate that.”

“Please, call me Parvati.”

“You are welcome to call me Neville,” he responded in kind.

Dean Thomas nudged Ron. “There’s another one off the market, mate. You’d better hurry up asking your girl out. She’s not lacking for admirers, I reckon.”

Ron sighed. “I tried already. She and her friends laughed at me in front of everyone. I… I said my father was the Minister for Magic.”

“Oh, right! Delacour. Damn Veela powers!” Thomas said, outwardly sympathetic but with a barely hidden amused twitch to his mouth. “Never mind, there’s still plenty of fish in the sea, you don’t need to catch a siren.”

Just as they arrived at the stables – their lesson location for the day – Hermione jogged up, book-bag thumping against her thigh in a painful-looking fashion as she ran.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, panting.

“No, Professor Hagrid isn’t here yet,” Neville said.

Brown went up to Hermione, asking eagerly, “What did Bulstrode say?”

Hermione shook her head with a sigh. “He’s already asked someone else to be his date and she accepted.”

“Oh, too bad!” Brown said, hugging Hermione around the shoulders. “Who?”

“Millicent herself, actually,” Hermione admitted softly.

Brown gasped. “Man-stealer! Fie on her, the false friend!”

Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s fine, we’re okay. She actually asked Greg–”

“You want to go to the Yule Ball with Gregory Goyle?” Ron interrupted to ask, his jaw dropping.

Hermione sniffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, Weasley, but yes, I do… did.”

“Are you alright?” Neville asked, looking concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Hermione insisted. Harry was pleased to see she wasn’t crying or looking distraught, so maybe it was even true. Maybe a little down, but nothing dramatic, thank Merlin.

“Millicent had very kindly asked him how he felt about me before she even said yes to Greg. He just sees me as a friend. He sees Millicent that way too, for that matter. That’s all it is – just friends going to the ball together.”

“No surprise he picked the pure-blood, then,” muttered Ron.

“You shut your mouth you House-prejudiced git!” Hermione yelled, eyes blazing. “Greg isn’t like that; he’s interested in Muggle culture unlike some who don’t even know the first thing about Muggles! And even if he did pick Millicent because she’s pure-blood, he’d only do that to make his parents happy! I’d like to see you date a Muggle-born, Mr. Ronald Weasley of the Sacred House of Weasley! Let’s see how your parents would take that, after generation upon generation of your family only choosing other pure-bloods!”

“Maybe I will!” he snapped back angrily. “They would be fine with me dating you or any other Muggle-born!”

“Well you can count me out!”

“Like I care!” Ron insisted, his face turning red as a beetroot, right up to the tips of his ears.

Thomas muffled a snort of amusement, and Ron shot a quick glare at him before turning back to harangue Hermione about how liberal his parents were.

“I bet some of your family’s best friends are Muggles,” Hermione rebutted scornfully. “Go on, name one!”

Thankfully their argument didn’t have a chance to develop further as everyone settled down as Professor Hagrid arrived, ready to give another lecture on pegasi.

“Quiet now! Gather round!” their professor boomed. “Now we’ve bin mostly workin’ with those lovely golden Abraxans from Beauxbatons, but today we’ll be tendin’ summat a bit smaller an’ more gentle, which is the Aethonan breed. Got a couple on loan from the House of Macmillan.”

He patted the mane of a chestnut winged horse, which looked more like an ordinary large horse in size, rather than elephant-sized like the Abraxans.

“It’s the mos’ popular breed of pegasus in Britain, an’ it’s smaller an’ not as strong as an Abraxan, an; not as fast as a Granian, but it’s very well-tempered. Good for ridin’.

“Hogwarts has a herd of Thestrals, but unfortunately yeh won’ get to see ‘em until sixth year, since they’ve got an XXXX ratin’ from the Ministry. Really sorry abou’ that.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Not that you’d see ‘em anyway! They’re invisible ter most people! You can only see ‘em if yeh’ve seen someone die. Anyone here seen ‘em pullin’ the Hogwarts carriages?” he asked, his heart clearly drawn to lecturing about the most dangerous pegasus breed despite his avowed intention of teaching them about Aethonans.

Harry, Neville, and Draco all raised their hands, earning a point each for their houses. Harry gave the others an enquiring look.

“My grandfather,” Neville said, shortly. “It was peaceful.”

“My grandfather too – Abraxas Malfoy,” Draco explained quietly. “Dragon pox.”

“As with Hippogriffs, the owner o’ a pegasus has ter cast a Disillusionment Charm on it regularly ter hide it from Muggles, if it’s allowed ter fly free or is being ridden out o’ wizarding areas. Now you have ter cast it on an Abraxan over its whole body due to its size which looks right funny ter Muggles, but if yeh’ve got the skill you can cast the charm just on an Aethonan’s wings.”

“Could you demonstrate for us please, Professor Hagrid?” Pansy asked, goading their teacher as usual.

Hagrid’s brow furrowed as usual. “Perhaps a volunteer? Potter, how abou’ you? Int’rested in showin’ how it’s done?”

“Sure, Professor,” Harry said, giving it his best shot and making the pegasus’ wings go all fuzzy and indistinct. Not his best work he thought, but not bad for his first attempt at partial disillusionment.

He wished his cousin and some of the other Slytherins would stop poking fun at their professor in practically every class. Hagrid might be more than double their size and in charge of the class, but it still felt like bullying. He was trying to teach as best he could and was loads better than someone like Binns or Lockhart. Hermione had told Harry and Neville that Hagrid had taken her advice and was quietly studying a few subjects by correspondence with Kwikspell. With that, and with the support and aid of his fellow professors, he had plans to take his OWLs at the end of the year. Hermione said he was excited by the prospect of getting his wand rights back; something he’d gotten help applying for. He didn’t need or expect good grades – all he needed to do was pass.

At the end of the class Harry jogged up to walk with the Slytherins from their class: Pansy, Draco, Greg, and Vincent. Harry and Neville had a free period next class, but the Slytherins all had Divination, so always had to hurry away quickly after Care of Magical Creatures on Monday mornings to get to class on time as it was quite a walk for them, with a lot of stairs.

“Pansy! Wait up!”

They all stopped and waited for Harry, and Pansy folded her arms as he approached. “If this is about Professor Hagrid again you can save your breath, Harry. I do agree that an assistant would help, though.”

Harry waved his hand vaguely. “Well I do still think you should ease up, but no, I didn’t want to talk about that right now. You’ve heard all that before.”

Pansy unfolded her arms. “Oh, I do apologise. What did you want, cousin?”

“Uh, I wanted to know if you’d go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Pansy stared at him silently, and Draco groaned.

“Of course not. I am your cousin,” she said slowly.

“Merlin’s blood! You cannot importune a relative to be your date!” Greg said, sounding outraged.

“Just as friends, obviously,” Harry clarified. “Not really as a date. You knew that right, Pansy?”

“Well obviously. My answer is still no. I will save you a dance, though, if you wish. I have the third free, if you would like to ask me for that.”

“It matters not that you were asking her as but a friend!” Greg insisted, still stuck on his point. “Your Houses have acknowledged the kinship! A dance or two at a ball is unobjectionable and proper, but you cannot take her as a partner to a ball, any more than you may escort a sister!” His face twisted in disgust.

“Even if you weren’t acknowledged relations, she is in any case going to the ball with me,” Draco added.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said to them both. He guessed that meant Draco wouldn’t be asking Hermione. Or that she’d already turned him down. “Do you think I should ask Daphne? Is she going with anyone?”

“You could invite even Draco more appropriately than Pansy,” Greg rambled, not letting go of the topic even though the others were moving on. “She is your second cousin on your mother’s side and your third cousin on your father’s side, and most importantly both you and the Head of House Parkinson have acknowledged kinship between you and Pansy. Draco is your second cousin once removed on your father’s side so less closely related, and you have only a formal kinship acknowledgement with his mother, not with Draco himself.”

“Is that why you never call me ‘cousin’ like Pansy does?” Harry asked Draco, distracted from his dating conundrum.

“Obviously. Not that I want to date you, of course. Besides, it would be scandalous for you to lose the bloodlines and magical talents of your multiple Houses. You really must choose a nice pure-blood witch – or an appropriate half-blood – with a good family line to eventually settle down with.”

“Daphne would be a good choice,” Greg said.

“I agree,” said Pansy.

“Or Zabini has a younger half-sister you could ask if you do not mind escorting a first-year,” Greg continued. “She would be a good match for you – she is from an Ancient House, is puissant with strong magical talent, and there are no Squibs in her family lines, from what Daphne has told us about her.”

“Oh, come on!” Harry whined. He felt like… like some prize racehorse, with people chatting about who to pair him with for the best possible offspring.

“I just meant to ask to the ball,” Pansy said soothingly, patting Harry’s arm. “We are not trying to marry you off, obviously.” Her warning glare to Greg suggested she might be alone in her intention there.

Greg didn’t seem to catch her hints, however, and rambled on. “Daphne would not expect to keep her name since you are the Heir to both Noble and Most Ancient Houses. However, Zabini might want to marry sine manu, but even if you did, you could always put conditions in the marriage contract to ensure your children inherit your various family names and Houses.”

“I thought the Ministry banned those type of marriages years ago?” Vincent asked distractedly, turning to his friend.

Greg shook his head. “Not technically. Both of the old style in manu and sine manu marriages are legal, just not the accompanying ritual where you put blood in the goblet of wine. So it does rather ruin the ceremony. That ban also applies to adoption rituals, Harry, should you take up Black or anyone else’s offer to adopt you. Just one adoption of course, as you cannot be adopted by multiple Houses at one time. Inheriting multiple Houses is different; you cannot have Houses just die off, obviously! Like the Dagworth-Granger Houses joining together. We would all look the other way if you wanted to do things properly with the traditional ritual, of course.”

Harry winced and hummed noncommittally.

Draco, who looked irritated, grabbed Greg by the elbow and drew him away from the group. After a hurried whisper from Draco in Greg’s ear, the two returned.

“I am most grievously regretful if I have caused thee any offence, Harold,” Greg said nervously, with an apologetic bow. “I spoke only for myself and not for my House, of course. I did not mean to overwhelm or upset you. You are too young to marry or think about marriage yet. I also know you are still thinking about Black’s offer and have not made a decision yet.”

He said it all a little stiffly, but Harry thought he meant it. “That’s alright, no offence taken.”

“I simply thought it was important that you understand why you cannot take a cousin to-” Greg started, then cut himself off abruptly before continuing.

“That is, I am truly sorry if I caused you any disturbance of spirits with my observations,” he rambled, still seeming upset at his unintentional breach of etiquette. “I was simply surprised by your invitation to Pansy, which is why I spoke so abruptly. It was all meant in the spirit of uh, informing you. Because you did not appear aware of the relevant etiquette.”

“Again, it’s quite alright, all is forgiven. I didn’t know the etiquette and it was important to learn,” Harry said politely. “Just… try to remember not to suggest marriage partners to me again until I’m at least seventeen, and we shall be fine, okay?”

“I shall remember!” Greg gave a relieved and pleased smile to Harry, then to Draco, who nodded his approval to his friend and client.

“Daphne is at Ancient Runes,” Pansy said. “You could catch her after class. Look, uh, we really have to run now, alright?”

“Sure, sorry to take up your time.”

The Slytherins literally dashed off to class, and Harry went off to do some studying.

-000-

“No,” Daphne said.

“What?” said Harry, staring at Daphne in incomprehension. He’d been sure she’d accept.

Tracey stared at her friend, looking similarly astonished. Neville also looked surprised, but stayed very quiet.

“I thank you for your kind invitation, however, no, I won’t go to the ball with you,” Daphne clarified. “Because you’re not interested in dating me, are you?”

“…No. I just thought we could go as friends.”

“I thought so. Thus, my answer is no, and I shall be going with someone else,” she said firmly. “You are clearly not interested in me, so that is the end of the matter.”

“Brava,” muttered Tracey, under her breath. Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend but said nothing.

“But who else can I ask?” Harry asked plaintively. “Hermione already said no, Luna announced she’s going with Theodore Nott before I could even start to ask, Pansy’s my cousin and going with Draco anyway, and Tracey’s obviously going with Anthony. I wouldn’t take Ginny Weasley if you paid me.”

Tracey snorted and scowled unhappily, which made Daphne glance at both of them thoughtfully, but she didn’t say anything.

He’d stumbled across the youngest Weasley arguing with her cousin Mafalda in a corridor about which of the two of them had the better chance of being asked to the Yule Ball by Harry. Ginny Weasley had claimed that she and Harry had a connection since he’d saved her life, and Mafalda had called her a ‘lovesick puppy’ and goaded that there was a better chance that Harold would ask her, out of the two of them.

Harry hadn’t known what to say and had just nodded briefly to them both as he walked past. Mafalda, less startled, had returned his unspoken greeting with an embarrassed but relatively calm nod of her own. Weasley, however, had been positively frozen in place. She’d looked shocked and utterly crushed at his cool wordless dismissal. Harry had walked swiftly away, terrified the young girl would burst into tears at any moment.

“I heard you have had a dozen offers!” Daphne said. “Just pick one.”

“Nine offers,” Neville corrected.

Harry shrugged and looked embarrassed. “I don’t want to go with any of them.” He didn’t know how to explain properly how the way they’d stood too close and gazed into his eyes when they’d asked him to the ball was too disturbing. Three girls had giggled, to boot. He didn’t want a date date. Just someone to dance with, since taking someone was mandatory for champions.

“You may take me,” Tracey said abruptly. She didn’t look happy about her offer, though. She looked positively grumpy, with a frown on her face and folded arms.

“Uh, that’s kind of you, but I know you’re going with Anthony. Please don’t put yourself out on my account.”

Who owes me a favour? Harry wondered. Millicent owes me at least two, but she’s going with Greg. Oh! How about Megan Jones from Hufflepuff? No, she got me that signed poster from the Harpies to pay me back for helping her cousin at the World Cup. I might just have to take back a refusal and say ‘yes’ to one of those people who asked me, I suppose. Ugh.

“We broke up,” Tracey said stiffly, interrupting his musings. “His mother doesn’t want him dating someone who won’t consider converting to Judaism, and he eventually caved.”

Harry blinked.

“I still say he will come around,” Daphne said soothingly. “His father is not so strict, and Anthony really cares about you.”

“Not enough, and lately it feels like we’ve been arguing a lot. Anyway, he’s leaving Britain at the end of school. There’s no future there.”

“He will realise what an idiot he has been soon enough. He misses you; anyone can see it. All those mooning looks.”

Tracey snorted. “Well maybe taking the Hogwarts champion to the Yule Ball will rub his nose in what he’s missing out on.”

Daphne looked Harry up and down. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It very well might. Alright, that’s settled then.”

“Is it? Good?” Harry said. He tried to remember the formal words Neville and Patil had rattled off so smoothly, but his mind was blank in a whirl of confusion. “I’d be honoured to accept, Tracey? As a friend. Not a real date. You can show me off to Anthony, I suppose, if he’s being a prat.”

Had there been a bow? He gave a small bow. It seemed a decent guess, and she curtsied in return.

“Thank you.”

“If you wish to coordinate, remember he will be wearing saffron yellow robes with accents of gold and garnet red,” Daphne said to Tracey, who nodded her understanding.

“I could have told her that. How did you know I was planning to wear that?”

Daphne sniffed. “You would be an ungracious fool to wear anything other than the new winter-weight dress robes the House of Malfoy gifted you with. Perhaps you could have told her, but you probably would not have thought of it. Also, do not forget you will need to purchase her a corsage, and pay attention to the language of flowers when you do so. I will be available to consult as needed, or you could ask Gregory. He is most attentive to such matters.”

“Now, Harry,” Daphne said, linking her arm with his, and starting to steer the small group in an ambling walk towards the Great Hall. It was lunch time, after all. “I have a small favour to ask you. Susan Bones needs a date for the Yule Ball, and no-one she is interested in is free. She needs someone Light-aligned whose affections are unattached, who will not mind that she is a werewolf, and can be discreet. I do not want her to know that I am attempting to find a partner for her; I want it to look like they thought of asking her on their own.”

Harry exchanged a thoughtful look with Neville, which made Daphne perk up.

“Neville?” she asked. “Are you free?”

“Oh, no, I do apologise. I am taking Parvati Patil.”

“Oh!”

“I was thinking of Ronald Weasley,” Harry explained. “We were all chatting about who was taking who right before Care of Magical Creatures. He doesn’t have a date, and given… you know, his dad… I think he would be alright with her.”

They parted to go to their separate House tables, with Daphne’s thanks.

However, when Harry discreetly asked Ron if he’d be interested in taking Susan to the ball, he demurred.

“I just went and asked someone and she said yes,” he said, a little regretfully. “Heidi Macavoy, she’s a third-year Muggle-born. She’s a Chaser on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. She’s the skinny one with really short brown hair. But Dean swears it doesn’t mean anything if a Muggle-born girl cuts their hair short?” He looked at Harry anxiously, as if seeking extra reassurance on that point.

Harry shrugged. “It usually just means they like short hair. It doesn’t mean they’re never going to get married or don’t want to date or anything like that.”

Ron nodded, looking relieved.

“Well, I don’t know who else in Gryffindor to ask,” Harry admitted quietly. “Though there’s this guy Ericksen from Durmstrang I could talk to, but he’s years older. He’s pro-werewolf rights. Hey, do you think Thomas would ask her out?”

“No, he is going with a girl from Beauxbatons by the name of Ndiaye,” Ron said admiringly. “Two years older than him, maybe three! But she still said yes. Maybe she thought he was older than he really is.”

“Maybe?” Harry agreed uncertainly.

“You could try asking Fred or George, rather than some Durmstrang boy? Neither of them have dates yet,” Ron suggested, sounding smug.

Harry asked the twins, but Fred Weasley impulsively asked out Angelina Johnson – the dark-skinned Gryffindor Quidditch Captain – before Harry could even finish telling them what he had approached them for. George was willing to help out, though.

“Sure, I can ask her out, like it was my own idea all along,” he whispered. “Fred just nabbed the prettiest girl in Gryffindor–”

“Too right!” his twin interjected.

“–and I was going to ask Rosen – a Durmstrang girl – but Bones is nice enough too. We owe you so many favours I think I am losing track. This sounds like a very easy way to help repay that debt a little.”

“Great!” Harry said.

So that was settled, and at dinner time the Hufflepuff table was delighted by George Weasley magically conjuring up a big bunch of orchids to present to Susan Bones as he asked her out to the Yule Ball; an invitation which she blushingly accepted.

-000-

After classes ended for the day, Harry darted back to his dorm to gather some books and notes for the study session he had planned with his friends for the afternoon.

A couple of Weasleys were causing chaos in the Gryffindor Common Room when Harry went back downstairs, but for a change it wasn’t the Weasley twins trialling their latest creation on a poorly-paid product tester (which lately seemed to be causing a lot of uncontrollable nose bleeds).

Instead, Ron was in the middle of a shouting match with his sister Ginny.

“...of inter-house friendship!” she finished yelling.

“But not with a slimy Slytherin! Particularly not him! You know what his family’s like!” Ron warned. “Dark and murderous!”

“He is not to blame for what his mother may or may not have done!” Ginny screeched back, hands on her hips. “I know what Blaise is like-”

“Zabini! His name’s Zabini!” Ron insisted desperately.

“Not to me, we’re friends! We met in Bible Study class-”

“You are going to that?!”

“Yes! And mum thinks it sounds lovely, so nyah to you! She thinks it’s good I’m socialising more and making new friends.”

“You’re not going to the ball with him! His family would never allow it, and neither will ours!”

“Am too! I think we are a good match and so does he and his mother, and it is none of your business, Ronald Bilius Weasley!” she yelled, stalking off upstairs to the girls’ dorm where her brother couldn’t follow her.

“I’m telling mum!” he yelled at her retreating back, but she ignored him.

Ron scowled, and in the middle of his black mood caught sight of Harry, frozen on the stairs with a couple of other eavesdropping boys behind him.

“This is your fault!” Ron said.

“How is it my fault?” Harry replied, with a puzzled blink.

“Because you’re friends with all those Slytherins, and Ravenclaws, too! She says if you can build inter-House friendships everyone else can too! And you didn’t ask her to the ball!”

“…I was never going to do that.”

Ron huffed loudly. “She didn’t know that. She thought you might, and you… you upset her.”

Harry crossed his arms stubbornly. “She can get in line behind a dozen other disappointed people.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, Mr. Popularity,” Ron said, his face twisting in an envious scowl.

“Who your sister is dating is not my fault,” Harry said, slowly and sternly.

Ron sighed out a long slow breath and scrubbed frustratedly at his short ginger hair. “Yeah, sorry mate. I know it’s not. I just… she’s driving me mad. Zabini! Can you believe it?!”

Harry said something vague and soothing about it being just one dance, and escaped down to join his friends in the library as soon as he could.

-000-

“What are you working on today?” Neville asked Harry, as their large group of friends chose their seats in the library and plonked their books down on the thick wooden table, ready for study and chatter. Anthony Goldstein was noticeably absent, Theodore Nott wasn’t imposing on their group today, and Hermione was already off in the library stacks hunting for books, but everyone else was happily getting settled at the table. That included Vincent Crabbe who’d been hanging around more with Draco and Greg again, seeming a bit lost as his group of friends increasingly spent much of their free time around Harry and his coterie.

“Is it the clue?” Neville asked.

Harry carefully didn’t look shifty as he said, “No, it’s an assignment for Snape. I’m researching healing potions banned by the Ministry that probably shouldn’t be illegal.”

He couldn’t admit that it was actually for Lord Voldemort, who’d asked for a foot on what Healing magic the Ministry had banned that Harry thought should be made legal. Harry had asked Master Snape’s advice on whether he should go along with that request, and Snape had written that playing along with a brief reply to such an ‘insignificant and harmless request’ with brief replies certainly wouldn’t hurt and may even potentially be helpful. He also strongly advised discussing his Hogwarts classes with the Dark Lord, along with any other ‘insignificant teenage banalities’ that occurred to him. Snape had agreed to cover for him if Harry ever needed to make an excuse about his written assignments to his friends or temporary guardians like Sirius.

So far Harry had draft notes on four Healing potions using the blood of various magical creatures or witches or wizards, and one potion which used human hair to diagnose long-term poisoning. The Ministry had banned all potions using human blood or hair, and Harry didn’t agree it was necessary in all cases, when such materials could also be donated voluntarily. One of the blood-using potions sounded very much like a potion to temporarily cure haemophilia, or as the book he read put it, ‘the royal disease which doth cause a man to bleed excessively’.

He’d also found two rituals that he liked, though he could see how they’d be open to abuse. The first was a ritual that transferred ‘unhealthy miasmas’ from a person to another subject, theoretically an animal. It sounded fascinatingly like magical transference of germs, leaving the initial subject weak but uninfected, if inclined to suffer stomach trouble for a while afterwards. There was also a banned scrying ritual where you put seven drops of the patient’s blood in a silver basin filled with water to diagnose what was wrong with them. It hadn’t worked in the slightest when he’d tried it on himself down in the Chamber of Secrets, but he wasn’t sure if that was because it was a wooden bowl transfigured into silver, or whether because he was pants at the ritual, or bad at divination in general. Or maybe he just wasn’t sick enough, and there was nothing to find.

The last thing he’d discovered in his research was a big issue that he didn’t know what to think about; witches and wizards were totally banned from using magic of any kind to cure the diseases or injuries of any Muggles, or their animals or crops, under the Statute of Secrecy. Using Muggle-safe potions and charms to cure Muggles or their animals of illnesses had historically been very risky, and ‘just this once’ led to more and more times, until one was popularly known for being a witch… often ending up on trial eventually, with fatal results. Potions could also work poorly – even dangerously so – on Muggles, which was another reason to restrict their use.

“How does he still give you homework when he is no longer a teacher?” Neville asked, with his brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I don’t have to answer him, but I kind of do if I want to keep up our correspondence. Which I do, because he shares good tips for Potions class. Besides, it’s interesting.”

Neville hummed thoughtfully. “You should talk about San Pedro.”

“Uh, is that a place?”

“Is it? I must confess I do not know much about the geography of the New World. San Pedro is a very interesting South-American cactus, also known as Huachuma. It is uh… used in a potion called ‘Cimora’ that has various effects including memory restoration, in some cases. It is illegal as it induces trance states when consumed. Oh, and it is associated with rituals involving animal sacrifice. Guinea pigs. You don’t actually need to kill a guinea pig to make Cimora, though.”

“Huh. Sounds great! Thanks, Nev. Where can I look up more about it?”

“I have some notes. I will go get them for you!” Neville said eagerly, immediately abandoning his homework and heading off for their dorm.

Hermione returned from the ‘stacks’ – the maze of library shelves – looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“What took you so long finding a book?” Millicent asked.

“Nothing,” Hermione said, her tan cheeks looking unusually pink. “Just chatting with someone.”

“Hmm,” Millicent said, looking at her thoughtfully.

“Say, Malfoy, I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.

Harry wasn’t the only one who stopped what he was doing to listen in. The whole table stuttered to a stop so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked around the group uncomfortably before focusing again on Draco.

“Yes, Granger?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I think it’s time we buried the hatchet.”

“What?” His look of confusion seemed genuine.

“I mean we should stop ah… arguing. Come to some kind of détente.”

“By all means.”

Hermione cleared her throat again and chewed on her lip nervously. “You see, there’s something very important I wanted to ask you,” she said, and then hesitated. “Um. Sorry, this is really kind of embarrassing…”

Daphne clutched at Pansy’s hand and looked very excited, while Millicent’s eyes were goggling. Pansy looked irritated and was ignoring Daphne to glare at Hermione. Draco looked a bit wide-eyed himself, and even more embarrassed than Hermione.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d–”

“Please stop. I am going with Pansy,” Draco interrupted awkwardly, looking flustered.

“–talk to your father about something for me,” Hermione finished, wringing her hands together as she spoke. “What? Obviously I’m not asking you to the Yule Ball, Malfoy. Anyway, I already have a date.”

“What? Who?! I know it’s not Greg or that useless Weasley. Or Harry.”

Hermione shook her head quickly, curly locks flying about. “It doesn’t matter. Look, I was wanting to know if you would talk to your father about Professor Binns. I – we – all of Hogwarts really, could use the support of the Hogwarts Board of Directors about getting a replacement for him.”

Daphne sighed, soft and disappointed.

“Oh, yes!” Tracey agreed, rapidly switching gears. “He is dreadful isn’t he? I have been sitting in on some of Madame Maxime’s history classes when the timing matches up with History of Magic or my free period, and she is so much better. Once she got enough Hogwarts students attending she even started lecturing in English.”

“Why do all you Slytherins skip classes?!” Hermione asked, before shaking her head. “No, I know. Binns is not an adequate teacher, you know it and I know it. Look, other Houses and grades are even increasingly copying you; word is spreading. I know the Creeveys don’t go either, or Mafalda. And those who do go, like Harry, often spend the whole class studying something else, if they’re not just napping like half the Gryffindors do.”

“Why didn’t you invite me to go?” Harry whined to Tracey. “You know I like history when it’s good, and I even speak French!”

“I didn’t want to distract you from preparing for the Tournament,” Tracey said apologetically. “You’ve been so busy with that, or with catching up on other work. You need your free time and shouldn’t get distracted with what would effectively be adding another subject. Madame Maxime expects us to do homework, you know.”

That’s so not fair to leave me in the dark, Harry complained mentally to himself, glowering.

“Is she kind?” Luna asked.

Tracey nodded. “Strict but fair, and she welcomes anyone who wants to sit in on her classes, even younger students. I think she’s rather smug about it, actually. She finds it flattering that Dumbledore’s students are flocking to her classes. She had to move to a bigger room to accommodate us all.”

Draco seemed to have gathered his composure back, and said, “I promise to talk to my father about the situation, even though it does mean many of us would lose our free study time. Madame Maxime’s classes have indeed enlightened many as to what History of Magic classes could be like.”

“I do not see any necessity to change the status quo,” Millicent said unhappily. “Things are fine how they are.”

“I was thinking we could have a Social Studies class,” Hermione said eagerly, ignoring her friend’s quiet objection. “History and Geography, with a dash of wizarding cultural studies thrown in for first-years. Teach people about the history of the Floo and how to use it, and the structure of the wizarding government. That sort of thing.”

“Geography would be useful. Muggles divide up the world differently to us,” Greg added. “Their country boundaries are often completely different. It should not be only people who take Muggle Studies who learn about that. A wizard could get in a lot of trouble and breach the Statute of Secrecy, travelling around Europe without a ‘passport’ – a piece of paper Muggles identify themselves with, instead of presenting their wand. Which Muggles do not have, of course.

“On the other side of things, Muggle-borns blundering into Transylvania without the permission of the local vampire lords could find themselves in a life-threatening situation. They have not heard the history of the country – they think it is just a region of Romania.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “That all has some promising avenues of appeal.”

Greg beamed and held up his palm to Hermione, who gave him an excited high five.

Draco sighed, and looked pained as Greg started rambling excitedly at length about modern Muggle greetings, and Hermione waffled about her correspondence with Bathilda Bagshot and Newt Scamander regarding possible candidates who might be interested in becoming their new history teacher.

“…And if we can get one of those people – or several of them – to express a willingness to take on the role, your father and the Board can pressure Dumbledore – such a stubborn man – to hire a new teacher. Then Binns can finally retire and rest in peace,” Hermione concluded.

Chapter Text

December 1994

The crowd of students streaming out of Hogwarts to the final Hogsmeade weekend for the year was massive, with the Yule Ball barely more than a week away. Draco had stuck to Harry’s side like a limpet, claiming that he had something important to talk to him about confidentially, and since Harry needed to extricate himself from the crowd to sneak away to Grantown-on-Spey (via Side-Along-Apparition from the Shrieking Shack with Sirius), he didn’t really mind being separated from their other friends.

It took a little while before they could walk and talk with any semblance of privacy, however.

“Good luck in the Tournament!” someone said, giving Harry a cheerful thumbs up.

“Thank you.”

“Have you figured out the second clue, yet? I would be happy to help out our champion!” a couple of people asked, crowding around them eagerly.

“I have some promising leads and we’ll restart the study groups after the Christmas holidays.”

“Great!”

“Win it for Gryffindor, Potter!” a passing student in a red scarf called out.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Have you… um… Do you think I… I was wondering if you had a date for the Ball?” a young girl bundled up in a thick wool cloak asked.

“Yes, sorry, I am going with Tracey Davis.”

“Oh,” she replied sadly, and slunk off back to her watching group of friends.

Draco shook his head in disbelief as they crunched through the snow. “Dear Merlin, does it ever stop?” he asked.

“Not lately,” Harry said, with a sigh. “It’s usually nice… but it’s also rather tiring. I’m getting better at talking with people though; I haven’t really had a choice.”

Once they were out of Hogwarts’ gates Draco dragged Harry off the main road to Hogsmeade and into the woods, to take a more roundabout path to the village that would give them more privacy to chat.

“Admit it, you like the attention from the masses,” Draco insisted.

Harry scrunched up his face as he thought. “Welll… I do like the general approval and support. It’s much better than in second year when half the school was flinching when they saw me and the rest were toadying – some out of fear. But I don’t like all the expectations that are coming with the role of Hogwarts’ champion. I’m aiming to survive, not to win, and I’m worried everyone’s going to be mad at me. Also, any time I’m not preparing for the competition, everyone seems to be thinking I should be. Like Tracey and Hermione – not even talking about things with me like History of Magic because they thought it might distract me. It’s a pain – I still wish people hadn’t put my name in the goblet. I dunno, it’s too much attention, you know?”

Draco glanced around before saying, “Harder to slink off to the Chamber of Secrets?”

Harry shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. Or even to work on my Muggle subjects without feeling people are judging me for ‘wasting my time’. But mostly it’s that I think people will turn on me if I lose.”

Draco snorted. “Only idiots would. You are a fourth-year in a competition for talented seventh-years. To make a good showing – which you’re doing – is more than enough. Still, Hogwarts does have its fair share of idiots,” he finished, with a wicked smile, which made Harry laugh.

“So why aren’t you going home for the first week of the holidays?” Harry asked.

They’d all chatted about the topic earlier, and while some – like Harry and Neville – were staying the full week to enjoy the fun activities Hogwarts staff had planned, others from mostly magical families were heading home and only popping back for the Yule Ball. Hermione was also staying, primarily because her parents couldn’t easily Floo or Apparate her back to Hogsmeade quickly. She didn’t want to spend all Christmas Day travelling to Scotland or being dependent on charity for her transport. She was becoming increasingly aware of the unwritten costs involved in owing too many favours and had confidentially fretted to Harry and Neville about what Draco might ask for as repayment for helping with Binns’ situation.

Draco looked casual as he answered Harry… too casual, Harry thought. “I simply did not feel inclined to do so. There are many diversions on offer this Yule that may provide amusement.”

“Try again,” Harry said, with a smirk. “That’s a good lie, but you can do better.”

Draco stared at Harry, then snorted a laugh. “Alright, I am trying to get away from my relatives, if you must know. They visit at Yule and pinch my cheeks and call me silly names.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Look,” Draco continued. “While we are sequestered away from the crowds, I wanted to ask you something.”

Harry nodded with false gravity. “Good subject change, Draco, shift attention away from your lies.”

“Prat!” Draco shoved him genially with a shoulder and Harry laughed as he stumbled in the ankle-deep snow. “Don’t teach your grandmother how to suck eggs. I truly just think I will have more fun at Hogwarts away from annoying and stressful relatives. You are doing the same, so you have no grounds to judge!”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Right, so the thing is, Harry, that since I am staying over Yule I will be missing out on the winter solstice celebration. We do not usually celebrate it at Hogwarts of course, since everyone returns home,” Draco said, shifting a little nervously. “So I have an Old Ways ritual I have to practice, but I do not know my part. I was hoping you could help me go over it? I have never had to lead anything for this before and did not have a lot of warning to get advice from father. The seventh-year Slytherins decided we should do something after the Yule Ball was announced since it’s keeping so many of us at Hogwarts, and everyone is now scrambling to organise something special for their year groups.”

“Doesn’t Pansy help you with that sort of thing?”

“Yes, she leads the girls, but Yule is one of the few times we separate by gender. Besides, I do not wish to have her see me stumble over my practices,” Draco admitted, looking embarrassed. “And… I have to kill a duck. I mean, it should really be a pig, but it is going to be easier to smuggle in a duck. I have never killed anything before. I do not want to… you know… get it all wrong. Get mess everywhere.” Draco flapped his hands anxiously and his face scrunched up with imagined discomfort.

“You’ve seen your dad do that kind of stuff, though?”

“Yes, but it is so gross,” Draco whined. “And ducks are cuter than pigs. What if it flaps and pecks at me and struggles about? I wish I did not have to do it, but that is what the senior year leaders decided on for our year. What do I even do with a dead duck?”

Harry thought about it. “You could vanish it. Evanesco.”

“I don’t know that charm.”

“I’m still working on mastering it myself,” Harry admitted. “Sometimes I only vanish bits and pieces, but it usually works. Hmm. Well, if you give the dead duck to me even if the spell doesn’t work I could take it down into the Chamber and feed it to the Basilisk. I’ve been thinking of smuggling a goat down for Custos to eat – she must get hungry – but I couldn’t think of a way to smuggle a live goat into Hogwarts. I mean, in general it’d be hard, as the Shrinking Charm can be unsafe if miscast and only works for a very short time on live animals, but it’d be doubly difficult with everyone watching me these days.”

“Why a goat?”

Harry shrugged. “It feels like about the right size for her to swallow whole, and sheep feel like they’d be too fluffy – I don’t know if that’s good for snakes or not. She could probably eat a cow, but I’ve never asked her if she can dislocate her jaw or not and I wouldn’t want her to choke. A large pig would be good too, I guess.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Swallow whole? She must be enormous!”

Harry nodded. “She really is.”

Draco shook his head. “Well, that would be useful, if you do not mind smuggling or vanishing a dead duck for me. You will help me learn my lines and practice the ritual? Father is going to send me two ducks, under a hibernation charm, so I have a chance to practice.”

“I suppose. I mean, I don’t like the idea either, but I understand you want to get it right. I won’t have to kill the duck, right?”

“No,” Draco sighed, “honestly I don’t want to either, but someone has to, and father says I am old enough, though they usually do not start sacrifices at Hogwarts until fifth year. It is usually chickens, however, that was judged too common for Yule. I just want you to help me learn my lines.”

“Where are we doing the ritual? At the small menhir like last year?”

“Yes, though as we have to share the location with the third-years we might occasionally alternate to be at the far side of the lake; people complained about us hogging the site last year. Probably we shall have the menhir for Imbolc and lakeside for Beltane. We don’t move until next year, then we get the clearing with the larger menhir for our fifth and sixth-years for joint celebrations. Seventh-years celebrate at the Circle. It is a ring of standing stones hidden quite deep in the Forbidden Forest, and thus dangerous to get to. Some students are of age by then and do not have the Trace on their wands and can thus serve as guards. Rumour says the Headmaster is more watchful for spellcasting in the forest on festival dates.”

They talked for a while about where to do the practice rituals. Harry considered but decided against using the Chamber of Secrets, mostly because of his unadmitted reason that he could picture Draco nagging Harry in the future to let him visit there all the time. It was his special secure hideaway and Harry didn’t really want to share it.

They both agreed wandering around the Forbidden Forest late at night might be a bad idea, and the daytime wasn’t much better due to a high chance of being spotted. Eventually they settled on an empty Hogwarts classroom an hour before curfew ended – Draco said he’d find somewhere secluded. They planned that Harry would skulk around incognito as ‘Antares Black’ to meet up with Draco so they could sneak around Hogwarts with less notice paid to their comings and goings.

Then they chatted for a while about the Circle on the grounds of Potter Manor, and Draco seemed flatteringly impressed by the rituals Harry talked about doing there for Lughnasadh.

Right on the edge of Hogsmeade, they ran into Professor Moody – almost literally. He was slowly making his way through the snow, with a lumpy black silk bag hanging from his belt. He twitched his cloak over it when he spotted them, but too late to conceal it.

“Good morning, sir,” Harry said politely, tucking his hands in his trousers’ deep pockets, one of which held his wand. Just in case. “What takes you to Hogsmeade today?”

Moody hesitated for a moment, his artificial eye rolling around constantly while his regular gaze rested on Harry, then Draco. A wicked grin dawned on his face as he watched Draco shifting about nervously.

“I suppose I could tell you, if you can keep it to yourselves,” he said slowly. “I’m off out of Hogwarts’ Anti-Apparition wards. I have a Dark magical artefact to dispose of today.”

“Oh?” Harry said curiously. “What exactly is it?” The bag at their teacher’s waist looked lumpy and reasonably full and drew Harry’s eye irresistibly. Something bigger than an orange and smaller than a loaf of bread, at a guess. Not book-shaped, it was too lumpy for that.

“Can’t say; confidential. It’s just something a student smuggled in a while ago. Have to dispose of Dark magic artefacts properly – that’s a lesson both of you should learn, eh?”

Harry winced, thinking of the cursed diary that rumour amongst the Order of Phoenix said was now being regularly written in by Pettigrew. He was presumed possessed by Lord Voldemort, by whatever impression of his soul he’d managed to imprint on it like one did with a portrait.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled apologetically.

Moody’s wild gaze focused on Draco, who’d remained silent. “You too, Malfoy! Potter’s on the right side, but your family? Your House had better watch yourselves,” he snapped. “Don’t think I don’t know about all the Dark artefacts your family caches like squirrels collecting acorns for winter but with less care for what you hoard. There are a lot of rumours floating about regarding where your family’s loyalties lie, despite your father’s best attempts at toadying and ingratiating himself with all comers like a desperate, aging spinster. Your father’s being watched, boy, and so are you.” Moody was practically growling by the end of his rant, but still smiling in an eerie fashion.

“Draco’s father was under the Imperius Curse in the last war,” Harry said defensively. He didn’t really believe that, but there was no reason to mention that right now. “And in any case, Draco is not his father, and can make his own choices in life. There’s no need to watch him more than anyone else.”

“No-one whose palm wasn’t greased with gold believed that lie. And what choice is he going to make, hey?” Moody said, pointing a knobbly finger at Draco. His artificial eye briefly stilled so that he could level an unnerving stare at Draco. “Where does the Malfoy heir stand?”

Draco blanched, but his chin rose in the air as he set his jaw and said firmly, “I choose to remain apart from the current troubles, sir. I stand with Harry and choose the same as him – to remain out of the fighting and to concentrate on my studies. If anyone expects more of either of us, then they can ask again where we stand when we are of age.”

Moody chuckled, and relaxed, his magical eye spinning around again. “A cowardly, Slytherin kind of stance but not the worst answer possible, boy. What do you think, Potter? Are you happy with such lukewarm loyalty to yourself and the Light side?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. I don’t think it’s reasonable to target children in battles – which we kind of all still are – nor to expect us to join in the fighting.”

“You’ve fought already, though.”

“Only in self-defence. I am ready for trouble, but I will not start it.”

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Moody yelled, his voice loud and crazed but cheerful.

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed, watching the man’s hands. In the generous depths of his trouser pocket, Harry’s hand clutched his wand tightly.

Bombarda, he thought, watching their teacher closely for any threatening movements. I can start with that to knock Moody back and damage him at the same time. Or I could start small and reliable – the Knockback Jinx on Moody’s wooden leg would get him down in the snow nice and harmlessly and make it hard for him to target either of us.

Thankfully, his battle planning was unneeded as Moody clomped off into the snow a little further before Disapparating away.

Draco let out a loud huff of breath. “That senile old Auror is always casting aspersions at me, and other Slytherins,” he complained to Harry, as they resumed their own walk. “He picks on anyone who has parents of… dubious allegiances. Thank you for coming to my defence, amicus, I appreciate what you said. You are right; we children cannot be held to blame – nor do we deserve the credit – for anything our parents did. Well, unless it is something we asked them to do.”

“True.”

Draco kicked at the snow, which splattered across the bottom of his robe. “Do you think Granger will give me the credit, or my father, if we manage to get Binns replaced?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Honestly? I think she’ll give herself the credit for organising the whole thing. But she’s aware she’ll owe you a favour – and not your father – so that’s something.”

Draco made a face but nodded his agreement. “I suppose it is a worthwhile endeavour either way. Madame Maxime’s classes are vastly superior.”

Harry brushed a few snowflakes out of his hair as a light scattering of snow began to fall and pulled up the hood of his purple cloak. He would take it off later if he needed to blend in with Muggles; he had a red jumper and black trousers on underneath that would pass muster. Only the new wizarding-style winter boots would stand out a little.

“I’m still cross no-one invited me along,” Harry complained.

“Tracey said not to.”

“And you listen to Tracey?”

“When she makes a good case I heed her words. She was worried about how you would perform in the Tournament. We all were. We still are, for that matter. Would you care to share what you have discerned about the clue for the second task?”

But despite Draco’s pleading and coaxing about how he’d keep anything Harry said confidential, Harry wouldn’t cave. He wanted his time off without pressure from his friends to study for the Tournament. Just for a week or two, to enjoy the Christmas holidays and catch up on other tasks.

If he told Draco and everyone else about the clue and his conclusion that the merpeople in the Black Lake were going to take some prized possession from him with a one hour time limit to retrieve it, he’d be endlessly bugged to research water spells and merpeople themselves. He’d start after the holiday.

“Are you going to join in the ‘Dodge Quidditch’ game?” Draco asked, as they crunched through the snow. “It has proven quite a popular thing to sign up for in Slytherin, despite the Muggle influence. Very novel!”

Harry shook his head. “Two massive packs of Quidditch players pelting Bludgers back and forth at each other until there’s only one person left? No thanks. I figured I’d go and wait with Madam Pomfrey and help treat the inevitable injuries.”

“Spoilsport!” Draco complained good-naturedly. “It is highly unlikely anyone will suffer serious injuries; broken bones are the worst you should expect.”

Harry snorted and shook his head. With magical healing available wizards’ ideas of what were acceptable risks were terrifyingly high sometimes. It explained the Triwizard Tournament too.

While Draco went into Hogsmeade proper to browse accessories on sale at Gladrags Wizardwear Harry peeled off to go to the Shrieking Shack, where Sirius waited impatiently to transport him to Grantown-on-Spey.

Harry felt very Dudley-like as he spent the morning working on Chemistry and Biology assignments and doing a little reading for Business Studies so he could write up some summary study notes for his cousin. Well… he felt somewhat like Dudley. Harry couldn’t picture Dudley having a five-hour studying binge. However, the way that Sirius and Lupin hovered around, fetching his snacks and admiring the work he was doing studying cellular structures with a microscope reminded him a bit of Aunt Petunia whenever she was especially proud of Dudley for putting in some genuine effort with his school work (which had become more common as the years had gone on). They also seemed just as delighted with him when he stopped studying at last to take a break for a late lunch, pressing him to try an enormous slice of steak and mushroom pie which had rich, buttery pastry.

They all made polite small talk at first; Lupin was working on writing a book about magical creatures which he hoped to publish under a nom de plume. Sirius had been practising spellcasting with his new cypress wand and seen a new (but useless) Healer about his withered arm. Harry when asked said that he’d like new winter gloves for Christmas and couldn’t think of anything else.

“Nothing bigger? Come on, think! Some rare potions supplies? How about something useful for school?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Now you mention it, learning another language would be useful, if it’s not too expensive. That would be more than enough!”

“You got it!” Sirius said, sounding pleased. Lupin didn’t look too impressed by Harry’s idea, however, but didn’t raise any objections out loud.

Harry then asked after Kreacher and heard that he was doing well and had been muttering less but also complained about not having enough work to do.

“I suspect he and Dobby have been moonlighting at Hogwarts to be closer to you and have something to do,” Sirius shared, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Harry blinked, startled. “House-elves do that?”

“They’re not supposed to,” Sirius said. “However, in the absence of orders forbidding them from following around the Head or Heir of the House, sometimes they will. Hogwarts has a ban on students bringing their own personal house-elves to school. However, since neither you nor I directed them to go and they’re just joining in with the general pool of workers, there’s a bit of a loophole they might be exploiting.”

“Did Kreacher do that for your brother?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, mother kept him busy. Frankly, I think it’s your own elf’s fault. He’s a bad influence. I most decidedly approve!”

“Dobby?” Harry called. A few seconds later, Dobby popped in.

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“Dobby, have you been working at Hogwarts?”

“Is Dobby not allowed?” he asked, wringing his bony hands.

“It’s alright if you have been,” Harry soothed.

“Then yes, Dobby is working at Hogwarts, doing mending of linens and helping embroider togas,” Dobby admitted. “There is not much work to do at Potter Cottage, but Dobby is still looks after it too.”

“Is Kreacher there too?” Harry asked.

Dobby looked nervously at Sirius. “Dobby is not exactly being sure what Kreacher is doing,” he hedged. It was as good as an admission to the wizards. “Kreacher is not liking to leaves his old home for long, though. Kreacher is too old to travel to Muggle houses with iron wires everywhere, but Kreacher is a good house-elf!” he insisted, with a touch of defiance in his voice as he stood up for his fellow house-elf that seemed to delight rather than annoy Sirius.

“That’s the spirit!” Sirius said encouragingly.

“Can Dobby go if young Master does not need him?” Dobby asked, his bulbous eyes extra wide as he plead for leave to go.

“Yes, alright, that’s all. Remember that you are welcome to do extra work if you need to, but you don’t have to,” Harry emphasised. “What you do is already enough.”

Dobby gave a grateful bow and popped away before too many awkward questions were sent his way.

“Funny little things, aren’t they?” Remus mused. “I always thought they were rather simple creatures, and rather nasty. Still, I only ever knew Kreacher particularly well from rare visits with Sirius, and he was taught to dislike werewolves. They’re more complex and human-like than I thought, yet with a very different approach to life.”

“We’re thinking that house-elves might be under a bloodline curse,” Harry said, and explained the theories that the H.E.L.P. Society had been tossing around.

“It’s a theory many hold about werewolves,” Lupin said. “Since it’s inheritable and can be transmitted via blood. One Dark wizard in the twelfth century, Emeric the Evil – rumoured to be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, by the way – found that people could be infected by having werewolf blood dropped in an open wound, without a need for a scratch or bite.”

“I don’t suppose I could look at your blood under a microscope?” Harry asked.

Sirius made a disgusted face. “Urgh.”

Lupin hesitated, then shook his head. “Maybe when you’re older. I’d hate to have an accident happen that left you infected.”

“I’d be really careful,” Harry promised, but Lupin wouldn’t yield.

Oh well. It wasn’t like he really knew what he’d be looking for, anyway. Unless there was a completely new cell type in the mix, he probably wouldn’t be able to see any difference.

“So, anything else you wanted to chat about before you get back to work?” Sirius asked, whisking away Harry’s empty plate. Harry had managed to eat it all so as not to offend, but the last few bites had left him horribly full.

“Ah, yes, actually. It’s a bit awkward, though.”

Sirius waved a hand expansively. “Just go for it.”

“The Noble House of Potter requests a service of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” Harry began formally.

“Sounds serious,” Lupin said, with a bland expression as he interrupted.

Sirius grinned, pulled off one shoe, and threw it at Remus, who dodged to one side with a laugh. The shoe hit a wall and they both ignored it as it thumped to the ground.

“The Most Annoying and Nobby House of Black is at your service Heir, as sworn,” Sirius intoned, with mock formality. “What aid can we render to thee and thine?”

Harry took a deep breath. “There is a prophecy. About me. Rumoured to be something about uh, You-Know-Who, and why he attacked me when I was a baby.”

Sirius and Lupin exchanged a look as he spoke.

“I uh… I understand a copy is kept in the Department of Mysteries, but I’ve been discouraged from going there–”

“I’d agree with that advice,” Sirius said.

“–and I tried asking Professor Trelawney about it, but she’d never heard of such a prophecy. Then she got gory and talked about how I was doomed under an ill-favoured star and predicted something about dying in a gushing fountain of blood, and frankly I got out of there as fast as I could. Hermione says she’s always like that and McGonagall told her she predicts a student’s death every year and it’s never happened yet, which was very reassuring.”

“Dumbledore might be willing to talk to him about it…” Lupin started, then trailed off at Sirius’ glare.

“He only tells us what he thinks is necessary,” Sirius snapped. “I grow weary of his platitudes of caution and patience.”

“It was just a thought,” Lupin said defensively.

“I thought of that too,” Harry said, pleased to have incidental confirmation that the Headmaster knew the prophecy. “But I figured if he wanted me to know what the prophecy was, he would’ve told me already. Anyway, that’s my formal request – I want to know what the prophecy says. The exact words.”

It had been Neville’s idea to ask Sirius to find out for him, when Harry had gossiped with him late at night before bed. Neville said that as an adult wizard, people would be more likely to tell Sirius any unpleasant details that they might keep from Harry. Sirius also had the leisure and connections to pursue such an investigation. Harry thought it would also be a good test of Sirius’ fitness as a potential guardian; would he help Harry, or brush him off?

“Well Harry, I shall certainly try. I don’t know the words of the prophecy, but I do know it is what sent your parents and the Longbottoms into hiding, back in the last war. At a guess, it might say something about a pregnant woman fighting against the Dark Lord, or something about parents and a baby. I would rather you didn’t worry yourself about the details, but I can certainly appreciate why you are curious about it. I would be, in your boots. I already have been, actually. Curious, that is.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders eased. Sirius was going to help. “Do you know why I’ve been advised against going to the Ministry? That seemed the simplest path to finding out.”

Sirius nodded. “Death Eaters have been trying to infiltrate – with uncertain results – and get access to the Department of Mysteries. The DoM is guarded by members of the Order of the Phoenix as well as Aurors, and there have been some clashes with Death Eaters, on and off. Alleged Azkaban escapees. It simply isn’t safe. I don’t know what it is they are after down there, but best to keep away if you do not wish to draw attention from all quarters.”

“Alright. And you’ll find it out for me?”

“Yes, I promise I shall do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask, really,” Harry said. “Thank you.”

-000-

Draco and Harry had two practice runs together for the Yule ritual – the second one being a gory rehearsal where Draco killed a magically Stunned duck. After the chanting and slaughtering was done, Draco looked ashen-faced, and his hand holding the bloodied knife was white-knuckled and trembling.

“How do you handle such a scene with sangfroid?” he snapped at Harry, his voice lapsing into the odd archaic tones of an upset pure-blood.

“Well, I didn’t have to kill it myself, and that helps a lot. I only had to hold the bowl to catch the blood.”

Draco nodded his fervent agreement. “It truly is easier to watch than to perform.”

“Also, I’ve been feeding Storm live animals – or chopped up bits – for a couple of years now. Mice are pretty cute, you know, but Storm likes them alive and wiggling when he eats them so he usually gets me to wake them up from their enchantment.”

“It’s not all blood sacrifices!” Draco burst out. “It’s a meal! A sacred meal!”

Harry tilted his head. That came out of nowhere. “Who are you trying to convince – me, or yourself? It’s just a duck, Draco. You were fine when your dad killed that pig last Yule.”

“Cast those cleaning charms on me,” Draco demanded, ignoring Harry’s question and looking down at his messy white ritual robe. “You said you knew some.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said pointedly, as he obliged his distant cousin. “You so owe me for all this, you know,” he reminded, as he waved his wand around.

“Hmph. Yes, I know. One medium-sized favour.”

-000-

The journey on the twenty-second of December to the ritual site around an ancient menhir in the woods was on a forebodingly dark and bone-chillingly cold evening. Harry was more prepared than a boy scout desperate to earn a new badge, with two bags slung crossways across his body and a small pouch tied to his belt. One was his leather satchel holding Storm safe and snug from the weather, and – ignoring Storm’s whiny protest – another half-dozen serpents he’d conjured up before leaving Hogwarts’ environs, who’d wiggled about into a crowded ball. If any dangerous creatures tried to eat the sodden caravan of young druids-in-training, they’d have to deal with Harry ordering a bunch of poisonous vipers to attack. They’d all been briefed to behave in regard to not attacking each other, lectured about their potential duty, and promised that they’d be given a snack of a baby mouse from the pouch at his belt – again against Storm’s objections – before being dismissed back to wherever it was they’d come from once the night was done. Harry was pretty sure now that the Snake Summons Spell did indeed summon rather than create snakes. Repeated interviews had determined that they all appeared to be non-magical wild snakes, and with practice Harry was able to increasingly summon the dangerous snakes he preferred to call.

The second bag was his Healer’s bag Theodore had given him for his birthday, with a long strap attached in place of the usual short handles to keep his hands free for his wand, just in case. They all tried hard not to use their wands when out in the Forbidden Forest, as the Headmaster was rumoured to have made some deal with the Ministry to be alerted to spellcasting by anyone with the Trace on their wands anywhere in the forest… for safety’s sake, allegedly.

Their travels were lit by the dim light of bluebell flames in glass lanterns. It didn’t feel bright enough. On the other hand, too much light could draw unwelcome attention from giant spiders, centaurs, wolves, or a dozen other predatorial threats. It was a lose-lose situation.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry fretted, looking around anxiously shortly after they’d started out.

“He is unwell, and cannot make it this evening,” Pansy said apologetically, passing Harry a parchment scroll. “Come on, we have to get moving before anyone spots us out there.”

Harry held onto the message as they hurried along into the concealing shelter of the treeline, curious about what Draco had said.

“Theodore,” he called to the skinny boy a short distance behind him, “will you guard me while I read this? Keep watch for danger, and make sure I don’t trip over anything?”

Theodore perked up and moved up in the queue expeditiously, bringing a halo of light from his bluebell-flame lantern with him. “I would be delighted to assist, my friend!”

Harry – nervous about having his hands and eyes occupied but trusting that Theodore was invested in guarding him diligently, unrolled the scroll. In it, Draco explained that he was unwell with ‘embarrassing digestive distress’ and a fever and did not feel up to attending the evening’s festivities. He begged formally that Harry take his place as ‘senior druid’ for the night, since he was familiar with the ritual.

With a curse, Harry stalked up to Pansy with Theodore scurrying along at his shoulder, and asked, “Did you know Draco asked me to take his place tonight.”

“Yes. Someone has to. He said you knew the chants. Crabbe is carrying the duck, in the crate.”

“But I don’t want to,” Harry whined. He wondered if Draco was skiving off because he didn’t want to have to kill the duck. “Can’t someone else do it?”

“No,” Pansy insisted. “It has to be you. You are the highest-status wizard. Honestly, it should always be you, now, but on the other hand, you are unfamiliar with most of the rituals, and it would be against tradition to have a non-Slytherin in charge.”

She hesitated before adding, “Though of course arguably you are more Slytherin than any of us, with your heritage. I read the article this morning.”

“I don’t know where Rita got her information. Certainly not from me. She might have made all of it up,” Harry complained, “and I’m fine if Draco outranks me. He likes being our druid.”

He didn’t really want to get distracted from his main complaint by a discussion of the morning’s sensationalised article about Harry’s ancestral lineage, however. Harry instead focusing his oratorial efforts on elaborating on how he didn’t want to be in charge of the evening’s ritual, or to have to kill a duck. He also muttered implied accusations that Draco might be faking his illness, before Pansy finally snapped at him in angry nasal tones.

“I do not believe he is faking it, but even if your aspersions are correct, he is still not here and we need a replacement. You know Latin better than anyone here, for Merlin’s sake, and you practiced the ritual! I do not care who owes you a favour and could do it on your behalf; we are out of time and you are the clear choice so you shall just have to put up with it and be the Wassail King, Mr. Harold James Potter!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” Harry conceded, with a grumpy sigh.

The singing went fine, as Harry chanted praise to the beauty of the long night and the stars scattered across the firmament, and to the sun and their expectation of its imminent return. He knew the Latin and had even talked over the song with Ambrosius, who had suggested a couple of wording changes and shared some tips for focusing magical energy during the sacrifice. His placid reassurance that killing an animal wasn’t ‘Dark’ to any significant degree had been comforting to Harry, who wasn’t really worried, but appreciated the extra reinforcement. Ambrosius had agreed that it wasn’t any worse than being a meat-eater on any other day of the year. He recommended that the animal was killed in a swift and respectful manner, and importantly that it be done with a spirit of general respect to magic rather than in an attempt to enhance one’s personal power.

Killing the duck wasn’t nice; he hadn’t expected it to be. At least it was Stunned into insensibility and didn’t feel the knife at its throat. It went smoothly and the gathered children cheered its death. If anyone was bothered by the gory scene, they didn’t speak up about it or draw attention to themselves.

In fact, the only objection came from Storm, whose quiet disgruntled hisses were only comprehensible to Harry. “The duck should go to Millicent. Remember I told you to give her a duck? Why don’t you listen to me? She is my favourite. You are wasting it.”

Pansy – serenely unfazed by the blood that sprinkled over her – held the hlautbolli, the sacred bowl to catch the blood from the upside-down decapitated duck. She then poured a small portion of it into a smaller dish which she passed to Harry, and a handful of wooden twigs to be hlautteinar or aspergilla – something to sprinkle the blood around with.

Pansy and Harry – borrowing a lantern from Theodore – lit a bonfire on a pile of wood everyone had assembled together, to another rousing cheer as the blue flames flickered across the wood and sparked it into a cheery orange-gold blaze. Then Pansy led the young women off into the circle of trees ringing the clearing, leading a stumbling chorus singing a couple of different Wassail songs. She repeated each song at least twice to help people learn them.

“Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green. Here we come a-wand'ring, so fair to be seen. Love and joy come to you, and to all your wassail, too…”

The girls – just barely visible through the trees as they clearly didn’t wish to venture too far away from the protection of the group and the comforting orange glow of the bonfire – each took an aspergillum of their own to sprinkle blood on the nearby trees. Some fairies twittered happily as they converged to lick hungrily at the blood and nibble at some cautiously proffered raisins, and from a hollow on one leafless oak tree a lone, shy, stick-like Bowtruckle emerged. Morag McDougal from Ravenclaw was delighted to be able to hand-feed the carnivorous Bowtruckle some drops of blood from her aspergillum, which it supped at with its miniscule green tongue from its tiny mouth.

Harry had asked Storm to go with the girls and guard them, perhaps atop Millicent’s shoulders, but he’d complained and wanted to stay with Harry, so Harry had the summoned vipers guarding the borders of the circle instead, while Storm stayed atop Harry’s shoulders where Harry’s body heat and spells would keep him warm.

In the centre of the clearing, Harry sprinkled each of the boys with a little blood on their head or hands (as they chose), and then they circled the five-foot-high menhir together in a deasil direction (sunwise or clockwise, as the Muggles would say) as Harry poured the remainder of the blood around the base of the menhir. Storm’s hissed bossy commentary ordering ‘more ssstomping’ and for them to ‘sssing louder’ as they circled was a little distracting, but Harry didn’t let it derail his chanting in praise of the renewal of magic and the circle of the year.

After the main portion of their ceremony was complete, they moved onto preparing the feast while the girls continued their wassailing. Greg busied himself with dunking the duck into a cauldron of boiling water, holding it by the feet, then started plucking the loosened feather and then dressing it for cooking with an expert air.

“I do this sort of thing all the time at home,” he explained, when Harry praised his competence. “We do not have a house-elf, and my parents appreciate me helping with the livestock.”

Harry was relieved to leave him to it and moved on to a task he was a lot more confident and comfortable with – preparing a cauldron of mulled apple cider for everyone to share. He’d brought his mother’s small golden cauldron along – as discussed and planned with his absent friend earlier – as a loan for the evening to add a touch of distinction to their festival.

When the group regathered toasts were made to victory and power, good harvest and peace, and Merlin and magic. People spoke of those they’d lost; sadly many in the group had someone to talk about losing that year. While casualties at the Quidditch World Cup had been relatively low and there had only been a few other deaths over the year, the wizarding community was small and insular, and many people were interrelated to some degree. That went double for pure-bloods.

Ernie Macmillan was related to the deceased Auror Hestia Jones by a slightly complex degree of cousinship, the late Cuthbert Mockridge – once Head of the Goblin Liaison Office – was the great-uncle of Lily Moon, and Stephen Cornfoot was sad to have lost his Uncle Amos, Cedric’s father.

“I know it’s not the same as losing your father, I know that. I just feel like people forget that more people than just Cousin Cedric are mourning his loss. My mum is spending a lot of time with her sister – Cedric’s mother. They have both been crying a lot. He was a good man, and a good father and uncle.”

“To Amos Diggory,” Harry said gravely, raising his goblet in a toast, “a good man who will be sorely missed. May he find peace in the Summerland.”

“Amos Diggory,” murmured the crowd, each drinking another sip of wassail.

The group of students settled down for dinner and gossip after the toasts were concluded, the formal portion of the evening all done.

Gossip was running hot and people were eager to chat about cross-House issues of interest. There was a lot of buzz about how the ‘Muggle-born pagan’ first-year Hufflepuff – Eleanor Branstone – had loudly objected to the Yule tree in Hogwarts’ Great Hall being decorated with a star at the top and angel ornaments and had consequently gotten another detention.

“I heard she yelled at Professor McGonagall, and said the angels were offending the actual live fairies on the tree, who felt like they weren’t being appreciated, which seems fair to me,” gossiped Daphne. “Then she ruined it when she started ranting about Christian oppression and freedom of worship. That girl really does not know when to stop.”

“I am proud to see a fellow Badger embracing our traditions like one born to it,” Macmillan said pompously.

“Hear, hear!” agreed Lily Moon.

“I think we could use more Muggle-borns like her,” Greg said. “Instead of the kind who do not want to learn anything or respect the Old Ways.”

“More Muggle-borns like your girlfriend?” Morag MacDougal teased.

Greg looked confused.

“They mean Granger,” Daphne clarified. “Not Bulstrode, obviously.”

“She is obviously not my girlfriend. I have not given her flowers nor handkerchiefs nor any other tokens of affection. She is just a good friend, and possible future client,” Greg explained very seriously, ignoring MacDougal giggling with Moon.

“Is that why you glare at Weasley so hard when he fetches books for her and looks at her all googly-eyed?” MacDougal asked teasingly.

“He is beneath her,” Greg explained, a frown crossing his face. “She is special, not an ordinary Muggle-born, and she now has a proven lineage to a formerly dead House she can be the Head of when she is of age. She deserves someone better than a Weasley.”

“Someone like you? Are you taking her to the Yule Ball?” Moon asked.

“I am going with Millicent Bulstrode,” he said, unblinking. “She is a suitable partner for the evening, being of good health and from a fine family background.”

“You romantic sweet-talker, Goyle!” MacDougal said, then subsided into quiescence when Pansy gave her a warning glare and shake of her head.

“How are the Creeveys working out at the festivals?” Harry asked. “Midgen said she didn’t want to come tonight since there would be a sacrifice, but she will try and make it to the others.”

“The Creeveys are doing fine, from what I have heard,” Daphne said, joining in the subject change. “They are keen as Seekers when the whistle is blown; there is nothing they are not willing to try and have both learnt to settle down and not try and take photographs all the time.”

Both Professor Sinistra and a centaur stopped by during the course of the evening to check on their group, and to share a cup of wassail with the students. Their professor reminded them to not forget about curfew. Luckily a couple of students – Harry included – carried pocket watches and were keeping a close eye on the time.

After they’d left, Greg turned to Vincent and said quietly, “Can I ask him now?”

“Yes, the timing is suitable,” his friend murmured.

Greg instantly turned to Harry and asked, “What Skeeter wrote in the Daily Prophet this morning about your ancestry going back to the Gaunt family and Ilvermorny’s Founder, is it true?”

“Thank goodness!” said Daphne. “I have been dying to ask about that all night, but Pansy made us swear not to crowd you.”

Glancing over at Pansy with a look of surprise, Harry saw that his cousin looked a little uncertain, and then puffed up proud as a peacock when Harry directed a grateful smile in her direction. “Well, thank you, Pansy! People have been hounding me about it all day! It was nice to get a bit of a break. The favour is noted and appreciated.”

“Do we get favours too?” Daphne asked, gesturing at herself and the others. “We did the actual work of not badgering you.”

“It was my idea!” Pansy objected.

“Just Pansy,” Harry confirmed.

“So unfair,” Daphne whined.

“So, is it true?” Greg asked persistently. “Is it true that Lily Evans was descended from the Gaunt family?”

“His mother?” MacDougal asked. “I did not see the article – I don’t have a subscription. I just heard gossip and assumed it was through his father’s line.”

“Fill the girl in, Goyle,” Theodore said, waving a hand lazily. “I think you have it memorized, don’t you? I overheard you talking it over with Greengrass.”

“If that is alright with you, Harry?” Greg checked.

“I don’t mind.”

Greg nodded. “Harry – Harold James Potter – is the son of Lily Evans, daughter of Darren Evans and Heather Parkinson. Darren’s father Robert is of little interest. It is his mother Emily Evans nee Smith’s line that is the one of note, shifting away from the Muggle male line and into a suspected Squib lineage.

“Emily Evans owned a beaded headband with a couple of disintegrating feathers in it, which she left to a daughter in her will, saying that it once rightfully belonged to her grandfather who was from Quebec, in Canada,” he explained, sounding out the foreign country name oddly. “A relic from his Pocomtuc tribe from the New World.”

Harry butted in to clarify that. “America, that is. The Pocomtuc were a native American tribe who were continually driven out of their territory. They originally lived in Massachusetts, but were decimated by war and disease, and ended up in a number of locations, including Quebec.”

“It was more than one in ten,” Greg objected.

Harry, knowing Latin, got the reference. ‘Decimated’ used to mean a very precise ten per cent of the population had been killed. “I’m not being that literal, Greg. I just meant a lot of them died.”

“Right. You should have said ‘slaughtered’,” Greg corrected, before resuming the thread of the tale.

“So, the Founders of Ilvermorny were not Indian, obviously. However, one of their descendants married an Indian.”

“Native American,” corrected Harry.

“Isolt Sayre had married a Muggle, and so one of her daughters was a Squib; Martha Steward, the less famous eldest of the Founder’s twin daughters. And she married the Muggle – or Squib – brother of a Pocomtuc Muggle-born,” Greg concluded.

“So there’s the idea that Potter’s descended from Sayre via a Pocomtuc Squib line through his grandfather Evans?” MacDougal checked.

“That’s basically it,” Harry confirmed, “Darren Evans had his own long-distant magical lineage, going back eventually to Isolt Sayre as the nearest magical relative on that side. There’s quite a few generations so the family tree’s a bit of a tangle. And I’m thinking that him marrying Heather Parkinson, a Squib, doubled up the magical heritage potential which is why my mum Lily was a ‘Muggle-born’.”

Harry talked around ‘recessive genes’ as he was pretty sure it’d just confuse the pure-bloods. Probably everyone, in fact. Science, alas, wasn’t taught at all at Hogwarts.

“I’m confused. How does that all link up to the Gaunt family?” asked MacDougal. “All I heard through the grapevine was that Harry was descended from the Gaunt family – full of Parselmouths – and the Dark witch Morrigan.”

Greg looked over to Daphne and Harry for help.

“Isolt Sayre’s mother was a Gaunt – one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Houses,” Daphne said, taking up the story, “and they claim descent from Salazar Slytherin, but Skeeter didn’t say how. Skeeter said she was writing more about that tomorrow; ‘The tragic and Dark history of the Houses of Sayre and Gaunt that will shock you to the core’?”

Harry shrugged. “Skeeter probably knows more about that than I do, I expect. Hermione helped me look up Morrigan, though. She was an Irish witch who had a crow as her Animagus form and was called the ‘Phantom Queen’. She was apparently also a great Seer and an amazing warrior queen and was worshipped by Muggles. How ‘Dark’ she was is open for debate, I think. She certainly killed a lot of people, but so did a lot of other people in that era. She just used magic to do it, and also led an army of witches and wizards in some battles against the Fomorians. She didn’t sacrifice people or torture them for fun, or anything. Nothing really Dark that we found on a quick check. The Restricted Section might have less censored accounts, however.”

Daphne added, “Isolt’s father was also a pure-blood, William Sayre, and he claimed descent from Morrigan. It was recorded as a legitimate claim by their House in the thirties in The Pure-Blood Directory. Along with a claim of the Sacred House of Gaunt’s descent from their famous ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. I read up everything I could dig up on the Slytherin family in second year, which wasn’t a lot.”

“What do you think the ‘tragic’ part is going to be?” asked Harry.

“Probably how the Gaunt family has died out?” suggested Daphne. “Unless you count yourself, Harry, but honestly the heritage is far too thin to make a claim to the House. There was some drama about the last wizard in the House going to Azkaban, years back. Terrible tragedy, really, to lose one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Tracey shook her head. “No, I think it will be all about the Founder’s maternal aunt, Gormlaith Gaunt. She killed Isolt’s parents,” Tracey continued, “kidnapped Isolt, and burnt down their house. Later on she tried to kill Isolt as well, because she had betrayed the purity of the House by marrying a Muggle.”

Harry sighed. “There’s something to look forward to. A new reason for people to assume I’m a Dark elitist wizard… I might snap like Gormlaith. I did like the sound of Isolt, though. She seemed very open-minded. And hey! If it’s true, then I’m descended from two Founders! Just one from Hogwarts though.”

“Terry Boot is also related to the Ilvermorny Founders,” Cornfoot interjected. “I don’t think there is a blood relation to you though, as that line’s via adoption.”

“Isolt Sayre is also a lovely rare example of people not disparaging someone for being a Parselmouth,” added Tracey. “It is all ridiculous though, the idea of judging you based on a long-distant ancestor. Gormlaith is just one relative many generations back, not even in your direct line. People should more reasonably conclude you are exactly like a Muggle.”

“So, the Gaunts trace their ancestry back to Salazar Slytherin?” Vincent double-checked. “I think there are lots of Dark witches and wizards in their line.”

“Some slandered unfairly,” Theodore insisted. “Besides, I am sure there were many in that line who just led quiet, boring lives and did not merit a mention in the history books.”

“That’s true,” Harry said. “Normal lives don’t make good stories. I bet you’ve never heard of Corvinus Gaunt.”

“Who?” Daphne asked.

“That’s my point; he’s not famous for anything. But he was a Parselmouth and an Heir of Slytherin a couple of hundred years ago. I bet some people would be eager to judge him as evil just for that, though.”

“So, is that why you were arguing at the Gryffindor table this morning?” Daphne asked curiously. “Because your friends were angry at the not-very-shocking revelation you are officially related to Salazar Slytherin? Not that it wasn’t good research,” she added hastily.

“No, I mean yes, it was that later. But it started because people overheard me talking with Neville and Hermione about a dream I had, and decided it meant something it didn’t. Stupid eavesdroppers,” he grumbled. “It was all bad timing, so that whole thing snowballed with the news about the Sayre and Gaunt families and became a big thing that made some people start speculating I was Dark.”

“You can tell us the dream,” Daphne urged, patting him on the hand comfortingly. “I promise we won’t get mad at you, will we?”

“Certainly not!” Pansy agreed.

Harry sighed. He could argue with them, but in the end it probably wouldn’t matter. Besides, they could always gather gossip from one of the half-dozen people who’d decided to butt into his private conversation that morning.

“I dreamt I was a hat,” he admitted.

“Who wore you?” Pansy asked.

“Did it seem like a prophetic dream?” Millicent interjected.

Harry shook his head in amazement. “How could it be prophetic? I’m not going to turn into a hat.” He paused. “Well, not without a very impressive transfiguration spell, anyway.”

“What else happened?” someone asked.

“Were you hanging on a hat stand? That symbolises choice,” Cornfoot said.

“I dreamt I was a hat and the Dark Lord wore me, okay?”

Pansy blinked and said nothing, while Daphne’s eyes went wide and shocked.

Vincent shook his head. “That was a weird dream, Potter.”

“I would hate to dream of You-Know-Who,” Macmillan said, with a shudder. “No wonder you were out of sorts and got embroiled in an argument. Not good table conversation, that. Not the done thing at all.”

“What do you think it means?” Theodore asked, turning to Pansy.

“Hats represent prestige and respect,” she said thoughtfully.

“Or thought, or power,” added Cornfoot. “Do you remember what kind of hat you were, Potter, and whether you were put on or taken off?”

Harry shook his head. “I forgot the details pretty quickly. I remember I was a present – as a hat, not a person – and he was happy and put me on. He had dark hair. That’s pretty much all I remember. Oh, and someone else there was angry about it.”

He frowned. Were there Death Eaters in his dream? He didn’t remember. A man had complained angrily in shrill tenor tones, and someone else had laughed wildly, in a high, feminine voice. He’d woken up in a cold sweat at half-past two in the morning, and when he’d gone back to sleep the rest of the night had been dreamless. When he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and get ready for the morning, the details of the dream had almost completely faded.

“You don’t remember the hat style?” Cornfoot asked persistently. “Pointed or top hat? A derby?”

“No, I don’t remember, no clue what my style was. I don’t even know how I saw anything, since I didn’t feel like I had eyes. Being a hat and all. Not a hood or cloak, no obvious feathers sticking out or anything? That’s all I know.”

Those studying Divination seemed intrigued by his dream and were eager to quiz him further and offer up interpretations.

Cornfoot favoured Harry’s hat-self being worn by You-Know-Who as symbolising Harry changing the Dark Lord’s mind about something in a non-violent fashion, with the angry objector representing it being a controversial change.

Pansy on the other hand favoured the symbolism of hats representing social prestige and predicted public arguments over which of the two of them was the true Heir of Slytherin. She was backed up by Millicent and Tracey, but Harry wasn’t sure whether they really agreed with her take on the dream or were just being good clients backing up their social patron. Tracey didn’t even study Divination, which made him suspicious of the sincerity of her support.

Millicent took an entirely new tack and suggested that it didn’t have any prophetic real-world meaning at all and was just a dream where Harry worked through his issues; the dream was a gift from Magic purely to help him heal and ponder his life. She thought that since hats could also represent a need for attention, it could symbolise Harry’s unspoken fear that You-Know-Who might use Harry in some way to gain attention for a goal of his.

“That’s the problem with Divination,” MacDougal grumbled. “Too many interpretations for everything. Arithmancy was definitely the right choice.”

“These speculations are obviously all wrong. The Dark Lord is dead,” Vincent insisted, glaring at the lot of them. “He died a decade ago.”

Cornfoot shook his head. “Believe what you want, if that’s what you do actually even believe. Which I doubt. Dumbledore says he’s back – I trust him, no matter what the Ministry says. I don’t believe it’s just the new Lord Pet… Missing Finger behind it all.”

‘Lord Missing Finger’ was becoming a popular euphemism, initially bestowed upon him by Lovegood in The Quibbler. Harry suspected that Tom – the one possessing Pettigrew – was fuming about it somewhere. Luna might be safe, but he hoped her father had good wards and an escape plan.

Vincent scowled, and Macmillan didn’t look pleased either.

“What do you think, Potter? Do you agree with me?” Cornfoot asked.

Harry shrugged. “Well… yes. I believe he is.”

“Why don’t you say something publicly, then?”

“Why don’t you?”

“No-one would believe me, and I’m not famous like you are.”

“So is Dumbledore, and almost no-one believes him. He’s the Chief Mugwump of the ICW, Hogwarts’ Headmaster, former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the decorated war hero who defeated Grindelwald. The Ministry and the paper are calling him a senile old man with a dangerous, crackpot delusion,” concluded Harry.

Cornfoot’s brow furrowed in reflective concern.

“So, with all that in mind, what do you think they’d call me?” Harry added.

“Dangerous young Dark wizard with a terrifying talent?” suggested Theodore.

“Deluded child led astray?” volunteered Millicent.

“So desperate for attention he makes up stories about the Dark Lord everyone knows he killed a decade ago?” suggested Vincent.

“Probably all of that,” agreed Harry. “Feel free to say whatever you want, Cornfoot. But I don’t want my name pointlessly dragged through the mud.”

“Some brave Gryffindor you are,” grumbled Cornfoot.

Harry didn’t bother engaging in a pointless argument, and he saw the Slytherins exchange smirking glances as he remained silent. He was already an honorary Slytherin in their eyes – focusing on self-preservation over pointless heroism wasn’t going to lower his image for them. It was a comfort that they accepted him as he was. Too often in Gryffindor he felt he had to put on an act of being a brave and noble hero who wasn’t scared of the spotlight.

In hushed whispers that carefully avoided using the Dark Lord’s pseudonym of ‘Lord Voldemort’ and avoided the contentious topic of his possible continued existence, people moved on to discuss whether Lord Voldemort had ever proven his descent from Salazar Slytherin or not, or just relied on his talent as a Parselmouth as furnishing sufficient proof, which was pretty much all Harry had had to offer up until now.

Harry found himself in the awkward position of feeling obliged to defend the Dark Lord, in the interests of fairness and accuracy. “It was how the snake statues in the Chamber of Secrets recognised the descendants of Slytherin for generations. Corvinus Gaunt was – apart from You-Know-Who – one of the more recent people to visit there. That I know of. It’s not like he took a family tree down. He just presented himself as a Parselmouth, let the snake statues bite him, and that was enough. It’s such a rare talent in the UK that it’s pretty much certain those few who have it are descended from Salazar Slytherin. It might be different for someone with people from India or Australia in their lineage.”

“I heard a rumour that He is – was – related to the Gaunt family somehow,” Daphne said. “Since you are too, Harry, according to the article… I guess that means you are related to him. Which is really weird to think about.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought that through. If others had heard that rumour too, it’d explain some of the nastiness, and the odd looks, from that morning.

“Um, yeah, I guess it does. Still, since he has wizarding ancestors he’s probably related to a lot of pure-bloods and half-bloods, to some degree.”

Everyone looked uniformly disturbed by that idea, and the evening’s chatter swiftly moved on to a more light-hearted discussion of the upcoming Yule Ball.

Chapter Text

25 December 1994

The week before Christmas was a delightful time, despite the heavy load of homework that all the fourth-years had been given. Some Gryffindor students like Ron and Finnegan chose to put off their work for later in favour of the Gobstones Tournament or mucking about with the Weasley twins’ Canary Creams and other experimental sweets. Others like Harry, Neville, and Hermione chose to power through their assignments as quickly as possible so that they could theoretically relax with clear consciences for the rest of the break. When Hermione and Harry started making noises about getting a head start on their Ancient Runes reading, Neville coaxed the two into joining in a snowman-making competition instead, and afterwards they all enjoyed an impromptu snowball fight.

Pansy and Tracey dragged Harry – under protest – to McGonagall’s dancing lessons. Pansy didn’t seem to require the classes and was apparently just enjoying being squired about by Draco. Neville bowed out of the lessons claiming he was already a proficient dancer, but Hermione went along, declaring herself always open to learning something new, and quietly admitting to her friends that she didn’t want to embarrass her date by not knowing any of the steps. She was still keeping mum about who that was, though Harry suspected Brown and Patil knew who her partner was going to be, judging by some conspiratorial whispering between the girls that stopped whenever the boys walked by.

With Rita Skeeter doing a series of articles every day about the powerful and Dark witches and wizards descended from Salazar Slytherin’s line, Harry’s popularity had dimmed somewhat. Harry made a note – literally in some cases, so he wouldn’t forget – of which fair-weather friends were suddenly watching him suspiciously for signs of sudden fits of violence or madness. His least-favourite article speculated about whether Lily Potter may have had some unknown incredible and implicitly Dark powers resulting from her Slytherin heritage. For something had protected her infant son from the formerly unstoppable Killing Curse. His friends banded around to distract and shield him from the insulting and curious questions other students felt at liberty to level at him after gossip about that article took off.

Students weren’t the only ones worried about Harry’s official public recognition as the Heir of Slytherin and his descent from an admittedly rather Dark family. On Christmas morning when everyone in the dorm was rummaging through the piles of presents at the foots of their beds, both Harry and Neville found they had matching gifts from the Headmaster.

“Dumbledore sent me a bag of lemon sherbets,” Harry commented, rather bemused.

“Me too, he has never given me a gift before,” said Neville. “There’s a card too.”

“I got my invisibility cloak one year. That doesn’t count as a gift though, because it should have been mine already since it was my dad’s.”

Harry read through the note in the card, which was identical to Neville’s. “Huh. An invitation to tea in January, to talk about some memories of his of the Gaunt family. That could be… interesting, I guess. Do you think I should go?”

“I will go with you,” Neville promised.

“Thank you,” Harry said gratefully. The Headmaster didn’t scare him like he used to, but he still made Harry a little nervous. “Then I shall write back and accept the invitation. Maybe I should send him a sweet or something as a gift, too. I think I still have some Sugared Butterfly Wings left.”

“Good plan. Oh! New pruning shears washed with gold!” Neville commented excitedly, unwrapping another gift. “Thanks, Harry!”

Harry sighed with relief. “You’re welcome. I worried you might have some already.”

Neville hesitated, and then said, “Well… I do, but they are losing their edge so new ones are most welcome.”

“Oh.”

“Honestly, I truly like them!”

Harry unwrapped his gift from Neville, a set of quills and inkpots, and thanked him politely.

“I was stuck for ideas and did not want to get you something snake-themed like everyone else is likely to do. You do do a lot of writing! There is a pot of invisible ink in there too.”

“It’s great,” Harry promised.

His own gifts for others he’d purchased earlier that year in France had all been delivered by cooperative house-elves who popped around in festive red and green outfits, delivering gifts to and from all the students. They’d dropped off Harry’s gifts of dice games, books on French history, Sugared Butterfly Wings, a limestone dragon statuette for Draco, and a hat for Daphne. He’d supplemented his initial stockpile of gifts bought in France with a few extra sweets from Hogsmeade, and stationery bought from the Muggle-born owned Scribbulus Writing Implements. He’d gotten Muggle brass-tipped fountain pens for Greg and Millicent, with little instructional booklets on how to use them.

His own haul of gifts from friends and assorted admirers included the usual collection of sweets, bookmarks, potions, and clothing accessories (many in green). His favourite random smalls gifts were some non-green woolly gloves – one pair in red, and another in plain black.

He also received an assortment of new snake statuettes for his collection from various admirers and self-proclaimed friends, including one from ‘your friend, Ovid’, and another from the Derrick family, a miniscule creation of rainbow crochet work. It seemed word was spreading that tiny snake figurines were a good trinket to gift him with. It was kind of fun to have a collection, really, and Storm approved.

“They are like tiny hatchlings, like the ssstone ones in the sssecret den. I like them. And they do not eat my food. That is good,” Storm commented approvingly.

The vampire Sanguini had sent him a potions recipe (or ‘receipt’ as he called it) of specific utility for his kind – it helped soothe rare but troublesome digestive upsets. It looked complicated, and the antiquated style of language didn’t help matters. Harry made a mental note to consult Snape about the brewing details. Snape’s own gift was a half dozen empty glass potions vials. The French Potioneer Catherine Monvoisin had sent him a Christmas card wishing him luck in the Triwizard Tournament, with a laughing disclaimer that she hoped he did not have quite as much luck as her countrywoman Fleur, and bemoaning the lack of an international potions brewing tournament.

His two favourite house-elves had sent gifts too; Dobby had sent a hand-knitted bobble hat with multi-coloured stripes and a pom pom on top, and Kreacher had sent a fruit cake that reeked of rum.

Dobby also included an adorable accompanying note.

This does not mean Dobby is sets you free. No matter how many clothes I gives you, you must still be Dobby’s master.

Dobby also shared his and Kreacher’s thanks for the raw supplies to make new togas with, and the Yule gift baskets of snacks. Dobby was especially delighted by the book Harry had sent him, Weldon's Practical Needlework.

The Weasley family had collectively gifted Harry with a hand-knitted purple jumper with a ‘H’ on the front, and a matching scarf, gloves, and warm woollen socks.

Tracey had sent him a second-hand book, entitled A Barefoot Doctor's Manual: A Guide to Traditional Chinese and Modern Medicine. It covered western medical treatments, acupuncture, and Chinese herbal medicine, and was written as a guide for those practicing as doctors with minimal training and without access to modern hospitals.

Draco had – as hinted by Harry – gotten his family to send Harry another blank high-quality journal bound in red leather. This year’s diary had been embossed with the Black family crest rather than the Potter one, however, with two lean dogs flanking a shield emblazoned with a dagger and stars. They’d also sent a box of profiteroles, which ‘Cousin Narcissa’ promised were from the very best Lutetian bakery and were a personal favourite of hers. He munched on one while opening the rest of his presents; the custard inside was creamy and sweet and speckled with miniscule black flecks of vanilla bean, and the pastry was light and airy, topped with a glossy layer of dark chocolate. He meant to save some for later but except for two eaten by Neville, Harry ended up devouring the rest of the box himself as ‘just one more’ kept leading to another after another.

Hermione and Greg had sent a shared gift of a copy of their newly published book, An Introduction to Wizarding Culture for Muggle-borns and Muggles, proudly autographed by the two authors with their best wishes.

Sirius had sent him a mysterious wooden object that at first had Harry mystified. The accompanying note in a Christmas card identified it as a Pinnard’s stethoscope with a semi-permanent listening charm on it – Healers used them instead of the modern Muggle metal stethoscopes. There was also a promise of ‘one language potion of your choice, as requested’ to be acquired when Harry joined him for the second week of the Christmas holidays, as his major gift.

I know you said a language would be more than enough of a gift, but I also wanted to get you something you could unwrap!

Lupin had given Harry the second book in a series entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts series. Harry guessed he knew what the next three gifts from him were going to be! It would be nice to have all five of the books in the series.

The Dursleys had sent an unimpressive but practical twenty pounds in a card, and Dudley had sent a selection of chocolate bars (Harry had sent his cousin sweets too). Dudley had also sent a reply to Harry’s last letter, where Harry had asked whether anyone had been nosing around the Dursley family asking about their family tree.

Mum was all a-twitter that ‘Heritage Monthly’ magazine wanted to write about the Evans family as a ‘prominent and renowned’ Welsh family. She has been digging through old records and photos with some blonde researcher down at the library. I won’t tell her they’re probably a witch. She’d go mental. She already got mad when the lady reckoned there was some link to Indians. The cool redskin kind of Indians, not like Pakis or anything. She said the woman was so rude and wouldn’t listen to how her father’s family is almost all pale skinned with blue eyes and stuff. Mum and I both have blue eyes, even though dad has brown mine are blue so that’s maybe recesive genetics, am I right? Your mum was green, so there must be some other green-eyed people in the tree somewhere, and there can be brown too, right? Because of recesive genetics! I don’t remember what our grandparents eyes were like – that assignment was ages ago. Anyway, I thought it was all cool but mum said it was offensive. There was supposed to be some Indian headband that was in a will or something that would help prove it all, but it got thrown away ages ago and mum reckons it was just a tattered old souveneer anyway.

It sounded to Harry like Rita Skeeter had found the Dursleys and interrogated Aunt Petunia under false pretences.

Theodore’s gift – from himself and his family – had a warning note on the front to open it only in private (which Harry obeyed). Inside was a pristine white robe in a very traditional and plain style – something suitable to wear to rituals.

Lord Voldemort had sent him a gift too (of course he had). It was another one he opened in private, sequestered behind his bed curtains. Harry wondered if it was a faux pas that he wasn’t sending return gifts. He set his jaw stubbornly; he didn’t care! He wasn’t sending Christmas and birthday gifts to his parents’ killer! The Dark Lord would have to be happy with his damn truce.

The Dark Lord had sent a book on blood magic – less temptingly intriguing than his previous gift of a book about magical snakes, but still interesting. And absolutely highly illegal. He decided he’d hide it in the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort had also included a chatty letter, giving Harry’s assignment on banned Healing magic a grade of ‘Exceeds Expectations’, like he was an official Hogwarts teacher! Well, he admittedly had been once, when he’d possessed Professor Quirrell. It still all seemed odd to Harry.

He’d been marked down for not including any mention for or against Haruspicy – the divinatory art of sacrificing an animal and diagnosing a human patient’s illness by examining its entrails. Out of favour for a couple of centuries, Voldemort said the ritual had been officially banned in the late forties, cancelling the last remaining exemption to the laws against animal sacrifice.

As a gift to himself Harry planned to spend Christmas day in a glorious indulgence of absolutely no studying. Apart from having to write a bunch of thank you letters, his time was otherwise frittered away in frivolous pursuits. He stuffed himself full to bursting on turkey, roast vegetables, and thick slices of clove-studded ham at the morning’s feast and fed Storm the live white mouse that had popped out of his impressively loud Christmas cracker.

“What are you reading about, Harry?” Hermione asked, over their indulgent Christmas breakfast.

“Just something for fun; one of my books I picked up in Paris that I haven’t had much of a chance to read yet. It’s all about plagues in the wizarding world,” Harry said. “It’s really engrossing. Did you know infants who die before their first birthday traditionally aren’t recorded on their House’s family tree?”

“I didn’t! How fascinating!” Hermione said, fishing out a notebook and jotting the factoid down immediately. “I suppose you know there are magical diseases that don’t affect Muggles?”

“Naturally! Isn’t it interesting? I do wonder if it’s a potential avenue for testing for magical ability, somehow! I’d love to figure out if magical heritage or ability is something you can determine with a microscope, or some kind of genetic study; if wizards and witches are detectably different to normal humans and that’s why we have different diseases that affect only us.

“My other theory is that maybe the magical germs feed on the magic of the people they infect, and thus just aren’t attracted to Muggles. Like how fairies are attracted to magic, and usually leave Muggles alone. It’s just a guess, of course.”

They chatted for a while about the magical plagues that only affected the magically talented and spared Muggles, the mundane plagues that the magically talented were resistant or immune to, the lack of surgery in wizarding medicine leading to more early deaths amongst adults, and the impact of vaccination – or a lack thereof – on the infant death rate in particular.

“Just what you want to hear about over breakfast on Christmas morning,” complained Ron, picking up his heavily loaded plate and shuffling away from them to sit further down the table. “Suppurating boils and dead children.”

Harry spent the rest of the day reading for pleasure rather than for study or for a project (like finding a cure for Sirius), frolicking in the thick snow with friends, and playing a bunch of games of Jactus.

A couple of fellow students caught up with him to give him small trinkets as gifts; especially those he knew from his extracurricular activities such as Potter Watch and the H.E.L.P. Society. He was prepared for such eventualities with a handful of Chocolate Frogs and some Sugared Butterfly Wings tucked into his satchel. Most were happy with a fairly swift exchange of tokens and good wishes, but some wanted to linger. Mafalda Prewett was the most persistent of his well-wishers and wanted to take Harry aside somewhere private for their exchange of gifts.

Hermione was rolling her eyes at the girl’s antics when Mafalda wasn’t looking, clearly wanting to get back to working on a snow fort, and Neville looked quietly amused at Harry’s predicament.

“It would not be proper to meet alone without a chaperone,” Harry insisted, taking refuge in formality with stiff-backed pure-blood propriety.

Mafalda’s eyes went wide and then she snorted through her nose, unable to suppress a chuckle.

“Oh my god, I’m eleven and dating you? Ew. No. I don’t even like you like that, Harold. No offence. I just said what I did because Ginny was being so totally stupid.”

“Oh!” Harry said, relieved by her un-Slytherin bluntness. “So, what did you want to meet in private for?”

“Well that’s private,” she said insistently. “If I tell you in front of your friends, it won’t be private anymore. Are you sure you want them knowing something I think you might not want them knowing?” Her eyes widened warningly. “You can tell them all about it afterwards if I’m wrong.”

“I can’t see what you could have to say that needs that kind of secrecy,” Hermione sniffed, “but it’s up to Harry, of course.”

Neville looked shiftier, knowing more of Harry’s secrets than Hermione did. He just shrugged and nodded to Harry.

Harry led Mafalda away from his friends – but still in sight of them to meet the demands of etiquette – and they swapped gifts.

“Ice Mice?” he asked, after unwrapping his small gift of sweets and a Christmas card with a nativity scene. “Thank you. It’s not really a gift that uh… needs a tête-à-tête, though?”

“No. Thanks for the chocolate. Look, I have gossip, juicy gossip you need to hear, and I think you should owe me a favour for it.”

“Still getting used to the Slytherin need for subtlety in these matters, huh?” Harry asked dryly.

She flushed. “Sorry. Yes. It’s true, though.”

“The thing is, it works on trust, really. Unless there’s an Unbreakable Vow in play, it’s all an honour-based system,” Harry explained. “Usually rather casual, formalised more in adulthood especially if you’re in a patron-client relationship. Promises or vows are made more official by swearing on your House’s honour, or by Merlin, or on the River Styx, though that latter oath has fallen out of fashion. I don’t think I’ve actually heard anyone use it in real life.”

Harry shook his head to shake thoughts of Ambrosius loose and get back on track. “Anyway, my point is that you may as well share information and then bicker about what’s owed afterwards, if you think someone’s being stingy with their proffered recompense.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” she agreed. “Still, no harm in emphasizing how important it is, right? Because it is!”

“Yeah, that part was alright.”

“So, it’s about your friend Malfoy. He lied to you; he wasn’t sick at all on Yule,” she whispered dramatically.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I figured he wasn’t.” It had been pretty obvious, really. There wasn’t much Madam Pomfrey couldn’t cure within minutes, and Draco had been perfectly fine the next day. Lying to chicken out of having to sacrifice another duck was the most obvious explanation.

Mafalda slumped. “You knew already? That his father told him to get you to go in his place?”

“What? No!”

“It’s true!” Mafalda said, perking back up. “I saw the draft of his letter back to his father, when he got distracted for a moment. He wanted to know why his father wanted you to be in charge of the boys when you probably wouldn’t even want to do it. He was complaining about how he didn’t want to miss out on leading the first Yule ceremony at Hogwarts in years, and how pretending that he was scared of killing an animal was going to be humiliating and he wasn’t scared of doing that at all, no matter what his mother had to say about his delicate stomach.”

“You really read his mail?”

Mafalda waved a careless hand. “It’s alright, he didn’t catch me at it. I just cast a quiet Gemino Curse and made a copy of it to read in private. Smooth as silk, I swear!”

“You know that curse already? You read people’s mail?! Draco really said that?” Harry’s head was awhirl. Was it true? It sounded true. What motivation could she have to lie about that – was a favour worth such a lie?

“He really did. I can’t show you the copy of his letter because it faded away, of course. Hermione taught it to me so I could copy stuff in the library, then got cross I learnt it so fast. So rude. Like she can’t do it better than me anyway – her copies last for six hours.”

“I only learnt it in third year.”

“They should teach it in first year,” Mafalda said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s easy. And pure-bloods come to school knowing a bunch of spells already, I don’t want to be behind.

"And yes, I read people’s mail if an opportunity arises, and I eavesdrop on conversations sometimes too for blackmail material, but I have to,” Mafalda whined defensively. “And I only do that to bigots and bullies, I don’t do it to friends; I wouldn’t do it to you, Harold. You don’t know what it’s like, being a half-blood daughter of a Muggle and a Squib, sorted into Slytherin! The House of Prewett won’t even acknowledge me. Being Christian doesn’t help either. I wish I’d been sorted into Ravenclaw, sometimes. Some people in Slytherin are nice, of course, but some are horrible and some days bullies make everything seem so bad it’s hard to remember the good stuff.”

She looked so downcast that Harry couldn’t help but sympathise. He’d been where she was now. If the Daily Prophet kept up its damn series of articles on all the Dark witches and wizards he was related to, he might be there again one day too, or if he failed miserably in the Triwizard Tournament.

“It’s okay, I understand. And sure, I’ll owe you a small favour for the information. Even though I don’t like it. Just… don’t take that as encouragement to go reading people’s mail again. Draco’s a friend.”

“Is he really, though?” she asked.

He had no quick answer for her but eventually said that he was.

His afternoon wasn’t quite as light-hearted and carefree as his morning.

-000-

Eventually it was time for the boys to get ready for the Yule Ball. Most of the girls had disappeared earlier, for some reason. Probably they needed to fuss more over their hair, Harry guessed. Tiny boxed corsages were dispatched to their dates, delivered by the Christmas-clad house-elves. Harry hoped Tracey would like hers; he’d consulted with Greg about the perfect flowers to communicate the right message.

When Harry emerged from his dorm that evening, he felt very resplendent in his soft woollen dress robes, and very Gryffindor. Saffron yellow with swirling red embroidery on the sleeves and yoke, it was complemented by a belt so thick with golden embroidery and tiny garnet beads that you could barely glimpse the fabric underneath. He’d used a Colour-Change Charm to temporarily recolour his rectangular silver glasses frames a soft metallic gold, to match his outfit.

While he was dreading having to do the opening dance in front of everyone, he was otherwise feeling good about the upcoming ball.

Others, however, weren’t so happy about their outfits and the evening to come.

Ron was gazing dismally at his reflection in the mirror in the corner of their dorm room. He looked positively ghastly; an outfit worthy of the Dursleys’ early practice of dressing Harry in cast-off clothing only good for rags. Harry would be the first to admit he was no fashion expert, but Daphne and Pansy had done their best to educate him. Even he could tell that Ron’s long, maroon dress robes looked very out of date. The colour was faded, and bedraggled scraps of a mouldy-looking lace frill still clung to the collar and cuffs. It looked like someone had hastily hacked off most of the lace with a rusty knife, leaving bits behind and a lot of frayed fabric with loose threads. There was also a scattering of ginger cat hairs on the robe, like Ron had let his pet cat nap on his robe and hadn’t bothered to have it laundered.

“Merlin, what happened to your robes? Was it your cat?” Ron’s pet Kneazle did have its moments and had sharpened its claws on the dorm’s furniture more than once.

“What?” Ron said, glancing down. “Oh, the lace? No, that wasn’t Kyle, it was me.”

“Ah,” Harry said, mouth snapping shut in a thin, apologetic line.

Ron winced, and looked away. “They are all I have. But the lace was…” he said, trailing off and making a face. He gestured at the tattered mouldy remains in wordless explanation. “So, I cut it off.”

“I do not wish to cause any offence,” Harry started, as diplomatically as he could, “but if you would like to borrow a spare set of dress robes while you have yours mended, I have some that might suit?”

Ron smiled briefly, then slumped. “Well, that is very kind of you to offer, but I am a fair bit taller than you. I do not think your old robes would fit me, Harry.”

“Well, a charm might fix that, but no, I had something else in mind. I have some old dress robes of my father’s in my trunk, if you want to try them on? I mean, they’re not going to look perfect, and are rather plain, but the fabric’s good quality?”

Ron let out a relieved huff of breath so strong his head rocked forward as he breathed out. “That. Sounds. Amazing. Thank you so much! Dean’s my size, but he only had the one set of good robes.”

They had to hurry as Harry couldn’t be late to the Yule Ball or Tracey would no doubt want to murder him. A set of plain burgundy formal robes was hastily and delightedly selected by Ron, who swiftly changed and hurried off to meet his date outside the Hufflepuff dorm.

-000-

The Entrance Hall was packed with students waiting for the doors to open for the start of the Yule Ball, many milling around trying to find their dates.

First of all, Harry dropped Storm off with Millicent; she was his designated snake-sitter for the first dance of the evening, which McGonagall had insisted had to be snake-free, despite Storm’s translated pleas to be allowed to join in the dancing. The other dances were at Harry’s discretion, bearing in mind his professor’s injunction to ‘not cause a scene’.

That task accomplished, Harry pushed through the crowd to reach Tracey, who was dressed in shimmering floor-length gold lamé formal robes with accents of emerald-green lace. Harry thought it was all a bit too shiny but then, his own saffron robes were very dressy, with actual garnets sewn on the belt looped around his waist. The yellow tones in their outfits matched, and Harry thought they looked rather Christmassy together.

Draco and Pansy were waiting with her; Draco was wearing high-necked black velvet robes, while Pansy’s were a pale pink that suited her pale skin and dark hair; they would’ve looked lovely if not for all the unnecessary frills, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry bowed a low, textbook-perfect greeting to Tracey as he greeted her (as drilled by Pansy at the dancing lessons), and tucked his nominal date’s hand into the crook of his elbow, ready to escort her in.

Watching students who hadn’t heard the gossip about his selection of partner murmured in interest. Tracey preened under the attention, while Harry plastered on his best Lockhart-smile and tried not to look discomposed by the people pointing and talking about him.

“Thank you for the corsage,” Tracey said politely, touching the little cluster of yellow blossoms of stock paired with a backing of fern fronds. “What does the flora represent? I believe there are a few meanings?”

“Stock for bonds of friendship, and to say, ‘You’ll always be beautiful to me.’ Fern represents both magic and shelter. To let you know that I look after my friends, and to be a reminder of the magic that connects and unifies us all,” Harry explained.

“Lovely!” she said. “Thank you again, Harry.”

As the doors opened Harry and the other two school champions were allowed to squeeze to the front of the pack, along with their dates. Fleur Delacour looked resplendent in silver-grey satin robes and was accompanied by Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain whom Harry knew only slightly from the SQuid meetings at the start of the year. He looked positively dazed by the sight of his date, and after his initial glance Harry carefully kept his gaze away from her, and his mind filled with calming ocean waves.

Viktor Krum, walking just behind his Headmaster, Professor Karkaroff, led a procession of Durmstrang students and their partners. Krum’s unannounced and much-anticipated date was none other than Hermione. The bulk of her dark-brown curly hair had been tamed back into a sleek knot at the back of her head leaving only the curls of her fringe behind, and she was clad in formal robes of a delicate, floaty fabric in a shade of periwinkle-blue that suited her light-brown skin. She smiled happily – if a little nervously – when she spotted Harry and Tracey, and if her front teeth were perhaps a little large, it didn’t really detract from her overall lovely appearance. At least, Krum didn’t seem to think so, beaming down at her like he couldn’t believe his luck to have her on his arm. Harry instantly thought better of Krum that he was so enraptured by Hermione even with Delacour within their line of sight.

Krum was wearing what looked like a traditional Bulgarian outfit; a white shirt heavily embroidered with red flowers, a red and black sleeveless bolero jacket, black trousers, and a very broad red sash around his waist. A fur-lined cape and a black cap topped off the outfit.

Once everyone had moved into the Hall murmuring gossip about the champions and their dates gave way to applause (under McGonagall’s direction) as the three couples entered first, heading for the top of the dance floor, near a large table where the judges and some of the teachers were already seated. The hall that evening truly deserved the appellation of magical. The walls of the Great Hall were covered in sparkling silver frost, and the starry ceiling was festooned with garlands of mistletoe and ivy. The house tables had been replaced with a scattering of smaller ones around the borders of the room, lit with silver lanterns giving off a pale blue light, with a few sprigs of holly tied with ribbons decoratively next to each light.

Looking at the large fir tree in a corner, Harry thought that Branstone must have won the battle on the angel ornaments, for it didn’t appear to have any. However, the glimmering silver star at the top was still in place. Its primary Christmas decorations of live fairies twinkled and flitted happily among the green needles, which were decorated with unmelting icicles and presumably enchanted candles, like the non-drip ones that usually lit Hogwarts’ dark corridors and halls. The scent of pine permeated the whole hall, a soft, Christmassy smell. Harry thought it was all truly wonderful, and getting to experience it was worth the cost of having to dance.

As couples found each other and their places, assembling around the ballroom in lines of six couples, a string quartet with an accompanying harpist and recorder player struck up the first notes of the opening dance, a minuet. Harry thought it might be the same group of musicians from the Malfoys' ball over summer, but with the pianist now playing a wooden recorder instead, with mellow notes rather than the piercing squeaks he remembered from primary school lessons on plastic recorders.

Students moved to dance, looking more adult than ever in their lavish finery, and a handful of teachers (in their own separate dance set) moved in the graceful figures of the minuet, touching hands and circling around in careful patterns.

Harry handed Tracey over to Draco for the second dance, with a distant air (thinking of Draco’s letter to his father) and went and found Millicent, reclaiming Storm and politely inviting his friend to dance the Quadrille with him if she was free.

“I would be most happy to,” she agreed, wearing a surprised smile. “I thought you would only dance with Tracey and Pansy – and perhaps Luna – and call it a night.”

Harry shook his head. “I am under strict instructions from Pansy and Tracey to dance as much as possible since I am representing Hogwarts. And, well… after McGonagall’s lessons I can dance a bit better now. Hopefully I won’t embarrass you.”

He did make a few errors with his footwork, but the Quadrille was – in Harry’s opinion – one of the better dances as you could often copy what those among the other three couples in the square were doing. In this case the other couples in the group were older students proficient in the steps, which both helped his imitation and made him feel self-conscious about his poorer level of skill. Still, it wasn’t too bad.

He danced a lively polka next with Pansy and seized the opportunity to chat to her afterwards as they took a moment to get a cup of spiced punch from the refreshments table before the next dance began.

“So cousin, help me out with a point of etiquette, please,” Harry began, as a couple across the room caught his eye. “Would it be socially acceptable to warn Theodore to treat Luna well? She looks… so happy. I just wouldn’t want to see her hurt, you know? If this is social climbing rather than affection, I would rather he, well, I would rather he didn’t. Date her.”

“I would ask if you were jealous, but I know better,” Pansy said. “For what my opinion is worth I believe he is genuinely fond of her but how serious in his intentions he is, I cannot judge. You are not an acknowledged relation of the Lovegoods – any familial link there is very tenuous indeed, so you cannot negotiate on her behalf or set rules about who she permits to court her. However, as her patron you could give a gentle reminder to him to act with propriety lest your House take it ill.”

“Okay!” Harry said brightly.

“Do not omit a reference to being her patron,” Pansy warned, “for the sake of eavesdroppers more than the couple themselves. Those who know you less well than I might think you jealous, rather than acting as a concerned friend.”

Pansy glanced around the room, before asking with a mischievous smile, “Are you going to warn Krum to treat Hermione right, too? Anyone else? Does Draco get a warning he must be nice to me?”

Harry hmphed unhappily. “I can’t warn everyone. That would look silly. I trust you and Hermione to look after yourselves if need be. I am not so sure about Luna.”

“Do you know how Hermione ended up with Krum?” Pansy asked.

Harry shook his head. “Not a clue. Except… they did talk a bit at the last H.E.L.P. meeting. Chatting about house-elves and other magical creatures. I think he wrote her an essay?”

A peal of delighted laughter rang out from Pansy in response. “Ah, essays! The very food of love!”

Pansy’s giggles continued even as Draco came over to claim her hand for the French Waltz, the supper set. He was accompanied by Tracey, Neville and Patil, and Hermione and Krum.

Harry gazed a little coldly at Draco as he had been all evening, which made Pansy giggle more when she caught it.

“Remember, you cannot warn everyone,” she teased amidst her giggles, not knowing the real cause for his glower; the gossip Mafalda had relayed to Harry.

“Hello everyone! You know Viktor Krum, of course,” Hermione said, opting for a polite but casual introduction.

“Goot evenink,” Krum said, after the round of return introductions were made. “I em pleaset to meet more of Hermione’s friends.”

A spot of small talk about how lovely the Great Hall looked was exchanged before the girls got down to the important business – gossip gathering.

“So, this has been kept rather quiet,” Pansy said, gesturing to Hermione and Krum. “Are you officially dating, or just a couple for the ball?”

Hermione looked uncertainly towards Krum, saying, “Maybe? I think we’re dating?”

Krum agreed, adding, “Yes, I em hopink so. We shall see how dis evenink goes first den talk; it is still beink new for us. I em be happy to keep company wit Hermione some more. It is keepink quiet not because I em not serious, but because I do not like de attention of gossip end de reporters.”

While the two Slytherin girls and Patil asked Krum curious probing questions about when and how he’d started seeing Hermione, and Draco and Neville eavesdropped quietly, Hermione drew Harry aside for a hasty whispered chat.

“Are you alright with me dating Viktor?” she checked, biting her lip anxiously. “I know he’s the Durmstrang champion, but really, it’s got nothing to do with the Tournament at all. You can trust me not to blab about your strategies or say anything to him.

“Did you know I was seeing him? Is that why you didn’t ask me to help you research the next clue? He asked me to promise not to say anything to anyone before the Yule Ball – he really is terribly shy and didn’t want to deal with the gossip,” she babbled.

“Oh Merlin, it’s alright, Hermione, take a breath. I just honestly needed a break from studying for the Tournament, that’s all, and I didn’t know a thing about you and Krum. I know you will be careful with what you say; I trust you.”

Hermione’s blooming look of relief said everything for her, but that didn’t stop her from babbling her thanks anyway. “I’m so glad! You wouldn’t believe some people – a couple of people even hissed that I was a ‘traitor to Hogwarts’, can you believe it?”

“Sadly, I can. People are strange, sometimes. Say, would you have a dance free after supper? I’ve reserved the Boulanger for Luna, but I have the fifth free, if you want to? You don’t have to – you can turn me down and I won’t tell, if you’re worried about etiquette.”

“Sorry, my dance card is full. I have the fifth with Dean – Thomas, that is – and the sixth reserved for Neville. Why don’t you ask Delacour to dance? It would set a good example of inter-school cooperation to ask, even if she’s not free!” she enthused.

“She scares me.”

“She scares half the school. Be a Gryffindor!”

“Alright, alright,” Harry grumbled. “I’ll ask her after the waltz.”

During his second dance with Tracey, she gave Harry a discreet squeeze of her hand on his shoulder at one point as they waltzed around the Hall, eyes flicking to one side. Glancing around Harry noticed they were passing by Anthony Goldstein and some of his friends, standing to the side of the dancefloor. Anthony was watching the two of them together with great intensity.

“May I tell you again how lovely you look this evening, Tracey?” Harry said, a little louder than usual. He probably should’ve said something like that earlier, but he’d forgotten. Oops. “Your robes are truly beautiful. I’m so glad you were free to accompany me to the ball this evening.”

“Thank you! You look very handsome this evening, too,” she replied sweetly. Her loving look would’ve bothered him if he hadn’t known she was just putting on an act for Anthony’s sake.

The distracting flashes from a couple of cameras suggested others watching had found it a photogenic moment. Harry maintained his manufactured smile and wondered how the picture would come out. Wizarding cameras were odd, and if developed properly the resulting animated photos tended to preserve how people felt at the moment the photo was taken as much as they did how the subjects looked and acted.

Harry led Tracey off the dancefloor to the top table for dinner, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm. A trickle of teachers who’d joined in the French Waltz ambled that way too. Professor Hagrid – reeking of some overly pungent cologne that made Harry’s eyes water – led Madame Maxime to her seat, pulling it clumsily out for her, and Dumbledore in his typical lurid robes was politely escorting Professor Sprout off the dance floor after their dance together. Harry thought his headmaster’s level of eye-watering colour was eclipsed today by the sight of Professor McGonagall in red tartan dress robes, with thistles adorning her hat, being accompanied by Ludo Bagman in vivid purple robes with yellow stars.

Harry paused when he caught sight of Delacour and her enraptured partner, Davies. She didn’t appear to be in a terribly good mood and didn’t appear to be as enamoured of her date as she had been at the start of the evening.

Harry mentally braced himself and asked, “Miss Delacour, are you free for the fifth? I understand your dance card might be full, however, I thought I would ask for the pleasure of your company for a dance.”

“Zat is kind of you to ask, ‘owever, I ‘ave received many offers to dance zis evening, and many compliments on my beauty. Why should I accept your invitation, Mister Potter?” she asked.

The full force of her attention hit him like a hammer blow, as she flicked her lustrous golden tresses over her shoulder with one beautifully manicured hand.

“I thought it would be a good… that is… both of us being champions…” Harry started, finding it hard to keep his train of thought. He felt the urgent need to impress her and prove what a good partner he’d make for her.

“Because I am rich and powerful and smart, and the Heir to three Houses, and Merlin himself tutors me in magical theory,” he explained, in a dazed voice.

Titters of laughter echoing around him helped him regain his mental focus as he determinedly filled his mind with the sight and sound of ocean waves crashing on the shoreline. “Sorry. Forget I said that. I simply thought dancing a reel together might set a good example of inter-school fellowship. That’s all. There was no need to do… that to me.” He risked a disapproving glance at Fleur. “You could’ve just said no.”

With his very quick glance at Fleur, he noted that she wasn’t one of the ones laughing at him, which was something. She was probably used to enthralled people making fools of themselves in front of her.

“I am sorry, I cannot ‘elp it, alas. I already try ze best I can, but in some situations ze allure creeps out despite my efforts,” she apologized. “It is good zat you can focus as much as you can. I accept your invitation.”

“But I want you to dance with me again,” Davies objected jealously. “You’re my date!”

“I ‘ave danced twice wis you already, zat is enough,” she replied curtly.

“But you’ll dance with me again when the formal dancing ends and the Weird Sisters are performing?” he pleaded.

“I suppose so,” she agreed, a little grudgingly, as she distractedly made a note on her dance card to reserve the Scottish Reel for Potter. “Ze formalities will no longer apply zen.”

Professor Slughorn was chatting amiably with Professor Sinistra as the couples reached the table. Percy seemed eager to greet Harry but cut himself off swiftly to cede the honour to Slughorn first.

“Capital dancing this evening! Capital! I hope you have enjoyed it, and yes, we’ve arranged for the Weird Sisters to perform until midnight!”

He lowered his voice to continue in vaguely conspiratorial tones, “Dumbledore did favour a more modern Yule Ball, but I won him over! He is rather partial to a waltz, you know, and once I got Minerva on my side she soon talked him ‘round.”

“What a good idea, sir, I do love a ball,” Harry lied.

Hermione ignored Harry (and almost everyone else) as she sat down, eager to talk to Newt Scamander who was seated fortuitously close to where she and Krum had been placed. She waffled enthusiastically about her and Greg’s newly published book, engaging the shy old man in a conversation about the wizarding publishing industry. Krum – somewhat to Harry’s surprise – didn’t look offended by his dinner partner’s neglect and was watching her with a soft expression in his eyes.

Harry thought that all three champions were perhaps a little alike in being tired out by too much attention.

“Thank you! We have tried to please those with musical tastes both old and new this evening, with a mix of classical music for the ball and modern music and dancing afterwards. I don’t mind a modern song from time to time myself you know,” Slughorn continued, “and the Weird Sisters have some catchy tunes; I quite like ‘Magic Works’. However, I am more partial to Celestina Warbeck. The fashions of young wizards these days! I remember Tremlett – one of their guitar players – from Hogwarts. He would not have dreamt of setting foot in public in deliberately torn robes back when he was a student! Such an odd fashion he has now, perhaps he introduced it from the Muggles? He is Muggle-born.”

“I believe some Muggle rock bands wear torn clothes on purpose,” Harry explained politely. “It is not a widespread fashion and I would not advise emulating it.” He was put under some pressure to keep a straight face at the mental image of Professor Slughorn trying to blend in with Muggles, wearing ripped jeans and a voluminous torn t-shirt.

Slughorn exclaimed again over the oddity of Muggle fashion again, before ending with, “Well, I shall leave you two to find your places for dinner. And I believe young Weasley has some news he is eager to impart to you, Potter!” He winked jovially at the young man.

Percy had indeed been hovering, politely waiting his turn. He looked rather spiffy in brand-new navy-blue formal robes. Harry had barely finished introducing Tracey to him when Percy burst out with his news.

“I’m officially the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation!” he announced proudly. “It was just announced a few days ago.”

Harry gave him a congratulatory handshake. “Oh wow, that’s amazing news, Percy! You and your family must all be thrilled!”

“I’m the youngest Departmental Head since 1742, and she was the daughter of the current Minister, so it is quite the accomplishment!”

Tracey also shook his hand and congratulated him, putting on her most charming pure-blood manners, minus the bowing and mentions of titles, since there were so many disapproving teachers watching.

Percy positively basked in their praise, and his token modest comment about how “there are many fine people helping me learn my role, for I am still new to the position” seemed more designed to fish for additional compliments than stemming from any genuine feeling of inadequacy. Harry hoped his friend’s confidence in himself wasn’t misplaced. His superb results in the NEWT exams suggested he might indeed be up to the challenge, if he could learn the ropes fast enough.

“Is Clearwater here with you this evening?” Tracey asked Percy, after their praises had trickled to a halt.

“Ah… no, I’m afraid not,” Percy said, fidgeting with the stiff collar of his robe. “Alas we are no longer courting.”

Harry remembered hearing about that, but couldn’t remember why they’d broken up, if he’d even been told. “Was it… about your father? Or the… danger in general?” Harry asked carefully.

“No, not at all,” Percy assured them. “Nothing dramatic. We merely held some differences of opinion in regard to my career choices. She is a rather modern witch and disapproved of me formally acknowledging a few witches and wizards as patrons. Frankly, it is rather a necessity to getting ahead in the Ministry, which was vital for my family’s sake as much as my own.”

“Um, did I cause any…?” Harry started, then trailed off. Was he one of Percy’s patrons, or not? Was Percy’s social standing higher than his own? He was an adult with a very prestigious job, after all, while Harry was just a student, and of less ‘pure’ blood, not that that should count for anything but for many people it did anyway. Harry was, on the other hand, the Heir to multiple Houses, which Percy decidedly was not. And he was probably richer.

“Oh no! Not you, she likes you well enough, Harry, and we two have no official arrangement of any kind. Though I like to think of you as a friend and ally of similar standing to myself; an amicus? We can look out for each other as occasions arise to provide assistance. Not counting any assistance for the Triwizard Tournament, naturally, where alas I am duty bound to remain strictly impartial to all competitors.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds good to me, Percy.”

They shook on it to their mutual satisfaction, and Harry and Tracey finally got to sit down and order their dinners from enchanted menus. Harry guessed that some kind of listening charm relayed their orders to the kitchen house-elves, so he made sure to thank them when he requested the roast chicken.

After dinner, Harry waited for Delacour who was lingering over dessert, ready to escort her out to dance the Scotch Reel. A plan which seemed to meet with general approval from all the adults at their table, except for Marchbanks and Karkaroff.

Marchbanks simply seemed utterly disinterested in who was dancing with who.

Karkaroff, on the other hand, cared but was judgemental. He grumpily pointed out that Krum and Delacour had danced together much earlier in the evening, and Krum had danced with many students not from his own school, compared to Harry’s sole exception.

“Not everything is a competition,” McGonagall pointed out testily.

 “Is it not? Some would say that life itself is a competition. In any case I was merely sharing an observation. Your boy is not doing anything especially remarkable that others have not done before him, and more gracefully.” He gestured out at the dancefloor, where indeed there was a good deal of inter-school mixing going on. Harry saw one of the Weasley twins leading the potions-loving Durmstrang girl, Rosen, onto the dancefloor, while Susan danced with Ericksen.

Thomas was leading out his dark-skinned Beauxbatons date again for another dance, which would be regarded as scandalously enthusiastic amongst those who fussed about such etiquette. Harry knew Greg would be having a heart attack over it – it was their third dance, and that was just the few times Harry had noticed them. It might be even more.

“I believe you have this dance reserved for me, Minerva? I have so been looking forward to it,” Slughorn interrupted smoothly, leading away McGonagall who gave him a rather pleased smile at his flattery.

Harry and Fleur were almost ready to make their own escape to the dance floor when Dumbledore caught Harry for a quick word.

“I do hope I’ll see you after the holidays for tea?” he checked.

“Yes, sir, I would be happy to accept your invitation. Oh, and thank you for the sweets. I’m going to do all my Christmas thank you notes tomorrow.”

Dumbledore beamed approvingly at him. “Marvellous!”           

“What was zat about?” Fleur asked curiously, as they went and found a few other couples to form a circle with.

“Have you seen the articles in the Daily Prophet?” he asked, and she nodded. “Well, he wants to share some information about some relatives with me. Some memories of people from the Gaunt family. Very distant relations, but the only… well, a few of the only people in Britain known to also be Parselmouths. It should be interesting.”

It made Harry wonder about things, as he carefully avoided mentioning that the Dark Lord was also a Parselmouth. No need to draw attention to that. How closely was the Dark Lord related to the Gaunts? Did Dumbledore plan to talk about that, in their meeting?

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Harry mused to himself. He’s a half-blood, that’s known – though not widely known. What’s the other half of his family? Gaunt? Riddle’s not a wizarding family name. Yes, this meeting could be very interesting indeed.

Delacour gave Harry a combination of praise and criticism at the end of their dance. “You have ze good spirit, but your euh... foot movement needs a lot of work and you forgot many of ze steps. You should not invite a lady to dance unless you actually know ze dance.”

“I’m so sorry, I did my best,” Harry apologised.

She smiled. “I know you did. I can, at least, sank you for being ze gentleman while we danced.”

Harry blinked, uncertain as to what exactly he was being thanked for. Presumably his attention to etiquette. “You are most welcome, I always try to be one. Thank you for the dance.” He escorted her off the dance floor with careful courtesy and minimal eye contact as she held onto his arm.

The Boulanger with Luna was Harry’s final formal dance of the evening, and Creevey seemed to have chosen to sit this one out in favour of zipping around everywhere taking photos of everyone, who were dancing in rings. Harry hadn’t noticed Creevey dancing with anyone all night. Perhaps the energetic third-year – too young to attend the ball without an older partner – had been engaged by Professor Slughorn to take photos of the occasion, like he’d arranged from time to time for Slug Club meetings.

The ‘Weird Sisters’ took the stage over after the formal dancing was completed around ten in the evening. They looked very different indeed to the previous group, in their artfully ripped black robes and startling make-up, and carried an eclectic mix of instruments including guitars, a lute, and bagpipes. They got an enthusiastic welcome of loud cheers and whistles from many students that dwarfed the polite applause that everyone had granted the classical ensemble.

“Do you want to dance again?” Luna asked him optimistically, as the band struck up ‘Do The Hippogriff’. A lot of students started doing a weird dance full of strutting and bowing that reminded Harry vaguely of the ‘Chicken Dance’ he’d learnt in primary school.

“I thought only the wizards were supposed to ask?”

“Technically, but I think that’s a silly rule. Besides, this isn’t old-fashioned dancing so I think we can do what we like now.”

Thankfully, Harry escaped a second dance as he saw Theodore approaching with the obvious intent to whisk Luna away into the bobbing throng.

Harry intercepted him and grasped him by the elbow, leading him away from where Luna was waiting.

“Theodore. As Luna’s patron, before you take my client away for another dance, I would like to know exactly why you are courting her?” he asked abruptly. There wasn’t really time to beat around the bush, as they could be interrupted at any moment.

His skinny almost-friend looked startled but not offended, to Harry’s relief. “Why would I not? She is gentle and kind, with intelligence and an endless curiosity about magic and magical creatures. She is a loyal friend, and so innocent I want to protect her from the world that has been so cruel to her already and harmed her sweet soul.”

It was surprisingly sappy.

“Will your parents approve of her? If you’re not going to stand by her, best to say so now. I don’t want to see her hurt,” Harry said, a warning note in his voice as he glared at Theodore. He knew Nott senior was a harsh man that his own son was scared of – he didn’t want to see Luna harmed, or to see Theodore cast Luna aside due to parental disapproval, like Anthony had so recently done to Tracey. Tracey had spent half the night so far covertly keeping an eye on Anthony while trying not to look like she was interested in him in the slightest.

“Luna is a pure-blood and related to the Malfoys a few generations back and has decent connections; that should suffice. In personality she is about as far from father as it is possible to get, which I see as a good thing but which admittedly might cause clashes. If so, rest assured I shall guard her from any possible unkindness that may arise.”

Luna wandered up to them both, looking curiously from one to the other.

“Your patron here was just warning me to treat you right. Which I will of course do,” Theodore promised.

“That is so sweet,” Luna said, her lip wobbling with emotion as she smiled. “Not many people would worry about that. It is so nice to have friends.”

“Come on, Miss Hippogriff!” Theodore called, tugging on her hand to lead her away into the dance, and making her laugh.

His duty done and his anxiety quashed for now, Harry looked around for his other friends. Hermione and Neville were both out on the dancefloor with their partners, Pansy and Daphne were gossiping and watching Tracey who seemed to be having a no-doubt awkward conversation with Anthony. Harry was going to stay well away from that unless someone said they needed him to help.

Harry saw Draco wasn’t dancing either – he was nibbling on a petit four and wearing a maliciously gleeful expression, standing next to Blaise Zabini observing a spot of drama. Zabini had his arm around Ginny Weasley’s waist, and a taunting, smug expression on his face as he argued with Ron, who looked red-faced with anger.

Looking around for a friend to talk to in a less volatile situation, Harry spotted Greg standing to one side of the dance floor in his moss-green formal robes, watching his friend Vincent dancing with Millicent. Harry wandered over to greet him, as a safer option to mingle with right now.

“Good evening, Greg.”

“Good evening, Harry. He is too old for her, don’t you think?” Greg said, gazing out at the dancers without turning to look at Harry. “It isn’t right.”

“Vincent? They’re the same age, aren’t they?” Harry wondered if Vincent had repeated a year. He was very tall and large, just like Greg. “Is he trying to woo Millicent away from you? I thought you two were just going as friends, anyway.”

“Not him. They are just dancing, it does not mean anything. Look behind them… I am speaking of Krum. He is an adult wizard and she is only fifteen. A man like him probably has witches hexing each other to spend time with him. He will toy with her affections and then discard her,” Greg grumbled, brow furrowed with anger. “She is too young. How he holds her when they dance is not strictly proper.”

Oh, he means Hermione. Looking over more carefully he spotted her in a gap in the crowd, laughing as she danced with Krum, the skirt of her periwinkle robes fluttering as he spun her around.

“I think he genuinely likes her, for what that’s worth?”

“It is not worth much.”

“I’m sure she’ll hex him silly if he tries something she doesn’t want,” Harry said, trying again to be comforting.

Greg harrumphed. “He should not be afforded the opportunity to try. She could do better.”

“How, exactly? He’s rich, famous, a skilled wizard, and most importantly is treating her well and seems to really like her.”

The hesitation Harry got in reply suggested Greg hadn’t really thought about it like that. “Perhaps Draco? He likes her well enough.”

“Draco won’t even use her first name, and can’t even invite her to a garden party, let alone date her. You know his parents don’t like the idea of him socialising with Muggle-borns.”

Greg slumped. “Well… I do not know. Someone. Certainly not Weasley. Maybe Millicent? They get along really well, and her family is not as strict about associating with Muggle-borns as the Malfoys. Or perhaps Cornfoot? He is smart like she is, and friends with Muggle-borns like Kevin Entwhistle.”

“I don’t think she likes girls…” Harry said uncertainly.

“Cornfoot, then,” Greg said.

“I think she likes Krum.”

She did in fact appear to be having the time of her life out there, laughing and smiling as Krum caught her in his arms after she got dizzy ‘spinnin’ ‘round like a crazy elf’ as the song encouraged.

Greg scowled. “As her patron I feel it is incumbent upon me to warn him to pay attention to the formalities and to not be alone with her without a chaperone. He is in any case probably only paying his attentions to her because she is a close friend of a rival competitor.”

Harry winced. He’d be a dreadful hypocrite to tell Greg not to try, after his own warning to Theodore Nott. Still, he had to try to ameliorate a potential disaster.

“Well… you could have asked her to the ball yourself, you know. I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to Krum, but if you do talk to him anyway, be careful. Remember Muggle society isn’t so strict. She might not appreciate your interference and is likely to get upset if you imply Krum’s only interested in her because of me. Which I don’t think is why he likes her, by the way.”

Greg nodded, but Harry wasn’t sure he was going to listen to his advice. Well, he’d done what he could. “Think about it for a while first, okay? Don’t do anything rash.”

“I will consider your advice.”

Well, I tried.

Harry grabbed a cup of punch and escaped outside to the rose garden for a breath of fresh air, turning down two invitations to dance on his way out. He’d done his duty, even Pansy should be satisfied. He’d danced every formal dance and no-one should expect more of him than that! He did make a mental note to ask Hermione to dance later, though, especially if she needed to be whisked away to avoid getting caught in the middle of an unpleasant scene between Greg and Krum.

He gave a wide berth to the fountain where Professor Hagrid appeared to be unsuccessfully courting Madame Maxime, and the other embarrassing courting couples lingering amongst the richly scented blooms. Eventually he found a quiet bench to sit down on and rested his aching feet. The boots which had seemed so stylish and comfortable at the start of the night were starting to pinch.

Diggory and Chang wandered past and kept going after a token greeting, presumably in search of some unoccupied secluded corner. Harry then had perhaps fifteen precious quiet minutes which he spent in quiet hissed conversation with Storm, before Draco found him.

“There you are! Everyone is wondering where you got to!”

Harry sighed. He really didn’t want to talk to Draco, right now.

“It feels like you have been avoiding me all evening,” Draco complained. “Is something wrong? You know I will treat your cousin with the utmost respect, don’t you? We are friends, after all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. To accuse Draco about the letter to his father would expose Mafalda’s spying, which might create a lot of difficulties for the girl who seemed to be struggling enough already. Alright, she shouldn’t have read someone’s mail or eavesdropped in hopes of hearing something juicy she could use for blackmail, but Harry could sympathise. He’d eavesdropped on the Dursleys’ private conversations often enough. It might be rude, but it was also a matter of survival. He could well imagine the daughter of a Squib and a Muggle wasn’t having an easy time of it in Slytherin.

“It’s just… stuff,” he said, wincing at his own vagueness. “Yule, mostly.” He looked away from Draco, staring instead at the rosebushes twinkling with enchanted fairy lights that were attracting winter moths and beetles, and a few actual fairies. Storm had eaten one fairy (and had been very smug and vocal about his ambush hunting prowess), and now they were mostly avoiding the nearby rosebushes in favour of less dangerous locales.

Draco sat down next to him on the long carved stone bench. When he’d first sat down Harry had been startled to notice it wasn’t the freezing ice block he’d expected but was instead gently warm. Storm had likewise appreciated the rare charm, and had curled up on the warm stone for a rest to digest his catch. Draco seemed unsurprised by its temperature, however, no doubt more used to the liberal use of Warming Charms.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about? I am sorry I was unable to go. Did I miss something important?”

“‘Unable to go.’ Yeah, right,” snorted Harry. “I don’t believe you were sick at all.”

Draco sighed. “If you must know, I was not. I simply did not want to do the ritual. I apologise for my squeamishness.”

“Was that your only reason for not going?”

“Yes. What other reason could there possibly be? I like going to all the festivals.”

Harry stared at him. Sometimes he caught him out, but Draco was usually too good a liar for Harry to tell when he was faking things or not.

“I don’t know.” There must be some reason Lucius Malfoy had wanted Harry to do the sacrifice instead of his own son. Was it for blackmail material? No-one had taken any photos, but there had been plenty of witnesses to what was technically a blood sacrifice. Okay, actually a blood sacrifice. Harry preferred to think of it as a very fancy way to prepare dinner. Anyone stepping forward to dob on him would be in almost as much trouble as Harry though, since everyone there had participated in the ritual, sprinkling blood everywhere. Was someone putting pressure on him?

Draco rolled his eyes. “So that’s what you’re upset about? That I faked being ill?”

“And other stuff. Who exactly are the relatives you were trying to avoid this Christmas, Draco? An aunt and uncle, perhaps?” Harry accused.

“I resent your insinuations,” Draco said stiffly. “My family would never harbour fugitives.”

“Neville would never forgive you if you were.”

“Would you forgive me?” Draco shot back. “Hypothetically?”

Harry hesitated. “I doubt you personally would want to host them. No doubt such a decision would rest with your parents. Who should really contact the Aurors if they’ve seen the Lestranges. They tortured Neville’s parents until their souls were shattered and they permanently lost their minds, Draco. Imagine if it was your parents!”

Draco’s expression crumpled, and Harry knew his shot at Draco’s weak point had hit home once more, and his guess had probably been correct. Draco had more trouble keeping a straight face when he got emotional.

“You should consider reporting them!” Harry urged.

“I can’t,” Draco whispered, eyes wide as he leant in close to whisper. “He will punish my father. Or me. That is what I heard he said would happen if mother... You do it if you think you know something – people will listen to you. You don’t even acknowledge them as kin; you do it!”

“I can’t do it either! It would brea… it would put people in danger!” Harry whispered furiously.

“So the rumours are true then!” Draco whispered back, eyes wide and eager. “You made a deal with him, a truce, didn’t you? Or have you pledged to join him?”

Harry scowled. “You can’t tell anyone! And I didn’t join him. I just… I just didn’t want to see my friends hurt. If I stay out of the fighting – which I’d rather do anyway – I can keep my friends safe. We shouldn’t even be targets – he shouldn’t target children, but they are being targeted anyway, or they were. It’s a deal with the devil, I know that. Our truce will probably all go wrong, sooner or later. But I’d rather it was later. If I pull out now, he could… well, I don’t know. Maybe attack people in retaliation.”

“If your friends should be safe why is he threatening me?” Draco whined.

Harry winced. “I have to list people to be safe – noncombatants – but one a month is all I get. You’re ah… I haven’t asked… that is, I thought you would be alright… all things considered. Pansy only just made it onto the list this month.”

Draco looked offended, then his expression cleared to a thoughtful one. “You could… ask for my safety next?”

His gaze shifted away, embarrassed. “My parents worry. And it would… give them some peace of mind. No-one would dare attack me against the Dark Lord’s orders, even if they were angry with my parents. Well, almost no-one,” he amended. “Pettigrew – you know about what happened with Pettigrew, don’t you?”

“Yes. Roughly.”

“He is like a fractured wand,” Draco whispered. “No-one knows what he might do next! Everyone is stepping very carefully around him. Run if you see him, Harry, for he will not hold to any truce you have. They say he is worse than the real Dark Lord himself, more vicious. Father says…” – Draco hesitated for a moment before continuing – “Father hints that he has heard his mind is broken, that he is not all there. He is not the Dark Lord, though he claims to be, but people have to treat him like he is. No-one knows precisely what the Dark Lord did to him, and people are too scared to ask.”

“I thought you didn’t talk about stuff like this? That’s what you said.”

“Not to anyone who might report on you. Only to people you can trust. I know I can trust you, now.”

“But can I trust you?”

Draco sighed. “Mostly. My parents are in danger – do you understand that? I have to protect them. I would never do anything to deliberately betray you, Harry, that would put you in danger or ruin your reputation. If I was asked to do that, I would at least warn you; that much I can do. Maybe you could even help me. Little things, though? I don’t know. Perhaps you should not trust me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I understand doing stupid stuff to keep people safe. It’s what I’m doing, after all. So… we’re okay. I mean, obviously it’s not great, but I understand.”

Draco let out a shaky, relieved sigh.

Harry wanted to resume urging Draco to turn in the Lestranges but hesitated as he stopped to reflect on the terms of his truce – he couldn’t directly or indirectly order anyone to capture Lord Voldemort, but his Death Eaters were only covered against being attacked, not captured. Yes, he was fine to proceed but… warily. Even if the truce allowed it, discretion was wise here.

“You really should tell someone about the Lestranges, though. Discreetly, of course! Think of Neville!” Harry said. “You might not be the best of friends, but you are friends. Imagine if someone who did that to your parents was free in the world. Have you ever seen his parents? They can’t even talk, Draco. They barely even recognise their own family.”

“The Lestranges are not that well-off either. Their Ministry-approved torture in Azkaban hasn’t been kind to their minds. So I have heard,” Draco said, tacking a wary disclaimer on the end.

“I do not think they should run free, but I cannot do anything, you do something about it,” Draco whined. “I might not like them, and my aunt might be kind of… mad… but they are family, and I do not know much in any case. I would be a frog in a cauldron if people found out I had dobbed on them! Just tell someone confidentially you suspect the Lestranges have been sighted at Malfoy Manor. I am sure you can think of someone to pass on such suspicions to.”

Yeah, Harry thought glumly, that’s what I thought about Quirrell and the diary, and that didn’t work out.

“Who else knows? About you know… your parents and the Lestranges?” Harry asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? I am not going to name names, any more than you’d want me talking about you to other people.”

Harry nodded. “That’s fair. There’s no-one else who could ah… help? Pass on a little hint?”

After thinking it over for a moment, Draco shook his head. “None I know of who would dare to endanger themselves so. You will have to speak to someone.”

Not Snape, Harry thought. He’s helpful, but I’m still not sure where his true loyalty lies. Sirius might be my best bet. He might ask too many questions though.

“Well, I will. I’ll think over my options,” Harry hedged. He had to find some way to help catch the monsters who’d tortured Neville’s parents. The Aurors clearly needed this lead. For the moment, though, there was something else he wanted to know.

“Just tell me one thing then – openly and honestly – if you want to stay friends,” he started, and Draco eyed him very warily, like he was a snake about to strike. “Are there any orders regarding me that you’re following at the moment?”

Draco nodded slowly. “I am supposed to encourage you to follow the druidic paths, when I can. I don’t know if that was father’s idea or his, though. I know he wants me to be the Black heir, though, and not you. He doesn’t like you associating with Black, who is after all out there hunting Death Eaters every chance he gets.”

“He is? Black, that is?”

“Yes. Frankly I do not think I have a Puffskein’s chance in a dragon’s den at influencing your association with Black in any way,” Draco continued, “and thankfully I have not actually been ordered to do anything about it. However, in the interests of building a stronger alliance, I thought perhaps you should know about it.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Storm complained, flopping his head onto Harry’s leg. “Tell me why he keepss sssmell-tasting of fear. Is there danger?”

Harry stroked his pet’s scales. “No immediate threat. We are discussing the Dark Lord.”

Harry and Draco talked for a while about Sirius, and his nomination of Harry as his heir and offer to adopt him, and Harry’s reciprocal gift of the Potter heirship for Sirius.

“At least now you can report on progress,” Harry said. “That you talked to me about it.”

Harry suddenly sat up straight as inspiration struck. “You could talk to Sirius. About the Lestranges! If you want to ingratiate yourself with Sirius, there is nothing better that you could do than to turn on a Death Eater relative; make him see that you’re not just some evil Slytherin Death Eater in training,” Harry urged, in a wheedling whisper. “Show yourself to be very much the opposite. He’s just as much a relative as they are, and a better acquaintance to cultivate.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “It would impress him, wouldn’t it? He did respond well to my letter of condolence about the attack on the Tonks family. Hmmm… Would he be sufficiently discreet about it all, though?”

“Yes, I think so. He can keep a secret when he needs to, I’ve seen proof of that. You should probably be dramatic about it though, lives at stake, and all that. He’s a Gryffindor, remember, he’ll respond better if you sound like someone taking a brave risk.”

“We have not formally offered Sanctuary,” Draco mused quietly, almost to himself. “She would not lower herself to beg for that, so there is strictly speaking no familial obligation to shelter and protect either of them… But if she found out…

“Would it cause a problem with you, hypothetically, if Black did make me his Heir?” Draco checked.

Harry hesitated. “I don’t think it’s likely Sirius will change his mind. But he might add you to the line of succession? If that’s a thing people do? Sorry, I’m not as familiar with the etiquette and traditions round all that. Anyway, even if he did make you his Heir, I wouldn’t blame you or get angry. He can choose who he wants. Besides, the Potter inheritance is enough for me. Oh, and you can tell your mum that if it ever comes to that, you know, if Sirius dies, that I’ll be passing on some of the Black heirlooms to her and Andromeda Tonks, at the very least. It’s in my will.”

“Oh! That is most thoughtful of you!”

“I want to go hunting again in the warm garden. I want to catch a tasty bug,” Storm hissed. “I promise I will not eat more fairiess, sssince you asked me not to.”

Harry couldn’t resist his wheedling. “Alright, then.”

“I’m helping Storm down for a hunt,” he explained to Draco, “and then I’m going to head back inside and see if Hermione is still speaking to Greg or not, or if Tracey needs me. He’s hungry for bugs, the greedy guts. I think he’s due for another moult, soon.”

One beetle and a couple of fairies flew off as Harry spoke, while Storm slithered closer to a rosebush, but there was still more unsuspecting prey left for his snake to stalk.

Chapter Text

26^th December 1994

There was a mass exodus of students from Hogwarts on Boxing Day for the second week of the holidays. Some students left – yawning all the way – first thing on the morning on the Hogwarts Express, or they headed off to Hogsmeade to be picked up by their parents via Floo or Apparition. Others, like Harry, dawdled the morning way with assorted little tasks, being collected by their guardians later in the day.

Hermione – who’d packed the night before to reduce morning stress – was off early on the train, but Neville joined Harry for a late breakfast as he was headed to Longbottom Manor via Floo from Hogsmeade.

They were talking over Sirius’ offer to adopt Harry, which Harry was still very uncertain about but was seriously considering, on and off.

“Would you not be happier with him than with the Dursleys?” Neville urged.

“Would you be happier with him than with your Gran?” countered Harry. “They’re my family. I know they’re not perfect. Far from it. But… what if Sirius ended up being worse? I don’t know him that well, really.”

“Well, I see that. I would not want to leave my Gran, though I would happily trade my Great-Uncle Algie for Black any day of the week. However, I think it is notable that the Dursleys did not extend an invitation for you to join them over Christmas, and Black did.”

Harry sighed. He didn’t know how to properly explain the instinctual, unreasoning fear that overtook him when he thought of changing his whole life around and putting his care firmly into the hands of a relative stranger. A temperamental, moody wizard, who no matter how nice he seemed could still be hiding goodness knows what. The Dursleys always put on a good face when meeting new people, after all. Sirius had shown enough flaws already; could he be hiding something even worse? Why did Sirius even want to adopt him? It didn’t make sense. Harry could only conclude, reasoning it out, that Sirius felt he owed it to the Potter family, since Harry’s grandparents had tried to adopt Sirius once upon a time.

“Well, I’m trying to get to know him, anyway,” Harry said, chasing the last bits of scrambled egg with his fork. “I’m thinking about it.” He grabbed a bread roll from a wicker basket on the table and stuffed it with bacon before wrapping it in a napkin and tucking it away in his satchel as a snack for later.

Storm hissed his sleepy discontent about being jostled around, as Harry’s shoulders shifted about.

“Hermione doesn’t think I should let him adopt me,” Harry added. “She thinks I should just work on improving things with the Dursleys. She doesn’t really like them either, but I guess she’s just kind of optimistic that as a family we could work it out if we talk enough, and they were polite enough to her face, but Sirius argues with her. In letters.”

Neville shrugged. “She does not like how Sirius treats Kreacher; she is very biased against him because of that. He’s still a good man, though; not wanting to buy into old pure-blood traditions about your House or house-elves doesn’t make him a bad person. It just makes him… modern.”

“She said how a man treats his ‘lessers’ shows his character,” Harry fretted. “There might be something in that. He was a bully in his past, you know. Not that he tells it like that.”

They chatted quietly at the semi-deserted table for a little while about Harry’s anxieties about Sirius’ past… and his father’s. Neville sympathised with that a lot; he’d hate to hear anything bad about his parents.

“I’m off to do a little extra study before I go to Hogsmeade. I have some ideas about the second task I want to toss around before Hermione and everyone else descend on me in January. Send me an owl if your Gran agrees to let you visit Sirius’ place?”

“I will,” Neville promised.

Neville headed off for the dorm to gather his things, while Harry skulked off to the Chamber of Secrets.

“Greetings, Ambrosius. It is the day after Christmas, same year as last time,” Harry said, in Latin as always.

The ancient wizard in the mosaic yawned and rose from his triclinium. “Greetings, Harold. Have you made any progress on finding out that prophecy about you?”

“Yes and no. Trelawney knew nothing, and Snape couldn’t talk about it. I’m pretty sure Dumbledore knows it, but I doubt he’ll tell me. However, I will try asking him in January if all else fails as we’re meeting then for tea to talk about the Gaunt family. And, I suspect, about the... Well, about Tom. I think he must be related to them too. However, I have set it as a research task for Sirius, and I’m optimistic he may have results for me soon. He knew it was why my parents went into hiding, back in the war. Neville’s, too. His best guess was that it said either something about a pregnant woman who fought the Dark Lord, or something similar about parents with a baby.”

“Hmm. Well, it is in keeping with what you have been told already. ‘Related to them too’, you say? I didn’t think you knew of a relation to the Gaunts, apart from the proof that lies within your talent as a Parselmouth.”

They chatted for a while about the series of articles that had appeared lately in the Daily Prophet, and Rita’s stealthy investigation of his family via the Dursleys.

“Make a note, guardian, that the new Heir’s lineage seems proven as can be managed,” Ambrosius commanded, talking to one of the snake statues at the side of his small chamber.

“I will remember,” the snake hissed back.

“Do snakes speak Latin, or does Parseltongue kind of work like a universal language?” Harry asked. “He said, ‘I will remember’, by the way.”

“I believe they are enchanted to respond to a number of languages, Latin among them. Blood offerings help renew their various enchantments and increase their understanding. Salazar was justifiably proud of their crafting. Alas, I myself have no such ability to learn the modern tongues so easily.”

“Even if I offered some blood?”

“Even then. I have no enchantments laid upon me that will respond to blood offerings except my own, and my mortal self is long gone.”

“What would have happened if you’d offered uh… yourself some blood?” Harry asked curiously.

“An update of memories. I believe the more modern paintings rely on offerings of saliva or ground fingernails mixed into the paint or varnish, instead of blood. I am suspicious of photographs; I cannot fathom where they draw their power from. However, they are clearly magically inferior to paintings or mosaics fashioned in the old ways, being unable to fully reproduce a copy of one’s spirit.”

“I don’t know how they work either, sorry. There’s just too much to learn!”

“It is alright,” Ambrosius soothed. “Now, on to other matters. I had an idea while you were gone, about your cousin Sirius’ problem with his arm. Do you have that book of Egyptian spells with you?”

It was hidden just in the next room – in Salazar’s old study – and was eagerly fetched. Harry was also instructed to fetch ‘The Egyptian Book of the Dead’, which was upstairs up in his trunk (it was due back at the library at the start of January, not being a high-use library book). He then spent some time under Ambrosius’ direction translating some rather horrific descriptions and incantations about how to reanimate mummified corpses from the Dark book culled from the Black library, and a section from The Egyptian Book of the Dead entitled, ‘Book for the permanence of Osiris, giving breath to the Inert One in the presence of Thoth.’

“Yes, I thought so; that should work nicely,” Ambrosius said eventually, stroking his beard with a satisfied air.

“You have a cure for him?” Harry asked eagerly.

“No… and yes. I do not believe his arm can be restored. The curse was too powerful, and some magical injuries simply cannot be cured, at least not by any means I know of. However, I believe a ritual can be crafted to give him control over his currently useless limb.”

Ambrosius expounded on his scheme in more detail; there were spells for priests – wizards – to reanimate and control the mummified dead. Even if the mummies were badly damaged by panicked tomb raiders those spells would still work and keep even pieces of them moving. Sirius should be able to cast a modified spell to reanimate his own arm, which would then be under his mental control and be more flexible and fully functional instead of hanging uselessly at his side.

“That sounds like it would work,” Harry said slowly. “But I don’t think he’ll like it. He’s not going to write hieroglyphs on his arm with ox blood.”

“A pure, male ox with no black hairs,” reminded Ambrosius.

“The type of ox won’t matter, I don’t think he’ll do it.”

“Would you do it for him?”

Harry sighed. “Maybe. It would help him a lot, it sounds like. I killed a duck for our Yule festival.”

He explained about Draco’s trickery leaving him acting as the head male druid for his year group, and his subsequent revelatory conversation with Draco.

Ambrosius nodded, looking satisfied. “You know, there is a sacrificial room with an altar in the Chamber.”

“There’s what now? I thought I’d explored everywhere! I thought you didn’t like animal sacrifices?” Harry asked, still a little bewildered.

“I am against human sacrifices,” Ambrosius corrected. “Or those of rare or intelligent creatures. Those I am very firmly against. Using a common beast in a ritual is acceptable when done with respect for the life you are taking, and not wantonly for trivial purposes or personal power.”

Harry nodded.

“You haven’t quite explored everywhere in the Chamber of Secrets,” Ambrosius said, sounding amused. “There are still a few secrets left. Not many, but a couple.”

“Tell me all of them?” Harry pleaded.

“Perhaps in due course, when you are ready, and I know you can be trusted with them. I have been wrong before, and the Chamber has been pilfered of most of Salazar’s treasures by ‘trustworthy’ Heirs more than once. This secret waited until I felt more sure that you would not screech about cleansing the Chamber of Secrets of evil blood magic.”

Harry nodded slowly. That was fair. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

“Now, the altar room can be found behind Custos’ lair. She guards it from intruders. The entrance to her lair, as you know already, is behind Salazar’s statue, and there is a hidden passageway leading off her lair. I understand there’s another of Salazar’s small snake statues to make a blood offering to, to access it.”

“Oh, I want to see it now, but if I do I know I’ll be late meeting up with Sirius,” Harry whined. “I don’t want people to come looking for me. I’m already out of time to go for a swim in the pool and listen to the egg clue again. I was going to try looking for the underwater tunnel Storm found, too.”

“Well, there will be time for such things later. You should take Custos an offering of food, in any case,” Ambrosius suggested. “Stirring too often from her hibernation can be taxing on her. Now, let us talk about your strategy for bringing Hogwarts glory in the second task.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry had found that the ancient wizard was quite invested in seeing Hogwarts win, now he thought there might be a chance of Harry not just surviving but possibly prevailing.

-000-

Sirius picked Harry and his luggage up from the Shrieking Shack, and Side-Along-Apparated him not to the Grantown Den but straight to the front yard of Grimmauld Place.

Sirius reached out with his left arm to tap his new wand on the front door to open it, and immediately called out cheerfully, “I’m back, everyone!”

There were a couple of calls back from downstairs in the kitchen; feminine voices as well as Lupin’s.

“Kreacher!” Sirius called out. “Your ‘young Master’ needs his bags taken upstairs!”

Kreacher didn’t pop in the instant his name was called, but was there halfway through the second sentence, looking just as hunched and wrinkly as ever but brighter-eyed and better-dressed. He was wearing a new dark-grey draped toga embroidered with the Black and Potter crests.

“Hello Kreacher, how are you?” Harry asked politely.

“Kreacher is well. Master Harold is well?”

“Fine, thank you. I see you’ve added the House of Potter crest to your… attire?”

Harry knew you shouldn’t call what house-elves wore ‘clothes’ – a student at a H.E.L.P. Society meeting had reported that some of them were touchy about that.

 “Master Sirius is also being the Heir of the Noble House of Potter,” Kreacher said, glancing away shiftily to the left as he spoke. “Kreacher knows it is permitted to be wearing crests of the Master’s Houses when is being more than one. Young Master does not object?”

“Not at all,” Harry said gently.

“Do you think you can get him to be nicer to the Tonks family while they’re visiting?” Sirius asked optimistically. “It’s been as never-ending as mucking out the Aegean Stables, getting him to behave around poor Cousin Andromeda and young Tonks, and they’ve really been through enough; they don’t need that on top of everything else trying their nerves. It’s not that he ignores me, it’s just that he’s… creative in interpreting his orders. Slovenly and slow.”

“I can try.”

“Kreacher cannot be adding the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin,” Kreacher muttered softly. He ignored Sirius and gazed emptily into the distance. “Dobby can, is not fair… but Master Harold is only being the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, not the Head. Yet.”

“Kreacher,” Harry said loudly. “You are muttering again. Stop it.”

Kreacher startled so hard he almost fell over as his head whipped around too fast. “Forgive Kreacher! Kreacher will punish himself.” He started boxing his own ears immediately.

“Stop that! I will set your punishment,” Harry said sternly, hands behind his back as he stood up straight in a Pansy-approved posh pure-blood stance.

Kreacher grovelled on the floor, nose against the carpet, but he didn’t look particularly upset about it. He looked relieved, rather, like the world made sense again.

“It has sadly been brought to my attention by your Head of House that you are bringing shame upon the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black by being discourteous to our family’s guests. Your punishment for muttering today will be to clean Mrs. and Miss Tonks’ rooms thoroughly and well. And I expect good standards of service to be maintained around them–”

“And Remus,” interjected Sirius.

“–And Mr. Lupin from now on,” Harry concluded.

Kreacher looked dismayed, looking up at Harry with big disappointed bulbous eyes. “Mistress Tonks is being cast out of the family, young Master. The others is a half-blood and a werewolf, none is being proper guests.”

“I care not what you think of them,” Sirius snapped. “Just that you treat them well and stop over-salting the food until it’s not fit for harpies to eat! They’re good people!”

“Yes, Master Sirius,” Kreacher muttered, wearing a sneer.

“Kreacher,” Harry said firmly, “we need to uphold the Black family honour and not mutter insults at guests or treat them poorly, no matter what their stations or erroneous beliefs. I will not have people gossiping about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and saying that we are not hospitable, or that we do not know how to properly treat our patrons and clients according to the Old Ways, or how to defend those who’ve sought Sanctuary with us like our current guests all have. Excluding myself, of course.”

In learning more about the tradition of ‘Sanctuary’, Harry had learnt that being inhospitable to invited guests was one of the worst offences against custom and etiquette that a householder could commit. Even previously sworn enemies wouldn’t turn on someone they’d magnanimously granted Sanctuary to; they were explicitly required to shelter them against anyone who pursued them. In one particularly famous tale Tracey had shared with him, a witch had let her house burn down around her rather than see a fellow witch who’d been granted Sanctuary in her home turned over to witch hunters. The host had chosen to die alongside the witch she was sheltering rather than betray her, even though their families had been feuding for generations and she’d been widely known to despise the very sight of the other woman. It was of dubious historicity, but certainly made a point about how valued the tradition was, at any rate.

“We must not be adequate hosts, Kreacher. The House of Black must be the best hosts,” Harry urged. “Do not impugn the honour of our noble heritage and customs!”

Kreacher straightened up and lost his resentful sneer. “Master Sirius has truly granted Sanctuary to the Tonks family and the wolf?”

“Yes,” Harry affirmed, but Kreacher – for a change – ignored him and focused on Sirius, awaiting his answer.

“Yes,” grumbled Sirius. “For the Tonks family, anyway; Andromeda insisted. Informal with Remus for he doesn’t care about the formalities either, but it’s pretty much the same thing. However, it shouldn’t matter. I want you to be polite to all my guests, no matter what!”

“Thank you, Master Sirius, Master Harold! Kreacher will uphold the honour of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!” Kreacher swore fervently. He popped away with Harry’s trunks.

“He’s not going to learn anything like that, Harry,” Sirius complained. “You’re just reinforcing bad habits and blood-purist rubbish beliefs.”

Harry’s shoulders hunched up. “Sorry. I thought… didn’t I do what you asked me to? I thought you’d be happy. Sorry I got it wrong.”

Sirius sighed. “I am, I’m happy. It’s all just so… Slytherin. I’d hoped you could just order him to behave and he’d listen to you. Tell the little bugger he was wrong.”

Harry smoothed his hair down a few times in a nervous tic. “Wasn’t it most important what he does, not what he thinks? You liked it last time when I talked to your mum…”

Sirius let out a huff of breath and rolled his eyes. “She’s dead. You can’t really permanently change the mind of a portrait; their imprints are too fixed. Kreacher’s still alive and I have to live with the bigoted little piece of harpy dung.”

Harry frowned, then wiped the cross expression off his face in favour of a plastered-on apologetic pitiful look when he caught Sirius watching him. “I’ll try my best to talk him around, then,” Harry promised, trying to please Sirius. “I’m sorry I got it all wrong; it’s my fault. I misunderstood; it was stupid of me.”

“You don’t have to do… Look, just forget about it,” Sirius said frustratedly, fingers tangling in his long dark locks as he scrubbed his hands through his messy hair. “It’s fine, you did great. I’ll deal with it.”

“If you’re sure…” Harry said uncertainly.

“I’m sure,” Sirius said. “Have you had lunch?” Receiving an answer in the negative, he led Harry downstairs.

In the kitchen at the large wooden table, Lupin was reading the newspaper and enjoying a cup of tea. Tonks – the young, pink-haired Auror – was sitting next to him and eating a ham sandwich while reading over his shoulder. Tonks’ mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Wotcher, Potter.”

“Hello, Potter,” Lupin greeted distractedly, before turning to Sirius.

Looked like they were being all informal then and pretending everything was fine with Tonks. Harry could do that. “Hello, good to see you both.”

“Did you read this, Sirius? It’s all over the first two pages of the Prophet; they’ve formally rescinded the ‘kill on sight’ option for even the worst of the Azkaban escapees… even me, implicitly!” Lupin said excitedly. “Of course, it’s not so great news for the war in general, but still… it could be a good thing. No instant death penalty or Dementor’s Kiss, even for convicted criminals, in favour of a strong emphasis on proper trials and due process.”

Remus flicked back to the front page to find a pertinent quote to share. “Listen to what Skeeter quotes Fudge as saying here: ‘I believe the Wizengamot, under the esteemed and fresh leadership of Chief Warlock Thicknesse, has made a wise decision today. There were many fine people from good families on both sides of the last war who were caught in bad situations. We cannot risk making another mistake such as that made by my predecessor in wrongly condemning Sirius Black – an innocent man – to years in prison for a crime he was in fact innocent of. Under my leadership all escapees will be recaptured and given fresh trials to re-examine the evidence for and against them, to prevent any travesties of justice.’”

“I still don’t know about Thicknesse,” Sirius said doubtfully. “What’s in it for him, that’s what I want to know? Sounds like a lot of people might be hoping to buy their freedom during a new trial.”

Lupin tutted disapprovingly. “Can’t you just be happy about something for a change? Everything’s open to abuse; it’s still a good policy. I might even end up free if I end up being caught, with the right defence.”

“I am, I am happy! It’s just… I don’t like some other decisions he’s made lately. Too many anti-Muggle and isolationist laws are slipping through the Wizengamot under his watch. Like those stricter marriage laws.”

“And I hate the anti-werewolf laws,” Lupin said, “but I can still be happy about this law.”

“Thicknesse is a good man,” Tonks said. “He’s not a bigot like Malfoy, or a brown-noser like Umbridge, and he’s not all money and no brains like old Farley. We could have done a lot worse than him as the new Chief Warlock, and he’s not solely to blame for what the Wizengamot as a whole decides. He’s a former Auror, and Moody vouches for him. Shacklebolt… Shacklebolt thought his appointment was brilliant. Thicknesse had turned down two bribes that he personally knew of, people wanting him to look the other way on crimes they’d committed.”

She sniffed sadly for a moment and sighed deeply at the memory of the lost Auror, before turning to Harry with a determinedly mischievous grin. If it looked a little too forced, Harry certainly wasn’t going to draw attention to that.

“So, I’m under strict instructions not to tease you about this morning’s article about you; an order which I’m totally going to ignore–”

“You can’t, I called dibs!” Sirius groused.

“–So tell me, is Draco Malfoy really your ‘best friend’?” she asked, with a cheeky look.

“No? Neville Longbottom’s my best friend. Why is the Daily Prophet talking about my friends?”

“That’s a relief,” Sirius said. “I like that little chap. And Malfoy is what to you…?” Sirius asked leadingly.

“A friend? He’s also my second cousin once removed, but he’s not an acknowledged relation, if that’s what you’re asking? His mother Narcissa and I acknowledge our relationship as second cousins, though. I don’t see anything wrong with having Slytherin friends,” he added, with a defensive look at Sirius. Was that what this was about?

“Told you so. You owe me a Galleon,” Lupin said smugly, and Tonks dug her wallet out of her jeans pocket and handed a gold coin over with a sigh.

“Pity about poor Smudgely. He would’ve checked his facts before letting an article like that go to press,” Tonks said wistfully. “Hopefully he just ran for it and is on a beach in Italy somewhere, or something like that.”

“Hmm,” Lupin said, with a shake of his head and a grave look that suggested he thought the missing reporter’s fate wasn’t so rosy.

Tonks gave him a look and sighed unhappily. It looked like she wasn’t convinced by her own theory either.

“Can I read the article about me?” Harry asked, eyeing the newspaper acquisitively. He usually took Hermione’s after she was done with it, but that morning had been so busy he hadn’t had a chance to do more than sleepily wave a goodbye as she’d headed off early.

“It’s not just about you for a change. It covers the Yule Ball in general, and then there’s an interesting sidebar concerning your friend Granger you’ll want to read,” Sirius said.

Harry flipped to the article – by Rita Skeeter, naturally – and skimmed past the boring bits about the history of the Yule Ball, the decorations, what everyone of note had worn, and who a bunch of people he didn’t know or care about had all taken as dates. So dull, and a bit weird that a newspaper cared who a bunch of schoolkids were dancing with. Small community, he guessed, with some pure-bloods making matches early in life.

Harry groaned, and read a portion aloud. “‘Mr. Potter parted ways with his date Miss Davis in favour of a secluded and unchaperoned tête-à-tête in the rose garden with his ‘best friend’, the Malfoy Heir.’”

Tonks snickered, Lupin looked innocently impassive, and Sirius looked torn between amusement and concern.

“I just wanted some air and a break from dancing,” Harry explained. “He wondered where I’d gotten to and came looking for me, and then we chatted for a while…”

Harry trailed off as he read more of the article. It talked all about Harry being Sirius’ heir, and vice versa. How did she know they’d talked about that? She’d mentioned the rose garden, which meant they’d been spotted there… and maybe eavesdropped on! Who’d been eavesdropping on them? What else had they overheard?! Why hadn’t they been more careful?!

His face went white as he thought back frantically. He was pretty sure he’d talked out loud about animal sacrifice, around the same time, and about the Lestranges. Worse yet, he’d talked with Draco – albeit mostly in whispers – about his truce with Voldemort, which was a hundred times worse.

“Got to the bit about you only having pure-blood friends, huh?” Sirius said sympathetically. His voice startled Harry and broke him out of his panicked thoughts.

“Yeah,” Harry lied, skimming ahead. Skeeter insinuated blood purist sympathies on Harry’s part, talking about how he’d danced all night with pure-bloods and his ‘fickle’ Slytherin half-blood date, Tracey Davis. The ‘ethereal Miss Luna Lovegood’ was particularly mentioned as, ‘…a pretty pure-blood who’d previously captured his interest at the Malfoy Summer Ball, but whose heart and loving gazes – alas for Hogwarts’ brave, lonely champion – seemed entrusted that evening solely to her Slytherin date.’

The photo of Harry dancing with Tracey hadn’t come out as well as Harry had hoped. His own demeanour looked nice enough, divided between smiling at his date and posing in a practised fashion for the camera. It looked practiced rather than genuinely joyful, but Harry thought it passed well enough, and Storm (draped in a couple of loops over Harry’s shoulders) waved his tail tip at the viewers very cutely.

However, Tracey’s smile for Harry in real life hadn’t transferred well to the paper. Her own photographic clone was usually alternating between scowling glares and longing looks in Goldstein’s direction, which had probably contributed significantly to Skeeter’s characterisation of her. Tracey wouldn’t be happy.

Harry’s dance with Fleur Delacour got a quick mention too: ‘She had many young men fall under the sway of her Veela powers that evening – watch out, dear Harry!’

Hermione was gossiped about as Krum’s date and also mentioned to be Harry’s ‘…sole Muggle-born friend… or is she? '

Readers were then directed to the next accompanying article, which talked about the newly dubbed phenomenon of ‘lost-blood’ witches and wizards of which Granger was an example. It included Harry’s maternal grandfather as another notable case of someone with far-distant magical heritage. The new term ‘lost-blood’ was defined for readers as a Muggle-born with magical heritage further away than their grandparents’ generation. Having even just one magical parent or grandparent entitled you to be called a half-blood; fussier pure-bloods distinguished between different degrees of magical heritage amongst that group, but most didn’t bother.

Harry flicked back to read in more detail what had been said about his relationship with Sirius, and then forwards to check for more articles. There was speculation about Draco’s position in the line of succession to the House of Black but absolutely no mention whatsoever about Draco’s ponderings about betraying the Lestranges or any hint that the wanted couple might be visiting Malfoy manor at some point, and certainly no shocking revelations about Harry having a truce with Voldemort. Why not?! Had she, or another invisible eavesdropper, left before they’d talked about that? Or had someone put pressure on her to stay quiet?

“Well, it certainly could’ve been worse,” he said, with a relieved sigh. He was still worried about what Skeeter might know, but so far it seemed to be all kept quiet, if indeed anything had been overheard at all. He could be jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Skeeter was just coincidentally speculating. But… it felt like she knew some details, like Harry making Sirius his Heir too, that weren’t at all widely known. There were a few turns of phrase that strongly suggested someone had eavesdropped on Harry and Draco’s conversation.

Hermione probably wouldn’t mind the article too much, and Harry was sure she was smart enough to ignore the bit insinuating he was a snobby blood-purist. She was described as Krum’s ‘stunningly pretty’ date, and her book with Greg got a mention in the sidebar article, as well as detailing her descent from the Cugoano family. Overall, the article was very positive towards her, unless one was concerned about the fact that it seemed to remove her from the category of ‘Muggle-born’ to dub her a ‘lost-blood’. Harry thought they were one and the same. He didn’t believe there was any such thing as witches and wizards spontaneously arising from Muggle families; it was all clearly about recessive genes. It wasn’t a stance the newspaper was currently even considering, unfortunately. Baby steps… they might get there eventually.

He wondered what to do about what else Skeeter might know. He had absolutely no idea how to manage that, and silently cursed himself for gossiping with Draco where anyone could overhear them. He could’ve sworn they were completely alone, but he guessed he hadn’t allowed for things like invisibility cloaks or Disillusionment Charms. Why hadn’t Skeeter published the much juicier and more damning gossip? Was she planning to blackmail him?

Harry let out another deep sigh.

“Never mind, Harry,” Sirius said. “Everyone of worth knows that Skeeter is a muck raker.”

“What? Yeah. It just… looks bad. Some people will listen to her. And after so many articles about how my family’s full of ‘Dark’ wizards and witches? I dunno. It’s a pattern.”

“True,” Lupin agreed. “I wonder what her agenda is, or that of whoever is bribing her?”

“She was falling over herself to praise you earlier in the year,” Sirius observed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“She’s still fairly positive,” Tonks said. “She’s not saying anything bad about him as such. Just making him out to have biases that I don’t believe he holds, like that he doesn’t like to befriend Muggle-borns and mostly associates with pure-bloods?”

Her mildly uncertain tone suggested that even amongst those who’d met him, doubts were setting in.

“I don’t associate with people on the basis of blood status,” Harry insisted. “I’m friends with people because I like them. I certainly believe Muggle-borns are as good as anyone else.”

Even if special magical talents are possibly rarer in their families, and Squibs more likely due to recessive genes, he added as a mental qualifier. It doesn’t mean they are any worse or should be regarded as lower status.

At lunch – prepared by Kreacher who proudly accepted Harry’s thanks with less trauma than Dobby typically suffered – Harry briefly met Andromeda Tonks, and offered his awkward condolences, relying on the formal phrasing of pure-blood etiquette to get him through the uncomfortable task.

When she started crying muffled sobs into a handkerchief despite his best efforts, he bowed and walked off to his room, leaving her to her daughter to comfort, who looked teary too, like it was catching. He wasn’t fleeing, he told himself, he was giving them space. Damn it, he should’ve stuck with the ‘everything is fine’ pretence like he had with the previously determinedly-cheerful Miss Tonks.

He spent the rest of Boxing Day writing thank you notes for his Christmas gifts, and a carefully phrased letter to Draco asking if he’d seen the morning’s paper and what his thoughts were on the article and what they should do. It took a couple of drafts to get right, as his first attempt sounded accidentally flirtatious, like he was fretting over what Draco thought of him, instead of hinting at Skeeter’s potential blackmail material. He scrunched up that first draft with wide, panicked eyes and burnt it in the fireplace, just to be on the safe side.

He also sent out a long letter to Bill Weasley, detailing his research on the mummy-controlling curse variant that might help Sirius regain control of his arm. He didn’t mention Ambrosius’ assistance and spoke in the vaguest possible terms about how he’d ‘consulted someone’. He asked Bill to present it as his own idea, lest Sirius get wind of how he’d liberated books from the Black family library that Sirius had wanted thrown out.

Harry had – very briefly – considered enlisting Snape’s help in the matter. He was confident his former teacher wouldn’t blab about Harry’s involvement in researching forbidden Dark tomes – at least not to Sirius. Who else he might blab to was a matter of concern, however. The biggest reason against getting him to help, though, was sheer practicality. Harry was pretty darn sure that Sirius would rather stay crippled than accept dubiously ethical help from someone he hated. He didn’t ask him about Skeeter, either; if Snape blabbed to Lord Voldemort things might be… well… Lord Voldemort liked his private plots kept private. It might end very badly for Skeeter and he didn’t want that on his conscience.

Hopefully Draco would come through with a brilliant plan or insight, that would fix it all. He hoped so, very desperately.

Sirius and Harry spent a quiet afternoon in the bare winter garden, having tea and watching Storm slither around in a fruitless hunt for fairies. Storm was hampered by his already-full tummy, and the fairies were very zippy and took to the air whenever Storm got too close. They kept their conversation light; about gardening, classes, and the new curtains Sirius had bought for Grimmauld Place to lighten things up. Sirius told him that Tonks had been installed in the small but nice refurbished room overlooking the garden, and her mother was next to her in the spare room.

“I’ve been making over the nursery since I need a new spare room now, at least until they’re feeling ready to move back home. Bad memories there; Andromeda might end up selling and buying somewhere new.

“Speaking of which,” Sirius added, “would you like me to renovate Potter Cottage for you?”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t want anyone seeing the runes under his crib before he had a decent chance to study them himself. Also… it felt like the house would be less his if Sirius changed it all about.

“Maybe if you could supervise Dobby? He’s been working on fixing the roof, and doing some garden makeovers, like adding a pond and a vegetable garden. I’d rather do the inside myself later, if you don’t mind. It’s really important to me. So, if you could leave everything untouched inside I’d really appreciate that. Even ruined stuff.”

Dobby popped in, with a bundle of purple wool and a half-knitted garment in one hand. “Master Harry called?”

“Ah, your House-Elf-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” Sirius said, with a genuinely amused twinkle in his eyes. “I would be happy to help with some exterior repairs and maintenance and I shall leave the inside up to you to do when you’re older. Well… I can supervise this fellow, at any rate, and hire some experts as needed if my spells aren’t up to snuff.”

“Hello Dobby, it’s good to see you again. Sirius and I have been talking about how he’s going to help you fix up Potter Cottage. Say, would you like to visit here again while I’m on holidays, if that’s alright with Sirius and Kreacher?”

“Absolutely,” Sirius agreed eagerly.

“Kreacher agrees,” came the older house-elf’s voice from behind them in the garden, startling them both. “It is good to haves more time to be training Dobby to serve the Most Ancient–”

“And Nobby.”

“–and Noble House of Black when Kreacher is gone,” finished Kreacher, with a withering glare at his Master.

“And Dobby is happy to be helping Kreacher and serving good Masters and not nasty Malfoys!” Dobby insisted, his ears flapping happily.

“I do want you to remember to take time to relax and work on your sewing and knitting, too,” Harry reminded him.

“Dobby will. Dobby has hobbies!” Dobby said, bouncing slightly in place in his excitement. “Miss Hermione wants letters, too! Dobby is practicing his writing! Dobby will work, and then do hobbies.”

The house-elves popped away together to confer amicably about the division of labour.

“Such a nice little chap,” Sirius said happily. “You’ve trained him well, Harry.”

Harry shuffled his feet under the table, pleased at the praise. “I think I’ve helped him a lot. I can’t take all the credit though, he’s very independent and his own person.”

“Now Harry, about your Christmas present, did you decide on a language you’d like to learn? I know you’ve learnt French and Latin already. How about Gobbledegook, since you’re having such a jolly time arguing with goblins? Or Chinese or Ancient Egyptian, to help with your Ancient Runes class?”

Harry smiled secretively. “Mermish.” He’d deciphered the clue for the second task thanks to Midgen and had a plan to explore and scout out the Black Lake once school resumed.

“Odd choice. Are you sure?”

“Oh yes! Can you keep a secret?”

“Absolutely, my tongue is tied,” Sirius promised, miming a wand waving at his mouth.

“The second Triwizard task is going to be focused around the element of water and involves merpeople!” Harry gushed. “I figured out the clue. It’s singing in Mermish.”

Harry recited the clue in a sing-song voice for Sirius:

“Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you're searching ponder this;
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour, the prospect's black,
Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.”

“Good sleuthing!” Sirius praised.

“I had help,” Harry admitted. “So anyway, it sounds to me like a favourite possession of mine is going to be held hostage as a prize to recover at the end of the task. Probably not my wand, since I’ll need it to compete, but it could be almost anything else. I’m going to send Storm into hiding as the date grows closer, just in case they think pets are fair game. The ‘come seek us’ part tells me the challenge will be at least partially underwater and will involve merpeople. So, I figure being able to talk to them even above the water, or to read their language, might give me an advantage in the next task! I’m going to try and talk to them early, too, in case I can gather some clues. Maybe map out the dangers of the Black Lake. Practice my swimming and work on learning the Bubble-Head Charm. Given I can’t turn into a trout or anything.”

Turning into a salmon had been Ambrosius’ rather unhelpful suggestion on how to tackle the next task. Firstly, it sounded terrifying to transform his body that radically. Secondly, he’d be a fish and thus a tasty snack for a merperson or many other lake creatures. Last but not least, he didn’t know how and he didn’t have the background of being an Animagus nor the centuries of practice of self-transfiguration rituals that Merlin had to build up his proficiency.

Ambrosius had eventually conceded that it wasn’t something Harry would be likely to master fast enough but had encouraged him to consider training to be an Animagus when he had time. Harry had laughed at the notion of having enough free time to carry a mandrake leaf in his mouth for a month and meditate in a ritual circle for an hour or more every evening.

Sirius was all on board with his language-learning idea, so that was a good start on implementing his own strategic approach. “Sounds like a fab plan! I’ll book you in for later this week. We don’t have much on except an Order of the Phoenix meeting, if you’d like to rock along to that? You’d be welcome. It’s at old Elphias Doge’s house.”

“Not here?”

“No,” Sirius said, his lips firming into a determined line. “Not with three people here – four including yourself – that I have sworn to protect. I won’t risk it. Besides, Moody agrees with me – it’s good for security to change up where we meet. He’s keen to switch things up.”

Chapter Text

December 1994

Draco’s return letter was both reassuring and troubling. He assured Harry that he’d spoken to his father, and promised Skeeter wouldn’t be publishing ‘anything seriously problematic’ in the future, and that ‘neither of us are in any trouble and your privacy remains assured and those ridiculous relationship rumours will be quashed’. He also mentioned that he still planned to visit with or write to ‘Cousin Sirius’ regarding ‘that visit we discussed’.

Harry fretted over whether that meant Lucius Malfoy had threatened or bribed Skeeter into silence, and what Draco might have shared about Harry’s conversation with him, and if the Dark Lord knew anything about it all. Since Draco hadn’t originally intended talking to his father about the situation with the Lestranges – as far as Harry knew, anyway – his best guess was that Draco had read the article, panicked, and gone running to his father for help. He’d write back and try to fish for more information, but with Draco and himself both being circumspect in their communications Harry thought that getting the full picture may have to wait until school went back.

However, as it turned out, he didn’t have to wait that long for at least a few of the answers, for Draco was forging ahead with his plan to ingratiate himself with Sirius a couple of days later.

Sirius was quiet and broody at breakfast time but sought Harry out in the Potions Room later that morning, where they could talk in private.

“I got a letter from your friend young Malfoy this morning,” Sirius announced. “It was quite shocking, to tell you the truth.”

Harry nodded, and sprinkled some herbs into the brew in the copper cauldron. He counted in his head as he gave his potion a few more stirs widdershins and set it to simmer. 

“Brewing again? Am I bothering you?” Sirius asked. “I could come back later.”

Harry checked his pocket watch and scribbled down a note of what time it was on a scrap of parchment. “It’s fine to simmer for thirty minutes, now, until it turns teal. Then I have to add some powdered unicorn horn and mistletoe berries. Sorry for making you wait.”

Sirius’ face scrunched up in thought, then he shook his head. “I can’t guess. I wasn’t that good at Potions, and it’s been too long. What are you brewing this time?”

“A general Antidote to Common Poisons.”

“Isn’t that an OWL level potion? Why are you making that, anyway?”

“No, we covered them in September; Slughorn’s a good teacher. I’m making some up to leave here as a gift since your garden is chock full of poisonous plants and you might have an accident, and because I’m using some of your supplies. And some to take with me. In case someone tries to poison me.”

Sirius stared at him. “Wow. Heavy, man. Look, I was going to ask what you thought about young Draco, but now I’m thoroughly distracted. Why?”

“Your mother insisted.”

“You’re taking orders from my dead mother’s portrait like Kreacher?! She’s just paranoid and mad, Harry! You don’t have to listen to her.”

“It seemed polite,” Harry said, hunching his shoulders. “We were catching up, and it sounded really important to her, since I’m the Black Heir. And she’s heard – I don’t know how – that Pettigrew wants me dead. Or, at least you know, Lord uh… You-Know-Who. Since he’s sort of possessing him. She’s worried.”

Sirius sighed. “Yeah. I guess she’s not being too crazy. But the Hogwarts house-elves would never let food be tampered with, under their watch. They’d raise a hue and cry if anyone tried. And no-one will harm you here; Kreacher’s the only one who might mess with the food, and he thinks you’re the Kneazle’s whiskers, Harry.”

“The Weasley twins put stuff in people’s food sometimes and get away with it. Once it’s on the tables it’s vulnerable to poisoning. It’s just a precaution,” Harry added defensively. “I can… still keep the potions, can’t I? I’m sorry I used your powdered unicorn horn without asking. I know it’s expensive.”

“No, that’s alright,” Sirius said, in a soft, soothing voice. “Okay. Far be it for me to stop you from feeling a bit safer. Carry it around with you, give one to Neville for emergencies too, in case you’re too busy foaming at the mouth to get your potion out.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, relaxing now he knew he wasn’t going to be yelled at for daring to touch Sirius’ possessions without asking. “So, what did you want to know about Draco?”

“How… trustworthy he is, I suppose. If he likes his parents, what he thinks about Muggle-borns. I ah… just wanted to vet him for a potential visit or meet up over summer.”

Harry thought about it seriously. He didn’t want to lie to make Draco look good, no matter that Draco approaching Sirius had been his own idea, so he tried to be as honest as he could. “Moderately trustworthy, I guess. He might tell his dad things, but he knows not to gossip to all his friends. So, him talking to his dad is a risk. If he swears on the family honour it means something to him, though. He’s kept some stuff secret when I’ve explicitly asked him to promise to do so; without a promise he’s less reliable. He likes his parents, but he doesn’t always agree with them, and he’s not as strongly against Muggle-borns as his dad is. Um, I don’t actually know what Cousin Narcissa thinks of Muggle-borns. But neither of them wanted to let him invite Hermione to his garden party or their ball over summer, so I think she isn’t a fan either. Draco finds it really uncomfortable socialising with Muggles – which he’s tried a time or two more than his dad knows about, by the way – but is alright with Muggle-borns. I think. Some of them, at least. Other times he’s a bit bigoted.”

Harry thought about Draco going into Grantown-on-Spey with him last year. Draco hadn’t loved it, but he’d done it all the same. He was pretty sure Draco would like to be better friends with Hermione if his parents would allow him to but wasn’t so sure if that was a specific exception or a general tendency. He had caught Draco bullying a Muggle-born in a corridor once.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard him talk about the Lestranges? That might illustrate what he thinks of blood-purists,” Sirius said, fishing for information in a carefully casual way that was entirely wasted on Harry who knew exactly what Draco was likely to have written to Sirius about.

“He doesn’t like them. He doesn’t know them, since they’ve been locked up since he was a baby, but what he does know he doesn’t seem to like much. If we ever saw them he might not attack on sight – they are family – but he wouldn’t get in Neville’s way if Neville tried to hex them senseless. He… he’s a bit like me, really. He’d like to stay out of the fighting, if he can. If he has the choice. He told Professor Moody that last bit to his face, which took a bit of courage as he can be rather intimidating. He didn’t just lie to make him happy, which might arguably have been a smarter choice, talking to a veteran Auror.”

“Interesting,” murmured Sirius. “Well, I will leave you to it. Don’t forget to take a break from brewing later and have something to eat. Tonks is at work, but Andromeda and Remus are around if you need an adult for anything, alright?”

Harry wondered what he would possibly need an adult for. Maybe to cast spells for him, since his wand was monitored? “I will. And the house-elves will be here to help too.”

-000-

Staying with Sirius again was an odd experience. It wasn’t his home, and Sirius didn’t encourage him to think of it that way, for the sake of the wards at Privet Drive (which Sirius promised he was still researching). However, there was a room that was his to return to, and it was looking even nicer than on his last visit. The old wallpaper had been removed and replaced with some cream wallpaper with a pattern of dull gold accents, and the piece with Regulus’ painting of the family crest had been removed and framed, since Harry had expressed a liking for it. The new wallpaper looked lovely with the old emerald-green curtains, which while still faded were now freshly laundered. One old Doxy-nibbled wall hanging had been removed, while the remaining two had been cleaned: one was of an animated forest scene with lots of wildlife peeking out from the bushes, and the other was a still-life embroidered tapestry of a Camelot-style fairytale castle.

Harry didn’t feel quite like one of the family, though. Tonks cleared the dishes to the sink after meals, Sirius did the grocery shopping, and Remus seemed to have been making a project of polishing up some old furniture.

Neville visited and the two had a lovely day gardening together getting the garden ready for spring, but that was the most work Harry did all holidays. It didn’t feel like enough.

“What do I do?” Harry asked Sirius hesitantly, one morning over breakfast. “What are my chores?”

Sirius reached out slowly to ruffle his hair. “Nothing. I just want you to relax and have some fun, just like last time you stayed with me. Homework is enough of a chore, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Harry agreed with a smile, because that was clearly the answer Sirius wanted. It made him a bit anxious to not have a way to contribute to the household, however.

He did his best to obey Sirius and focused on his homework, powering through as much as possible, and even getting ahead on some of his Muggle correspondence courses. But even that task was fraught with challenges.

Sirius caught Harry reading late one night when Harry was supposed to be sleeping. Harry blew out the candles with a quick puff when he heard the door handle rattle, but not fast enough to avoid being caught. He wasn’t used to the creak of floorboards here, not like he was attuned to the sounds of home at Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia was a heavy sleeper, but Uncle Vernon and Dudley sometimes got up late at night in search of midnight snacks. Their heavy tread was distinctive and easy to listen for, allowing plenty of time to turn lights out and hide books or snacks if he heard them coming towards his room.

“Harry. You should have been asleep two hours ago,” Sirius said sternly.

“Mmm?” Harry said, feigning sleepiness. “What? Sorry, I was sleeping…”

“I know you were awake, Harry, I could see the light under your door.”

“Just for a moment. I just needed to check something really quickly for my homework,” Harry said. “I was asleep before that. I just finished what I was doing, actually.”

Sirius’ glowing wand lit his face from underneath, which made his cross expression look even more forbidding. Harry shrank back in his bed, his heart pounding.

“Your candles are melted halfway down, Harry, the air smells of smoke from your snuffed candles, and I can see your pile of books.”

“Are you sure the candles are lower? I think they were already like that this morning.”

Sirius huffed crossly. “No dessert for two days, for lying and breaking curfew. Come on, Harry, a bedtime isn’t unreasonable! Even Hogwarts sets one. You’ll have plenty of time to read tomorrow.”

Ah, the laughable Hogwarts curfew and lights out. Their theoretical bedtime was routinely ignored by any students who wanted to stay up late. Harry had heard that Slytherin and Hufflepuff tended to have the strictest Heads of House when it came to enforcing it, and those Houses even had bed checks. Professor McGonagall was too busy or unconcerned to bother, and Professor Flitwick understood his students’ love of late-night studying and reading. Ravenclaw’s Head of House pragmatically considered it a ‘valuable life lesson’ if reading binges resulted in his students running late to classes the next morning, yawning, hungry, and unable to focus. The curfew restricting students to their dorms was generally more respected by all, if only because prefects and teachers patrolled the corridors.

“I’m sorry, sir,”

“Just Sirius.”

“I’m sorry, Sirius.”

Sirius seemed to consider the matter settled and the punishment light, but it made Harry very anxious. Early the next morning he snuck downstairs to purloin a couple of slices of bread from the kitchen to hide in his bedside drawer, and he also dispatched Dobby with a couple of Galleons to buy him extra food to keep in his trunk.

He tried to soothe Sirius’ presumed bad temper the next morning, but flattery over breakfast just made the man laugh rather than preen, and Harry’s attempts to do household chores were dismal failures.

Kreacher had glowered when he’d caught Harry doing dishes and had taken over the task with rare enthusiasm when Sirius had intervened to officially put a halt to Harry’s efforts.

“That is house-elf work, Harry, leave it to him. Those hag-hearted relatives of yours might make you do too much, but you needn’t slave away for your crust here. We talked this over last time!”

Kreacher muttered rare approval for Sirius’ words under his breath, as he scrubbed dishes in the sink. “Kreacher told the young Master it wasn’t his place, but Master Harold didn’t listen. Kreacher wouldn’t let him wash the linen though. Young Master doesn’t even know where the tubs are hidden or how to use a washboard.”

“I don’t do that much,” Harry objected. “I made a deal with Dudley way back in first year, where I help him with his homework, and he convinced Aunt Petunia that I didn’t have to do laundry or ironing any more. So now I only do the cooking, gardening, and a little occasional vacuuming and dusting. I don’t even help Dudley that much with his studies anymore; he’s learning to manage on his own. He kind of has to, with mail delivery delays.”

“Damn Dursleys! They are one of the few cases where I feel the phrase ‘filthy Muggles’ is richly deserved,” snarled Sirius.

“Young Master Harold is a good influence on Master Sirius,” muttered Kreacher happily, scrubbing some dishes clean with a dish cloth with even more vigor than before.

“Shut up,” Sirius ordered, glaring at Kreacher.

Kreacher stopped muttering, at least for the moment, but the rebuke didn’t seem to have much effect as the old house-elf had a big smile on his face.

“They’re not all bad. And it’s not that I like all the cleaning,” muttered Harry. “I know it’s too much. I do like gardening, though. And cooking. That’s why I kept those as my jobs, and it made… makes them happy. What am I supposed to do? Argue with them until they yell, or spank me, or kick me out again?”

Sirius winced and sighed, then rubbed tiredly at his forehead with his left hand. “Can I not convince you to move in here full-time? It is up to you, but… you would be welcome here.”

Kreacher muttered something low as he dried the dishes, the kind of whispered comment that he wasn’t conscious of saying aloud. Harry caught the word ‘Muggles’ in the mix though, and guessed it was some unflattering observation about his aunt and uncle.

“I’m still thinking about it. I’m giving it serious thought… please don’t make a pun.”

Sirius’ lips twitched in amusement. He nodded, and sat down to explain his progress investigating the wards at Privet Drive, waving Harry to a seat next to him.

“I talked to Dumbledore, among other people. He is keen for you to stay with the Dursleys. You do know about the wards around your house at Privet Drive, right? I’m not sure we’ve talked about them much? Or have we? Sometimes I forget things.”

“Uh, yes, I know about them. We’ve only talked about them a little, but I probably know more than the Headmaster wants me to, actually. What did he tell you?”

Sirius’ head tilted to the side. “That there’s protective wards of love and family placed there that you need to renew by considering the place your home and visiting there often enough to prove the sentiment true. They should keep Death Eaters and Voldemort at bay and help protect you against curses. In theory. Did I miss anything? That old man is too fond of his secrets, and he was a little vague in places.”

“Well… I heard that two weeks’ visit a year should be enough to renew them, and… that they were blood wards,” Harry said, a little wary of Sirius’ reaction.

Sirius looked sceptical. “Sounds unlikely. I can’t see Petunia or her walrus husband agreeing to such a thing. Who did you hear put them up?”

“Dumbledore.”

There was silence for a moment, with Sirius just staring at him. Harry erected his mental image of an ocean shore and broke eye contact, just in case, adding defensively, “That’s what I heard.”

“Hmm. Any more details you care to share? Who said this, anything else about the wards?”

Harry smoothed down his hair and tugged absent-mindedly at the floppy white lace cuffs of the shirt he’d put on that morning, with the matching scarlet trousers and dragonskin leather frock coat. He’d hoped to please Sirius by wearing one of the outfits he’d gifted Harry. Besides, he was outgrowing it fast and wanted to get some wear out of it in any case. He’d saved it for special occasions since he really liked it, but that had unfortunately meant he hadn’t ended up wearing it very often.

“Not really, to be honest. I wasn’t strictly sworn to secrecy, but the implication was there. I mean, they’re illegal wards, obviously. They did say that they thought the Headmaster did it with the best of intentions to protect me.”

“Yes, his ‘good intentions’, verily how wise ‘tis to work for the ‘Greater Good’,” Sirius said bitterly, his face looking suddenly drawn and tired. “Merlin, I need a drink. Well, I have never heard of him delving into Dark magic, but I suppose I cannot rule the possibility out. Even the best of us… well, it’s a temptation for many. The easy path, the powerful one. He calls out very loudly against Dark magic… sometimes those who declaim its dangers the loudest do so to drown out its siren song, or so the saying goes.”

He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing Harry’s gaze back to him. “Thank you, Harry,” Sirius said, “for sharing that with me. I will look into it – I would not want to fall afoul of any blood magic that considers me to be your kidnapper rather than your saviour, nor would I want to risk any consequences falling on you should you break the wards by your departure. I shall investigate your rumour as discreetly as my poor Gryffindor self can manage.”

Harry winced, and Sirius laughed at him.

“Fear not,” Sirius said, “I shall set Remus to the task of helping me plot and scheme, and Tonks might help as well. He was almost sorted into Slytherin, you know! For to secretly be hiding his identity as a werewolf whilst hoping to earn himself a forbidden education as a wizard meant he came to Hogwarts with a good dash of both cunning and ambition, as well as a brave heart!”

-000-

That evening and the one following after it Harry had gone to bed with no dessert. But after he’d retired for the evening, Kreacher popped into Harry’s room each night to bring him a mug of hot chocolate and a slice of apple pie with whipped cream.

Harry accepted his offerings gratefully, setting aside his copy of An Introduction to Wizarding Culture for Muggle-borns and Muggles, since he didn’t want to get any crumbs on Hermione and Greg’s wonderful book. He’d just reached the chapter on the importance and symbology of millinery. Reading about hats wasn’t the most thrilling topic but was still interesting. “Thanks, Kreacher. You won’t get in trouble, will you? You’re not breaking an order?”

Kreacher shook his head. “Master Sirius said you is not to have dessert with everyone else, or to be sneaking it later. This is being a different dessert to the cake everyone had earlier, and you is not sneaking it, Kreacher is fetching it for Master Harold without you asking.”

“Cunning!” Harry said, impressed. “Good work. I don’t suppose you could fetch a snack for Storm, too? The fairies are too few in the garden right now and getting wise to his tricks. He could use a rat or a Doxy, if there’s any in the house?”

“Master often wants a rat too, but when Kreacher fetches one for him, Master is angry,” Kreacher muttered unhappily.

Harry laughed. “I think that’s a very particular rat he’s after. Any rat will do for us, so long as it’s not poisoned or sick. Or big enough to hurt Storm.”

Storm was duly fetched a young rat – freshly injured – to chase around the room, and Harry went to sleep, content with a belly stuffed full of food and the knowledge that he had emergency snacks in both his trunk and his bedside table. Just in case.

-000-

A couple of days later, Sirius seemed in a good mood at dinner and Lupin was perfectly calm, either because Sirius was having a good day and the feeling was catching, or perhaps because it was almost the new moon and his emotions were more settled. Harry was happy too; he’d had a marvellous and productive day. He’d spent the morning teaching Dobby and Kreacher how to cook a pizza from scratch, finished up an assignment for Human Biology, and read a chapter on entrepreneurship for Business Studies. Harry mollified Kreacher’s sensibilities by telling him the recipe was ‘stolen’ from Muggles and was a favourite of his. He’d even had some spare time in the afternoon to lounge around in the garden after he’d finished his work, just doing a little weeding and luxuriating in having a couple of house-elves eager to fetch him a warm mug of hot cocoa and a slice of freshly made pepperoni pizza for afternoon tea while he sat on a bench enjoying a brief burst of clear (though bitingly cold) weather and watching the sunset.

Andromeda Tonks, however, was in a fretful mood, and was trying to convince her daughter not to go to the Order of the Phoenix meeting on New Year’s Day.

“I have lost my husband to this war, and my father to the last one, not that anyone wanted to admit his death was no accident. I could not bear to lose you too! You are all I have, Nymphadora. Do not go to that meeting tomorrow; I want you to quit. They know you are a Metamorphmagus now – that advantage is lost to you. Is not being an Auror dangerous enough?”

“Mum, we’ve talked about this. Too many times. More than ever now, it’s the time to fight,” Tonks said, her jaw jutting out with determination. “For dad, for us, for everyone else living in fear and those who live in dangerous ignorance and don’t yet know that they should be living in fear. I miss him too, but I’m not sad right now, or scared. I’m angry. The Ministry is not doing enough so someone has to, while they’re all busily collecting their bribes or playing ostrich. We need to fight back!”

“I cannot talk you out of this, can I?”

“No.”

Mrs. Tonks folded her arms. “Then I shall come too. I will join your group of rebels and fight alongside thee.”

“Mum! After what happened to you? It’s not… safe…” Tonks said, trailing off with a wince as her own hypocrisy struck her hard.

“Not easy, is it?” her mother said, with a smirk on her lips. “They thought they could break me, but it only makes me twice as determined to stand against them and everything they hold dear. If you want to fight, we shall fight.”

“Well, the more the merrier, I say! ‘Tis plain to see you two will have fun trying to insist the other doesn’t go on any dangerous missions!” Sirius said.

“Do stay safe,” Lupin said to Tonks, then turned to her mother as he added, “both of you. Things are worsening, little though the Ministry wants to admit it.”

“It’s different for me,” Tonks said defensively. “I’m a trained Auror.”

“You are only twenty years old, and barely out of training. I know how to cast curses you have only read about,” her mother rebutted.

“And who saved who when Death Eaters attacked?! I did! I’m more capable than you ever give me credit for!” Tonks yelled. “I’m not a child, mum!”

Andromeda let out a shocked gasp, and her eyes glimmered with tears. “If only you had been faster…”

“Mum!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“May I please be excused?” Harry asked, hurriedly and quietly. On receiving Sirius’ permission, he fled the room as behind him emotions flared as the women’s argument continued.

He spent the evening digging through the culled library for books on charms that looked like they might be useful for fighting things on or in the Black Lake, or that might boost his rather mediocre swimming skills. He hadn’t come up with anything particularly spectacular yet, and only had one day of the holidays left. However, he was confident Hermione and their research team would be keen to help him research more spells once they were all back at school.

He didn’t even pick his wand up to practice the wand motions, or say the incantations aloud, being cautious of the stricture set by the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages yesterday that he’d need a minimum of three days without magic to let Mermish settle properly into his mind. He’d hate to accidentally trigger wandless or wordless magic without meaning to and ruin his language acquisition! Apparently, the biggest risks with magic use during the ‘settling’ phase were either total loss of the language, or it blending messily with his knowledge of other languages (the latter being very messy and expensive to correct).

Sirius had escorted him to Diagon Alley yesterday to fulfil his Christmas gift promise and acted paranoid enough to make Professor Moody proud. Sirius had insisted both of them wear hooded cloaks to hide their faces (and Harry’s scar), and Sirius had kept his wand constantly ready in his left hand. He’d also taken a Polyjuice Potion and looked like some nondescript brown-haired man.

“Better safe than sorry. Tonks picked up a rumour – confirmed by Sniv… Snape – that there’s plans afoot for a major attack on the shopping district,” he’d explained, when questioned. “We just don’t know when. I think we’ll be safe for now, we think it’s still in the planning stage… still, best to be careful.”

It made Harry nervous and disinclined to linger, but it had all gone peacefully.

-000-

“We’re going to the Order of the Phoenix meeting early this evening,” Sirius warned Harry, on New Year’s Day, while the others weren’t around. “The others will follow later. I’ve talked to Dumbledore about the prophecy, and he’s agreed to share a little information about it. I don’t know if he’ll tell either of us the whole thing, but something is better than nothing, and this is your chance to try and persuade him. This is probably the best I can do without trying to smuggle you into the Department of Mysteries to hear their recording… we shall keep that as a backup plan, hey?”

They met Dumbledore in Elphias Doge’s house, a snug little thatched cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Harry thought it would probably look lovely in summer once the rosebushes in the front garden were blooming, instead of being bare, thorny sticks.

Their host, Doge – whom Harry recognised as the old fez-wearing wizard from the last meeting he’d briefly attended – was an ancient blue-eyed fellow who was wearing a purple velvet pointed hat with a sagging, star-topped tip, perhaps in honour of the Christmas season, or perhaps simply to hide the spreading bald spot in his silvery-grey hair.

Dumbledore had commandeered the front parlour, while Doge made himself scarce puttering around in the kitchen to give the three of them some time for a private chat.

Soon enough the pleasantries about the holidays were out of the way, and they got down to business.

“So,” Dumbledore started, folding his wrinkly hands on the small table, “Sirius has been quite eloquent on your behalf, Potter. Though I do wish you had approached me yourself with your questions; you can do so at any time, I hope you understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, shrugging uncomfortably. Really? Any time? Up in his password-locked office the Headmaster wasn’t so accessible as he liked to think, and the teachers weren’t much better. Slughorn was the best Harry knew of; he had ample hours where he was open to student visits, while Professor Flitwick had time for senior students only (and the occasional stressed young Ravenclaw). However, with most of the teachers you just had to be lucky to catch them and beg for a moment of time. He hadn’t felt very comfortable with the idea of owling Dumbledore to ask to meet with him to talk about something Harry had been convinced the Headmaster wouldn’t want to discuss.

Dumbledore’s next words proved he wasn’t entirely off the mark.

“I cannot tell you the entirety of the prophecy; that knowledge is too dangerous for one without a mastery of Occlumency.”

“I’ve been practising,” Harry said defensively.

Sirius harrumphed unhappily and folded his arms. Harry glanced at him nervously, but Sirius was glaring at Dumbledore, not himself. Perhaps the Headmaster was refusing to tell Sirius the full prophecy too.

“Voldemort is reportedly excessively interested in the prophecy at the moment, and there have been multiple intrusions repelled on the Department of Mysteries in recent months.”

“I could help with that,” Sirius interjected.

“When you are proficient casting with your left arm your assistance would be appreciated,” Dumbledore said smoothly. “Until then, I would prefer you to stay safe. We know you are a particular target at the moment, even more than Nymphadora is.”

“I helped chase off those blighters trying to get at the Prime Minister, didn’t I?” Sirius said, with a scowl.

“Most admirably. In group situations with support–”

“I could stand guard with a partner, if you doth judge me too crippled to stand alone!”

The two looked like they were about to get embroiled in what Harry suspected was a longstanding argument, so he jumped in to get things back on track before people arrived for the meeting and his chance to find out more about the prophecy was lost.

“Excuse me sir, but if you could share what you can about the prophecy it would be very appreciated,” Harry said, in wheedling tones. “I would be most grateful for any information that you are happy to share.”

“Ah yes, my apologies,” Dumbledore said. He folded his hands atop the table before continuing.

“Now, Voldemort does know a part of the prophecy already. It was – alas – enough to lead him to target your family. I will not – at this time –” he said, cutting off Sirius’ open-mouthed attempt to interject with a raised index finger, “reveal the latter half of the prophecy. However, the first half does not pose a significant risk to share, and if it will not distress you unduly, I am prepared to share the wording with you. I must warn you to still keep this information to yourself, and to guard your mind as best you can when around anyone untrustworthy. Including reporters, in particular. This is not information we want in the public sphere.”

“Alright.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and said, “There was a prophecy made shortly before you were born, Harry. It begins, ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…’”

Harry waited, but it seemed like that was all he was going to hear.

“So… it might not be me, and it’s probably already been fulfilled?” he ventured.

“I think James and Lily defied him more than three times,” Sirius said, doubt in his voice. “Is this what sent them into hiding? What about the Longbottoms? How many times did they defy him?”

“Could it be about Neville?” asked Harry. “He was born at the end of July too.”

“The potential was there, however, I believe the second half of the prophecy makes it clear that it is you, Potter,” Dumbledore said. “I believe the complete fulfilment of the prophecy is yet to come.”

He sounded very authoritative and sure of his belief, but without knowing more Harry couldn’t share in his certainty.

“Let’s see,” Sirius said thoughtfully, “there’s at least two times James refused to join him, and that battle in London at the palace, and the one at Hogsmeade, though the man himself wasn’t at the latter. Does it count if he was defying Death Eaters who’d tried to bully him into things on their lord’s orders? I don’t know about Lily. I can only think of that one time she fought off the Imperius as being particularly note-worthy.”

“She did?” Harry asked. He loved hearing stories about his mum, and Sirius didn’t share many of them, having been closer to his father.

“She sure did,” Sirius said, with a proud smile. “A Death Eater on orders from Voldemort tried to get her to go on a rampage through Diagon Alley hexing and cursing everyone until she was taken down by Aurors. She unfortunately cursed two people before she broke free – they didn’t die, Harry, they were just injured – then she turned and cursed the living daylights out of the man who’d Imperiused her. Damn near cut his arm off while he was still laughing at the chaos. He Disapparated away before she could finish the job.”

Harry straightened up, full of pride in his mother.

Dumbledore said gravely, “Notice this, Harry. It is our choices which shape our lives, as much as any prophecies do. Voldemort – knowing no more than you do now – chose to see the prophecy as referring to yourself, not to your friend. He chose, not the pure-blood – which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing – but the half-blood, like himself.”

“He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then,” Harry said. “Or sent Death Eaters against both of us instead of going himself, just in case one of us precociously vanquished him.”

Dumbledore looked a little disturbed by Harry’s bloody-minded practicality.

“Probably wishes now that he had,” Sirius observed, with a smirk. “Defeated by a baby and stuck for a decade without a body.”

“It sounds pretty vanquished to me,” Harry said, pondering the Dark Lord’s long-ago letter where he’d claimed to have concluded that the prophecy had already been fulfilled. If he was working with the same fragment of the prophecy that Harry was, that seemed a reasonable interpretation. Dumbledore’s certainty that the prophecy hadn’t been fulfilled also explained the Dark Lord’s desperation to hear the rest of it. Harry was rather keen to hear the rest himself.

“Are you sure you won’t tell us the remainder of the prophecy? I would consider it a great favour,” Harry wheedled. “It would be ever so helpful to know if there’s some spell I should train in, or a pivotal moment to watch for! I could be more prepared.”

But despite his and Sirius’ coaxing and best arguments, Dumbledore was obdurate and would share no more of the prophecy nor his speculations upon it.

Harry did manage to slyly coax one bit of information on a different topic out of his Headmaster, however, though it was for Sirius’ benefit rather than his own, as he already knew the information he was fishing for.

“I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me anything more about the wards on Privet Drive? Sirius has recently seen to renewing those on Potter Cottage and the boundary fence around Potter Manor. Since I know you’re an expert on them, I wondered if he should spend some of the Potter money to get the wards checked? To help protect my family?”

Dumbledore was quick – too quick – to insist that no such checks were necessary. “No need, no need at all, you had best save your Galleons. I renewed the wards there – originally placed by your mother – when you were a toddler, and they still hold very firm,” he added. “On my most recent visit I assured myself that they were still at full strength, so you need not fret on that account.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, and Harry guessed he knew why; Dumbledore was being too vague and elusive. Those from pure-blood families tended to know some of the basics about wards, even if they didn’t know much about ancient runes. Sirius very likely knew that wards needed regular maintenance every year or two. At least, they did if they were modern, light wards… rather than ancient ones based on blood or sacrifices.

-000-

While Sirius did argue for his admission, Harry wasn’t permitted to attend the Order of the Phoenix meeting that evening. So, he sat and read a charms book in the front parlour just off the entrance – it wasn’t formal enough or the right layout to be called an atrium – while the adults had their meeting. He caught glimpses of a few members arriving at Doge’s house, including Bill Weasley arriving with his parents. Bill ducked his head around the corner and winked at Harry, giving him a thumbs up as he passed. Harry overheard him talking to Sirius about how he wanted to talk later about a ‘promising spell’ that might help him with his arm.

Professor Moody’s distinctive clomping tread made him look up as the man entered, and he was another one who glanced into Harry’s room, probably due to his renowned paranoia.

“Sir,” Harry said politely, with a nod. No doubt Professor Moody noticed Harry discreetly putting his hand on his wand, but Harry was confident his teacher would approve of his being ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

Moody grinned and nodded back in greeting. “Potter. Studying hard? Ancient Egyptian again?”

“No, sir, advanced charms; one of Sirius’ books. I’m looking for some good spells for the next task.”

“Know what it is, then?”

“I’ve deciphered the clue and have a pretty good idea of what’s in store,” Harry said, which made his teacher’s grin widen.

“Good lad. Let me know if you need any more passes to the Restricted Section. I’ll write you out all the passes you need, no questions asked.”

Harry beamed gratefully. “Thank you, sir!”

Moody grunted, and clomped off to reprimand an indiscreet Order member who was complaining too loudly about Cuffe – the Daily Prophet’s editor – backing off on publishing an article about proven Ministry corruption.

Harry lurked at the parlour doorway to eavesdrop, as Moody’s warning seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. He heard a witch complaining about how with Smudgely gone the paper had gone downhill.

“No-one has any courage to print anything prejudicial to the Ministry’s line that the Dark Lord is dead and that ‘Lord Missing Finger’ is the only one leading a few ‘soon-to-be-caught’ Azkaban escapees in rare attacks.”

A man’s voice – a third person – hummed in vague agreement. Moody swore briefly, clearly frustrated at being ignored.

“Hmph. We’re all in the Order here,” the witch said defensively. “So, as I was saying, they didn’t report on those Death Eaters we caught, either. Such hard work dear Tonks put in to catching them, impersonating people! And using your lead too, but it all went to waste. I’m telling you; we need to check if Cuffe or Fudge is under the Imperio or taking bribes.”

Harry recognised the silky-smooth tones of the man who replied to her; it was Snape. “One night in custody before they both escaped is not much to boast of. I do not think we need to assume the Imperius Curse is at work when simple self-interest and a desire to escape mockery is enough to motivate Fudge to kill the article. Silence is better than reporting an abject failure to retain prisoners.”

“Face facts, Vance is right, though she doesn’t go far enough. The Ministry is useless, and we are losing this quiet war,” grumped Moody.

It was a depressing thought. The old witch Moody and Snape were talking to sighed, sounding quite disheartened by his observation too.

The three entered the meeting room and as the door closed behind them all sound cut out as if by magic, which it probably was.

After a couple of hours, the meeting concluded, and the room opened up again. Harry ventured out to find Sirius as he heard the hubbub outside.

The first to greet him was Mr. Weasley. Battered but unbowed, his ruined eye and leg wasn’t slowing him down too much, though there was now an uncanny resemblance to Professor Moody’s scarred face. Though he’d lost his left eye and Moody had lost his right, and Mr. Weasley’s replacement eye wasn’t doing that uncanny rolling around; it was just glassy and still. Maybe it was a budget model. Harry wondered if it had any charms on it at all.

Mr. Weasley shook Harry’s hand eagerly, after a little hesitation where he looked unsure as to whether Harry would accept his proffered handshake or not. Perhaps too many people had flinched away of late at the knowledge they’d be touching a known werewolf. Susan Bones had been having some trouble with that. Harry didn’t mind though… so long as Mr. Weasley was in human form and wasn’t likely to bleed on him or anything.

“So happy to see you again, Potter. I’m all healed up now – as much as I can be – and they say the scarring would have been much worse without your intervention at the Cup and your advice about stitches. Apprentice Healer Pye was Merlin-sent, and happy to give it a try.”

“Well, you’re most welcome. I’m glad I could help.”

Molly sniffed unhappily. “It still seems unnatural to me, but then… it did seem to help. Bill got them too, and his Healer is very happy with how he’s walking, I must say. They thought at first it would be much worse, and he would insist on walking about before he was fully healed.”

Bill shrugged and showed off the long scar on his leg to Harry, who was very curious to see how it had healed. It did look fairly good – just a line on the surface rather than a jagged, ropy mess like some of Professor Moody’s scars.

“Looks good,” Harry said.

“Bill’s got a job in Egypt, have you heard? And our dear Percy has been promoted!”

“Yes, ma’am. And Percy’s been at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, of course. You must be very proud of your sons. I understand you’ve been looking for work too, Mrs. Weasley. Any luck?”

“Just dribs and drabs, dear. I’ve been doing some baking – supplying some cakes and pies to a few pubs and restaurants. Making a bit of lace. Still, I can’t complain! We are doing quite well, all things considered, and it’s a blessing we own our home and have Bill to help keep the enchantments up.” She patted her long-haired son on his stubbly cheek, who bore her attentions with an indulgent smile. “Don’t tell the Ministry that, of course. Those anti-werewolf laws are a terror!”

“I won’t, ma’am. Percy’s not coming to the Order meetings?” Harry checked.

Mrs. Weasley’s smile slipped a little. “Well, he’s very busy, dear. Nothing to worry about, just run off his feet at the moment.”

“Of course,” Harry said, casting his mind about for a new topic of conversation, since her now strained smile suggested things weren’t entirely rosy with Percy’s job. He hoped his friend was alright. It must be tough being promoted to a high position so fast; no doubt not everyone in the Ministry was thrilled with his rapid advancement over more senior Ministry employees. Perhaps a short supportive letter wouldn’t go astray.

“I don’t suppose you are any good at making jam, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked.

“Why yes! I am rather well known for my jams and chutneys. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if you might be interested in processing some of the blackberries from Potter Manor – when it’s the right season, of course – into something saleable. Jams or pies, or something. For a share of the profits, naturally.”

“Oh, aren’t you a darling boy!” she cooed.

Harry caught her body shifting as if she was considering hugging him, and deliberately twisted away to call Sirius over. “What do you think, Sirius? Since you’re Regent and all. Would it be a good idea to make a deal and try to turn the blackberries at Potter Manor into jam? Mrs. Weasley’s a dab hand at jams, apparently. It’d be nice to turn a little extra profit off something other than agisting.” Harry had been reading up for Business Studies lately and felt that all that empty land was just going to waste at the moment. Building a new manor (or multiple houses, for that matter) to rent out was too big an investment, but surely the land had a few more opportunities for productive output. He wondered if people would buy lumber if some land needed clearing. He’d mention it to Sirius later.

“Capital notion,” Sirius said approvingly. “I think there’s some groves of apple and plum trees on the grounds too. I’ll see to having the weeds cleared out and getting the orchard ready for spring. The trees might have some bugs or need pruning or something.”

“Dob-… My house-elf could help. He’s a beginner gardener, but enthusiastic, and he’s been reading up on gardening. Anyway, he’d work well under direction, and could help with the harvest; I’d want him to be free to take a little fruit for himself, by the way, Sirius.”

Sirius wandered off with the Weasleys to plan out a deal on Harry’s behalf (after asking permission in an offhand and casual manner), and Harry was happy to let him take over thrashing out the fine details.

Snape seized the opportunity to sidle over for a chat with Harry himself, once the Weasleys had moved away.

“Master Snape, it’s good to see you again,” Harry said, with a smile.

Snape’s lips curved upwards with surprised pleasure. People who said such words with genuine feeling were clearly rare and precious in his life.

“It is a pleasure to see you once more too, Potter,” Snape said, inclining his head subtly in a formal greeting. “I thought I might see you here this evening and took the liberty of bringing along a gift for you.”

From a capacious pocket of his black robes – that Harry suspected might be enchanted – he extracted a brand-new textbook and handed it over.

“The NEWT level Potions book, Borage’s Advanced Potion-Making, with some corrections and annotations of my own. I hope you will find it advantageous in your studies, perhaps from fifth year onwards. A couple of the simpler recipes may be within reach of your skills already. I have focused on correcting errors in the recipes and included some advice on where to improve your brewing. Without spoon feeding you the information like a drooling infant. That would do you no favours.”

“I appreciate it, sir. How is your potions research going?”

They chatted amicably for a while about Snape’s experiments with Storm’s shed skin, which had apparently produced some interesting variations in potions when used as a substitute for Boomslang skin.

Harry hissed some translations for Storm, who was happy to hear ‘his’ gift had been properly appreciated.

“Tell him I do not have my adult colouration yet, or a mane–”

“He can sssee that,” Harry hissed back.

“–but that I am sure it will happen very sssoon, and then my shed ssskins might be ssstronger. Do you think they would be better, Harold? We Wonambi do get more powerful as we get older, you know.”

“I am sure they would be,” Harry agreed, “but I think you are ssstill at least a year away from being an adult.”

“I am not a hatchling! I am not prey, I am a fierce hunter!” Storm hissed unhappily, and Harry had to reassure him that he was indeed very close to being an adult.

Since half the room had left – Dumbledore among them, with a cheery wave farewell for Harry – and the other half was disinterested in a dull ramble about potions brewing, Harry decided to venture a cautious question about Lord Voldemort. Indirectly, of course.

“I don’t suppose you know what ah… people in general think of me being in the Triwizard Tournament?” he asked, raising his eyebrows high up into his fringe of dark hair, trying to hint as best he could that he wasn’t asking about people as such, but Death Eaters and the Dark Lord.

Snape nodded slightly, and replied, “I believe people are generally approving, though for different reasons. Many are impressed to see the Heir of Slytherin representing our nation at an international level and look forward to your undoubtedly glorious triumph. Some, however, sneer at your youth and deceitful nature in entering a competition you should not be eligible for, and resent you stealing the limelight from your pure-blood betters. They are delightedly looking forward to watching your public comeuppance and punishment for your hubris.”

“Ouch.” That was harsh. “I didn’t even want to enter, you know.”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“Many don’t.”

“People are, in the main, idiots.” Snape’s sneer implied that wasn’t a joke, but a bitter statement of fact. “For what it is worth, those who matter support your participation and wish to see you do well.”

“‘Those who matter’ want me to win?” Harry asked cautiously. He wasn’t quite sure if that was a reference to Lord Voldemort, or to Dumbledore, or even Snape himself. Being covert was tough.

Snape nodded. “Or at least make a good showing of things, for the sake of your Most Ancient House’s honour, if nothing else.”

There was no opportunity to ask further questions, for Sirius wandered back to join Harry around then, and Snape moved off without a word of greeting or farewell to Sirius, just a quiet nod to Harry.

“Was he bothering you?” Sirius checked. “You looked upset.”

“Not at all. I was just thinking. About stuff,” Harry said vaguely.

The Tonks family joined them as they left the house, politely Disapparating away from the yard rather than inside their host’s home.

With an increasingly familiar but still sickening sensation that felt like a hook had lodged itself in his mid-section, Harry and the others returned to Grimmauld Place.

“Shame your lead didn’t pan out,” Tonks said, patting Sirius on the shoulder. “However, the trail’s still hot and we might catch the duo yet.”

Harry pretended he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation as they walked inside, but Sirius must’ve made some kind of shushing motion, for no more was said about what he suspected was Draco’s tip off regarding the Lestranges.

-000-

Kreacher was the one who seemed most upset by Harry’s impending departure for Hogwarts.

“Kreacher does not want Master to go, he is a good influence on Master Sirius, and a good Heir. But Master Harold must go and learn more magic. More Dark curses,” he muttered, trying to console himself. “He must be learning more.”

“Umm… I can hear you,” Harry pointed out. “Please don’t talk out loud about Dark magic like that. You’ll get both of us in trouble. And uh, I’ll miss you too.”

“Kreacher is sorry,” Kreacher said. His ears drooped and he wrung his hands as he talked, his eyes shifting about. “Does Master Harold know the Fiendfyre Curse? Is young Master learning much about curse-breaking at Hogwarts? There are many items in the ‘rubbish’ that needs attending to. Dobby helped Kreacher move it all to master’s cottage.”

“They don’t teach that curse at Hogwarts, I think, since I’m pretty sure it’s banned. I know the incantation and wand movements, but I’ve never tried casting it. I daren’t. If we learn about it at all it’d be like how we’re covering the Unforgiveables in DADA at the moment; as something to defend against. I dunno. Maybe they’ll talk about it in NEWT defence classes. Curse-breaking isn’t covered at all this year. That’s for NEWT Ancient Runes classes only; seventh year, I think. I’ve picked up a little for the Tournament.”

“Two or three more years. That is not so long,” Kreacher muttered.

“Did you need anything tended to immediately? I don’t have many spare Galleons, but I could hire Bill Weasley to take care of some of them.”

Kreacher shook his head furiously, his long droopy ears flapping about. “No! Family secrets. It can waits. It has waited a long time already.”

“If you’re sure? Then just wrap the worst ones in black silk for now and then stay well away from them so you don’t get cursed,” Harry advised, and Kreacher promised to do so.

Chapter Text

January 1995

Draco seemed a lot more sanguine about the situation with Skeeter than Harry had anticipated. They met in an icy-cold quadrangle their first afternoon back at Hogwarts, at Harry’s request. All sensible students were indoors where it was warmer, so they had plenty of privacy. Just in case, both of them tried out various detection spells they’d hastily studied, and Harry had brought his tired, grumpy snake to scent the air.

“No-one is here,” he hissed tiredly. “Not even lying in ambush.”

“My father is handling the situation,” Draco assured Harry said smugly. “He has some dirt on Skeeter and promises she will not print anything injurious to either of us. That combined with some general ahh… appeals to her own sense of self-preservation. The Dark Lord clearly does not want to be gossiped about in the paper.”

“You’re sure?” Harry fretted. “She might gossip to someone else, even if she does not write any articles…”

“Father says it will be fine,” Draco promised, waving a dismissive hand. “What little she heard will not see print or be spoken of.”

“So, she was eavesdropping, then? How?”

Draco hesitated for the first time. “Father would not share that detail, but I think it likely she was. Honestly, I think he is uh… somewhat concerned I am scheming without his advice, lately.”

“You honestly aren’t worried at all? And how did things go with Sirius?”

“Well, I was a tad concerned when Skeeter’s article came out,” Draco conceded. “I was not sure who she would talk to or what else she might publish to my… our detriment. So, I asked father for advice. Long story short, we did not tell mother about any of it… nor send any message to uh… you know. Him. The Lestranges are gone – hopefully for good – and the Aurors are hot on their trail due to Black’s report that they were skulking around. Oh, and my father shared a ‘confidential rumour’ with them that he had heard our manor was soon to be searched! Was that not inspired? It proved borne out by the subsequent raid, too. Most importantly, my family was safe, and Black was both shocked and pleased by my overture,” he said, puffing up proudly.

“The Aurors catching them would have been the most important thing, and you won’t be so smug if the Lestranges ever find out about you dobbing on them,” Harry snapped. He wasn’t really happy with how everything had turned out. Maybe he should have said something different… done something different. But what?

“Well… yes. At least I tried, Harry, I did not see you doing any better! And my father says–”

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes.

“–father says they won’t find out,” Draco finished huffily. “He has ensured it. You could try showing a little gratitude! He worked hard to keep us both safe!”

“Sorry.”

“Hmph. So… Black didn’t say anything about me, did he? He swore most solemnly he would not. I acted very scared!”

“Were you?”

“…A little. It all got much messier than we had hoped or planned for. Next time – if there is such a next time – I will think things through more.”

Harry nodded. “Agreed. Sirius asked me for a character reference, of sorts. I think before he talked to you. Nothing after that. Did he say anything about that?”

“No, the only time he mentioned you was when he said he saw why we are friends, now.”

So that seemed to be that. Whatever blackmail material, bribes, or threats Lucius Malfoy was using to ensure Skeeter’s silence seemed to be holding her poisoned quill at bay… at least for now. The Daily Prophet was staying silent without so much as a whisper about Harry practicing any pagan blood rituals or having any kind of truce with You-Know-Who. The most controversial article had been a recent expose of Professor Hagrid’s ancestry as a half-giant and speculation about a possible ‘illicit liaison’ with Madame Maxime, ‘another half-breed like himself’.

Dinner that evening was another feast designed to impress, and a new face at the head table was introduced by Dumbledore, who stood to make a short speech of welcome.

“There has been a lot of interest raised in the Ministry of late about reviewing and overhauling the Hogwarts curriculum and teaching standards, and support and funding for such an endeavour has been almost unanimous amongst the Hogwarts Board of Directors. There were many skilled witches and wizards keen to take on the role but only one could succeed. I am pleased to introduce you this evening to the successful candidate, our new Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Mr. Argo Pyrites.”

It wasn’t a name Harry was familiar with, and he craned his neck to peer at the wizard who stood to bow in acknowledgement with a sweep of his befeathered hat across his chest, and to wave languidly at the crowd of politely applauding students.

The man looked like quite the dandy, dressed up in the very latest fashions… by wizarding standards. He was wearing a long black tailcoat but had omitted a waistcoat – a daring fashion choice for a young wizard looking to make an impact. His tailcoat with sparkling gold buttons was left open to display his shiny smooth white silk shirt and his frilly white lace jabot (instead of a cravat), which was secured with a dark cameo brooch at the throat. Down the table, Harry overheard Brown gossiping to the other girls that his shirt looked like “real Acromantula silk!” His shirt’s full five inches of white frothy lace spilled out of the jacket’s cuffs, to match the jabot. His long bottle-blond hair was tied back with a smart black velvet bow.

“He was in the paper this morning,” Hermione said to Harry, as they all applauded. “Sent to deal with ‘falling standards’ at Hogwarts! He’s here to check on Binns, not that they said that specifically. The Ministry’s helping out with extra funding, too! The Headmaster will have to hire a replacement now!”

The High Inquisitor’s polished appearance didn’t occasion the same level of longing sighs that Lockhart’s had, once upon a time. Perhaps because he was notably older, with a few wrinkles showing despite his best efforts to disguise them with an artful touch of makeup. Harry guessed he was in his fifties, at least. Wizarding ages were hard to guess at; it could easily be more.

“Hail and well met, students!” he called out to the room. “Some of you I have already had the pleasure of meeting, while others of you have yet to see me in your classes. If you see me skulking around the back of a classroom, fear not! I am here to police your teachers, not yourselves.” He finished with an overblown wink which drew laughter from the students, and a pained look from some of the teachers. Professor Hagrid in particular looked quite discomforted and was shifting about uncomfortably while nibbling at his fingernails.

“I will leave it up to your teachers to take points if you misbehave or award them where merited; I will only take the liberty of deducting House points if your behaviour towards myself is not befitting that of a young lady or gentleman.”

There was a lot of chatter about the new addition to the staff, after that. Hermione was optimistic of great things to come, Neville was wanting to see how things went before expressing an opinion, and Harry was cautiously positive but nervous about the use of the archaic title ‘High Inquisitor’.

“I have only heard of that position in history books,” he explained. “Usually they get sweeping authority to root out corruption, and can overrule even the Chief Warlock, once appointed by the Minister. He can overrule Dumbledore about pretty much everything if he wants to, which could be good or bad, depending on what kind of man he is.”

Everyone near him gave Mr. Pyrites a second look at hearing that.

“He looks nice,” Hermione said uncertainly.

“Time will tell,” Neville said. “You cannot judge the measure of a man with a single glance.”

“Has anyone had Pyrites in their class yet?” Hermione asked loudly, looking around at nearby Gryffindors.

No-one in their year had seen him yet, but the Weasley twins piped up.

“He was in Divination this morning, and Potions this afternoon. He made a similar speech at the start of each class.”

“He didn’t look very impressed by Trelawney,” the other twin commented.

“No, he didn’t. He and old Sluggy seemed to get on well enough, though. Sluggy was shaking his hand and chatting away like they were old pals. That might just be him being him, though.”

“We tested Pyrite’s commitment to not taking points by blatantly cheating with our tarot layout in Divination while he was watching – he didn’t say a word. He just kind of smiled and made a note.”

“Hopefully that won’t come back to bite us later, Fred!”

“Well the cards promised great success in both our studies and romantic lives, so I think we’ll be alright.”

The duo snickered happily.

On Tuesday morning Harry and his friends spotted Pyrites in their second class, History of Magic. Only a couple of students had arrived and Binns wasn’t there yet when Harry and Hermione arrived from Ancient Runes. Ron and Neville sometimes arrived puffing to their class, running late because of Trelawney’s rambling predictions she demanded her class’ full attention for. All the stairs they had to navigate between the Divination tower and the History of Magic class on the first floor didn’t help either.

“Mr. Potter, I presume?” he said, offering a white-gloved hand to shake. “Argo Pyrites, Heir of the House of Pyrites.”

“A pleasure sir,” Harry said, shaking his hand. “Uh… we’re not supposed to use our titles at Hogwarts, but I’m sure you can guess mine!”

The man laughed. “Indeed I can. And your friend here is…?”

“Oh! This is Miss Hermione Granger.”

“Soon to be Head of the newly reformed House of Cugoano!” the man chirped, shaking her hand too. “I have heard good things about you, young lady.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, with a pleased smile.

The smile slipped off her face at his next words, however. “Such a pleasure to hear that an accomplished young witch such as yourself isn’t a common Muggle-born, but what I hear has now been dubbed a ‘lost-blood’! Such an evocative term.”

“Indeed,” Hermione said, a little frostily. “I am glad to learn about my ancestry, however, I would be no less proud to be an ordinary Muggle-born.”

“All the same, it is good you do not have to settle for being a social nonentity totally reliant on those of superior birth,” Pyrites said. “Oh, and congratulations on your book! Such a fascinating read, you must be very proud to be a published co-author so young.”

Hermione smiled wanly. “Thank you, sir. I have read one of your own books too, Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science.”

“Most admirable!” he said, with a delighted smile.

Pyrites gave a speech to the class, or a significant portion thereof, as Binns drifted through a wall and into the classroom.

“Good morning, students! Please keep in mind that I am here to evaluate your teacher and the curriculum, not yourselves. No points will be deducted nor detentions assigned should you misbehave in class… at least not by me! I cannot vouch for Professor Binns, of course. So please, carry on precisely as you would if I was not here. If anyone has any observations or concerns regarding your experience here at Hogwarts – either academically or regarding extracurricular clubs or any other matters relating to how the school is run – please feel welcome to come and find me later in my office on the third floor near the main staircase.”

At first everyone was on their best behaviour with a more alert-than-usual pair of adult eyes watching them. Soon enough, however, Binns’ droning had its usual effect. Ron Weasley wasn’t the only student who had a nap at his desk but was possibly the loudest with his rasping snore.

Harry glanced back at Pyrites a couple of times, but as indeed the man seemed totally unconcerned by a quarter of the class napping and another quarter quietly chatting or playing games (with increasing confidence as they failed to be chided for their behaviour) he decided that he too may as well feel at liberty to default to his usual pattern for History of Magic.

He pulled his Christmas gift of the second volume of Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts out of his satchel and starting reading, making notes on anything that looked like it might be useful in the second task. He’d alerted Hermione early that morning – and she’d excitedly spread the word – that they could have a research meeting on Friday afternoon. She’d managed to finally coax information out of him early about the translation of the clue, and she and Neville had promised to keep it quiet at least until Friday.

While Pyrites hadn’t seemed bothered by misbehaviour so far, Harry tucked his textbook in behind a copy of A History of Magic, just in case. Blatantly ignoring Binns seemed like enough of a risk on its own.

They didn’t see Pyrites again until the next day, though apparently Hermione had seen him briefly when she’d dropped off some detailed notes at his office – practically an essay – with her personal evaluations of all the teachers, both positive and negative.

“I just hope he can keep his blood prejudice out of his decision-making,” she’d fretted. “He doesn’t sound as impartial as I would like to have seen in an Inquisitor. Too biased about blood status.”

“Fingers crossed,” Harry agreed. “Still, I’m not sure there’s even many – or maybe any – Muggle-born teachers at Hogwarts. So that prejudice might not come into play.”

Hermione looked thoughtful at that. “You might be right about the teachers, and that’s really rather dreadful, isn’t it?”

In Care of Magical Creatures on Wednesday afternoon Professor Hagrid looked very anxious indeed with Pyrites watching over his shoulder. His nerves no doubt weren’t helped by the fact that January was the time he’d announced they’d be revisiting the care and management of Hippogriffs. He started off with a stumbling lecture on the proud magical beasts, rather than leading them straight out into the enclosure.

“Alright there, Draco?” Harry whispered encouragingly.

“Of course. So long as I am permitted to work with a more placid beast this time,” Draco said. Draco then looked thoughtfully at Crabbe and Goyle next to him, then back at Harry.

“Would you like to pair up today?” Draco asked.

“Sure. I won’t even ask you to owe me a favour for it,” Harry said.

Draco smiled in gratitude. “Thank you, most appreciated.”

The class passed peacefully enough with Draco on his most cautious good behaviour around the Hippogriffs. Pansy did ask about a claw-trimming spell at one point, which had their teacher stammering and Pyrites making a quiet note, but apart from that it all went well and at the end of the class Hagrid wiped his sweat-soaked brow with an absolutely enormous spotted handkerchief.

Hermione lingered to chat supportively with him at the end of class, and Greg waited a short distance away to escort her back to the castle, perhaps playing chaperone.

“I’ll catch you later, Neville, I’m off for some private study,” Harry announced.

Neville waved goodbye. “I shall wait for Hermione, then.”

Draco, Crabbe, and Pansy walked back to the castle with Harry.

“Headed for the library now classes are done for the day, cousin?” Pansy asked.

“No, I’m going to the tower to pick up Storm and then off on my own,” Harry said, not wanting to announce he’d be practicing spells down in the Chamber of Secrets. “You know about the study session on Friday, right?”

“Of course! We wouldn’t miss it; we’re all dying to hear about the next task.”

“I’ll save the full announcement for Friday, but in case you wanted a bit of an early clue, the next task has a water element theme,” Harry confided, which had Draco and Pansy buzzing happily about getting a head start on researching spells early.

Down in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry eyed the pool in front of Salazar’s statue a little dubiously. He’d cleaned it magically a few times to get rid of the algae and some blockages, and it was deeper than it had first looked. Harry could swim but… not very well. The Dursleys hadn’t ever taken him to the pool or the beach, so he’d only made do with school swimming lessons to learn the basics.

“It is sssafe,” Storm promised. “The tunnel to the lake is big enough for you to fit through, but no large or nasty creaturess ever pursue me through it. Only tiny fish go through. Perhaps it is a Clever-man thing. It is a nice tunnel.”

Harry stripped down to his swimming trunks and with wand in hand, dipped a cautious toe in the water. He let out a yelp at the chill, and quickly cast a warming spell on himself. Silly. Of course it would be cold, he knew that!

To Storm’s disappointment Harry wasn’t game to explore very far, and – crazily enough – Harry wanted to perfect his work on the Bubble-Head Charm before diving too deep. After an hour’s practice Harry had a shot at diving down deep enough to spot the entrance to a tunnel which Storm assured him led out to the lake. Interestingly enough Harry found that Storm and he were perfectly comprehensible to each other even underwater, with or without a charm making a bubble of continually fresh air that clung around his mouth and jaw.

It was a tough spell to master, and so far his best time was around five minutes duration before it started leaking water. Trying to cast other spells while holding the Bubble-Head Charm steady was also challenging. He wasn’t sure why, but the Bubble-Head Charm tended to fail faster when he tried that. Maybe it was too much to concentrate on? Or it needed too much magic? Holding up a Shield Charm and attacking with hexes at the same time was similarly difficult.

“‘We've taken what you'll sssorely miss, An hour long you'll have to look…’” he muttered to himself in a sing-song voice that came out as hisses with Storm in his line of sight, skulking in the rocky shallows of the pool.

“My air ssspell’s not lasting long enough,” he observed to Storm. “I need to last an hour at least, more to be sssafe. An hour underwater. Phew. I wish I had a bath to practice in. Showers aren’t the sssame.”

“Find one,” Storm advised prosaically. “There must be a warm pool sssomewhere. Then you can take me there too. Then next time after you have practiced holding your breath I shall show you where in the lake the fish hide. It’s near the big logs!” Clearly Storm was not a fan of building anticipation for surprises.

“Do you think it’s sssafe to use my wand underwater?” Harry asked, looking anxiously at his wand. “None of the bookss mention it one way or the other.”

“I do not know. Ask an Elder.”

Harry nodded, and hissed his thanks. “Good idea, I shall.”

Harry asked Ambrosius first, who didn’t actually know the answer either.

“I am simply too unfamiliar with modern wands to judge.”

“Any suggestions in regard to casting spells underwater or good water-related spells?”

“Ice, fire, controlling water creatures… the obvious things. Steam and ice will both damage an enemy and changing water’s level of warmth is a relatively easy magic to master. If you cannot speak underwater you will have to master silent casting, but this ‘Bubble-Head Charm’ sounds like it might allow you to work around that.

“Now, from what you’ve said you are likely to encounter Merpeople. You should keep in mind that Merpeople are a proud race, and a violent one. Tread with caution and respect and make them no promises you will not keep.”

Harry thanked him for his advice and gave his friend a quick rundown of his Christmas holidays.

Ambrosius tutted unhappily at hearing that Harry had only been able to learn the first part of the prophecy about himself.

“I do not blame you,” he reassured Harry, when he saw the young man hunch apologetically, “you did the best you could. I blame your Headmaster, who is negligent in not sharing such critical information with you. ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…’Already we have a lot of ambiguity there. What power? What is the definition of ‘vanquish’? Approaches how, exactly? It could be an impending birth, or it could be a journey. Are you destined to face him or is it only an option, for it says you – if it is indeed you – have the power to defeat him, not that you must or will defeat him.”

“Sirius wasn’t sure if my parents ‘defied him’ precisely three times, or more or less than that.”

Ambrosius shook his head unhappily. “Indeed. It sounds precise on the surface but is open to interpretation. A poor business, to share only the portion of a prophecy that identifies someone, and not the rest. Still, perhaps the content is upsetting, or the type of prophecy that is less likely to have a good outcome the more the subject knows about it. Prophecies are only possibilities, a likely path for the future, but not the only one. If you learn only one thing about prophecies remember this; a prophecy may be fulfilled in multiple ways.”

“But what do you think it means? I’m guessing the rest predicted something dire that would happen to uh… Tom, or more details about me.”

“Well, truthfully I would want to hear the rest before making a judgement. However, if you want my best guess, it is that the prophecy most likely referred to your defeat of Tom when you were a baby, and that the vanquishing ‘power’ was the protective ward your mother cast around you, linked to the rune on your forehead.

“The most accurate prophecies are those made closest to their fulfilment – it takes a strong Seer indeed to peer a decade or more into the misty future, and if the Seer was that powerful I think it likely you would surely have already heard their peerless skill being lauded to all and sundry.”

-000-

Harry was dismayed on Friday at lunch when Neville received a note from the Headmaster inviting both him and Harry to join him that afternoon for a chat and a cup of tea.

“But I have my Tournament study session on in the library today!” Harry whined. “Why couldn’t he see us tomorrow?”

“It’s the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw Quidditch match,” Neville replied blandly. “He attends all the matches.”

“What about Sunday?” suggested Ron, who was sitting nearby. “Or next week?”

“Potter Watch is on this weekend; it’s the second Sunday of the month. And next weekend is Hogsmeade. I suppose a weeknight next week might be alright, maybe? Not Tuesday, of course – we’ve got Astronomy in the evening.”

“You could see him this Sunday afternoon,” Hermione suggested.

Harry rested his head on the table with a thump. “I was reserving that time for doing my Ancient Runes essay.”

“Harry!” Hermione cried, aghast. “That is due on Monday! Haven’t you done it yet?”

“No!”

“You should do it on Saturday,” she insisted.

“And miss Quidditch?!” Ron said, with shocked wide eyes. “After all his efforts to help reinstate it?”

“A token appearance would appear warranted,” Neville suggested.

“I’ll work on my draft at the Quidditch match, okay? And I’ll ask the Headmaster if we can see him on Saturday afternoon if the match doesn’t run overly long,” Harry said decisively.

“Actually… I might be busy then,” Neville said, looking uncomfortable. “I uh… p-promised Parvati I’d join her and her sister at the Ravenclaw victory party in the club room after the match. If they win, that is. There’s no party if they lose – then the Hufflepuffs have the room.”

“Oh!”

“Besides, Dumbledore is probably busy too. It would be presumptuous to ask him to reschedule,” Neville added.

“Well… alright. I wouldn’t want to seem rude. I guess we will have to move the study session to Saturday afternoon. You don’t mind if you miss it, do you, Neville?”

Neville shrugged. “Not really. I am sure there will be plenty of others I can attend.”

Hermione huffed in frustration. “But I don’t want to wait an extra day to start! I had this afternoon set aside for research, and besides, everyone’s already been invited.”

“I tell you what,” Harry said, standing up and shouldering his satchel of books as the bell tolled signalling the end of lunch, “I’ll write down the clue during Potions class. You can take the note – and my apologies – and you can lead a study session without me.”

Hermione brightened happily. “Brilliant!”

-000-

After Potions Harry and Neville started up to the Headmaster’s office and ran into the Weasley twins on their way down the stairs, at the grotesque that guarded the staircase.

“In trouble again?” Harry asked.

Two freckled faces grinned identical smiles at him.

“Nothing serious, just a detention.”

“That’s right, and a bit of a lecture about not testing new products on first-years with medical conditions.”

“We weren’t to know she had breathing problems, George.”

“That’s right, she should have said. Still, we will check first, in the future.”

“Pity the Headmaster confiscated all our Ton-Tongue Toffees,” Fred complained. “I swear he must’ve used magic to know they were hidden in my quill box.”

Harry froze as the twins continued chattering away, thinking of what was hidden in his bag. The first was dubious but wasn’t too bad: a book on poisons from the Restricted Section that Professor Moody had signed a slip for (no questions asked, as promised), that Harry had been studying to improve his potions essays. The second book, however, was highly illegal. It was the book about blood magic the Dark Lord had sent Harry as a Christmas present. He’d been reading it lately in hopes of finding something about blood wards like the ones around Privet Drive, or to help tweak the mummy-controlling spell for Sirius, or even some snippet of information to help with the bloodline curse on house-elves. It certainly wasn’t a book he wanted to get caught with! He wished now he had stuck to reading it only in the Chamber of Secrets and hadn’t taken it out of there after his last visit.

“Thanks for loaning me those books,” Harry said, fishing in his bag as he talked. “I’ve read them both, and I’d consider it a great favour if I could borrow them again some time.”

He shoved them – front covers face down – into the nearest twin’s hands. He thought it might be George Weasley. He didn’t know for sure which one. He still couldn’t tell the two apart, and the way they mucked about with their names pretty much guaranteed he never would be able to.

The twins exchanged a look with each other. One raised his eyebrows, and the other nodded back to his twin.

“No problem at all, Potter. We owe you a few favours, you can get them back any time.”

“Happy to help the son of a Marauder!”           

They walked off with a cheerful whistle, and Harry saw one of them peeking curiously at the book covers just as they rounded a corner, before tucking both of the texts away in a bag. The next corridor was more crowded with students heading back to their dorms, after all. It seemed that they knew a bit of discretion was required.

“What was that about?” Neville asked. “Fairy floss.”

The grotesque slid aside to reveal the Headmaster’s hidden staircase.

“Well, they are rather genius at potions. They read pretty widely,” Harry said as they went upstairs, telling the truth… if not the whole truth. “They were good books.”

Headmaster Dumbledore was delighted to see them both and offered tea, biscuits, and a little small talk before getting down to business. Harry had two currant biscuits, never one to turn down offered food. The Headmaster seemed to have a little trouble pouring the tea, as his silent spell to animate the teapot to get it to pour the tea itself went a little awry, and the teapot stumbled about on its tiny legs, hot tea splashing out of its spout and dampening the white tablecloth.

Dumbledore laughed his error off. “Even an experienced wizard like myself needs to practice his spells from time to time, boys! I think I shall pour by hand, for now,” he said, putting his old, dark wood wand away.

“I have a memory to show you both today,” Dumbledore said, gesturing at the Pensieve in a corner, which swirled with a silvery liquid that looked like mercury but was almost airy, not a thick liquid. “As Harry… Potter knows, and I believe you do too, Neville… if I may call you Neville?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you. Where was I? Yes, I believe you both know that Lord Voldemort was once an ordinary man like any other. Tom Riddle was just a boy when I first met him. Eager to know more of his family, once he’d discovered he was indeed a half-blood as he’d long presumed, and not a Muggle-born as some at first considered him. Yet the Gaunt family that he discovered he was related to – and it appears you may be distantly related to as well, Potter – was not all he had hoped for. A few of the Dark wizards and witches in the family line were notorious enough to suit his tastes, however, in modern times the family had fallen far. There is in truth very little to be proud of with that lineage,” Dumbledore said, fixing his gaze firmly on Harry with the last line. His eyes didn’t have that distinctive twinkle or piercing look that Harry had learnt to associate with Legilimency; Harry thought Dumbledore just wanted him to listen. As if he wasn’t already in agreement.

“If you seek someone to emulate amongst your long-distant Slytherin-descended relatives, Potter, I suggest you look to Isolt Sayre. A pure-blood witch who threw off the bigoted beliefs of pure-blood supremacy and the legacy of cruelty and violence that she had been raised with and forged a new and great name for herself.”

“Yes, sir, she sounded nice,” Harry said quietly. Did the Headmaster think that deep down Harry was itching to imitate a murderous kidnapper like Gormlaith Gaunt, or to create new hexes and curses like Merwyn the Malicious?

Besides, they weren’t all bad. Corvinus Gaunt might well have been a secretive pure-blood bigot – certainly according to Ambrosius he didn’t want Muggle-borns polluting the family’s sacred Chamber of Secrets. However, he didn’t welcome pure-bloods down there either. He wasn’t known for anything more shocking than making over the Hogwarts bathrooms to hide the Chambers’ entrances, and that was a fact known only to Harry, a portrait, and (most probably) the Dark Lord. Corvinus didn’t make it into any of the history books, for good or ill. He seemed to have been a pretty ordinary wizard, for a Parselmouth Heir of Slytherin.

“We won’t need to breathe while our heads are in the Pensieve?” Neville double-checked. “Our bodies will be fine?”

“Perfectly safe,” Dumbledore reassured him. “I have done this many times. The only risk is the seductive lure of becoming lost in the past and wanting to revisit old memories over and over instead of living in the present.”

“Or being attacked while your head is stuck in the basin,” Harry added.

“My office door is locked and my office warded – we are quite safe here. Now, let us follow Bob Ogden, former Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, as he visits the Gaunts’ home in Little Hangleton.”

“I shall stand watch and raise a hue and cry should any threat imperil any of ye, Harold,” a man’s voice called out from the wall.

Harry turned to see his ancestor’s portrait smiling at him from the wall. “Thank you, Phineas, that would be most appreciated.”

Other portraits chimed in to insist that they too would of course help if needed.

“It is always a pleasure to be of service to those of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” Phineas said grandly.

Harry and Neville both took a deep breath before plunging their faces into the silvery substance in the rune-engraved basin, and there was a whirling sensation of falling through darkness before they materialised – from their point of view – in a sunny country lane. They looked around the bright countryside in amazement. It looked and felt so real.

“When was this memory from, sir?” Harry asked as they walked along, following a plump man in a frock coat and colourful swimming trunks, at Dumbledore’s direction. Presumably the man was a pure-blood wizard trying to blend in with Muggles, by the looks of his mismatched attire.

“Some years ago now. I have been collecting such memories for a couple of decades.”

They trotted along behind Ogden down a steep slope, along a path edged by wild hedgerows, and down a crooked track to ramshackle cottage surrounded by nettles, with a dead snake nailed to its front door.

A man in ragged clothing dropped down from the nearest tree, startling both boys just as much as he did Bob Ogden.

Harry reflexively pointed his wand and shot a Stunning Spell at him, which went straight through him like a wisp of ghostly energy.

“Merlin!” Neville swore, his wand in his hand a beat behind Harry’s.

Dumbledore chuckled. “I promise you, we’re quite safe here. Consider us as phantoms, haunting a memory. We cannot interact with anything or anyone we see, and nothing here can harm us.

“You’re not welcome,” the ragged man hissed.

“Do you understand him, Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, his heart pounding. He slowly tucked his wand away. “He said, ‘You’re not welcome.’” He eyed the fellow Parselmouth curiously, the first human speaker he’d ever heard, not counting Tom’s spirit-projection from the diary. He sounded just like a snake did. He wasn’t much to look at, all matted dark hair, with a gap-toothed mouth and beady dark eyes that didn’t focus properly.

“I would be most obliged if you would translate any future snippets of Parseltongue for us, my boy.”

There wasn’t much to translate and nothing of particular note at first, though it was intriguing to Harry to discover that Parselmouths could talk to each other secretly, with no need to speak to a snake.

Ogden was there to reprimand the younger man (the one who’d startled them), named Morfin Gaunt. Morfin had hexed a Muggle with hives in revenge for the man paying too much attention to his sister. Morfin’s father’s name told Harry why they were watching the memory; he was called Marvolo Gaunt.

“Is Marvolo… Tom’s father?” Harry asked.

“His grandfather,” Dumbledore said. “Tom’s mother was Merope.”

Marvolo seemed like a cruel and bigoted man, and his overlong arms and wrinkled face gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a monkey.

Harry flinched when Marvolo bellowed abuse at his daughter Merope for dropping a pan when she was startled. Neville wasn’t doing any better, and they both hunched up as Marvolo yelled insults at his daughter and jeered at her sub-par spellcasting under stress.

“She’s not a Squib,” Neville muttered angrily. “She cast the spell to pick up the pot. She didn’t get it right, but it worked. She has magic; she’s a witch.”

Harry eyed her ragged grey dress, and her beaten demeanour. He hoped she’d managed to escape. He didn’t blame her for trying to find love with a Muggle, with a family like that.

“I agree,” Harry said.

Ogden continued to fruitlessly explain why it wasn’t permitted to hex Muggles and perform magic in front of them, and how Morfin would have to attend a hearing. The Gaunts were utterly disinterested.

“Note the heirlooms here,” Dumbledore said, as Marvolo, frothing with rage at not enough respect being shown to the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin, showed off a ring on his hand and a locket around his daughter’s neck. Harry thought for a moment Merope’s father was trying to throttle her. He and Neville watched in anxious silence.

Horses rode by the windows, and everyone eavesdropped on the couple’s conversation outside. The man’s name was Tom, talking to his ‘darling’ Cecilia.

Harry gave some translations as the Gaunts spoke about them after they’d passed, in a blank monotone.

“She likes looking at that Muggle… Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she?”

The Gaunt father was furious.

“It is true? My daughter – pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin – hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?” Harry translated again.

“Now he’s calling her a disgusting Squib,” he paraphrased, his face going pale as Marvolo lunged at his daughter and wrapped his hands around her throat, choking her for real this time.

Neville spoke up, his voice cracking and stammering. “I d-don’t want to watch anymore! I d-don’t want to see him kill her!”

Ogden stepped in with a spell to knock Gaunt away from his daughter, then ran for his life outside.

“She survives,” Dumbledore promised. “Come, we’ll follow Ogden outside. There’s only one more thing of note to see.”

They watched as outside in the lane Ogden collided with a glossy chestnut horse ridden by a handsome, dark-haired man. He and his pretty female companion laughed at the oddly dressed Auror’s predicament.

“That will do, I think,” Dumbledore said, grabbing both boys by the elbow and giving a tug. They whirled through darkness and found themselves back in Dumbledore’s office.

“You would have a guess at who that young man was, Potter?”

“Yes, he looks a great deal like his son does,” Harry said.

Should I hug Neville? he wondered, eying his shaking friend worriedly. What do I do?

He passed his friend a biscuit and nudged him towards a chair, then stepped away from him to draw the Headmaster’s attention onto himself. Neville gave him a wan smile, so he guessed he hadn’t done too badly in trying to help.

“I saw him in the Chamber of Secrets. Well, a ghostly copy of him. So… Tom Marvolo Riddle, named after his father and his grandfather?”

“Precisely!” said the Headmaster.

Dumbledore poured another cup of tea (by hand) and passed it to Neville. “Cup of tea and a sit down should do the trick. Unless you want a Calming Draught?”

“No thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I have sometimes been accused of hoarding information–”

By Sirius, Harry thought.

“–and I thought to remedy that somewhat with you two today, though I would ask you to spread your revelations today no further. I wanted to give you both a glimpse at the origins of someone who may be feared by many, and worshipped by a few, but who is just a man like any other. Albeit one from a line tainted by bigotry and violence.”

“But his mother didn’t believe in that, or she wouldn’t have umm… had a child with a Muggle. Did they get married later? What happened to Cecilia?” Harry asked, referring to Tom’s pretty companion he’d been horse riding with.

Dumbledore told them both a disturbing tale of how once Merope’s father and brother were in Azkaban and she was free of their influence, she used a love potion on Tom Riddle, the local squire’s son. Marvolo died shortly after being released from Azkaban, and found Merope gone. Morfin died much later in Azkaban. Despite being free from her oppressive family there was still no happy ever after for Merope, who was abandoned by Tom (perhaps because her supply of Amortentia had run out, Harry speculated), and who died after her baby was born. She lived only long enough to name her infant son and entrust him to an orphanage.

Harry was quiet and thoughtful. He was thinking about the Dark Lord’s origins, and how it would change you, growing up in an orphanage. He guessed Tom would’ve been even more eager than he or Neville to learn about his family, knowing nothing about them at all. He must have dreamt of being rescued by long-lost relatives – like Harry used to when things were particularly bad, and he’d been locked up in his cupboard without food.

“Did he ever meet Morfin?” he asked. “Or Marvolo, before he died? I think he must have been disappointed when he met them.”

“Yes, but that is a story for another day,” the Headmaster said. “However, you are correct to assume that he was indeed disappointed by the gulf between his idealism about the Slytherin line, and the harsh reality of the situation.”

Harry felt there might be a pointed jibe at himself in there somewhere, but resolvedly ignored it. Maybe he was just being too touchy.

“Do you… you were H-Headmaster when my parents were students here, weren’t you, sir?” Neville asked, emerging from his quiet thoughts “And you knew them when they were Aurors, too?” Neville asked nervously. “Do you th-think… do you think you could share some memories of them with me? Some time, if you are not too busy?”

“A couple, perhaps,” Dumbledore said, his face falling into sad, wrinkled lines. Suddenly you could believe he was over a hundred years old. “It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. However, I believe just a couple of happy memories would do no harm.”

“Thank you, sir!” Neville said gratefully, then gestured at his friend. “Harry, too?”

“If he wishes, I would be glad to assist.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said uncertainly. “I think… I mean, I saw them with the Dementors. It was fantastic, but difficult. And I know what you mean… with what you said earlier. That it’s addictive.”

“It is your decision.”

“…Yes. Yes, please,” Harry decided. Addictive or not, he wanted more.

“At our next meeting, then,” Dumbledore said, with a kindly smile. “I shall think upon the best choices and have a memory ready in a vial for each of you.”

“Now, I had a question for you about the memory. Did you recognise either the ring or the locket, Potter?” Dumbledore asked intently, leaning forwards expectantly.

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore appeared to have been hoping for this answer judging by the way his eyes lit up, but his head jerked in startlement, all the same. “Where have you seen them?”

“Well, I haven’t, sir. Neither of them. But the designs on them are very distinctive,” Harry explained. “The ring has the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.”

“I have seen the symbol too, it is in my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” Neville volunteered, “in an illustration for The Tale of the Three Brothers.”

“It was widely used in the Second World War as the symbol of Gellert Grindelwald,” Harry added, “but surely you knew that already, sir?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes and gave a disappointed slow nod. “Yes… yes I did. I was hoping for more specific recognition. And the locket?”

“It has the Slytherin family crest on it, sir. I’ve seen the crest in the Chamber of Secrets. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the locket is engraved on Salazar’s statue. I made a sketch for Pansy; if you want to see it you could ask her, I’m sure she kept it. It looked like the one in the memory, if that’s any help at all. I don’t think I put much detail in my drawing, though; just a letter S in an oval.”

Dumbledore sighed, and slumped back in his chair tiredly. “Ah well, I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

Harry thought hard… had he seen them anywhere else, ever? A picture, perhaps? He shook his head. “Is it important, sir? I’ve never seen them, sir. However–”

He hesitated. Would what he wanted to say breach his truce with Voldemort? No, it shouldn’t. He wasn’t acting against him just by talking about him. He wasn’t fighting the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters, nor slandering them to the public, nor actively working against them. What he’d been told hadn’t even been said in confidence, strictly speaking.

“However…?” Dumbledore said leadingly, leaning forwards again.

“–Professor Quirrell… you know… he spoke once of a family ring. He wrote about leaving it to me in his will.”

Harry shuffled his feet as he looked down. “I thought he was dying, and… he was kind. It seemed a nice thought. Something to remember him by.”

“Do you know anything else about it? Anything at all?” Dumbledore asked eagerly.

Harry shrugged, discomforted by his intensity. “Only that it’s likely to be in a Gringotts vault. I mean, maybe. That’s what he said a few years ago, that it would be left in a vault to claim if he died. A little money too, I think.”

He was pretty sure that the letter in question that the information about the bequest was in was the one that had crumbled into fine ash when Hermione had tried reading it over his shoulder. There had been something encouraging in there about how he should combine his goal of becoming a Healer with a career in politics, he remembered. And a rant about the dangers of witch-hunting Muggles that seemed a lot more sinister, in retrospect.

“Heir of Slytherin…” Neville muttered quietly, looking askance at Harry. He spoke as if accidentally verbalising his thoughts aloud, Kreacher-style. He looked disturbed.

“I thought he was just a teacher,” Harry said defensively, to his friend. “A nice one. You thought so too.”

Dumbledore thanked Harry profusely for the information, shaking his hand with unusual vigour. Neville, on the other hand, looked very subdued as they left.

“I shall see you again next month to share another memory, if you are both interested?” Dumbledore double-checked.

They both obediently promised they would be, though neither sounded very enthusiastic about the prospect.

“It was kind of the Headmaster to invite me just so you would have some company, don’t you think?” Neville said, after they’d left.

Harry took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Maybe not just for that reason,” he whispered. “Come on, let’s find somewhere private to talk. I have a prophecy to tell you about, that you deserve to know about too.”

Chapter Text

January 1995

The rest of January passed in a haze of study punctuated by moments of panicked stress where there just didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day to fit everything in that Harry wanted to do. He wished – not for the first time – that he still had access to a Time-Turner. He even went to McGonagall, armed with an offering of buttery-soft shortbread (baked by Dobby) to plead with her to get him access to one. She sympathised, but in the end it was all to no avail.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I have lost access to using my own one with some new amendments to laws, and their use is strictly limited by the Ministry for urgent events… usually for emergencies, or breaches of the Statute of Secrecy. Some were issued to Healers after the attack at the Quidditch World Cup, for instance.”

She kept the shortbread.

Harry continued practicing Incarcerous and a silent Accio charm at the Potter Watch meetings, determined to get them perfect. In private, down in the pool in the Chamber of Secrets, and also in the prefects’ luxurious bathroom (after Cedric Diggory gave him the password to access it) Harry practiced his swimming, the Bubble-Head Charm, the Warming Charm, and he experimented with casting spells underwater. Professor McGonagall had promised that his wand would be absolutely fine to use underwater; he hoped she was right. He dried it thoroughly after each dunking, just in case, and cadged some broom polish off the Weasley twins to use on his wand. With modern brooms’ powers coming primarily from runes and enchantments, these days broom and wand polish were basically the same stuff, with the latter just sold in a smaller and more expensive tin.

Millicent, Midgen, and Draco all asked him – separately and covertly – if he’d tried using his Metamorphmagus powers to give himself gills or webbed fingers, but he had to disappoint them.

“I tried, and it didn’t work. I asked over the holidays and according to Tonks major changes like that are either something you can instinctually do or you can’t. She can change her whole body or give herself a pig snout or a beak, but I can’t. Small things are all I can do.”

Curious, he asked Neville why he hadn’t suggested it too.

“I assumed you had already thought of it and discarded it as a plan,” Neville said practically. “You had, correct? It is quite an obvious idea, and you are no troll-brain.”

The Weasley twins had been absolute champs about passing Harry’s forbidden books on poisons and blood magic back to him without making too much of a fuss. They accepted his mostly-honest justifications of “I want to write better Potions essays” and “It’s research about Sirius’ arm, among other stuff I can’t go into”.

“We won’t judge or report you,” they promised. “We look at some very dodgy stuff ourselves, to research possible new products for our business, Marvellous Marauder Mayhem. Have you got a catalogue yet? Ten per cent off – family and friends discount!”

Harry offered to lend them his copy of Poisons et Antidotes, but they demurred as they couldn’t read French.

“If you see anything that looks like a fun prank potion or sounds potentially entertaining, let us know, though.”

Harry copied out a translated warning on an otherwise harmless headache cure potion about how adding too much of the herb tulsi could make you vomit and turn your skin temporarily blue. They did indeed appreciate it and chattered brightly about their planned new range of mail-order products that would help students and stressed workers fake illnesses.

The mid-January Hogsmeade weekend rolled around very quickly. It felt like January was disappearing too quickly.

“There’s only six weeks until the second task!” he moaned to Hermione.

“I know! It’s getting so close!” she agreed sympathetically.

She fully empathised with his stress in a way that Neville didn’t. Neville just said supportive things like, “I have faith in you!” and “You can do it, Harry!”. It was nice, but not as helpful as Hermione joining him in increasingly panicked study sessions. She’d even gotten her parents to post her a Muggle book about teaching yourself how to swim better. Neville had recommended a Mediterranean plant that would make you grow gills and webbed fingers, which sounded awesome. Unfortunately, when he wrote to Percy to check the rules about herbs and potions, his reply confirmed Harry’s suspicion that it wouldn’t be permitted under the rules of the Tournament. Wands only, and whatever ordinary objects you could transfigure or charm for yourself once the task had started.

Percy had reassured Harry in his reply that he was doing fine at his job, and not experiencing any undue pressure from colleagues or having any major problems.

I cannot say they are uniformly supportive, however, those who are ambivalent about my youth and relative inexperience are willing to watch and wait, for my family’s sake.

Other correspondence was less pleasant to manage. Another letter to Voldemort went out, this one asking for safety for Draco, as his friend had implied he’d appreciate that. Harry planned to ask for Dudley’s safety next month. He’d kind of forgotten about him until a recent letter waffling about his ‘totally unfair’ teachers who’d expected Dudley to do catch-up homework over Christmas had reminded him that if Snape knew about his family, odds were good that the Dark Lord knew about Dudley too, even if Skeeter hadn’t mentioned him yet in her articles. Muggle relatives just weren’t of interest to her unless they led back to a Dark witch or wizard, it seemed. He sent letters to both Dudley and Voldemort on the morning of the Saturday Hogsmeade visit. He’d included a chatty discussion of the Inquisitor’s arrival at Hogwarts in Voldemort’s letter, since he always complained Harry didn’t write enough. Maybe it would get him out of another request for an essay.

St. Mungo’s had sent a very flattering letter to ‘Harold James Potter’, with his Black and Potter titles included (but not Slytherin), informing him that he’d been nominated to receive the Paracelsus Medal at their next charity dinner in summer, for his work healing people at the Quidditch World Cup.

Harry didn’t really think he’d done anything particularly remarkable, but it would never do to turn down an award (or a free dinner). After all, he hoped they’d be potential employers, one day in the future. He wrote excitedly about it to Sirius, and his friends were all thrilled for him, especially Neville and Luna who were united in their opinion that it was a good omen of a bright future as a Healer, and quite the ‘feather for your hat’.

Neville was still courting Parvati Patil, in a shy sort of way, and was escorting her – and their chaperone Lavender Brown – to Hogsmeade in the morning. Harry knew that the couple hadn’t kissed yet, because Brown was eager to gossip with Hermione about her friend’s budding romance, and to hear in turn Hermione’s blushing commentary about Krum’s continued efforts to romance her. (Brown’s own romance with Finnegan hadn’t lasted past the Yule Ball, though she swore she didn’t care.)

“Viktor’s taking me to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop for brunch,” Hermione confided, “and after that I’ll be a spectator for the inter-school Quidditch training session.” It wasn’t confidential news for long, as Brown’s excited squeal in response was ear-piercing.

“Shh!” hissed Hermione, and Brown clapped her hands over her own mouth. “He doesn’t want a bunch of fans – or reporters – hearing about it and hanging around. He’s very shy, really.”

“I hope you have a lovely time at lunch,” Harry said politely. “Are you taking a chaperone?”

She shook her head. “It’s not really necessary for an outing in such a public location. Besides, Krum is from a relatively modern wizarding family – he knows the etiquette but doesn’t feel obliged to follow it all. His family has modern ideals, even though they’re not a new wizarding family. Quite the opposite, in fact! His lineage goes back to the famous Bulgar Khan, Krum the Fearsome, who infamously made a silver-lined drinking cup out of the skull of his enemy, Emperor Nikephoros.”

“A proud history,” Harry said, eyebrows disappearing up into his fringe in shock.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds at first, Heir of Slytherin,” Hermione retorted. “Viktor says that Nikephoros deserved it for brutally killing children, and that Khan Krum was a strict but just ruler who gave Bulgaria its first written law code and ensured beggars and the poor were looked after by the State. He’s not ashamed to be named after his ancestor.”

“Okay, I stand corrected.”

So, with his two Gryffindor friends off on their separate romantic rendezvous, Draco and Theodore eagerly stepped into the friendship void to join Harry on his walk to Hogsmeade. Draco’s morning was free but he had plans to join in the Quidditch training session in the afternoon, which was apparently going to be like a master class taught by Krum, and all of Hogwarts’ serious Quidditch players were keen to absorb every nugget of wisdom that the star was willing to share, and that went double for Seekers. Millicent was reportedly also super-excited and Draco gossiped a little cattily about how she wasn’t above using her friendship with Hermione to secure a plum spot joining in some demonstration exercises of Quidditch plays with Krum.

“She might not have been picked for the combined Hogwarts team facing off against the combined Durmstrang and Beauxbatons team – all those spots went to senior students, I did not get a spot either – but getting to help demonstrate some Quidditch plays for Krum’s talk is still a nice social coup!” Draco said, half admiring and half jealous.

Draco also chattered away happily about how much he approved of High Inquisitor Pyrites.

“Father said Arthur Weasley applied for the job, but he should know the Ministry won’t employ werewolves. It might not be in the Ministry, but it’s a Ministry job, and one where you have to work around children, which is against the law for werewolves now.”

“He’s not a risk except the three days around the full moon, though, and even then not during daylight hours. Direct light overpowers reflected and inverted light.” Harry wasn’t sure about the science there – he knew the moon reflected sunlight, but not exactly how. He did know that at a magical level, while the sun was up the moon’s pale light even at full moon (should it be visible during the day) couldn’t force a werewolf to transform. That never happened earlier than sunset… unless the werewolf wanted it to.

“Yes, true, but sometimes a werewolf gets a scent and then they obsessively track their prey later when it is the full moon,” Draco said. “So they should be kept away from people as much as possible.

“I’ve never heard of that,” Harry said sceptically. “I think the laws are too strict.”

“I have heard that rumour,” Theodore said. “I do not know if it is true or not, though. I agree that they should let werewolves hold more jobs than they do. It is very hard on them to make a living with the new laws. What choice will be left to them except crime or living amongst Muggles, which some people also want to make illegal?”

“Mr. Pyrites has much better qualifications, in any case,” Draco said, refusing to be side-tracked from his own topic, “being a published author and alchemist with a broad knowledge of Transfiguration, History of Magic, and Potions. It is not like the role has anything to do with Muggles or their toys! He is a good listener too – I told him all my ideas and he liked them!” Draco smiled smugly.

“Umbridge wanted the job too, father said, but she already has too much on her plate running the Muggle Management Office. He says the woman is an irritating toady but performing adequately in her current role. Father would do much better in her position, of course. They should have offered it to him.”

Harry thought it was about time to call in Theodore’s promised favour, and asked Draco if he’d mind going ahead so he could talk to Theodore alone.

“Oh, I could not possibly!” Draco objected, with a sly smile. “Leave you two unchaperoned? Never!”

Theodore snorted in amusement, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, you know it isn’t like that, and Theodore’s dating Luna, in any case.”

“Indeed. I would never hurt my sweet moonbeam so,” Theodore insisted, with a smile. “Besides, did I not hear about you two having an unchaperoned tête-à-tête at the Yule Ball?”

“I will hex you,” Draco warned, and Theodore smirked at him. “Drop it, you know that is just scurrilous gossip.”

“Maybe I will if I get a bit more privacy…”

“You just want to eavesdrop,” Harry accused, rolling his eyes at Draco. “Admit it.”

Draco smiled. “Curiosity killed the Kneazle but satisfaction brought it back. Is it really that big a secret? You know I can be discreet,” he wheedled.

Harry sighed. “I suppose so. In your own way. Just don’t go blabbing to your father this time,” he warned, which made Theodore chuckle again. “In return, I want you to cast that privacy charm for us your dad taught you. And teach it to me.”

“Deal!” With a satisfied air, Draco happily drew his wand. “Muffliato!”

Nothing seemed to happen.

“Well, if it worked anyone trying to listen in to us will only hear buzzing instead of words. I shall teach it to both of you after our talk, in thanks for including me in your conversation.”

“So, uh… Theodore. You owe me a rather large favour at the moment, that I’d like to call due.”

“I am all ears.”

With a deep breath, Harry made his request. “I would like a live goat or pig. Smuggled into Hogwarts to me, with no-one noticing, with the utmost discretion of course.”

Theodore’s jaw dropped. “By the Styx! How am I supposed to accomplish such a labour?”

Harry shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. I couldn’t even figure out how to buy one inconspicuously. That’s why it’d be a big favour! If you can get one, maybe it could be Stunned or hibernating, preferably. Maybe shrunk, too. Actually, two pigs would be even better, or a pig and a goat.”

“Two? How about delivered to the forest?” Theodore checked, looking around warily to make sure they weren’t being eavesdropped on. “Getting them into the castle would be much riskier, if the spells wear off in the middle of a hallway or even the dorms. There is no good answer as to why one is in the castle with a couple of pigs.”

“What if an Acromantula ate them?” Harry objected. “Or something else happened to them?”

“Transfigured and left in the forest, then. If something eats them before you can collect them, I can try again. Provided you made a good faith effort to pick them up promptly.”

Harry nodded slowly. Yes, that could work, he thought. If they could be left close to the secret exit into the forest from the Chamber of Secrets, they would be easy for Custos and I to find.

“Alright then, I’ll draw you a map of where I want them left.” Close to the secret entrance, but not so close that someone might get caught in the prey-entrancing warded area.

Theodore nodded, then tilted his head and looked curiously at Draco. “I know why I am not asking questions, but why aren’t you? You always want to know everything.”

Draco smirked. “Because I have a good guess what it is about already. Honestly, Nott, there are very few uses for a live goat at Hogwarts, and I doubt Harry is the type who would play a prank on old Aberforth.”

“Who?” Harry asked, as Theodore laughed again. He sure seemed in a good mood today! He was usually much more dour.

“The barman at the Hog’s Head inn,” Draco explained. “Rumour has it that he has gotten in trouble with the Aurors a couple of times for casting inappropriate charms on goats. No-one knows exactly what, but there are all kinds of salacious rumours as well as more innocent ones like charms to keep their curly horns clean. Personally, I think the rumour about him using the Imperius on his flock when they got out of his garden and scattered all through Hogsmeade is the most likely one to be true; technically legal some years ago, but shamefully Dark in most people’s eyes. In any case, you can make him scowl and yell if you tease him about his goats. They say it is a good weak point to prod at, if you are willing to risk being banned from his inn for a month or two. At least.”

“Well, for the record the animals are to help me befriend some meat-eating animals like the Hippogriffs,” Harry said. The others didn’t believe him, but his cover story was politely noted.

After a pause to practice the Muffliato Charm they reached Hogsmeade, where Harry split off from the boys. He headed to meet Sirius at his meeting point at the Shrieking Shack with only a slight detour to pick up a few sweets at Honeyduke’s; a bag of creamy toffees for emergency snacking, and a box of peppermint toads to hand out to helpers at the next Tournament study session in the library. A couple of the younger students including Mafalda Prewett and the Wiccan Eleanor Branstone had sighed enviously at hearing about the older students’ upcoming Hogsmeade plans, and Harry thought some sweets might be a nice surprise for everyone. Sirius had a delightful if still slightly bewildering habit of giving Harry a little pocket money every time he saw him. It was an odd thing to insist upon, but it was a pleasant habit that was rapidly growing on Harry.

Sirius gave him some more coins as soon as the two of them had Apparated to the Grantown Den, in fact.

“For new quills or fireworks or whatever you need,” Sirius explained. “From the Black vault, not either of yours, of course, just like last time.”

“Fireworks?” Lupin asked blandly, eyebrows raised.

Sirius grinned at him. “You never know.”

Lupin nodded. “Wet-start fireworks if you use them in a toilet, Potter,” he advised, his serious mien undermined by the amused twinkle in his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ll…” Harry started, then was caught by a thought. “They’re set off by water? Would they work in the lake?”

Sirius perked up. “Thought of a prank?”

Harry snorted and shook his head. “Thinking about the Triwizard Tournament, actually. But I don’t think it’ll help. The rules say only wands and what you can transfigure or charm with your wand, after the Tournament starts. I double-checked with Percy. Shame, though.”

“The next task is at the lake?” Lupin asked.

Harry was very pleased by his surprise; it meant that Sirius hadn’t gossiped about Harry confidentially sharing his speculation about the next task, even with his best friend.

“In the lake, I’m pretty sure. The clue says the merpeople are going to take something I’ll ‘sorely miss’, so I’ve been dropping hints about my broomstick and a solid silver snake statuette by talking about how much I love them whenever a teacher is around, or a lot of portraits seem to be listening in to a conversation.”

“More subtly than that, I assume?” Lupin asked.

Harry nodded. “As best I can. Meanwhile I’ve been smuggling less water-resistant and more irreplaceable items into hiding.”

–In the Chamber of Secrets, he mentally added. There was quite the pile of belongings in Salazar’s old bedroom and study now. He’d conscripted some assistance from his house-elves – well, his and Sirius’ house-elves, but Kreacher felt like his too – and they’d smuggled some magically shrunken furniture into Hogwarts for him (from the Black and Potter attics, he assumed). So now there was a proper bed in the bedroom instead of just a pile of blankets and pillows plus some wood to transfigure into a bedframe, and he’d added a battered old wardrobe and a trunk, too. The trunk clearly used to be Regulus’ – it had an engraved name plate on it that Kreacher had courteously changed to Harry’s name.

“I’ve hidden stuff like my dad’s invisibility cloak, and my photo album, and mum’s wedding wreath. Rare books,” Harry said. “Things that would get ruined by a dunking underwater, or that I would go mental over if I lost them. I’ll be sending Storm into hiding a couple of days before the task, just in case anyone gets any smart ideas about how pets are fair game.”

They chatted for a while about the upcoming Tournament task, which was coming up fast on the twenty-fourth of February.

“I’ve been working on the Bubble-Head Charm constantly, but I can only keep it working for nine minutes so far,” Harry bemoaned. “Someone said I should try being an Animagus, but there’s no time for that, even if I ended up with a water-breathing form. Even if I wanted to try.”

“You totally should, it would be groovy if you were a dog too! Or a deer like James.”

“My money’s still on a bird,” Lupin said. “Something smart, and fast, like a hawk, or an owl. Watchful. We streamlined the ritual by the way, Potter, so ask for tips any time.”

“Your Galleons will one day be mine,” Sirius vowed. “Mammal, for sure. A fierce fighter.”

Harry coughed. “Yes, well, maybe one day we’ll find out. So anyway, I have plans to make a rough map of the Black Lake, once I can keep my air supply going for long enough. At least I’ve mastered the Warming Charms now – they didn’t need as much practice. I have some ideas for speeding up my movement too.”

“A map,” Lupin said thoughtfully, looking at his friend.

“Serious business,” Sirius said, with a grin. “Sounds like he’s up to no good, don’t you think?”

Harry’s pleasant expression got a little fixed. There was no need to be rude or make fun of him. It was a good plan. It wasn’t like he was going to try and write it underwater, or anything like that. Just sketch it out roughly later, with notes like ‘Here be the Great Squid’ and ‘Merpeople district’.

“If I may be excused to study?”

He was courteously waved off and spent the next few hours powering through some Chemistry and Biology assignments before joining them again for lunch.

Remus had a couple of books on magical creatures ready for him, with pages bookmarked with strips of parchment noting dangerous creatures that lived in Scottish lochs. Harry was familiar with most of them, but a few weren’t creatures he’d considered an issue.

“I thought Chizpurfles were an avian and mammalian pest?” Harry checked, looking at the page on the tiny crab-like fanged parasite. “Aren’t they mostly a problem for Crups, like magical fleas?”

“There’s aquatic varieties too. Back in my final year at school I had one particularly memorable Care of Magical Creatures class where we had to remove them from the tentacles of the Giant Squid. If you see a school of them in the lake you’ll want to go around. Remember that they’ll go for your wand before they go for you – they’re attracted to magic. Also, you should check Storm’s scales for them after a swim, as a precaution. I don’t know if they’re a problem for snakes, but better safe than sorry.”

Sirius was still copying something out for Harry, from a great, black leather-bound tome. “Almost done!” he called. “Well… almost almost done. Maybe another half-hour. Do you have more homework you can do?”

“What’s the book?” Harry asked curiously. “Is it something else for the Tournament? Maybe I can just borrow it?”

Sirius shook his head. “Too risky. This is the Black Family Grimoire. Come to think of it, if you wouldn’t mind donating a little of your blood, I’ll key you into its protections.”

“I thought that wasn’t legal,” Harry said cautiously. Sirius was alright with blood magic?

“It’s grandfathered in, as is the short ritual that goes with it. This is a very old grimoire. It was legal when the book was made to tie its wards and curses to the family’s blood. It would be highly illegal to craft a similar book now, and I wouldn’t advise you to try! You’d be in a right pickle.”

“Sooo… you’d be alright with blood magic that doesn’t harm anyone? Not counting volunteering your own blood? What about animals?” Harry asked, trying to make his question sound like a natural and casual extension of the topic.

Sirius and Lupin exchanged a look.

“Not really. Have you been talking to Bill about a particular spell?” Sirius asked Harry, pretty bluntly. “Or is there something else going on?”

“…Maybe,” Harry admitted. “I mean, ‘maybe’ for talking to William… Bill, that is. Not ‘maybe’ for something else.”

“That’s a yes, basically.”

“Yes. But twenty per cent more weaselly, because I don’t want to get in trouble if I shouldn’t have been talking with Bill,” Harry admitted, trying to get a laugh out of Sirius, who was looking too grim for his tastes.

It worked, and it lightened the tension in Harry’s shoulders to see his would-be guardian smile at him again.

“I’m thinking about it, okay?” Sirius admitted. “I’m hopeful we can get around the sacrificial requirement with a bit of work, and honestly the whole idea creeps me out. I have… a bad history with that sort of thing. I’m sure there’s a workaround though, so I don’t want to throw the cauldron out just because the potion’s gone bad.”

Wizarding idioms are funny things, Harry thought, smiling. He was glad Sirius was giving the spell Ambrosius had helped him find serious thought.

Or rather, Sirius thought, he mused, with amusement.

Harry grabbed a quick egg sandwich from a plate provided by Lupin and got back to work for another hour that stretched into two hours. He leant back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. That had been a long day’s work, but he was feeling a lot more relaxed knowing that his Muggle assignments and readings for Chemistry and Biology were all under control for the next couple of weeks, at least.

Sirius’ notes from the Grimoire were ready for him, too. Harry gave him a tiny vial of blood, but Sirius shook his head. “You used a steel needle from your biology kit, didn’t you?”

“Oops.”

Darn, I totally suffered for nothing, he thought unhappily. He’d even had to leave it unhealed, since they were in a Muggle area. It had been a close thing – he’d almost healed himself out of habit.

“This ritual won’t set off any alarms with the Ministry, will it?” he checked, as Sirius pricked Harry’s finger with a gold-washed potions knife (after Remus had popped through the Floo to fetch him one from Grimmauld Place).

“No, it shouldn’t. Only wand magic will, unless there’s extra detection magic set around a property. Which there isn’t here.”

Sirius smeared some of his own blood on a particular rune embossed on the cracked leather spine of the book.

“As Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, I, Sirius Black the Third, known to some as Padfoot, order thee, mine appointed Heir, to state thy name and titles in full,” Sirius ordered formally, while holding Harry’s finger in place on the book. Harry’s hand felt tingly.

“Harold James Potter, Heir Apparent of the Noble House of Potter, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin, the Boy Who Lived, known to most as Harry Potter,” Harry said. He didn’t want to leave anything out or make a mistake and cause a problem for the wards, so he erred on the side of precision rather than discretion.

He felt a warmth spreading down his arm and out of his hand, and it reminded him of Ambrosius’ exercises he’d recommended for trying to cast wandless charms.

“Do you feel anything?” Sirius checked. “Any pain?”

“Just warmth.” The book felt warm to the touch now, a comforting feeling. It reminded him a little of Tom’s diary, actually. “This book… it isn’t possessed, is it? It doesn’t have a consciousness?”

Sirius hesitated. “Well, it’s definitely not possessed. But magical books – any magical artefacts, really – can become a little… quirky, over time. Temperamental. And this one has been powered by blood and magic for centuries now. It will literally bite the hand off someone who shouldn’t be touching it. I think it likes you, though. You can take your finger off now, by the way. Try opening the front cover, just to make sure all is well.”

“Seriously?”

Lupin groaned.

“No, do it Harry-ily,” Sirius said. He didn’t joke a lot, but was exceptionally fond of puns about his name.

Harry sighed and very, very cautiously lifted up the front cover with his left hand, ready to whip his hand back to safety if the book decided to imitate The Monster Book of Monsters and tried to turn him into its lunch.

There was a gold book-plate with the Black family crest on the inside, a list of the Heads of the House and their dates of birth and death (including Sirius’ birth date), and a title page grandly proclaiming in beautiful ornamented calligraphy that the book was the Black Grammaire.

“I still can’t believe you put notes about our map in there,” Lupin said.

“It was the most wonderful piece of spellwork we ever devised,” Sirius said, with a prideful sniff. “Though my enchantments on my bike were a close second. Our mapping spells deserved to be preserved for posterity. James put them in the Potter grimoire too. You’re already known to the Potter grimoire and will have access to that when you’re seventeen, Harry, and you’ll have to wait a bit to get the Black one when I die.”

“Many, many years from now,” Lupin muttered crossly.

Sirius shook his head and ignored the correction, passing his copied parchment scroll of notes to Harry. Though Sirius considered himself quite the modern wizard, Harry had never seen him write with anything except a quill.

“Here you go, may it bring joy to you and confusion to your enemies, may you wreak chaos and never get caught. These are our notes on how to craft the finest magical maps in the wizarding world. I’d say, ‘the finest ever known’, but we never shared our secrets.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sirius,” they then all said in unison, as Harry corrected himself at the same time Sirius did.

“We mapped out Hogwarts castle back in our school days. Alas that map was handed in to the Aurors by its inheritors, with the best of intentions, and we are not likely to ever get it back, so we can’t show it to you.

“To be honest, I’m not sure how well you could adapt our process to mapping the lake. For starters there’s this step where we mapped room outlines that I think would be tough. We did it by having someone under a charm touch all along the walls around the perimeter of a room or hallway while holding onto the map… I really don’t know how you’d do that underwater. Anyway, I thought you might like the chance to think it over yourself.”

“Waterproof map?” suggested Lupin.

Sirius shook his head. “Well maybe, but it’s the boundaries, Remus. A lake doesn’t have boundaries and structure like the castle.”

He turned back to Harry. “Even if it doesn’t work for the lake, if you have leisure–”

Hah! thought Harry.

“–you could try mapping the castle yourself – it’s very handy for keeping track of where everyone is. But keep it to yourself, and your two Gryffindor friends, alright? They’re not all as bad as I first thought, but I still don’t trust those Slytherins.”

“What about Luna Lovegood? She’s a Ravenclaw? Or Hufflepuffs?”

Sirius exchanged a look with Lupin, who shrugged. “Use your discretion,” Sirius said. “Remember, this is a secret technique, and frankly, you’ll have to engage in some rule-breaking shenanigans to map the castle properly, like breaking into the teachers’ rooms, and a touch of blood or at least some saliva if you want to infuse the paper with your personality like we did, though that’s really not essential and I actually don’t advise it at all. Still, even without that it’s still a big job. I know you do Ancient Runes – that will help with enchanting the parchment. However, you’ll also need a really solid knowledge of Arithmancy to get the names to show up properly, OWL level or better, ideally. Charms too, of course. A bit of Potions for the magical ink, but I’m sure you’ll be fine with brewing that, Harry. Anyway, it’ll all take weeks or months, depending on how thorough you are and how much help you have. So, choose wisely and stick to as few people as possible who won’t go dobbing on you.”

“I trust my friends.”

“We trusted Peter, once,” Sirius said gravely.

That ended that conversation pretty quickly, and Harry escaped as swiftly as he could after that, as Sirius seemed to settle in for a melancholy brood despite Lupin’s best efforts to cheer him up.

-000-

“You’re sure I can make it?” Harry hissed nervously, floating in the pool of water in the Chamber of Secrets a couple of days later.

He was wearing his old faded yellow swimming trunks. They’d been hand-me-downs of Dudley’s from years ago which is why they still fit – much better than they’d used to, in fact, with no need to cinch in the drawstring waist to a crazy degree. They still had Harry’s fabric achievement badges for 100m freestyle and backstroke sewn on them from school swimming classes. Thank goodness the school lessons had only cost 5p a class and they’d been able to walk to the pool from St. Grogory’s, or he’d never have learnt how to swim at all! He’d been practicing in the prefects’ bath and in the Chamber’s small pool (being woefully rusty at swimming) but knew he needed to train more. He needed to get out into the Black Lake without being spied on by the Durmstrang students on their ship, or the Beauxbatons students who wandered around the lake shore on the way back to their carriage.

“The Bubble-Head Charm ssstill isn’t lasting as long as I’d like,” Harry worried. Ten minutes was his record effort so far.

“Yess,” Storm said impatiently, “but it is not that far. I have ssseen you float underwater for long enough on other nightss. The tunnel is down deep but is not very long. It is nice and dark and sssafe.”

“Dark,” muttered Harry to himself. It was after sunset; of course a deep indoor tunnel would be dark. He’d gotten too used to the magical lighting all around the Chamber. He’d stuck to floating on the surface so far and holding the Bubble-Head Charm with his head just under the water of the pool, or the prefects’ sumptuous Roman-style bathing pool. Both locations had plenty of light, but of course a tunnel or the lake wouldn’t have such advantages.

He’d prepped for his dive with a Warming Charm applied to keep himself toasty in the cold water, he was good at that spell, even though the Bubble-Head Charm remained problematic. Hermione had comforted him that it was a NEWT level charm, and that he hadn’t been practicing for that long, but he was still nervous he wouldn’t master it in time. A light spell would be a good addition.

Harry lit up his wand, then cast the Bubble-Head Charm. He looked with disappointment at his upraised wand as the glowing tip went out as he cast a new spell.

“Let’ss go! Follow me!” Storm said excitedly, diving underwater.

Harry cursed and dove underwater, following his snake.

“Ssstorm?” he called, as the light from the Chamber grew dim as he dived deeper. “I can’t sssee well, so keep talking and I’ll follow your voice!”

“Thiss way! Thiss way!” Storm called out helpfully. “Tunnel now! A little lower!”

In the dark water, Harry bumped his head on the lip of the unseen tunnel. He panicked for a moment that the bubble of air around his mouth would pop but thankfully it was still intact. His breath came shallow and fast. “I’m going to die, I’m going to die down here and no-one will ever find my body!”

“That’ss good! Then no-one will eat it,” Storm said. His cheerful snakey reassurance failed to soothe. “Follow me! Thiss way! Thiss way! Not far! Touch the wall, Harold!”

Harry stretched out his left arm in the pitch-black water and felt a smooth rock wall. Moving with determination he trailed his left hand along the wall as he kicked forwards furiously. He would not die down here! He had to get out before his charm wore off! He needed flippers. He was going to learn how to transfigure the damn things from water weed if he had to!

A glimmer of moonlit water ahead gave him renewed hope, and he powered through the water, following his glimmering snake whose scales caught the touch of light with a rainbow sheen.

Harry saw the faint edges of the tunnel up ahead, and burst through and out, heading up for the surface. He broke the surface with a great gasp of air that was totally unnecessary, as the Bubble-Head Charm was still going. He tapped it with his wand to break the bubble, breathing in the fresh, cold night air with relief.

“Wasn’t that fun?” Storm asked. Harry couldn’t honestly agree.

“No, not in the slightest, but I survived and I sssuppose it won’t be so bad next time,” he conceded. “Ssso, do you know where to find the merpeople?”

Storm swam in playful circles in the water. “Where it’s deep, maybe? Not here in the shallows. Do you want to catch sssome fish with me?”

“You know I don’t eat live fish,” Harry said.

“I keep hoping you will reconsider,” Storm replied. “You like some eggs, after all! Fish are very tasty too.”

“Yes, they are, but I like mine cooked,” Harry said, a little absent-mindedly, while he looked around and ran his fingers over the nearby rocks. If there was a marker etched in the stone to mark for lost Parselmouths where to find the entrance to the underwater tunnel, it had long since been worn away by centuries of lapping waves. Or perhaps it was just too dark to see, with only the full moon and a few glowing Hogwarts windows to see by.

“Ssso you’ll try one?”

“No.”

“How about sssome green eggs? They are deliciouss. You find them clinging to the weeds.”

“Definitely not, Sssam-I-am.”

“That is not my name. I am Ssstorm,” his snake hissed, sounding confused.

“Just a joke. It’s sssomething from a book, about a boy who doesn’t want to try green eggs and ham.”

“You are both wrong. They are tasty. But you must watch for grabbers.”

“Grabbers?” Harry asked.

Based on Storm’s description, Harry concluded that they were probably Grindylows. The pale-green horned aquatic creatures had long spindly fingers that were as strong as they were fragile and looked like squids from the waist down. They were usually only dangerous to fish but might make an exception for snakes and young wizards who tried to devour their young.

“They do not like lightning,” Storm concluded smugly. “It is good in water. I am fierce!”

Harry bet they didn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it either.

They explored the lake for a while together and startled a school of small flying seahorses from the water weeds they’d been clinging to with their tails. They jumped into the air to get away from them and fluttered a short distance before splashing back into the water some distance away. Storm smugly swallowed the one he’d caught.

“I am the best hunter,” Storm pronounced proudly, as they swam back to the castle, travelling underwater to elude notice, and so that Harry could practice his Bubble-Head Charm some more.

“You are very fierce,” Harry praised. “It was fast, but you were faster.”

Storm offered to catch one for him to eat, perhaps cooked, but Harry politely declined.

The return journey was less nerve-wracking than the outwards one, and Harry’s hand brushed blindly against a carved serpent on the wall of the tunnel entrance, this time.

“Hello Heir,” it hissed happily to him.

“Hello, guardian,” he said politely to the unseen animated carving. He felt its barely-there and algae-slimed carved scales shift slightly against his fingertips. “You keep dangerouss things out of the Chamber of Sssecretss?

“Yes, Heir. I guard against all.”

Harry let it nip at his skin for a drop of blood to help renew its enchantments and was pleased to find afterwards that his well-practised healing charm worked just as well underwater (without ruining his Bubble-Head Charm), and without being able to see the injury. He could feel where the injury was, and that was enough to guide him in healing it.

Harry dried himself and Storm off after they were through, and they snuck back up to near the entrance to the Gryffindor dorm under his father’s old Invisibility Cloak before taking it off. He didn’t like the portraits to see him donning or removing it, just in case they blabbed about it to a teacher or prefect.

“Fairy lights,” he said to the Fat Lady whose portrait guarded the entrance.

“In you go, then,” she said with a tired yawn, swinging open to let him inside.

-000-

The next evening at dinner Harry brainstormed his latest ideas with Hermione and Neville.

“It’s going to be dark and murky in the lake depths so I’m going to need something to cast a light charm on,” he said quietly. “Not my wand tip, I think. As soon as I cast the Bubble-Head Charm the light blinked out. I know a good Lumos variant like that must exist, there’s rocks enchanted in the Chamber of Secrets to glow, and they’ve been going for centuries.”

“Maybe something runic?” Hermione suggested.

She brushed his fringe aside to peek at the scar on his forehead, before he batted her hand away.

“Hey!” he objected.

“You’ve got Sowilō right there,” she said with a grin. “Pour some power into it and you might be good to go. You know, ‘The sun is ever a joy in the hopes of seafarers, when they journey away over the fishes’ bath…’!”

“I guess that’s a good rune choice,” he conceded, “and the Anglo-Saxon poem makes it seem even more appropriate. But I’m not messing about with my scar.”

“On your glasses?” Neville suggested.

Harry shook his head. “It would shine in my eyes – I wouldn’t be able to see.”

“How about a headband, or something attached to your head? Like a miner’s torch on a helmet?” Hermione suggested. “I believe there’s a Lumos variant you can cast on objects.”

 “That sounds good,” Harry said. “Now, what do you think about transfiguring something into swimming flippers? Is that feasible?”

“Into what? Are you going to transfigure your feet?” Neville asked. “I thought you ruled out self-transfiguration in case you got stuck.”

As Hermione explained the Muggle invention to Neville, Harry’s attention was caught by the spectral blue figure of a jack rabbit bursting straight through the solid stone wall of the Great Hall and bounding up to where Dumbledore was enjoying some pancakes at the head table.

“Attack at Chudley!” the hare Patronus yelled rapidly, in a woman’s voice that Harry was pretty sure belonged to Nymphadora Tonks. “Tell Dumbledore there’s werewolves and Death Eaters and we need reinforcements!”

It dissipated after its message had been delivered, mission accomplished.

“Quickly, who will stand with me?!” Dumbledore called out in a booming voice.

Of the teachers present, Professor Flitwick stood immediately ready, and Professor McGonagall pushed her chair back so quickly it fell over as she rushed to stand next to Dumbledore. Professor Moody was luckily not sitting too far away from the Headmaster either, and didn’t have to take more than a couple of clomping steps to reach the group. Some of the other teachers like Professors Slughorn and Sprout were just looking around nervously, as if to say, ‘Surely you don’t expect me to help?’

“No, I see my doom approaching!” Trelawney cried out dramatically, flailing her hands in the air, silver and gold bangles jangling. “It comes for me, closer every day! I dare not join you!”

“Poppy, ready the hospital wing.” Dumbledore tipped a half-eaten roast chicken off a silver platter and tapped it with his wand as he held it out in front of him. “Portus.”

A couple of senior students Harry recognised from Potter Watch were running up to the head table, the Weasley twins amongst them, but it didn’t look like they’d make it there before the Headmaster and teachers Portkeyed away. Though it took a second longer than expected, as the first spell didn’t seem to take.

“Portus!” Dumbledore repeated, more loudly, tapping the silver tray again. “Now, on three, two, one…”

The assembled small crowd each reached out a hand to touch the platter and were whisked away, to gasps of astonishment from some of the junior students who either hadn’t seen such travel before, or who weren’t aware that Hogwarts’ Anti-Apparition wards had a few exceptions. The Headmaster of Hogwarts was able to use a Portkey within the wards, if he or she crafted it themselves. The senior students who’d rushed to the main table in hopes of volunteering to fight but had missed their chance cursed God or Merlin (as their respective backgrounds leant them towards), or swore more colourfully, an offence that the teachers deigned to overlook in light of the stressful circumstances.

Professor Sprout rose shakily to her feet and cast a charm to amplify her voice. “All students with family or friends in or near Chudley in Devon are invited to join me in the club room, where we’ll have some hot cocoa while waiting for further news.”

“Ravenclaws, your study session booked for this evening will of course have to be postponed,” Professor Slughorn added. “Your Common Room or the library will have to suffice for the evening.” He had a steel-trap memory when it came to social occasions.

Parvati Patil rose to her feet, looking wide-eyed, and went over to join her sister from the Ravenclaw table before joining a sad line of worried students trailing behind Professor Sprout as she left the Great Hall.

“I am going to go with her. Do you think I should go with her?” Neville asked, looking around for guidance. “Her family lives in Chudley.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said uncertainly.

“I think you should,” Hermione said, and as the majority of eavesdroppers agreed it wouldn’t hurt and might help, he went to the club room too.

“I’m going to the Hospital Wing,” Harry said, rising with an air of determination. “If St. Mungo’s is crowded again like last time, we’ll get some wounded here soon enough. No, wait, I should get my Healer’s bag from the dorm, first.”

“I’m fast! I’ll fetch it for you, Harry!” Colin Creevey volunteered eagerly. “I’ll meet you at the Hospital Wing!” He dashed off before Harry even had a chance to agree.

Harry was about to leave before Hermione stopped him. “I’ve been practising a charm for you we saw cast at the Cup, with some help from Professor Flitwick. Signum Asclepius!”

She tapped his black school robe and the lime-green symbol of a glowing green snake wrapped around a staff appeared on his robes, over his heart.

“It’s not like there’s time to embroider something on or change your clothes in an emergency,” she explained. “Apprentice Healers wear just the green symbol embroidered or charmed on their regular robes, when they’re not qualified yet for the lime-green robes of a Healer. Now, go!”

“Thanks, Hermione!” he called, dropping an emergency baked jacket potato from his half-finished dinner into his satchel.

“Ow!” hissed Storm unhappily, from his bag.

“Oh dear, sssorry, I forgot you were in there!” Harry apologised.

He left for the Hospital Wing with a quick detour to the Slytherin table.

“Will you snake-sit again for me?” he asked Millicent, fishing Storm out of his bag.

“I would be happy to,” she promised, taking Storm and draping him around her shoulders.

“I don’t drop things on you,” Storm complained to Harry.

“Sssorry again! Be good for Millicent!” Harry called, as he dashed away.

Harry wasn’t the only student who’d gone up to the hospital wing to see if they could assist, but he was the youngest. There was an older student that Harry didn’t recognise with a Ravenclaw-blue ribbon securing his long blond ponytail at the nape of his neck; he introduced himself as Godfrey Midhurst. The Hufflepuff Head Girl Tamsin Applebee was there too; she had mid-brown hair and worried brown eyes.

There were also a few of the foreign students, including Elena Caldaras from Durmstrang, the outspoken Roma pure-blood witch whom everyone had learnt to be very careful to avoid calling a ‘gypsy’, and whom no-one asked questions about vampires any longer. She was knotting her jet-black hair up in a bun and hiding it away under a dark red headscarf.

Harry greatly approved of the spell she cast on her hands to clean them and copied suit. The wizarding world might think of it as a cleansing charm that was good for ‘purging impurities’ but Harry knew to value it as the best hand-sterilizing charm available. He’d touched some Petri dishes full of agar before and after having Sirius cast the charm on his hands at the Grantown Den as a bit of an experiment, and bacterial growth was way down after casting the spell. He’d written his notes up in his journal for posterity.

Once Caldaras had gotten herself ready, she asked Madam Pomfrey’s permission to look through the infirmary potions cabinet. She looked like she knew what she was doing, and Harry was impressed with her business-like calm demeanour (if not her usual manners).

There were two Beauxbatons students who were introducing themselves to everyone as Harry entered. Harry had met the skinny blonde Sophie Dubois previously at a H.E.L.P. Society meeting, where she’d complained about the somewhat sexist curriculum at Beauxbatons.

“I ‘ave an offer of an Apprenticeship next year with a ‘ealer who specialises in Transfiguration-related injuries,” she boasted proudly. “So I ‘ave read up on many useful ‘ealing charms, and I am very knowledgeable about ze potions.”

The second Beauxbatons student was a young wizard, Laurent Durand, whom Harry hadn’t really met before, but vaguely recognised from one of the feasts as complaining about how he’d had to leave his pet bat back in Lutèce.

“I don’t actually want to be a Healer, as such,” he explained to Madam Pomfrey and his fellow students. He sounded just like a native speaker, with only a very faint trace of a West Country accent buried under a BBC accent. He certainly didn’t sound at all French, even though Harry knew he was from magical Paris.

“If I get into university, I have plans to study psychology. Otherwise, I’ll be looking at training as a counsellor. I think there’s a real need for them in the magical community. So, I hope to be able to provide some comfort to people today if needed – if anyone is upset and needs someone to talk to, you can send them to me. Especially if they’re getting in the way of necessary healing efforts. I’m going to find a quiet corner to set up some chairs, and I’ll grab a few Calming Draughts and Draughts of Peace from the cupboard, if that’s alright with you, Madam Pomfrey! Otherwise I’ll go down to the club room and help there.”

Madam Pomfrey said she was happy to have his help in the Hospital Wing.

Harry turned out to have the slight advantage on some of the others by virtue of having actually treated werewolf injuries, being familiar with Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing, and having done a fair amount of practical spellcasting on actual injuries and curses. The other Hogwarts students were both seventh-years and favourites of Madam Pomfrey’s, who had hopes of going into Healing apprenticeships after graduation.

The would-be Mediwitches and Mediwizards all got a temporary and unofficial Apprentice blazon of Asclepius’ rod on their robes too (Madam Pomfrey saw Harry’s and thought it was a good idea), and listened attentively to Madam Pomfrey’s hasty speech on what to do and what to leave for her, while the hospital wing fireplace was checked and charmed ready to receive incoming wounded through the Floo.

Durand commandeered a relatively empty corner near the bathroom and conjured some squashy cushions to go with a few chairs he moved over. He then hung up some spare curtains around it with some clever spellwork, after which he took up a position guarding the door to the Hospital Wing, ready to shoo away rubber-necking interlopers and to guide any upset students or relatives to his quiet corner. He collected Harry’s Healer bag for him when Creevey dropped it off; Harry thought it would be a good back-up if supplies ran low (which they hopefully wouldn’t).

Madam Pomfrey assigned Applebee and Dubois to stand ready by the fireplace, and their important job was to triage the incoming wounded until the Floo stopped running hot.

“Send the seriously wounded and cursed to myself and Midhurst down the east end of the wing,” Madam Pomfrey said, gesturing in explanation. “The upset relatives you send to Durand, the lightly injured to the west end down to Potter and Caldaras. You two, your job is to stabilize the lightly wounded, and write down everything you do. Werewolf injuries you can flush with powdered silver and dittany. Obvious curses use Finite and use your best judgement for–”

But she had to cut herself off there, for the wounded started spilling out of the Floo.

“What are you best at?” Caldaras asked Harry abruptly. “I am good at treating creature injuries and countering Dark curses.”

“Healing broken bones and cuts, providing pain relief, and treating werewolf injuries. My splinting and bandaging charms are excellent. I know a lot about poisons and potions mishaps, but that probably won’t be needed. Oh, and I know where everything is in the hospital wing, too, so you can ask me to fetch things you need.”

“Leave the cursed to me, then. You can take those with more ordinary wounds,” she ordered, and Harry nodded obediently.

It was organised chaos. The first couple of people who came out of the Floo were supported by a wounded brown-robed Auror, who dove straight back into the Floo after dropping them off. Applebee used a spell to float the two injured people straight over to Madam Pomfrey – they looked a mess.

Three more injured, including two Aurors, were also triaged as having life-threatening injuries, before the first few lightly injured were sent to Harry and Caldaras.

Caldaras reversed a charm on a woman whose hands had been cursed to twist backwards, before checking her for more injuries. Harry took charge of a young screaming girl with a broken leg, healing it very slowly and carefully before checking for other injuries.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, honey?” he asked gently. He healed a few scrapes on her arms while she sobbed incoherently.

“I fell and lost my daddy!” she cried. “Where’s my daddy?!”

“I’m sure you’ll find him later,” Harry soothed. Over her head, he waved to attract Durand’s attention.

“Werewolves were outside! They howled! And tried to get in our house!”

Harry cast some quick cleaning charms on her to get rid of the blood, and a mending charm on her torn pyjama leg. Then he nodded to Durand, who led her away and coaxed her into accepting a small dose of Calming Draught. Harry scribbled down some quick notes on his spellcasting for Madam Pomfrey to review later.

A werewolf victim was next, and Harry flushed his wounds with dittany and powdered silver. The man didn’t object even as the stinging concoction bubbled away, he just sat there dully, staring at his clawed arm.

“That’s it. It’s all over,” he said. “Quidditch career down the bog. Not that I was doing that great. Still, I have nothing now. I will be lucky to keep the house. Or my wife.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Harry said.

“Not your fault lad. They killed the beast that got me, the Aurors did. That’s something, isn’t it? That’s something.”

“If you could move over to the waiting area now, sir,” Harry said, pointing over to Durand’s corner, “as we have more incoming wounded. Madam Pomfrey will check you over as soon as she’s free.”

“What you have done, it isn’t a cure, is it?” He didn’t look hopeful. His eyes looked bleak, just waiting for confirmation.

“It’s the most anyone can do for a werewolf injury,” Harry said sympathetically. “I cannot say what the outcome will be, however. You will want to get the larger marks stitched up later, to reduce scarring.”

“Stitch me up?”

“It’s a Muggle treatment for wounds to reduce scarring. Sewing up the skin with neat stitches of special medical thread. But I have only read about it. You can talk to Apprentice Healer Pye at St. Mungo’s later, if Madam Pomfrey can’t help you. He has experience and excellent results.”

The man left for a hopefully comforting talk with Durand, and Harry leapt in to help Caldaras who was swearing in a foreign language at a stubborn foamy green curse on an unconscious patient’s arms that wouldn’t go away and was beginning to eat at the skin. She’d reversed the other curses but this rare one was foiling her.

“Dragon Pox Curse! I know the counter!” Harry said, and she stepped aside as he pushed forwards to help her.

It was a long night, and patients ended up on pallets on the floors once the beds were full. There was even a small handful of extremely confused and disoriented Muggles who thought they were being tended to in a ruined castle, all with werewolf injuries. Over three-quarters of the Muggles died of their injuries before the night was even over.

Chapter Text

January 1995

A week later, people were still reeling from the attack on Chudley. Harry wasn’t the only helper from the hospital wing who was wandering around classes in a daze, shell-shocked from witnessing their first deaths (not counting Dementor-induced flashbacks). Durand tried to encourage Harry to talk about it with him, but while he understood intellectually the theory of such things at a more instinctual level Harry didn’t really believe it would help him. He politely gave it a try anyway and mostly said what he thought Durand wanted to hear. Then Harry threw himself into studying more healing magic, desperate for a distraction and to see if there was something, anything, that could have helped that he hadn’t tried. When he really needed to concentrate on studying, for the Tournament or otherwise, or couldn’t sleep without visions of crying, bleeding people looping in his mind, he self-medicated with some Calming Draughts and Potions for Dreamless Sleep. He didn’t want to bother Madam Pomfrey. She’d probably think he wasn’t fit to be a real Healer. He tapered them off and stopped after a week though, as he was wary of them becoming a real crutch.

People gossiped everywhere in subdued whispers, Slytherins were increasingly getting glared at in the corridors (Greg confided in Hermione that some of them were being bullied or attacked if they had ‘known’ Death Eaters in the family), and Potter Watch attendance was way up with increasing numbers of Muggle-born students in particular. They were eager to learn how to better protect their families. The older students in the senior Potter Watch group started practicing Apparition in the Great Hall during club time, with the wards carefully lifted for them under Dumbledore and McGonagall’s watchful eyes. The younger students in the group like Hermione and Harry weren’t allowed to practice, not being of legal age, but they lurked and soaked up the tips, all the same. Harry knew Hermione was as eager to covertly learn as he was – she had a book open to ‘study’ while the Potter Watch class was on, and it took her ten minutes to turn a page. They whispered about it later, but neither of them were game to try it themselves… yet. Still, all learning was valuable.

The Patils’ parents had survived unscathed, to their daughters’ sobbing relief. Unable to Disapparate due to a jinx on the area, they’d instead barricaded themselves in their wine cellar with their youngest children and transfigured the door into a wall to escape detection. They only emerged hours later after it was all over.

A half-blood witch who’d lost her Muggle father in the attack (he’d died in the hospital wing) and whose mother was infected with lycanthropy quit Hogwarts in furious tears, screaming abuse at the Headmaster for not doing more to save either of them. She’d climbed up on the Ravenclaw table in the middle of dinner and yelled at the whole school, in fact.

“The wizarding world is full of bigots, and the Ministry is useless!” she’d screamed, tears and snot running down her face. “I want no part of it any longer! I got my OWLs last year, that’s all you need of me, so I’m out of here! Me and mum are going to go live in the Muggle world, and we’re never coming back!”

She got some awkward scattered applause, some stern rebukes, and a few defensive people near her objecting that they weren’t bigots.

“Maybe not, but there’s enough,” she sniffed. “Enough bigots to attack the innocent, enough bigots to back them and murmur approval of their fellows, and too many ‘good’ but scared people doing absolutely nothing.”

Harry felt her accusations like a punch to the gut, even though they hadn’t been directed personally at him. He’d tried everything he knew to help, and Madam Pomfrey said no-one could have treated werewolf wounds any better than he had done. Yet he still felt like he should have done more. Perhaps he should learn how to do stitches, and blood transfusions; maybe it would have made the difference in saving people.

Through the grapevine he heard of two Muggle-borns that left Hogwarts more quietly, with no fanfare. One was a first-year Gryffindor that Hermione knew a little from the H.E.L.P. Society. Hermione tried to talk the lad out of going, but to no avail.

“It’s not up to me,” he said, shaking his head. “My parents subscribed to the Daily Prophet so they could keep up with the news. They’re scared. The paper said no pure-bloods were killed or hurt during the attacks unless they were Aurors or fighting back, and that Muggle-borns and people in mixed marriages were the main targets. The paper didn’t even condemn it properly, and they acted like the best thing to do to stay safe was to bunker down and not fight back. My mum and dad are scared, and they never loved Hogwarts that much anyway.”

“But you have to get your OWLs at least, or they take your wand away,” Harry said. “Sometimes I think they Memory Charm people, too.”

“Mum says I can homeschool and do my OWLs whenever I’m ready. She owled the Ministry, and apparently it’s something that you can do. It’s not super common though, usually it’s just poorer families that can’t afford the Hogwarts fees. Anyway, I miss having piano lessons, and learning Science.”

“I do correspondence classes for that–” Harry started, but the boy shook his head.

“It’s too late. Their minds are made up – it’s too dangerous in the wizarding world for Muggle-borns right now. Especially if what Dumbledore says about You-Know-Who is true. They’re pulling me out and we’re moving house to boot; we rent, so it’s not a big deal.”

Mafalda said her mum wanted her withdrawn, but her dad was currently voting for her to stay, if a little reluctantly. “He thinks Hogwarts is safe for now, and the connections I’m making here are important. They can’t afford to sell their house and business and move like some others can. At least they live in a Muggle town; they haven’t been targeted yet, just wizarding towns and events. And I want to stay, I argued for it. I love learning magic.”

-000-

The Black Lake was as dark as its name when one went diving at night. Harry wasn’t sure it was a good idea but was comforted by Storm’s enthusiastic presence as a guard as his snake had excellent night vision. Harry had also been helped to learn a charm to make a rock glow, which helped him see. Without a rune to anchor the charm the spell wouldn’t last, but it would be good enough for now. He’d improvised a bit to make it useful underwater, as he wanted to keep his hands free; the solution was liberal uses of Sticking Charms. He stuck a glowing rock to the front of a hat, then stuck the hat to his head. The light projected out nicely in front of him, and the cap’s brim shielded his eyes from the glare.

A couple of people had let Harry know that Krum had been sighted exploring the lake during the day, and Harry didn’t want to run into him. He had a couple of Slytherin helpers willing to suss out Krum’s schedule, so that Harry could figure out if he had a free period some time when Krum and the other Durmstrang students would be busy in class and wouldn’t notice him swimming around the lake. He hadn’t asked Hermione’s help with that task; it would be rude to involve her in spying on her boyfriend.

It had taken a lot of searching, two terrifying encounters with Grindylows (Harry had found the Knockback Jinx was enough to deter their curiosity), and one heart-stopping moment when he’d emerged from a sea of kelp to find the Giant Squid’s eye which was the size of his head looking right at him, but Harry had eventually found some Merpeople in the lake.

On one of his deeper dives he came across two fierce-looking mermen who were harvesting kelp from a towering kelp forest, the long ropes of rubbery green leaves stretching up and down as far as his poor human eyes could see. Harry could’ve sworn that kelp like that only grew in oceans, not lakes, but then, Scottish lochs didn’t normally have a freshwater giant squid or a bunch of magical creatures, either.

They weren’t the pretty women of Muggle legend – those stories were just as often based on sirens – Veela – as they were on mermaids, and apparently the Scottish variety were particularly tough and dangerous-looking, unlike the more sailor-luring Mediterranean merpeople.

The mermen had green fibrous hair and greyish skin, and silver fishtails from the waist down. One had a thick rope of pebbles for a necklace and was holding a flexible spherical basket for holding the gathered kelp, while the other dropped his basket and grabbed up a bone-tipped sharp spear when he saw Harry, though he didn’t aim it at him. The merman just held it, cautiously, his pupils contracting into cat-like slits as the light from Harry’s charmed rock illuminated him. Harry guessed their caution was fair – he did have his wand instinctually pointed at them, after all.

He lowered his wand, and said, “Hello, I come in peace.” It came out in loud screeches, and Harry momentarily flailed in the water, startled by the sound of his own voice. He’d spoken in Mermish. He should have guessed, he knew this, he’d read about it. He’d be able to hear them fine, as water was all around his ears. However, the bubble of air around his mouth meant that speaking to them had to be in their own language to be understood. The magical translation aspects of communicating with merpeople only worked smoothly when you were completely encased in water, with no air interfering with their water element-based magic.

“Greetings, young wizard. Do you seek the hospitality of our village?”

Harry hesitated. “I would like to talk to your leader, if they are free to do so and I’m not a bother, and I would like to discuss uh… exploring the lake, and to learn about well… stuff. I don’t know what it would mean to accept your hospitality, but for what it is worth I mean no harm and hope you mean none to me in turn.”

They bared their pointed teeth – slightly chipped – in what Harry hoped were supposed to be smiles. Storm bared his own fangs, aggressively.

“I will bite you too!” Storm hissed angrily as he reared up in the water, darting protectively close to Harry’s head. “Flee before me! Lightning and death! Death to the–”

“It’s okay, Ssstorm,” Harry promised. “We’re just talking. I think they’re sssmiling.”

“They have the teeth of predators, not prey-teeth like Clever-men,” Storm objected.

“Sorry,” Harry screeched, “my snake is a little nervous around you, but I will make sure he doesn’t do anything. I’m explaining.”

“Come no closer!” Storm hissed warningly.

“A snake-Speaker?” the one with the spear said. “I have heard tales of one such, from Albus. Are you the one they call Lord Voldemort?”

“Definitely not!” Harry screeched loudly, deeply offended. “Do I look like I could be a seventy-year-old wizard?”

The two mermen swayed from side to side in the water, as if to express doubt. “I heard tell he could have stolen any wizard’s shape,” said the basket-holder. “Like a hermit crab in a new shell.”

“Probably a male, like you. I see you have a flat chest,” the other observed, his assessing gaze making Harry suddenly self-conscious in his swimming trunks like he hadn’t been before.

“We shall take you to see Mer-chieftaness Murcus,” the basket-holder concluded. “If you are a student you may ask to do a trial as other students do, and if you are Lord Voldemort–”

“I’m not!”

“–Then you may treat with our leader, though I cannot promise she will welcome you in such a case.”

Harry’s bubble of air around his mouth started tasting stale. “Sure, that will be fine. I’ll be back in a minute. I need to return to the surface and renew my breathing spell,” he explained, kicking upwards sharply.

“Surface in safety,” one said.

“Tides return you,” the spear-holder said, like a ritual farewell.

After a break to renew his spell and get his bearings, Harry kicked downwards again, meeting the mermen part-way down, who escorted him into the merpeople’s village.

There were stone dome dwellings on the lake floor, gardens of lake weed, crabs in giant cages, and a large, crude stone statue of a mermaid in the centre of what seemed to be a village square. A bare-chested mermaid swam by with a pet Grindylow on a thick woven lead of waterweed, and she waved to them cheerfully as they passed.

“It has been a long time since we had a young wizard visit! Perhaps a crabs’ worth of bright-moons or more! Welcome, young fingerling!”

The words translated oddly in Harry’s head, and he got the sense of ‘child’ from ‘fingerling’, and of ‘ten’ from ‘crab’s worth’. Perhaps it was based on their number of legs?

The basket-carrier – Harry still hadn’t gotten an introduction – stopped to talk with her, while the other escorted Harry to the largest stone building.

“Mer-chieftaness Murcus!” he called out. “A fingerling wizard to greet you!”

Harry thought the mermaid who appeared out of the home looked particularly wild and ferocious. She was seven-feet-tall and had what looked like a choker of shark fangs adorning her neck.

They could also be Grindylow fangs, Harry guessed, since hopefully I won’t be running across any sharks in an inland loch. With magic anything’s possible though… we do have a giant squid in here, after all.

“Hello!” Harry screeched, which made their leader smile one of their terrifying toothy grins. “My name is Harold Potter, and I come in peace. I am a student of Hogwarts, and our school’s champion in the Triwizard Tournament. I cannot stay long, for my Bubble-Head Charm will not last.”

“Ah, one of the half-beetle champions!” she said, their word for ‘three’ translating oddly in his mind, with overlapping meanings. “You seek a quest to win our peoples’ favour? Usually our visitors are older.”

“Yes?” Harry said cautiously. “Depending on what the quest is, that is. I do not want to promise to complete a task I do not know the details of. No offence intended, madam.”

“You must be snake-house,” she said, burbling with amusement.

“Lion-house, actually,” Harry replied. “Though the Sorting Hat did favour the snake-house. Why? Does it matter?”

“Different quests. Wait an eddy.” She darted back inside her house with a graceful twist of her strong, lithe body and a flip of her powerful tail, and came back with a carved wooden box with the Hogwarts crest engraved into the lid.

She opened it up to display four small compartments, each filled with a half-dozen gold hatpins, each section with different House colours in enamel atop a plain gold pin. At first Harry thought the enamelled sections were shaped like open fans, but then he realised that of course they were supposed to represent fish or merperson scales. “You get one to show your achievement, if you complete a quest.”

“What are the different quests?” Harry asked. “Why do you do this?”

“It amuses the fingerlings who visit and makes Albus happy to see friendship between our kind and yours. We have had wizards and witches visit us for centuries, fingerling, once they learn how to survive underwater!”

Well of course I’m not the first to visit, I should have realised I wouldn’t be, Harry thought rebukingly to himself.

“This one is for hard work and respect,” she said, pointing to the black-and-yellow enamelled pins. “Toiling at a task to help our village. We have a silt trap that needs work, if this is your House.”

The bronze-and-blue Ravenclaw pin was next. “Intelligence and communication. Enchanting a new ward stone to extend our boundary or renewing existing ones.”

“Courage and strength. Training with our young warriors in combat.” Red-and-gold, obviously.

“Cunning and ambition. Retrieve an item that belongs to us from the centaurs.”

Harry thought about it. “If I do more than one quest, do I win more of your favour?”

She undulated in the water and burbled. “No fingerling has so asked, since the pins were offered. Though one from the digger-House did stay to toil at many tasks to help our people. A fine young fingerling, she was. Are you sure you are not snake-House, ambitious one?”

She gestured at Storm, who’d coiled his tail around Harry’s left arm to anchor himself in place while they talked.

Harry huffed, and a few puffs of air escaped his large pocket of air as tiny bubbles that drifted up through the water. “Yes, I’m sure. Though it is a fine House too, and my ancestor’s House. Sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but I have to be fast before my air runs out again. I have some Gillyweed a friend gave me for emergencies, but I’d rather save it for when I desperately need it.” It was tucked in a small pouch tied around his waist, where he also stashed his wand on the rare occasions when he didn’t want to hold it while swimming. “I need to know if you can tell me anything about the second task for the Tournament; anything helpful at all. I know you’re planning to take something – I mean, the organisers are, and I hope it won’t be ruined by being taken underwater. And if you can’t help, I’d like to know if you’re happy for me to explore the area without causing you offence.”

She undulated in the wiggle Harry was starting to think was agreement. “One task wins you a pin and glory, something to wear with pride to show you are an intrepid explorer,” she said. Harry looked again at the pins. He thought he might have seen them on a couple of senior students’ hats. He wasn’t sure. He just didn’t look that closely at hat decorations beyond noting their colour, since that often showed House affiliation.

“Let us say that a second will give you permission to explore our village in safety, should you behave. More pins for more quests, of course.”

“A half-beetle of quests and I will assign you a guard to escort you around the lake so you need not fear its dangers,” she said, holding up three fingers.

“Should you finish all the tasks, I will let you study the runes that Albus places on things we want protected from the corrosion of the water, to protect your belongings.”

“Deal!” Harry screeched happily. “I shall return as soon as I can.”

“Come ready to fight, maned one.”

-000-

Mapping the lake with the Marauder’s old methods wasn’t going to work, but Hermione had pounced on the notes with enthusiasm, babbling excitedly about the Arithmantic calculations involved and the extensive use of runes. She and Neville had both agreed with Harry that infusing the document with a fragment of their personalities was ‘a bit creepy’. It reminded Harry and Neville too much of Tom’s diary. Making it password-protected sounded good, though, they all agreed on that.

The techniques were indeed too difficult to adapt to mapping an ever-shifting lake, so Harry’s map of the Black Lake was limited to a simple sketch, with areas marked out saying things like ‘Here be Grindylows’ in his best calligraphy, just for a bit of fun.

However, Hermione was eager to start working on a map of Hogwarts even though there wasn’t a use for it as such.

“It’s ever so interesting to see applied Arithmancy! Picking up everyone’s names within the circumscribed boundaries, linking the runes on the map to the area tracked out by one of the mappers! Such a fascinating exercise, don’t you think?” she enthused. “You don’t mind if I start working on the calculations do you, Harry? How many maps should we make?”

“I think one is going to be enough work. The mapping potion is going to be expensive and having someone trace the boundaries… that’s going to be very time-consuming.”

“How did they map everywhere, like inside the teachers’ offices?” Neville asked, leafing through the pile of notes that Hermione had for all intents and purposes claimed for herself. “It says here they got everywhere, well, except for the Chamber of Secrets. Are we going to add that?”

“A combination of Petti… are we still saying his name? No? Well, they used Mr. Rat to sneak around into locked rooms, my dad’s invisibility cloak, and some occasional Disillusionment Charms. Don’t ask me how they mapped inside the girls’ dorms – Sirius wouldn’t tell me. He said maybe when I’m older,” Harry said, making a face at the memory of Sirius’ jocular laugh. “I don’t really want to add the Chamber, if you don’t mind? I mean, it’s secret.”

“House business,” Neville said, accepting his refusal instantly. Hermione tried to talk Harry around for a while before giving up.

“It’ll bug me, having an incomplete map,” she muttered. “I’m not sure how we can do the other Houses’ dorm rooms, either.”

“Well, if we don’t want to invite students from other Houses to help, then Storm can help with the dorms, I’m sure. We can disillusion him and cast the mapping charm on him and he can slither around the walls late at night – he’ll love that. Male pets can go in the girls’ dorms.”

“They must have used their Animagi forms to get inside!” Hermione realised.

“Maybe that’s it! And please don’t worry about the Chamber of Secrets being left off. The map will look complete,” Harry pointed out.

She sighed. “But I’ll know it isn’t, deep down.”

Hermione was almost as busy as Harry, working away on her new side project while still helping Harry research water-related spells that might be of use in the Tournament. She was currently focusing on Harry’s request of ‘a spell to make flippers’ and chatting a lot with senior students who were good at Transfiguration and Arithmancy, like Diggory and Tolipan.

Theodore Nott sent Harry a note at breakfast one cold, grey morning, inviting him to meet up at lunch. He sent it as a charmed origami bird, since Harry’s owl ward kept owl-delivered mail away until sunset. A lunch meeting was a necessity (or after class) since they didn’t have any shared free periods, since the free slot Harry had (as he wasn’t doing a third elective) was the timeslot for Theodore’s Slytherin Ancient Runes class (that he shared with Daphne, Tracey, and Sophie Roper, a Slytherin girl Harry barely knew), while some other Slytherins went to Divination.

Harry, however, had a free period before lunch, so was ready and waiting outside the Ancient Runes classroom when Theodore emerged at the end of his class. Professor Babbling’s classes often ran a little late, as she was eager to use up every second of class time and more with run-on explanations of ancient runes. So by the time Theo and the girls emerged from their small class, some of the other Slytherins in their year had joined him waiting outside the door, having come downstairs from Divination. The girls were happy enough to say hello and head off to lunch, as were Greg and Vincent, whom Draco waved ahead. Draco himself, however, stuck to Harry and Theodore like a burr.

“You need a chaperone,” he insisted.

“This again?” Theodore sighed, less amused this time. “You just want to eavesdrop on matters that are none of your concern. You are an incorrigible snoop, Malfoy.”

However, since Harry didn’t seriously object to his presence Draco was allowed to join them as they strolled to a more secluded corridor. They passed Professor Flitwick coming out of his classroom with a row of essays floating and bobbing in the air behind him like papery ducklings.

Harry quickly glanced down the hallway in both directions. Good, no Beauxbatons or Durmstrang students around.

“…So I thought I could zip above the lake on my broomstick, but I’d be devastated if something happened to it,” Harry said to the others, enunciating clearly. “Besides, Percy confirmed no magical items can be brought to the tasks.”

Draco had observed this ploy before and knew about Harry’s strategy to drop hints around the teachers and nosier portraits. He joined in the mock-conversation instantly, asking in a fake whisper loud enough for Flitwick to overhear, “Do you think it is what they will take from you?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I hope not!” Harry said, with a worried sigh. “Oh, hello Professor!”

“Hello!” his teacher replied, in his high-pitched voice. “Did you need to see me, Potter? Need any more tips on the Lumos variants?”

“No sir, just meeting up with friends,” Harry said, and Flitwick went on his way, a trail of papers fluttering along obediently behind him.

“What was that?” Theodore asked, after he was gone, and Harry and Draco whispered explanations about Harry’s strategy of misdirection.

“But what will you do if your broom is ruined?” he asked afterwards. “Nimbus brooms aren’t cheap, even with the new Firebolts out.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s why it’ll be convincing. Hopefully.”

“What really is your most precious possession?”

Harry grinned and shook his head. “Theodore, that information is a closely guarded secret right now. So, what’s your news, then?”

Theodore looked around warily and cast a spell for good measure.

Harry could guess from the mangled Latin incantation of ‘Homenum Revelio’ that the charm would presumably reveal the presence of people nearby.

“Handy spell! Will it work?”

“In theory,” Theodore said, a little doubtfully. “I need practice. My father wrote it in a letter.”

Draco cast the Muffliato Charm for them, and Harry kept an eye out for the tell-tale shimmer of the Disillusionment Charm.

It was about the best security three half-trained wizards could manage at a moment’s notice, so Theodore got started.

“So, I could not source you a goat, nor a pig. However, I have a pair of soon-to-be transfigured lambs on their way. I hope that will do?” Theodore checked. “If not, I can write and cancel. To be delivered just before the dawn on Imbolc – the morning of the thirty-first. It was a good excuse occasioning no awkward questions or need to mention you at all, since obviously discretion was required all around. I implied it was a gift to curry favour with an unnamed senior Slytherin student. I hope the animals and timing suits?”

“It’s all perfect!” Harry said, with a sigh of relief.

“Favour repaid?” Theodore checked, and as Harry agreed they shook hands on it.

“May magic smile on your sacrifice,” Theodore said quietly, and Harry awkwardly thanked him in a whisper. One was destined for a sacrifice in the Chamber of Secrets, and the other was for a snack for Custos. Both, really, if she deigned to eat a dead animal, which Harry thought she was very likely to, given her gaze paralyzed or killed her prey before she ate it.

-000-

In winter sunsets came early in Scotland. It meant that Harry got his owl mail much earlier than he did in summer; sometimes he was bombarded pretty much right after classes ended for the day with a flock of owls some of whom were always frustrated by their delay in being able to deliver mail to him due to his owl ward. Some of them bit him, while others just hooted crossly to express their displeasure. One Wednesday afternoon after Care of Magical Creatures had finished (a nice outdoors class that made it easy for owls to find him) Harry headed to a library study session with a handful of mail, some bird poop on his robe, and his arms covered in talon scratches and bite marks from a couple of particularly aggravated post owls.

“Not very well-trained,” he muttered, casting some spells to heal his scratches.

“Scourgify,” Hermione said, magically vanishing the mess from the arm and back of his robe. “I disagree. I think it’s the best-trained owls that get the most irritated by your ward. They’re the ones who care about getting your mail to you as quickly as possible. Diana doesn’t like them, but I’ve talked with her about it. Also, you bribe her with bits of mouse now – that helps a lot.”

“I can’t constantly carry around mice for all the feathered pests who accost me!” Harry objected. “Besides, Storm’s eaten up my whole supply!”

Neville snickered quietly in the background.

“I didn’t say you had to!” Hermione said. “Just that it’s not the bad owls getting irritated but the best ones. You should be more understanding.”

“Fine, whatever. The poor owls. Tergeo, Reparo.” Harry said, pointedly casting a spell to remove blood from his robe’s sleeves, and another to mend the tears in the thick black cloth.

Harry flipped through his mail while Hermione ranted about the proper treatment of owls and the poor diet most wizards fed them, and their typically sub-par living conditions. He did his usual preliminary sort to look for letters of importance or interest – some he opened as he walked, while others he’d look at later.

The way the letters were addressed almost told the story of what was inside them. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. To Harold Potter. General letters of support, plus one letter from Percy; he’d learnt to recognise his handwriting. He skimmed it quickly; it had vague supportive words wishing Harry luck in the Tournament, and Percy’s complaint about his failure thus far to persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International Ban on Duelling.

To our valued customer, Mr. Harold Potter. An advertisement for a sale on at Gladrags Wizardwear, and there was a similarly addressed letter from Slug and Jiggers containing their latest mail-order potions supply catalogue.

Harold James Potter. Harold Potter, Heir of the Noble House of Potter. The Heir of Slytherin. Probably suck-ups, acquaintances and strangers, he could guess that without opening their letters.

To the Hogwarts Champion. That one was relatively new as a form of address that worked on its own. It appeared to be settling into being an official title in that magical way names did sometimes. There was probably some Arithmantic formula that could calculate how often a name or title had to be used before it became part of your identity.

To my friend, Harry. Harry opened that one curiously. It was from Flavia Derrick, Peregrine’s little sister; the tidy writing on the outside must have been done by her mother. She’d sent a belated thank you note for the chocolate frog and card he’d sent her for Christmas, a promise she was studying her lessons most attentively, and a new drawing of herself and Storm.

Mr. Harold James Potter, Heir Apparent of the Noble House of Potter, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin, the Boy Who Lived, Hogwarts’ Champion. Geez, they hadn’t skimped on the titles! He skimmed that one quickly too. Reading between the lines it was an overly conciliatory letter from a werewolf basically trying to desperately explain that ‘not all werewolves’ were like the ones who’d attacked Chudley earlier that month. He made a mental note to write them a nice supportive reply.

Harry. A short note from Daphne, letting him know that with some help from other Slytherins she’d found that the Durmstrang students all had classes inside the castle on Thursdays before lunch, which was when Harry had one of his free periods. Great! He could go swimming in the daylight for a change. He had merpeople to do battle-training with.

To the Heir of Slytherin, my Gryffindor Knight. Oh, great. Another letter from Voldemort. He dropped back a little further behind Neville and Hermione, dragging his steps and letting them go ahead. It was a short letter this month.

Maybe he’d been a bit busy organising raids on innocent villages, Harry thought angrily.

His request of protection for Draco was confirmed, with some evident amusement on Voldemort’s part, who called his selection ‘delightful’.

I wonder if young Malfoy knows he is ranked as merely your fifth-favourite friend? Or does the pure blood of your cousins Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy lead you to fret about their fate less? Am I to see another Slytherin’s name slated for protection next month?

Harry scowled. He was planning to ask for Dudley’s safety, actually. Maybe. He wasn’t sure he wanted to draw attention to his cousin. Yet if he didn’t list him, and he was attacked…

There’s no good answer here, he thought. Maybe I should ask Snape for advice.

Voldemort had set him another homework task, because of course he would. He wanted Harry to write about what defined a creature as ‘Dark’.

It threw him a bit. Oh, he could rattle off a list of which creatures were Dark, which weren’t, and a bunch he wasn’t sure of. But he didn’t know what the common defining traits were.

Half an hour later in the library he was ready to give up. He couldn’t browse the Restricted Section with a half-dozen eager beavers dogging his every step and wondering if he was allowed in there, and was he researching something for the Tournament? The standard Care of Magical Creatures texts were useless on the topic.

He decided to take a shortcut and outsource his homework. He got to Hermione just in time – she was packing up her bag.

“I’ve got a research question for you, Hermione,” he said, and she bit anxiously at her bottom lip as she packed up her books.

“Look… can someone else help you? You see… I was just about to go and meet Viktor. We’re meeting up in the club room; I’m helping him with his assignment on Hogwarts’ history. So, I really have to get moving.” She slung her bulky but feather-light bag stuffed full of books over her shoulder.

“That’s okay, I’ll come too,” Harry said, hastily grabbing up his satchel and trotting alongside her, waving goodbye to the others as he left.

He nattered away about his research problem ‘from Snape’ as they traversed Hogwarts’ corridors and trick staircases.

“Look, Harry, the answer is really quite simple,” she said, eventually finding a point to interrupt his frustrated rambling. “I cover this in my textbook, actually. Remember? The section about ‘Dark’ magic?”

Harry scrunched up his brow. “I don’t remember anything about Dark creatures in there, unless you mean the section on wand rights and citizenship status for the Dark beings like vampires?”

“No. Alright, so we don’t talk about things like Pogrebins or Dementors, but that’s not the point. I meant the section on magical theory; the basic definition of ‘Dark’ magic applies to creatures as well. It’s a simple test. Does it kill wizards in a blood-drenched or horrific manner, is it hard to stop, and does it look scary? Frankly, I’m amazed that dragons aren’t considered ‘Dark’. There are certainly a few exceptions, but that’s the rule of thumb and it will apply in most cases.”

“So it’s a bit like the definitions of curse versus hex or jinx; curses are harder to stop, with more frightening effects, that could hurt wizards more or potentially kill them,” Harry said, following her into the club room as she pushed open the door.

“Basically. Dark creatures are scary monsters no-one likes, and they eat wizards,” she summarised pithily. “People like dragons, so–”

“Hermione!” Krum greeted as they entered, rolling the r in her name with a pleasant burr. He waved to her as he pushed back his chair and came over to greet her. He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, ready to escort her to his table. “I em glat you could make it. And Potter, you are de… watching-friend today? Make sure I em behafink myself?”

“No?” Harry said, uncertainly, looking to Hermione. Did she need a chaperone? He didn’t think so, especially since there was a group of people. Did she want him to say ‘yes’?

“No, he’s not. He just kind of followed me here,” she confirmed, sounding kind of apologetic. “We were caught up talking about magical creatures, that’s all.”

“Well, perhaps he em like to join us,” Krum said politely, gesturing awkwardly with his free hand at his table which held perhaps half the Durmstrang students plus a couple of stray Hogwarts students they’d befriended. Harry spotted a Weasley twin – just one – seated next to Rosen, the plump Potions-loving shy girl Harry had talked to a lot at Slughorn’s mixer. It made sense to Harry that they’d want to talk about potions together again, though he did wonder where the other Weasley twin was. Up to some mischief or off doing some brewing, he guessed.

It didn’t seem polite to refuse, so Harry looked for a seat. Krum had a place set aside for Hermione, but Harry had to find his own spot somewhere else. The tall blond wizard Bjørn Ericksen, all booming welcome, cleared a spot for Harry to squeeze in between himself and Poliakoff, dragging over an extra chair.

“You can help us with our history sheet, I hope?” Ericksen asked, and Harry had to agree. “Karkaroff has set us work this week all about the history of England and Hogwarts!”

“I hope you don’t mind me working on my own stuff as well?” he checked. “I have letters to write and homework to finish.”

“No, it is fine!”

Harry pulled out his copy of Spellman's Syllabary (his Ancient Runes textbook) and got to work drilling himself in reading and writing Ogham, which they’d just started covering in class. It was a very different runic language than the ones they’d worked with so far, and popular with Irish enchanters and warders.

Beith, birch tree, letter B, one line on the right. Luis, blaze, herb, or rowan, letter L, two lines on the right. Fearn, letter W, for alder tree, Harry thought to himself, quizzing himself on the letters as he copied out the runic alphabet as a practice exercise. Babbling wanted to test them on it next week, and he wasn’t feeling confident yet.

“Hey Potter, I have three Founders: Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff. What’s the last one? The Raven one?” Ericksen asked.

“Rowena Ravenclaw.”

No, Fearn is the letter F that sounds like a W, Harry corrected himself, flicking back to check the textbook. Pity it’s not a T. Then it could be like a BLT sandwich and it would be easier to remember as a mnemonic. Bacon, Lettuce and… Fried Egg?

“And her animal’s the raven, right?”

“A common misconception. Her Animagus form was a sea eagle with black talons.”

“Funny that there’s a raven in her name, then! It sound like a rather modern name too, doesn’t it?”

Harry shook his head distractedly. “Not really, not if you know heraldry, or extra meanings. Raven is the colour black. Back in her day she would’ve been called something more like Ronwen Hræfnclawu,” Harry said, pronouncing the Founder’s name the way Ambrosius did, with a pronounced Old English accent. “The name’s accent has shifted a bit over the centuries, and some of the meaning’s gotten a bit buried, too. It’s a bit like how some of Shakespeare’s puns don’t work right anymore; they’re not funny in modern English because our accent is wrong.”

“Huh,” Ericksen said thoughtfully, scratching away with his quill.

Saille, S, for willow; and Nuin, N, for… what was it again?

“When and why was Hogwarts founded?” Ericksen asked, presumably reading another question off a list.

“Have you got a copy of Hogwarts, A History?” Hermione called, from across the table. “It’s all in there.”

“There were only a couple of copies in your library, and they’ve both been borrowed,” Ericksen explained. “That’s why we’re relying on the smarter Hogwarts students like you two to help us out.”

“You should really research it for yourself. There’s other books you could consult,” Hermione said, turning away to chat pointedly with Krum.

Nuin. N for Nuin or Nion, for fork, loft or ash, five strokes on the right.

“Potter, Hogwarts was founded when?”

“Huh? Oh, 990 A.D.” Harry would be a horrible hypocrite to insist someone not take the easy path on their history homework.

Let’s see, I could have a mnemonic to list all the runes, based on their first letters. How about… Bacon, Lettuce, Fried Sausage – not egg – and… N for… No butter? BLFSN.

“Thank you!”

“And Hogwarts was founded because…?”

“To teach a large number of magical apprentices all at once, and to help them learn a trade that suited them. It also was built as a possible fortress against the invading Normans to protect wizards and witches, according to Madam Hufflepuff’s prophetic vision of possible doom for the nation.”

Both Ericksen and Poliakoff on his other side murmured thanks as they wrote that down.

Second aicme, lines to the left or up. First aicme was right or down. Second is left or up, Harry drilled. The runes themselves weren’t too hard, though engraving parallel lines with a wand was tough. It was simply the need to remember all the names and meanings that took time and repetition.

“What’s the English word for the grevling… the digging-animal for Hufflepuff?” Ericksen asked.

“Badger,” Harry replied, as did another couple of people nearby, including Hermione (lured into answering).

“Lyon – not a Griffin – for Gryffindor, some kind of snake for Slytterin. You would say it, ‘Salasar Slytterin’?” he asked, checking his pronunciation, which was a little off.

“A green snake,” Harry added. “Non-magical, as all their Animagus forms were. And I would technically say ‘Sssalhassar Slidrian’, because his Name of Power was half Parseltongue, half Old English. But Salazar Slytherin is close enough. That’s how everyone says it now; it’d be odd to say it with its old pronunciation.”

When Harry tried to say ‘Salazar” in Parseltongue it sounded fine to him, with just a bit of an extra hiss at the start: Sssalazar. But to those who didn’t understand the language of serpents the consonants sounded more garbled and sibilant.

“Sli-ri-dri-an? Sliridian?” Poliakoff asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar name with his Swedish accent. “What dås dat mean?”

“‘To slither’. So, you see the modern version is still preserving the meaning nicely even though the sounds and vocabulary of the language have shifted over the past millennium from Old English. You should probably write down ‘Salazar Slytherin’ for your homework. That’s how everyone says it now.” Harry spelt out Salazar’s name for them.

“What species of snake did Slytherin turn into?” Ericksen asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, sorry, I’m not sure anyone does. Probably a grass snake since it was green, but that’s just my best guess; I don’t know if there’s extinct snake species it might have been, or it might have been a foreign species like Godric’s lion.”

Ericksen was also asking questions of Hermione (when she deigned to cooperate) and – apparently – George Weasley, so Harry got a break to memorise Ogham some more before he was interrupted in the middle of studying notched vowels. There was a Slytherin girl there too, with a tall Scandinavian-looking wizard Harry hadn’t been introduced to either, but she seemed to be there to socialise, and obviously had no interest in history. It was a common trait for most senior students after years of exposure to Professor Binns’ soporific lectures.

“Potter, have you memorised birth and death dates for any of the Founders?” Ericksen asked. “I’ve got nothing for any of them.”

“Oh, tough one. Well, I’d have to look most of them up myself, but I know more about Salazar. He was an adult when he founded Hogwarts, and an old bearded man before he left, well over a hundred, so… I guess at least 950AD or earlier for a birth date? Maybe a century earlier, as wizards lived longer then. Probably roughly the same for the others. Ravenclaw was young enough to have children after Hogwarts was founded, but with how long-lived witches are I don’t know if that helps much. Put down 800s, at a guess. Sorry I can’t help more.”

He was pretty sure Merlin had mentioned at some point that Salazar had lived ‘a good long life’ and he didn’t tend to say that about anyone who merely scraped a century.

Úr, for earth or clay, Harry thought, refocusing on his work. If there’s a rune I’m going to work well with, Arithmantically, it’ll probably be that one. A good Potter kind of rune. Isn’t Úr a city, too? It sounds familiar…

“Salazar was English?”

“Yes. He was born in swampy land in Norfolk, in East Anglia.”

“Died?”

“Well, we don’t know that either for sure, but I can be a lot more accurate for that than about his birth date. I think he died around 1071 or 1072? Since his last unofficial visit to Hogwarts was just before the Revolt of the Earls, and he was never seen again after that,” Harry rambled. “So, I guess he died somewhere in Mercia trying to get his lands back, supporting Hereward.” That was Ambrosius’ best guess, anyway. He’d mourned him for years, and quizzed Salazar’s descendants about his fate, but it was unclear.

“What fight was dat?” Poliakoff asked, sounding confused.

“A mostly Muggle war; fighting against William the Conqueror in the last big rebellion. You know, the first Norman king of England? Technically he was French.”

“Ja, ja. I know about him.”

“Right. So, I would guess Salazar died maybe in the fens on the Isle of Ely when Hereward was captured. Sorry, I can’t be more precise than that, and it’s only a guess. Just put down Mercia, around 1072.”

“You mentioned the Revolt of the Earls. Was he an Earl?” Ericksen asked, after a pause to make hasty notes.

“No, he was a Thane. It’s an earlier title, from before the Norman invasion. Lower in rank than Æthelings – those were princes in the line of succession. The Æthelings were best compared to earls or princes, while the less troublesome of the Thanes were later made into barons or knights by the Normans, after the invasion.”

“I thought he left Hogwarts because he quarrelled with Godric Gryffindor about Mudbloods – excuse me – Muggle-borns,” Ericksen said, correcting himself before anyone else could, “not that he left to fight in a war?”

“That too,” Harry said, “I mean, they quarrelled about that decades before, and he stormed off afterwards, but he still visited Hogwarts occasionally even though he refused to live there. Sometimes he didn’t tell the other Founders he was there, though. There was a big split after he argued with Godric over how to best protect their apprentices. He was concerned about the risks Muggle-born students brought to the school.”

Harry packed away his quill and inkpot as he talked and dried off his notes with a charm. It was just too hard to concentrate, and he did rather want to correct some misapprehensions about his famous ancestor for the foreigners. Now more than ever, with the Daily Prophet stirring up interest in his ancestry, Harry was being strongly associated with Salazar Slytherin.

“Apprentices?” Poliakoff checked. “What apprentices?”

“The early students,” Harry clarified.

“So, the ‘risks’ were what, exactly? He quarrelled with Gryffindor about Muggle-borns because…?” Ericksen asked leadingly.

“Because he didn’t want so many of them in the school mixing with the witch-born, and he especially didn’t like the risk of letting students return to their Muggle families and telling them about magic. He didn’t want to see our people killed or enslaved because of our powers. He only wanted Changelings at Hogwarts who’d been raised in wizarding society from when they were too young to remember their birth parents. I’m not saying he wasn’t a bigot – I think he very likely was, and about werewolves too – but it wasn’t just about Muggle-borns’ ancestry, it was also about the risks they posed in talking to Muggles. He was an isolationist, and Godric and Rowena weren’t. Helga was actually on the fence about it, wanting to keep everyone happy, but voted with the other two in the end, when they and Salazar fought.”

“Your ancestor Salazar was a Thane – a noble,” Ericksen said, more confirming what had been said earlier than truly asking.

“Yes. Being a Thane is a large part of why he valued familial pride, ambition, and political cunning. Most of the early Slytherins were those who had family estates to manage, or who wanted to be successful traders and merchants. It didn’t have the bad reputation it sometimes has these days.”

“So,” Ericksen said, “his descendants are entitled to call themselves ‘Lords’.”

Harry froze. He looked around the table as all of a sudden he noticed how quiet it had gotten, and how much attention everyone was paying to his conversation with the Durmstrang students on either side of him. Oh, some were more obvious about it than others, but the flicking glances his way told him the ones ‘making notes’ were still paying attention. Hermione included.

“You mean…? No. That’s… that’s just his Name of Power. He doesn’t have any titles, really… not that I know of, anyway,” Harry babbled nervously. This conversation wasn’t going at all where he’d wanted it to!

“And I certainly don’t have a title! I mean, half of England is probably related to the Queen, or descended from a noble somewhere in their ancestry. It doesn’t mean everyone gets to be a lord or lady or anything like that. ‘Noble’ in a family’s House title in Britain just means you had an ancestor who was in the first Wizengamot, that’s all, not that you’re a member of the nobility. ‘Noble’ as in uh… you know… gracious, righteous. ‘Ancient’ means an old wizarding family that claims an unbroken lineage going all the way back to Ancient Roman times; Merlin’s time or earlier.”

“You never learnt any of that Hogwarts ancient history from old Bored-to-Death Binns,” Weasley said.

“…I read a lot. Some of it’s in Latin.”

“I may not know Latin but I read a lot too, Harry,” Hermione said, her quiet voice easy to hear in the new silence around their table, “and I’ve never read anything that detailed about Salazar Slytherin. Anywhere. No historians know the details about what happened to Salazar Slytherin after he quarrelled with the other Founders, and I’ve never heard the minutiae of his argument with Gryffindor described before.”

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It’s mostly just speculation,” he justified, keeping his voice calm. “Based on historical events.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Heir of Slytherin,” the senior Slytherin student murmured, sounding faintly awed.

“It’s just speculation,” Harry repeated. “Snippets of history, and some of my own thoughts. Well uh… I have to go. Work to do.”

He’d salvaged as much as he thought he could, so he left, cursing himself for getting so distracted and drawn in that he forgot that the details of what Ambrosius had told him about his ancestor’s life weren’t common knowledge. It wasn’t that he’d said anything especially secret, Harry thought the problem was really that he’d spoken with too much authority. Like he knew the answers. Time to go, before he was pressed to name his sources.

The Slytherin witch Harry had never caught the name of bowed her head subtly as he left. Damn it. He wished he’d kept his big mouth shut.

-000-

The next morning Harry noticed another uptick of random Slytherins bowing to him in hallways on the way to breakfast and had to ask a few of them to stop.

He was relieved to sneak away from Hermione’s curious watchful eyes after Transfiguration class to go to the Chamber of Secrets, en route to the merpeople’s village in the Black Lake.

He left his nocturnal snake napping up in his tank in the Gryffindor dorm – it was too early for Storm to be up without being grumpy about it.

Navigating to their village was less nerve-wracking in the daylight, and Harry made most of the journey underwater, practicing his Bubble-Head Charm and breaking the surface only every eight to ten minutes to renew his charm. It was an exhaustingly long swim, and the not-quite-right transfigured flippers didn’t have the bend and flex of real ones and were much heavier. They turned back into rocks and fell off his feet after only a few minutes. Either the charm design needed more work, or he was casting the charm wrong for it to fail so quickly. At the moment it was still close to useless, and a potential liability.

I’ll need a new strategy if I have to reach the village, find my lost possession – no doubt with some challenges involved – and get back to shore, Harry thought. Perhaps we’ll start on a boat in the middle of the lake?

The water rippled as he shook his head, the bubble of air around his jaw wobbling about. No, he wasn’t that lucky. If they started in a boat it’d probably be a bad sign – that the challenges would be horribly dangerous. They’d used dragons in the first task, after all! He was a little worried they’d have to fight the giant squid this time. Hopefully the merpeople would have some tips about how to fight or get past it without injuring it. Especially with Scamander as a judge there would be no chance they’d want to risk the lonely beast’s life.

Curious merpeople crowded around him when he arrived, surrounding him in three dimensions at a cautious distance as they chattered.

“I heard we had a fingerling visit!”

“Which challenge is he doing?”

“Lion House.”

“Fun for our fingerlings!”

“Look at those legs! How does he swim?”

“Poorly,” one observed, with an amused wiggle.

They parted in front of Merchieftaness Murcus as she arrived.

“It is the Lion House challenge!” she announced. “With others to follow. Spread word that the fingerlings and the young warriors are to assemble at the training area. No young fry.”

Murcus accompanied Harry to the surface as he refreshed his breathing charm, then laid out the rules for Harry before they began. Meanwhile, below them the younger merpeople gathered to train with him. When Harry went back down the older fighters were distributing training weapons; tridents topped with soft blobs of something green and jelly-like englobing the sharp tips, and a handful of nets (some with weights on them). Some of the ‘fingerling’ merpeople were indeed just children. Harry guessed they looked perhaps eight years old, while the eldest looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Harry would ‘win’ if he landed hits on half of the group, and was strictly restricted to harmless, non-injuring spells, for his opponents would not be trying to injure him, only to disable him or get his wand off him. They were also allowed to try and break his Bubble-Head Charm, however, and if a young warrior was successful in that goal Harry would be immediately whisked to the surface by a supervising adult.

“Begin!” she cried, and as Harry spun around to aim his wand at a group of the oldest warriors the entire group scattered, diving and looping around him in a disorienting display.

“Impedimenta! Flipendo!” Harry incanted, shooting off a quick couple of jets of turquoise and blue light at a couple of startled young merpeople, then darting through the gap that temporarily opened up as one was frozen in place and another knocked away into a couple of others, causing temporary chaos in their ranks. She wasn’t knocked as forcefully as he’d expected, due to water resistance. The two hit by his spells swam away to wait with Murcus and her older guards, moving out of the combat. They conceded the hits even though one had only been knocked away, and the other immobilised for mere seconds. It was a symbolic victory – they didn’t want to risk serious harm to anyone involved, which Harry was thankful for.

Harry wasn’t used to fighting in three dimensions and having to watch above and below himself as well as to the sides, so he swam over to a rock on the lake bottom to put his back against it, dodging a thrown net as he did so.

“Cast!” one of the older trainees called, and as Harry heard a chorus of gleeful shrill cries he saw a barrage of tridents heading right for him, trailing bubbles as they scythed through the water.

“Depulso!” he cried quickly, sweeping his wand in a large arc in front of him. A wave of white light burst from his wand as his Banishing Charm knocked the tridents messily away, and more than one young merperson groaned in disappointment. Harry was disappointed too – the tridents should have been knocked further back and hit their wielders, but water resistance was working against him again.

“Adults distract!”

“Fingerlings retrieve weapons!”

Harry didn’t give them too much of a chance to regroup. “Digitus Wibbly! Impedimenta!” he cast, jinxing one young plucky trident-wielding merperson sneaking up above him on his left with the Jelly-Fingers Curse, and immobilising another who was about to throw a net.

The older net-wielding merperson withdrew after she unfroze from his weak spell, turning away with a frustrated flip of her long, silvery tail. However, the younger male screamed in terror as his trident dropped from his suddenly useless hands, floating in the water in front of him.

“Ahhh! My hands are ruined! Help!” he screeched, then let out a wordless, ear-piercing high-pitched shriek of alarm that wailed, siren-like.

It got an instant response from his elders.

The older guards whooshed over instantly to face off against Harry, while older students englobed the panicked youngster in a protective cluster. It made Harry realise just how fast the merpeople could be, when they were really trying.

“Protego!” Harry called, casting the Shield Charm in a panicked rush as he saw the sharp-tipped tridents levelled at him from all directions. “It’s not harmful, I swear! It will wear off in a minute!”

“It had better,” one of them said.

“I can reverse it, right now, if you like?” he offered. A couple of them looked at each other, uncertainly, as the child’s wailing cry continued in the background.

“No. Let us wait to see if the fingerling recovers as promised,” Murcus pronounced.

“It’s a harmless spell, for a curse,” Harry promised. “It hasn’t removed the finger bones, it just feels like it. It’s not banned, just uncommon.” Harry had thought it was much better than the Jelly-Legs Jinx when he’d read about it, because anything that messed with an opponent’s ability to hold a wand – or a trident, for that matter – was a great disabling spell.

“It shouldn’t hurt,” he added, as he got no response except silence and fierce faces displaying sharp teeth.

Harry waited an anxious minute and a half behind his shield – he counted the seconds as he wanted to know how long it was until his air supply would start to falter – before the young merperson let out a happy burbling cry as his fingers regained their function instead of feeling like useless blobs of jelly.

“Good,” Murcus pronounced, “He is well, there is no lasting injury.” The guards around Harry stood down, and Harry dropped his Shield Charm in turn, with a relieved sigh.

Murcus got a string of volunteers to line up to have the unfamiliar curse tried on them too, so they’d know what it felt like, and pronounced herself satisfied that Harry had passed the first challenge.

She handed him a red and gold hatpin, which he secured on his swimming trunks. “Wear it with pride, brave lion. You fought well and honourably, not shirking the challenge before you in fear, nor injuring the young.”

He swam back to the castle for lunch, which ended up being a bread roll and some fruit grabbed from his refrigerated shelf to eat as he sprinted through Hogwarts’ hallways with wet hair, running late for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Chapter Text

February 1995

Imbolc was a quiet and peaceful event this year, with the fourth-years scheduled to meet on the far side of the lake’s edge, while the third-years ventured out excitedly to meet at the menhir (with Colin Creevey under stern instructions from his Slytherin year-leaders not to bring a camera this time).

Harry – increasingly known as a student Potioneer-for-hire though usually just for medical potions – received a couple of requests from less proficient brewers to supply them with a topical cleansing sacred potion full of herbs, used for bathing at the start of Imbolc. He sold the vials at just a fraction above cost, not wanting to unduly profit off something used for a sacred ritual but wanting some compensation for his precious spare time lost in brewing.

Branstone from Hufflepuff was the leader of a group of excited youngsters who approached Harry for help, in a tiny nervous cluster that included mostly first-year Slytherins. Emma Dobbs introduced herself shyly and apologetically as a half-blood of no particular House.

“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” Harry reassured her, “and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Merlin himself was a half-blood, remember that if people give you a hard time. People used to sneer at him and call him a cambion, but he proved himself as the greatest wizard we’ve ever known.”

“I will remember!” she promised, smiling shyly and then shrinking back to let the big-eared but kind-faced Malcolm Baddock, ‘of the House of Baddock’ proudly introduce himself.

“It’s an honour, sir,” Baddock said earnestly, with a low bow. “They say you’re the Heir of Slytherin, and the best chance for our faith to be made acceptable to practice in the open again one day.”

“That would be wonderful!” Branstone agreed. “It’s a crying shame the practices are suppressed so. If there’s anything we can do to help you, let us know. I come to the Tournament research sessions when I can, though I know I’m not much help, really.”

“I’m not a ‘sir’, just Potter will do. And I can’t promise anything, I’m just… me.”

“Hogwarts’ champion, and the Boy Who Lived.”

“Heir of Slytherin.”

“Heir to three Noble Houses!”

He hunched uncomfortably at the accolades. None of those were things reflecting anything he’d done; they were just things he’d been born into, or something others’ actions had made him into. Winning the Triwizard Tournament would be something to be proud of, he guessed. If he could.

“Look, thanks, but I just… Look. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do anything others can’t, and I’m not planning to go into politics any more than I must. What I can do is brew some Cleansing Wash for all of you – eight Sickles each – and wish you a joyous Imbolc. Pickup at the library on the thirtieth and note it will be labelled as Pepperup Potion but it is not for drinking and is to be used topically. On the skin, in a shower or bath,” he clarified, when he caught a couple of puzzled looks.

The official Imbolc celebration in the early evening of the first of February went smoothly, and a couple of students who’d missed the last celebration were back for this one, including Midgen. Harry found it was nice not to be the only Gryffindor from his year at the festivals.

There was a feast of roast lamb and vegetables, and offerings were made to the lake of stones imbued with magical power. Some Ancient Runes students added invisible runes to theirs this year; Harry inscribed his flat pebble with Sowilō on one side – the lightning bolt rune of the sun he thought of as his personal rune and as a link to his mother – and put the newly-learnt Ogham rune Úr on the other for clay, the horizontal line with three vertical notches across it representing his father’s family.

Storm had a wonderful time as he always did at the quarter festivals, slithering around enjoying the literally magical atmosphere, nagging people (via translation) into doing a dance ‘to help the songlines’, and being praised for showing off his mist and water-creating powers.

It was the evening before the official celebration on the first that had been a more remarkable event for Harry. For he had had a couple of transfigured lambs to collect, a giant Basilisk to awaken and feed, and a new secret room to hopefully explore.

Custos was curious as to why Harry had awoken her from her enchanted hibernation and was delighted to hear that he’d acquired a snack as an Imbolc offering for her, should she be willing to accompany him into the forest to collect it.

Harry – blindfolded for his own safety though she bemoaned he couldn’t admire her lovely grey-green scales or sharp teeth – rode Custos down the hidden passageway and out into the forest, chatting as they went and explaining about the lambs.

“…Ssso lambs ssseemed lesss noticeable a choice than pigs or goatss, sssince it’s Imbolc. You know about the festivals, right?” Harry checked.

“I do,” said Storm slithering along somewhere beside Custos, his usually impressive almost 6 foot of length dwarfed by a serpent as thick as a massive tree trunk. “I help Harold with them.”

“Of course,” Custos replied, sounding a little offended. “They are important. Ssso, you wanted to sssacrifice the sssecond lamb to power the wardss?”

“Well want is rather too ssstrong a word,” said Harry. “But I had another talk with Ambrosiuss a while ago and he sssaid it will empower the Chamber’s enchantments and wardss – like the animated ssstatues and the lightss. And that as not too many Parselmouthss have ever visited down here over the years, and most don’t return as often as I do, I have a responsibility to do my part to maintain them.”

“Ambrosiuss?” Custos asked, sounding puzzled. “Oh, I remember, Merlin, the hidden picture made of tiny chipss of ssstone, correct? I have not ssseen him in many, many centuriess. I am too large to reach his chamber. He could never understand me, in any case. Sssalazar always thought he was very wise.”

“I think so, too. Custoss, do you know anything about the merpeople of the lake? I’ve been doing questss for them lately, to earn their favour. Yesterday morning I ssspent three hours before classs planting water weeds to make a ‘sssilt trap’ on an incoming ssstream. They poked their heads out of the water to ssscreech directionss, and I had to do all the work. At least I understood them thankss to Sssiriuss’ gift of learning Mermish, and I got a badge at the end of it!”

It had reminded him a bit of Aunt Petunia bombarding him with orders about the garden, actually. It wasn’t too hard, with a warming charm stopping him from freezing to death while he waded about in mud and waist-high water with armfuls of seedlings. Unlike working for his aunt, however, he got praise and a badge when he was done. He’d proudly added the bumblebee-coloured badge to his hat on the opposite side to the Gryffindor one.

Once out of the tunnel, Harry dazedly stumbled into the forest under Custos’ ordered directions until he was out of the range of the prey-luring magical effect. He did find he was more resistant to it than last year, thanks to his persistent self-training in Occlumency, but it still left him rather passively peaceful towards Custos, perhaps because that was his natural inclination in any case and thus harder to fight. Shaking off his muzzy-headedness as he moved further away from the exit, he draped Storm over his shoulders and hopped onto his broomstick. He’d typically been leaving it temptingly on top of his trunk of late, but it hadn’t been requisitioned by Tournament organisers as yet; all it had gotten him was some nagging from Ron to borrow it ‘just for a little bit, since you’re not using it’. Today he actually needed it, though, as he didn’t fancy a slow amble through the forest in the dim twilight.

Zooming for a mere five minutes further into the Forbidden Forest to a distinctively large and gnarled old oak tree near a corner of the Hippogriff paddock, he found two distinctive mossy branches lying under the tree. They were suspiciously regular and identical in size and shape, when closely inspected. He picked them up and laid them across his lap, then zoomed back to the hidden tunnel where Custos awaited him. Storm directed him as they got closer, as Harry wasn’t game to risk an accidental glance at Custos. He hit two bushes before he gave up the attempt to fly any further and walked slowly, hands out cautiously in front of him and verbally led along by his rather incompetent seeing-eye snake who didn’t have a good sense of what Harry would hit and what he wouldn’t.

“You should have ducked,” Storm explained, as Harry got a face full of branches. “There was plenty of room.”

“You didn’t tell me to duck!”

Custos’ loud hiss rang out close to Harry’s ear, making him jump. “That does not sssmell-taste like a lamb. That is just a ssstick, Harold.”

“Patience,” Harry hissed. “They’re transformed, I’ll change them back in the Chamber of Sssecretss where my ssspellcasting won’t be noticed.”

“The wards are ssstrong there,” Custos agreed.

Custos was delighted when the stick became a lamb, a decent-sized one on the verge of being called an adult sheep. Whatever they were called. A ewe? What did you call a teenage sheep? Harry didn’t know. A brief baa and a hideous crunching noise settled the issue. It appeared you called it ‘dinner’, or perhaps a small snack.

“Good! Bring me sssomething larger next time,” Custos demanded, after a bit of gulping to force the lamb down her gullet.

With Custos’ permission, Harry made his way into Custos’ hidden chamber behind Salazar’s statue; she would stay out in the main chamber for an hour so he had time to explore and run his ceremony without risking her accidentally injuring or killing him with her gaze.

Her lair was down a short, dark passageway and was a large oval chamber, the walls made of plain stone blocks – a manufactured cavernous room, not a natural one. With Harry’s wand lighting the way he saw – as warned by Custos – a large runic circle on one side of the room which triggered a powerful sleeping spell on anyone who entered its boundaries.

Harry clutched Storm tightly and edged around it carefully, looking for secret passages in the walls as Ambrosius had hinted there were.

“I want to see the circle.”

“No!”

“Put me down.”

“I sssaid no. Now hush!”

Storm subsided sullenly after Harry’s order. He ignored his sulky snake – for now – and spotted a snake statue in a niche in a wall. He poked at it cautiously. It lifted its tiny stony head ponderously and hissed slowly, “Who… ssseekss?”

“Harold James Potter, the Heir of Ssslytherin,” Harry said confidently. He offered his left hand to its fanged mouth, like he did for the literally bloodthirsty snake statue that guarded the way to Merlin’s hidden chamber. It bit him every single time he entered, the most painful form of showing ID Harry had ever heard of but one he’d grown accustomed to as a mandatory ancient security measure.

This snake’s sharp stone fangs bit into his skin just like the others’ did (if a bit more slowly), staining the rock only temporarily red as his blood was absorbed into it. Harry pulled his hand back and cast a routine healing charm. No big deal.

A rectangle of stone – previously a seamless part of the masonry – shuddered terribly, like a miniature earthquake. With a choking shower of dust and a loud grinding noise the section of wall sank into the floor. Harry held his lit wand up high, trying to see into the next room.

He started to go through the revealed tunnel very carefully, then paused. He could be more careful.

“Lumos Lapis,” he incanted, casting a variant Lumos on a rock. He attached it directly to his own forehead, up nice and high, with a Sticking Charm. He was good at those. So long as he remembered to detach the rock later instead of walking around like a weird enlightened Buddha with a glowing spot on his forehead, he’d be all good.

It was only a very short distance to the altar room – Harry guessed that there was only so much room to hide hidden underground rooms before they all started running into each other, or the lake, or perhaps into some of Hogwarts’ lower rooms. Ambrosius had told him once that there wasn’t in fact a secret exit – at least, not that he knew of – into the Slytherin common room. It was called the ‘dungeons’ because that’s what the area used to be, once upon a time; rooms had been repurposed over the centuries. Apparently Slytherin’s students used to be housed in what was now the astronomy tower.

The room was impressive decorated, as nicely as the main chamber, if not better. A mural painted along one smooth rock wall caught Harry’s attention instantly. It didn’t appear to be animated but was still a beautiful piece of art. Salazar Slytherin – looking younger here with a shorter beard and more hair on his head – stretched his snake-encircled arms wide in regally benevolent welcome, while at his sides three companions stood frozen in their own preferred artistic aspects. Plump Helga Hufflepuff – for it could only be she – wore a practical tunic, leggings, and a cloth covering on her head. She smiled kindly as she held a cup that overflowed with fruit like a cornucopia of plenty. Rowena Ravenclaw was a sharp-featured woman dressed lavishly and adorned with jewellery. A tiara was the only thing restraining her long hair which spilled over her shoulders, and she held a feather quill in her right hand and a scroll in her left. Gryffindor was a bear of a man with a great bushy beard and a scarred face and had posed with his hands atop the pommel of a sword, its tip resting on the ground. Each face was encircled by an engraved elemental halo – Salazar had symbolic waves around his, while Godric had a wreath of flames, Helga had pebbles, and Rowena had swirls of air and wisps of cloud.

Harry wanted to rush over and look at it more closely but faltered on seeing the runic circle etched deeply into the smooth stone floor. Right in the middle of the circle was a stone altar that looked like a natural rock rather than a worked block, and on the opposite side of the room to the frieze there was a long stone bench that held five metal bowls with runes engraved around their rims – three of shining but dusty silver, and two of gold. There was an empty gap on the bench as if the largest of the golden bowls had been taken away at some point and never returned. Perhaps due to the sheer value of a solid gold bowl big enough to need both arms to lift it up? Shelves under the bench held an array of knives – gold, silver, and some Verdigris-damaged old bronze that hadn’t aged so well though clearly someone had tried to salvage them at some point.

Harry took his time. He spent an hour warily copying and interpreting the runes on the floor before determining that to the best of his ability to tell, it would be safe for him to walk inside the circle. Then he spent another half-hour studying the frieze of the Founders, checking for invisible runes (he only found runes to guard against damage) and tapping on various parts of the frieze to see if he could prompt the painted figures to animate, which alas they didn’t (a couple of guard-snakes at the doorway hissed warnings not to damage it or they’d attack, Heir status notwithstanding). He even wiped a couple of drops of his blood on the scant runes around the edge, alas to no avail.

Eventually he conceded defeat. It was just a painting. A beautiful, historical artwork of incalculable value and in excellent condition, but nothing more than that. If it could be made to animate it was a task beyond his current skill.

He laid the transfigured stick atop the stone altar, collected a medium-sized silver bowl (the better metal for Imbolc due to its stronger association with water and transformation), and ended the spell on the branch. A startled yearling sheep tried to struggle to its feet but was quickly and efficiently Stunned.

Harry felt bad for it, but not too bad. The duck had been harder. And was any of it really any worse than feeding live animals to Storm? It wouldn’t go to waste. If anything was left after the sacrifice he’d feed it to Custos or take a haunch to roast for the Imbolc celebrations. He’d make it quick, and it wouldn’t feel a thing. He changed into the white robe the Nott family had given him for Yule and stepped up to the altar.

He chanted his greetings to magic, and his thanks to the lamb whose life he was about to take. A swift slice with a silver blade and its blood splashed into the bowl, and a spray splattered against his robe. A Cleaning Charm would take care of that quickly enough, so Harry just kept his mouth shut as drops slid down his face. He didn’t want its warm blood in his mouth. That would be really gross.

He poured the blood into circular hollows at the compass points of the runic circle, so it ran around the rim and across the carved runes.

Four stone blocks placed high on the walls around the room began to glow with a soft, dim light, and he smiled to see the renewal of magic.

-000-

A few days into February a tall, brown-haired boy stopped Harry in the corridor on Sunday morning and drew him aside for a chat, noticing his new hat accessory.

“Hiya! Michael McManus, seventh-year Hufflepuff,” the boy said, introducing himself with a deep, bass voice and omitting any reference to his family, perhaps pointedly so. “I uh… noticed you have a hatpin like mine? Swimming achievement award was it?”

His voice was casual, but his eyes held a knowing gleam as he added, “I got mine in sixth year, after OWLs were done and I could relax and muck about. Busy with my NEWTs now, of course.”

“Swimming was involved,” Harry said, peering at the other boy’s hat and noticing a matching badge. He grinned conspiratorially. “Lots of wading and hard work to get my badge, actually. It’s all part of my Tournament preparation.”

“And a Gryffindor one too!” McManus said, peering closer. “That’s the one I would have expected. What did you do for that one, then?”

“A training fight with fingerlings,” Harry whispered, glancing around to make sure no-one was obviously eavesdropping, “which was scarier than it sounds. The adults freaked out when I hit one with a jinx and he panicked.”

“Well good job, I say! Not good that you made a kid cry, obviously,” he hastily clarified, “I mean it’s good that you’re working hard and doing your research. Keep at it, Potter. We’re all rooting for you to win the Tournament, you know. If you need any advice, let me know. I’ve gotten an Outstanding for Care of Magical Creatures four years running, and my family owns a fishing business in Grimsby so I know my way around a boat. If any of that helps? I mean, dragons! How are they going to step it up from there? Merpeople, huh? Could be tough. Friendly when you get to know them, mind you.”

“Got any tips on centaurs?” Harry asked. His next task was enchanting or empowering a runestone to earn his Ravenclaw badge, which should be straightforward enough. The one after that to get the Slytherin one would be tough; stealing an artefact from the centaur village without being trampled to death. “The ahh… my new friends,” he said, self-censoring as some students wandered past, “have a task for me involving them.”

“Sure! I’ll owl you some notes!” McManus said, beaming. “I wrote an essay on them last year, I think I still have it somewhere in case I needed it for revision. You want a copy?”

Harry agreed that would be great and they parted with a hearty handshake, Harry heading off towards the year’s first H.E.L.P. Society meeting (the first monthly meeting had fallen on the 1^st of January and had been cancelled as they’d all been on holiday).

Yearly elections were held, and to some people’s surprise – and to Hermione’s proud delight – they had two house-elves elected into positions.

Dobby was one of them – an eager, regular participant in the club, he ran for Vice-President after confirming Harry approved.

“Not President?” Harry asked, but Dobby shook his head.

“No, lots of house-elves thinks Miss Hermione should haves that job; it is being hard for us to think of being in charge of wizards and witches! She is very kind and says house-elves should have more saying in what the society does! Does Master Harry agree Dobby can be Vice-President?”

“Yes, that sounds good to me; you do what you want, Dobby, and good luck!”

“Dobby has written a speech!”

Dobby was elected with an overwhelming majority, and to such hearty applause that it overwhelmed him. He sobbed and blew his lumpy nose into a fold of his toga. “Dobby thanks you all! Dobby will work hard in his new job!”

Letry was the other house-elf elected to a position, the male house-elf who supervised the younger elves in keeping Gryffindor tower clean. He nominated himself for the position of ‘Scribe’ who would record the meetings and the decisions made. (Hermione was unsurprisingly rather keen on adding all the bureaucratic bells and whistles to their club.)

“I can be keeping good minutes,” he said proudly. “I teaches the young elflings how to read and write.”

One objection was raised regarding his grammatical skills, but Letry defended himself proudly.

“I speaks and writes well, just like all house-elves do. Perhaps you is doing it wrong?”

Hermione leapt swiftly to his defence with an impassioned speech about not imposing cultural and linguistic expectations on other races and species, which squashed the tentative objections.

He was also elected to his position with a comfortable majority.

-000-

Valentine’s Day was approaching rapidly, and having sought advice from his cousin in advance, Harry repeated Pansy’s recommended replies to blushing students asking him to accompany them to Hogsmeade that coming weekend (which fell only a couple of days beforehand). He had to do so what he felt was far too many times.

“Thank you for your interest, but I have other plans. I hope you can find someone to accompany you.”

“I am flattered, truly, but alas I cannot return your regards. I have other plans for the weekend.”

Harry distributed (via Hermione’s borrowed owl and a couple of school owls) a handful of ‘friendship’ cards to his female friends, and early birthday presents for Luna and Pansy, so he wouldn’t forget to do so later if he got swept up in last-minute panicked study as the second task loomed ever closer. His Bubble-Head Charm still wasn’t coming together, and so far the longest it had lasted was eighteen minutes. He was trying his hardest, and skilled Charms students like Johnson, Diggory and his friend Peregrine reassured him he wasn’t doing anything wrong, he just needed more practice. He was simply running out of time and it still wasn’t good enough. Good enough to visit the merpeople’s village and enchant a water-smoothed pebble with a protective charm to earn his Ravenclaw badge (he now had a third pin on his hat), but not enough to last through a potentially hour-long challenge.

His team of supporters were starting to give up pushing him to practice and had shifted to brainstorming workarounds in case he needed to make an extensive trip under or around the lake.

“We just need him to go faster,” Peregrine said.

“I still think the flippers are a good idea,” Hermione argued. “It’s a pity we can’t get him scuba gear. It’s technically not against the rules, since it’s not magical.”

“It’s a magical competition though – he might be allowed to do it, but the point is to show off his spellcasting to get more points,” Angelina Johnson rebutted. “Don’t scuba tanks have electronics on them? Monitors and regulators and stuff? To track oxygen levels, things like that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Aren’t they mechanical… analogue? People have been diving for ages. Do you think the steel tanks might be a problem? They might interfere with Harry’s spellcasting, and even a small difference could be important in a competition.”

“Maybe. Or are they aluminium? Anyway, I think a bigger issue is that there’s a bit that goes in his mouth – the regulator?” Johnson said, not sounding completely sure of her terms. “That would stop him casting verbal spells, and his non-verbal spells still need a lot of work. He can only do two or three spells that way.”

“Which is great for a fourth-year,” Neville said, in defence of his friend’s achievement.

“True,” Hermione agreed, perhaps replying to both of them. “Well, we’ll cross scuba gear off the list as an option.”

“Are you a Muggle-born, Johnson?” Daphne asked.

“Does it matter?” Johnson said, folding her arms.

“I am simply curious at your familiarity with Muggle things.” She waved a dismissive hand.

“You can be curious all you like, but it’s none of your business,” Johnson replied curtly.

“How rude!”

“Takes one to know one. You’re not a shining example of etiquette yourself, hon.”

“Harry, are you going to let her speak to me like that?” Daphne said, appealing to him.

“Uh… yes? Sorry, but it was a little bit rude. Sorry!” he repeated, with a wince as he saw her outraged face.

“And Johnson, I know she was impolite, but she was also just trying to make conversation, even if it came out wrong. She wasn’t insulting you. Perhaps you could work at separate tables for a while,” he suggested, which pleased neither of them who both clearly would’ve preferred for him to come down more strongly on one side or another, sending the other person away and favouring them.

While others paired off and went to Hogsmeade on the weekend, giggling and courting, most of the romantically unattached (and some who were) went to watch the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin Quidditch match. Harry, however, had plans to skulk off to the Forbidden Forest, so Sirius had been warned not to expect him for a study session due to ‘Tournament preparation’.

Sirius had written back to say it was fine, and he had ‘other business to attend to’. Harry hoped that meant Sirius was getting his arm healed, and not that he was off doing something incredibly dangerous. But he wasn’t optimistic.

He’d gotten a letter from Snape on the same evening, replying to his earlier request (in invisible ink) asking for advice about whether to ask Lord Voldemort for safety for Dudley or not.

I am not aware that the Dark Lord has any current plans to attack your Muggle relatives, however, the possibility cannot be ruled out. He is aware of their existence, and highly interested in your lineage; I suspect his grip over the media is firm at this point. The articles about your descent from Salazar Slytherin are – to the best of my knowledge – correct in essentials but slanted to further his ideology. You should perhaps be made aware – if you are not already – that he has claimed the title of ‘Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin’ for himself, to maintain his rank above you as the senior member of that esteemed line.

Oh, that’s fantastic, Harry thought sarcastically, shaking his head in shock. Yes, he wouldn’t want to lose his title. No doubt someone told him I get mail addressed to the Heir.

As your Muggle cousin might be thought of marring that line’s status and purity, he might be at risk. You have asked for safety for several other children already, which establishes your cousin’s relative unimportance to you–

Ouch, Harry thought with a wince. I didn’t mean to leave it so long… I just had to prioritize Hermione and Luna, and I couldn’t leave out Neville! After that he’d just… forgotten. For a while. And it seemed risky to draw attention to someone the Dark Lord had maybe never heard of. He kept reading.

–and while the ban on attacking magical children remains, there is no such protection for Muggles or Squibs. In short, I advise asking for his protection, should you care for him.

Harry had duly requested Dudley as his selection for safety for February, under the terms of his truce with Voldemort.

However, it weighed heavily on his mind, as he zipped into the Forbidden Forest early the next morning in search of the centaur encampment. He’d headed north from the castle initially, as if heading towards the Quidditch pitch to watch the match, then had thrown his dad’s invisibility cloak over himself and headed north-west to the edge of the forest, aiming for the centaurs’ clearing.

He wished he could talk over his truce with Voldemort with Storm, but Storm had declined to come on his outing.

“The forest has too many predatorss,” his pet had explained earlier, “and I want to watch Salazar’s sssnake team beat the bird team.”

So he’d been proudly carried off by Luna and Theodore earlier that day, to be snake-sat at the Quidditch match. Both had their faces daubed with magically sparkling face paint in their House colours – a new addition to the Weasley’s line of products. Theodore had a green and silver eagle inexpertly daubed on his face, while Luna had a blue and bronze striped snake on hers. Storm refused an offer of paint, which he didn’t like the smell-taste of, but had graciously accepted Luna’s help in attaching with a Sticking Charm the tiny hat and scarf she’d made for him in Slytherin colours earlier in the school year.

Harry approached the centaur’s camp warily. He was very torn on how to best approach the merpeople’s quest. “Cunning and ambition,” he muttered to himself.

The merchieftainess had told him to “retrieve an item that belongs to us”. It was an ancient lyre, apparently beautifully carved and enchanted against water damage. Murcus claimed that it belonged in the empty arms of the mermaid statue in the centre of their village square but was vague on how the centaurs had acquired the lyre. There was an implication that the centaurs had stolen their rightful possession, but Harry was suspicious. Centaurs weren’t known for their aquatic manoeuvrability, though McManus’ essay had mentioned that they were very good fisherfolk, with fish one of the protein staples of their omnivorous diet. Apparently, they really enjoyed a quiet contemplative session of fishing.

Settled centaur herds – like the one in the Forbidden Forest – tended to become agrarian and tend orchards and establish small farms of grains and vegetables, and also cultivated grasses and leafy greens that weren’t palatable to humans. Those herds with larger territories like places in Russia, Ukraine in the Eastern Intermarium, and in their native Greece and Turkey in the Aegean Union, were more nomadic in nature with consequently different diets. Small game like rabbits, birds, and fish were widely popular (and sometimes eaten raw), and preserved meat, dried fruit, and cakes of grain were always valued by herds everywhere for their longevity and portability.

Harry observed the village from under the shelter of his invisibility cloak for some time, while he pondered his approach. Centaurs had a four X rating from the Ministry for a reason – they could be very dangerous to wizards and witches, but McManus’ essay had mentioned that they were much more tolerant of the foibles of the young. Male centaurs outnumbered the females – often two to one – and so women and children were valued highly, and even those of other species were consequently usually subject to solicitous care. So long as Harry avoided any obvious blunders – like maybe getting caught stealing something from their village – he thought he’d probably be okay.

He watched centaurs clopping around their small farm from the treeline; an adult was supervising child centaurs – foals – who were harvesting some greens. They were pulling up spring onions and picking some leaves off some spinach plants (leaving the bulk of the spinach untouched), while two adults tilled a different garden bed with long-handled hoes and mixed in manure (Harry tried not to think about where they’d gotten that from). They then used a long pole to poke a row of holes into the prepared earth to drop seeds into. Harry saw one centaur pull a scoop-like tool off a loop on his leather belt to pick up a seed that hadn’t fallen where it was intended to, and deposit it in its prepared hole. Centaurs, it seemed, weren’t big on bending over, which was probably why the young foals had the job of harvesting food from the slightly-raised garden beds – it wasn’t as hard for them to reach down, with all the flexibility and energy of youth.

Cunning and ambition, he thought again. It didn’t have to mean theft. Salazar’s apprentices were the nobles and the merchants. He needed to show the merpeople he was wily and determined. It could mean sneaking into the centaurs’ village to find the lyre. It was almost certainly in the largest building – McManus wrote that the local herd had a large storehouse which worked as both a granary and general storeroom. Pretty much anything precious or that they wanted to keep safe from inclement weather went in there: grain, drying fish, meat, fruit, and curing leather and furs. It was obvious which one it was – the only building that looked truly weatherproof, with the other wooden buildings looking more like stables or lean-tos with simple rooves and one side completely open to the weather (perhaps so they could watch the stars as they drifted off to sleep). Leather hides and furs were visible hanging from hooks inside some of the shelters – Harry saw a few centaurs wearing them like horse-blankets or capes (or both) to ward off the morning’s chill.

He could sneak into the village. He’d washed thoroughly that morning so that his scent shouldn’t give him away. The invisibility cloak was better than any charm, and he should be able to sneak into the storeroom easily enough. In theory it would all go well, and he could sneak out with the lyre under the cloak with him with no-one the wiser. Most of the centaurs were out and about, foraging or farming, and there was no-one guarding their village, just one watchful archer supervising the farmers and keeping a wary eye on the forest’s edges.

He could do it. But should he? He had a backup plan, and while the sneak-and-steal plan would probably work just fine, he decided he’d make the moral choice and try diplomacy and trading first.

Besides, Harry thought to himself, if being nice doesn’t work, I can always try theft later.

He really wanted to get that fourth badge so that the merpeople would teach him the runic combinations that Dumbledore used to waterproof things. He could protect all his things!

He shucked off his invisibility cloak and stepped forward to greet the centaurs, moving over to the guard rather than approaching the adult watching the foals, which he guessed would be a major faux pas.

The dark tan guard centaur wasn’t pleased to see a wizard in the heart of their territory, seeming wary of letting his eyes off Harry for a single second. The guard – who introduced himself curtly as Torvus – escorted Harry to the outskirts of their encampment to await the arrival of their leader.

Magorian arrived in due course at a swift trot, unslinging a bag from where it lay across his equine back like a saddlebag. He untied the leather cords that attached another full leather bag to the thick belt around his human-like waist. Presumably it was an adjustment made so the bag wouldn’t slip off, and Harry thought it looked easier for a centaur to deal with than something tied around the middle of the equine part of a centaur’s body. Magorian passed the bags of foraged and hunted food to another centaur, letting them know he’d gotten two rabbits, nettles, and some chickweed.

“Now, who do we have here?” he asked, turning his attention to Harry. He was a well-groomed centaur with long black hair and a chestnut body, and his high-cheekboned face wore an arrogant expression, as if to communicate that the sight of Harry did not particularly impress him.

“A foal, Magorian,” Harry’s guard Torvus said, “he claims he means no harm and comes to trade.”

“We are not a shop, foal, and our bows are not for sale,” Magorian warned sternly. “We have little interest in trading with wizards. Kindly keep in mind that we are beasts, and you are trespassing in our territory. Your error is tolerated only in light of your youth.”

“I do apologise if I’ve intruded, and I promise I am not going to try and buy a bow,” Harry said nervously, giving their leader a deep, respectful bow. “I am on a quest on behalf of the merpeople of the Black Lake. Merchieftaness Murcus seeks the return of their enchanted lyre.”

“Ah, the lyre of the stars?” Magorian asked. His expression looked as stern as ever to Harry, but a couple of the centaurs around him seemed to relax.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry spotted the red-haired centaur Ronan looking quite at ease, arms now away from his bow and quiver and instead folded casually across his chest.

“I understood it was carved with an ocean scene?” Harry said cautiously. “Perhaps there are two lyres, or I’m mistaken about the details of what I’ve been told?” Harry didn’t think he was wrong, but it was the polite thing to say.

“It is engraved with the story of Dionysus turning sailors into dolphins, and the constellation Delphinus. Why should such a precious treasure be given to you?”

“Why should it not?” countered Harry. “The merpeople desire its return; surely you mean them no ill will?” He raised a hand to his hat brim, trying to subtly draw attention to the three colourful pins there secured to the hat band.

Magorian gave a half-smile and waved a dismissive hand to the centaurs around him. All except Ronan peeled off, trotting off to other business.

“Yes, we are allied with the merpeople, it is true, and have great respect for their chieftaness. Yet the lyre is precious to our herd also, as it is to their people.”

“You are also a nation worthy of great respect, as are you, noble Magorian,” Harry began, trying to butter up the centaur leader.

It was the reverse of the word-duelling beloved of the goblins; he’d heard centaurs preferred respectful courtesy. However, it wasn’t the best start at flattery, and he was quickly interrupted by an upraised hand.

“No, we are no nation, and refuse to be considered so,” Magorian said sternly. “The wizarding world has only ever truly acknowledged two other species as possessing sovereign nations of their own: goblins and Muggles. And your history has a legacy of constant warfare with both of those. Muggles – whom wizards secretly fear would triumph over themselves as they came close to doing centuries ago – you now ignore as much as possible. Goblins, after dozens of ruinous wars, are a subject race. No, much better that we be regarded as beasts, whose territories you infringe upon at your peril, and who are not subject to your laws.”

“A fine leader of your herd, then, noble-hearted Magorian,” Harry said, with another bow. “A wise leader who demonstrates patience and a willingness to negotiate.” His second attempt at flattery was much better received.

What followed was an exhausting half-hour of conversation and negotiation interspersed with bewildering references to favourable stars and planetary alignments. They debated back and forth about the importance of friendship with the merpeople versus the value of the item they held in their custody, the dubious necessity for intermediaries when the centaurs could hand over the lyre themselves should they wish, the various wrongs done to the centaurs over the centuries (mostly a loss of land), and the trustworthiness of Harry’s character.

The rapid byplay of conversational debate slowed when Harry brought out a snack to eat while they talked.

“Crystallised pineapple,” Harry said casually, eating a small piece with deliberate relish. “Mmm! It’s so good. A dried tropical fruit, extremely sweet.” With help from Peregrine, he’d traded three vials of Wideye Potion to a stressed seventh-year Slytherin in exchange for their large box of dried fruit they’d been hoarding as an emergency gift for Professor Slughorn. He’d come prepared for all eventualities, even trading or bribing his way into getting the lyre.

Magorian’s snub nose twitched with interest, letting out a horsey snuffle as he scented the air curiously for the very faint sweet smell. Harry offered a small piece as a sample which was devoured instantly with a pleased whicker.

Harry smiled. He had him now. McManus’ essay was right – centaurs loved dried fruit.

When all negotiations were complete, he’d traded away his box of dried pineapple, mango, and pawpaw, three loaves of bread, and a pot of honey. In return he carried away a beautiful lyre and a small bag of fairy wings as a bonus item he’d spontaneously added to the haggling, which would be a great ingredient to help his potions brewing.

“You have proved your cunning in negotiation; you are not reckless and know to think ahead to consider the consequences of your actions. Go in peace, and may a fortunate star shine upon you,” Magorian rumbled in approval.

-000-

Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor was starting to cause trouble, though some would say instead that he was making positive changes; it depended on who you talked to. Pyrites had been observing the teachers and interviewing students (and any teachers interested in reporting on their colleagues) for almost two months now, and was moving on to openly testing their skills, either by speaking up to ask questions during classes (which Hagrid found very stressful), or, so it was rumoured, giving them excerpts from their subject’s past NEWT exams as surprise tests in the evenings.

Hermione was very invested in the whole process and kept Harry and Neville updated about it all. She was more gossipy than usual as she ferreted out all the rumours she could about Pyrites’ progress (as he wasn’t as open about his mission as she preferred). She updated them regularly over meals and reported in on the latest gossip one Friday morning, the week after Harry’s excursion to the centaur village.

“Brown says Trelawney is in tears because Pyrites didn’t like her tasseomancy reading or her crystal ball scrying,” Hermione reported, “and she predicts losing her job and all sorts of woeful doom for herself these days. But I don’t think you need Second Sight to see that coming; she’s a dreadful fraud and should be sacked. Binns is moving on for sure – I’ve heard officially from Pyrites that he’s going to be replaced, and that if Dumbledore can’t find a replacement for him within a month, the Ministry’s going to appoint someone qualified!”

“Good job!” said Harry.

“That does not seem like much notice to find someone new,” Neville said hesitantly.

Hermione sniffed dismissively, chin in the air. “He’s had decades, in addition to the past couple of months. If Dumbledore hasn’t already made a list of candidates, it’s his own fault!”

Her opinion of Dumbledore had taken a bad hit over the issue of Binns’ entrapment as a teacher.

“I suppose,” Neville conceded.

“But that’s not the best news!” Hermione said, excitement colouring her voice and widening her eyes. “I’m not supposed to mention the details yet, but… there’s going to be new subjects introduced! It’s so exciting!”

“What subjects?” Harry asked.

“I can’t say,” Hermione said, sounding dreadfully disappointed at that necessity, as she bit at her bottom lip. “I promised I wouldn’t. But it’s going to be great! Pyrites is doing such a fantastic job overhauling things!”

“Sounds like you’ve warmed to him.”

“Well… he might have some biases but Pyrites is at least focused on the overall good of the school as his main priority.”

“He’s a bigot,” Ron said, leaning past a couple of students to share his thoughts on the matter. “He got this job ‘cause he’s a rich blood purist who hangs around with other snobby rich pure-bloods. And he’s got it in for Hagrid ‘cause he’s a half-giant.”

Rita Skeeter’s expose of their teacher’s ancestry hadn’t gotten him fired – yet – but it had been much talked about for a while.

Hermione leapt to Pyrites defence, despite her liking for Hagrid. Anyone who was replacing Binns was obviously someone worth tolerating. “Well, some of his points are very valid. What would Professor Hagrid do if a student was seriously injured in his class, or an animal got out of control again?”

“So, you’re saying he should be sacked?”

“No! Not at all. Just… better trained. He’s working on getting more qualified to teach – that should help a lot. He can be a very good teacher. Better than Snape was, for instance.”

Ron laughed. “You can say that again.”

“I liked Professor Snape,” Harry bristled.

“No, you didn’t,” Neville said. “Not as a teacher. Not until he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, at any rate. He was a horrible Potions teacher Harry, admit it.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Well… that’s true. He was much better at DADA. I mean, he’s great at potions, just not at teaching others how to brew them. One on one I think he’s better – he sends interesting letters.”

“Slughorn is much better,” Neville said, brightening up. “I am even considering taking Potions at NEWT level now.”

There was a chorus of encouragement for that plan, now that Neville’s grades were up and his nerves more settled than ever in Potions class.

“Have you decided what you’re going to take, Harry?” Neville asked.

“The five core subjects you need to be a Healer, and probably Ancient Runes. I’ll definitely drop Astronomy, and probably History of Magic and Care of Magical Creatures too.”

“I thought you hated History of Magic?” Hermione asked.

“I hate how Binns teaches it,” Harry clarified. “Some of the actual history is interesting, once you get away from the dry school textbook. I got to sit in on one of Madam Maxime’s lectures last week when I had a free period, and it was great!”

“Speaking of, we’d better get to his class,” Hermione said, as the great bell tolled and students started filing out of the Great Hall.

“I went to Madame Maxime’s class yesterday morning while you had Arithmancy,” Harry said. “Neville and Luna came too, and Madame Maxime taught in English which was very handy, because three-quarters of her class were Hogwarts students, would you believe it?”

Harry spied an uneaten whole loaf of bread on the Hufflepuff table and filched it as they passed by, popping it in his satchel.

“Sadly, I can,” Hermione said. “Honestly. Do you really need that bread, Harry?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I ran out.” His bread stockpile had all gone to the centaurs. “It’s… for the ducks.”

“Hmm. Peas and corn are better for them.”

“Look, did you want to hear about the History of Magic class or not?” he asked, trying to not-so-subtly deflect her back to his preferred conversational topic.

“I’m all ears,” Hermione promised.

“It was all about Asian magical history. Madame Maxime was just finishing her coverage of the mountain clans of Japan, and the impact of the second world war on technological development amongst Japanese wizards in response to the Muggle threat. Isn’t that cool? They’ve developed a lot of crystal-based technology – it’s used in the most modern ‘Wizarding Wireless’ radio sets – and other stuff that isn’t iron-based.”

“She talked mostly about the government of China,” Neville volunteered. “About the establishment of the Six Ministries of the Middle Kingdom.”

“Shénzhōu, it’s called in Chinese – the wizarding nation. The Divine Land. Uh, was it in Mandarin or Cantonese, Neville?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Neither do I. I don’t even remember what the difference is. Still, at the end of class we practiced writing the country name in calligraphy; it was fun to have a practical exercise in History of Magic.”

Harry waffled at length to Hermione – who was fascinated – about his newly acquired knowledge about politics in the Divine Land, where the Jade Emperor ruled with the ‘Mandate of Heaven’ affirming his right to reign. Underneath him and his Empress, the Grand Secretariat operated as a coordinating agency and formed part of the imperial authority, whereas the Six Ministries – Personnel, Revenue, Rites, War, Justice, and Public Works – were direct administrative organs of the state.

“Of course, the Imperial family’s claims of immortality are disputed – critics accuse them of Dark magic, while others suspiciously aver that when an Emperor dies his son takes on his name and identity,” Harry added. “It’s been a topic of international gossip for centuries, and no outsider is really sure of the truth.”

Harry continued his second-hand lecture to his rapt audience of one, rambling on about imperial examinations, peach wars, and other matters. He was busily criticizing the British Ministry of Magic’s deplorable involvement in the Opium Wars of the eighteen hundreds, who’d defended ‘legitimate businessmen’ against furious Chinese wizards, when Binns floated through the wall and began his lecture.

“Black!” Binns eventually called out, realising after ten minutes that Harry was totally ignoring him to talk to Hermione at the desk next to him.

Hermione let out a short squeak and apologetically focused on Binns.

“Yes, sir!” Harry replied, turning in his desk to face the front and snapping to attention.

“Tell the class how the Statute of Secrecy was breached in 1749!”

Harry perked up happily. He knew this. It was in his textbook, and it was also mentioned in Worple’s book Blood Brothers (which had a lot more detail on the incident).

“The Benedictine monk – and secret wizard – Antoine Calmet published a treatise in 1749 recording stories about vampires in Western Europe and describing how to track them down in their lairs and destroy them.”

Binns looked almost startled. “Excellent. Ten points for Slytherin, Black.”

Hermione’s attention was now on the official classwork and she didn’t want to talk over Binns any longer, so Harry dug out some work of his own to get on with.

A moment later as Binns drifted back into his usual inattentive sleep-inducing drone, Harry flinched as a flapping origami parchment crane hit him on the side of the head. Looking around he noted Ron, Thomas and Finnegan glaring at him from across the classroom. Unfolding the note, he read, “10 points for Slytherin! YOU BERK! Get it wrong next time, trollbrain!”

“Sorry!” he mouthed silently to them, with an apologetic shrug.

The boys variously shook their heads and rolled their eyes in collective disgust.

Chapter Text

Thursday 23 February 1995

“Are you feeling ready for the second task?” someone asked Harry, as they passed him in the corridor.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll do Hogwarts proud!” Harry assured the unknown student.

Once they’d gone past, he turned to his friends and his smile dropped away as he said quietly, “I’m not ready.”

“You are ready!” Neville assured him. “You have studied, you have waterproofed practically everything you own right down to your autographed posters and have hidden everything genuinely precious.” The last bit was in a covert whisper. They were all hoping that Harry’s stratagems worked just in case he couldn’t retrieve his stolen item in under an hour. Storm was in hiding down in the Chamber of Secrets as an extra precaution and had already eaten his emergency live-fish-in-a-jug Harry had left down there for him to snack on. However, he wouldn’t need to eat again for a few days at least and was able to leave the chamber via the pool if he needed to, so he should be fine. Harry had tried his best to explain when he’d be back to fetch his scaly friend, but he wasn’t really sure if Storm had understood. Snakes weren’t great at telling time or counting. It was ‘one, two, many’, and that was for the smart snakes.

“I still can’t hold the Bubble-Head Charm for more than twenty-three minutes,” Harry fretted.

“That’s a lot better than when you started, remember! Also, we’ve planned strategies for you to work around that problem,” Hermione reminded him.

“What if they’re not enough?”

“They will be,” she promised. “The seniors agree, too. And we know it’s definitely being held at the lake – your legion of spies reported stands are being erected at the lake’s edge. So you’ve practiced the right spells.”

Harry knew that his friends couldn’t really know that everything would be fine, but their confidence was catching.

“It’ll be okay,” he told himself. “It will be fine, and if I don’t win, that’s okay too.”

“Exactly. Now, let’s focus on something happier, hey? How about your family dinner you’re going to with the other champions at Hogsmeade tonight? That should be nice. Krum’s invited me to go along as his date, you know! Did the Dursleys confirm they could make it to watch the second task?”

Harry hung his head. “I heard back from them but they’re… busy. Dudley wrote to say he’d never even heard about the dinner invite and can’t leave school without his parents’ permission anyway. He’s going to nag them to let him come to the final task, though.”

“Oh,” said Neville, giving him a sympathetic look. Harry shrugged and gave him a twisted smile in wordless reply. The Dursleys were how they were, and it was stupid of him to have hoped they might make it. To have expected them to show any pride in his accomplishment. Still… maybe they really were busy. Maybe they’d come to the one of the next two? He might as well ask them; it would be polite.

“Well, someone else is coming, right? A wizarding relative?” Hermione asked, with forced cheerfulness.

“Uh, yes, the Headmaster said he’d invite someone else; he was very kind about it, actually. I suggested Pansy and her family, or Sirius. So, I guess Sirius will probably come.”

On Thursday evening, the night before the second task, the Headmaster escorted Harry to dinner with the other champions and their families at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, which had been booked out for the private event. While the press hadn’t been alerted, they had somehow gotten wind of the event anyway, and a photographer snapped a picture of Harry and Dumbledore as they arrived.

Both Sirius and Pansy were there to greet Harry enthusiastically outside the door (and have their photos taken too), though Pansy’s parents unfortunately hadn’t come.

“They were not invited,” she explained, when he asked as politely as he could about their absence. “I am sure they would have loved to come, however.”

Sirius leapt defensively to disclaim any responsibility, even though he hadn’t been accused. “Not my fault. I barely got an invitation myself. It was almost going to be the Malfoys.”

“Muffliato,” Dumbledore cast, enunciating nice and clearly as he put up an anti-eavesdropping charm.

“I managed to remedy the situation in time, however,” Dumbledore explained. “We could not let slip that Sirius was attending until the last minute for security reasons, and the Malfoy family was pushing to come in the Dursleys’ place instead of the Parkinsons.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped. “Draco’s parents stopped my parents from getting an invitation? How rude.”

Oh dear, Harry thought worriedly. Aren’t they dating, still? I hope I haven’t caused any problems for them.

“Speaking of security, let’s go inside, Harry,” Sirius said, looking around warily.

Dinner went pleasantly enough, and the company was good. Krum was the only champion who’d taken up the offer to bring a date, and Hermione had accompanied him and Karkaroff to the venue separately from Harry. Delacour and Davies were apparently no longer an item, and she was joined instead by her parents and her little sister Gabrielle. Harry thought Gabrielle was a sweet little kid and he let her chatter brightly to him in French about how she was eight and her favourite animals were unicorns and how it used to be dragons but she hated them now because one tried to eat her sister.

“Maybe you can just like baby dragons,” Harry suggested in French. “They’re still fierce, but not as dangerous.”

“That is the best idea ever,” Gabrielle pronounced.

Fleur smiled approvingly at their interaction, and her smile only increased when Harry blinked and shook off his entranced look and re-focused on her little sister instead of herself. Most of the men including Dumbledore, old Newt Scamander, and Sirius all seemed fine and able to focus, however, across the table from the Delacours Ludo Bagman wasn’t quite so immune to Fleur Delacour’s charms. He was promptly thoroughly distracted from his daze by a persistent and engaging discussion of his Quidditch career with Mr. Delacour, and the stunning smiles of Mrs. Delacour.

Pansy had been seated in between Harry and Newt Scamander, and chattered happily to Scamander while Harry was distracted by the younger Miss Delacour. Pansy seemed to be optimistically – if fruitlessly – trying to persuade Mr. Scamander to be their new Care of Magical Creatures teacher next year. Failing in that endeavour, she then solicited his opinion on what made a good teacher for the subject.

“Professor Hagrid will be continuing in his role as our teacher for Care of Magical Creatures, at least for the remainder of the year,” Dumbledore pronounced from further down the table where he sat next to Madame Maxime. “This will allow him time to gain some officially-recognised further qualifications for his role. However, I am currently seeking an assistant teacher for the class, to address Mr. Pyrites’ concerns about student safety.”

Pansy nodded, perhaps not completely satisfied; she really disliked Hagrid and made no secret of it amongst her peers.

“Can you tell me if Professor Trelawney is really losing her job? Everyone says she is, and so does she.”

“That, alas, is true. Staffing changes will be officially announced in another week, so as not to cast a pall over the dawn of the second Triwizard task, so I would ask you to refrain from further gossip for the time being for your cousin’s sake, if for no other reason.”

“Yes, sir,” Pansy promised, with a sweet smile. Harry knew that smile, and it wasn’t an honest one. It would probably take all of five minutes before she told the juicy gossip to her best friend, Daphne. In total secrecy, of course. The news would probably be ‘confidentially’ all over the Slytherin dorms by tomorrow morning. It wasn’t like she’d sworn on her family name, or anything, and she just didn’t like Dumbledore enough to respect his reasoning or his wish for discretion.

Hermione seemed to be doing well chatting with Krum’s parents, if talking a bit too fast in her nervousness, about their home in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. The city was known as Philippopolis to some of the more stubbornly old-fashioned witches and wizards. Apparently, their local entrance to a local shopping and entertainment district was hidden in an archway at Plovdiv’s old Roman theatre from the second century AD.

It sounded to Harry like a classier way into the hidden magical world than an old pub, but he did agree with Sirius that a pub was a “quintessentially British” way to hide an entrance and attracted little attention with its constant flow of odd customers.

After dinner was done Harry stayed up late that night, fretting about the task the next day and wondering what the judges would steal from him. At midnight after an hour’s tossing and turning he gave up and took a Sleeping Draught. He wanted to be well rested for the second task the next day, whether his body liked the idea or not.

He checked his room thoroughly the next morning but couldn’t find anything missing that he hadn’t removed himself. When he finally went down to breakfast he was sure he hadn’t lost any possessions of note. However, neither of his friends were at the Gryffindor table.

Harry eventually discovered that Dean Thomas had been the last to see them. “They were both up early in the Common Room, working away on some ‘Potter for the Cup’ banner,” Thomas said, with an unconcerned shrug. “A couple of owls came in with a note for each of them, and they left right after that. Sorry if I ruined the surprise, Potter, but it’s nothing to worry about I’m sure – they’re just working on some kind of supportive cheer squad thing, I think.”

However, when Harry stood shivering in his swimming trunks an hour later in the bright, chilly morning in front of the gold-draped judges table, he still hadn’t spotted them anywhere amongst the cheering crowd in the lakeside stands and was starting to get a bit worried. They weren’t in the Gryffindor stand, and they weren’t sitting with the teachers and adult guests either – Neville’s gran was there, and Sirius was in the row behind her with a gaudy banner with the Potter golden hippocampus on a red background, but there was no sign of Neville or Hermione anywhere.

It was cold without a Warming Charm to heat him up, as no magic was permitted prior to the start of the task. Apart from his swimwear the only other things he was wearing were his glasses and a red-and-gold headband – tennis player style, not a girly one – which was just there to tie his hair back… for now.

Harry couldn’t believe it when Ludo Bagman explained exactly what – or more precisely who – wouldn’t be coming back if not retrieved within an hour.

“Hostages,” Harry said flatly. “Not possessions. You have kidnapped Neville, Hermione, and Delacour’s little sister, and put all their lives at risk for a game.” Neville was Harry’s designated hostage to rescue, while Hermione was Krum’s; Harry’s two best friends were in danger, thanks to this stupid competition. Not to mention himself!

“I em also not heppy about dis,” Krum agreed, glowering unattractively at all the judges, thick eyebrows drawn together.

Bagman grinned nervously. “Well now–”

“Tell me zat my sister is safe,” Delacour interrupted, her eyes flashing with angry fire. “Tell me now.”

Bagman faltered a little, tugging at the neckline of his yellow formal robes nervously.

“–well… well now, you have an hour, and I’m sure that you’re all very capable–”

“I told you it was a bad idea!” Professor Marchbanks said, interrupting Bagman’s weak assurances in what she probably thought was a quiet hissed aside that was actually quite loud. Loud enough for the three contestants to hear, but thankfully not picked up by a Sonorus and transmitted to the entire audience, which was probably for the best.

Scamander cleared his throat and took over the explanation, to Bagman’s obvious mixed disappointment and relief as he clearly wanted to be in charge but wasn’t enjoying the competitors’ anger.

“The hostages will obviously not be killed if you do not reach them within the time limit,” Scamander reassured them all.

“Don’t tell them,” Bagman complained, lowering his wand away from his throat so his objection wouldn’t carry to the whole watching crowd, “you’re ruining the drama!”

But Scamander kept on talking over his objections.

“They are being held safely underwater… guarded. Also, someone else will be sent to retrieve them if you cannot. However, the Black Lake does have ah… its dangers, not all of which can be controlled, and the potion they have taken will only keep them safe for a certain period of time. So, it would be best if you retrieve the person you’ll ‘sorely miss’ as quickly as possible, for their own health as well as a maximum score. Oh, and do remember not to kill anything down there if you can avoid it, alright? Good?”

“Yes,” Krum said curtly.

“I suppose so,” Harry said grudgingly, “but I’m not happy about this.”

“I am also not ‘appy,” Fleur agreed.

“Excellent!” Bagman said, clapping his hands together. Presumably he was happy with their compliance – however grudging – rather than their complaints.

Bagman narrated for the audience again. “The champions have been briefed about the hostages whose lives are in peril as they await rescue from the vicious tribe of merpeople keeping them imprisoned! Using only their wands and their wits, who will brave the unknown perils of the Black Lake and return the swiftest with their kidnapped friend or loved one?!”

“They are not vicious,” Scamander insisted, using a Sonorus to be sure his softly-spoken objection to the dramatic summation carried to everyone. “They are a friendly race though different to ours, and one worthy of respect. They are participating in this challenge as a courtesy to Hogwarts and its Headmaster, and should ahh, hopefully provide a formidable challenge to our contestants today as they stand in the path, that is, in the way of the champions’ quests for their lost companions. There aren’t any paths underwater. Unless you count through the kelp.”

Bagman huffed and gave Scamander a tired glare. The judges didn’t seem to be as cordial with each other as they had been during the first task.

“Your hour begins in three, two, one… GO!” shouted Bagman, skipping straight to the countdown. He blew on a shrill whistle for good measure, and the crowd roared its approval.

Professor Marchbanks sedately flicked her wand to flip three marked hourglasses on the judges’ table over, and the contestants were off!

Delacour was the fastest; she cast a Bubble-Head Charm and a Warming Charm and leapt into the water instantly, swimming away with impressive speed. It was a good combination – it had been the first plan Harry had considered too.

Krum was a little slower, casting a transfiguration spell on himself which gave him the head of a shark before diving into the water. Harry silently wished him all the best – if he was beaten by either of the others today he’d rather it was Krum, for he didn’t want to see Hermione endangered or hurt.

Harry started his casting when the whistle blew too, but he didn’t leap into the water instantly like the others.

A Warming Charm for his body and a Sticking Charm for his glasses were first. He’d temporarily lost his glasses once while swimming and had no desire to repeat the experience. His next move was something very different to the other champions’ plans, and hopefully would impress the judges. He could hear Karkaroff commentating on his own actions for the crowd as he cast his spells.

He started with a wordless Summoning Charm – purely to impress the judges and because he’d worked so hard on it – to pull a large water-smoothed piece of driftwood over to himself. It was five-foot long, almost as long as he was tall, and about as thick as his thigh. He’d worked hard on casting the Summoning Charm in both wandless and wordless form (though hadn’t mastered the combination of both aspects together – that remained as yet an impossible dream).  Along with the Levitation and Wand-Lighting Charms it was one of the only three spells he’d managed to cast – even slightly – without the standard incantations and gestures after many months of practice. The branch wobbled over to him shakily. Slowly and with a lot of bumps, but it reached him eventually.

“Wordless casting of the Summoning Charm, omitting the incantation of Accio,” Karkaroff narrated, sounding more bored than impressed. Harry guessed it wasn’t impressive if you were seventeen but he was still pretty proud of his own accomplishment, and the crowd seemed to agree.

“What is he doing with the branch he has acquired, though? The other champions are going to gain a significant lead.”

While he talked, and then while Dumbledore took a turn at the microphone telling the crowd about the Bubble-Head Charm Delacour had used, Harry was working furiously with his wand, magically inscribing runes onto his driftwood branch. They glowed gold as he cast the inscribing charm, then faded quickly into invisibility. He used rune combinations he’d practiced in class last year and had refined this year with consultation from other Ancient Runes students. He needed something fast, and simple. There were better combinations for permanent enchantments, but they took more time.

Ehwaz for the base, chained with Laguz, for transportation in the water. Laguz, reversed to repel water, bound with a double ligature, carved on the opposite side in case he got tipped over. Fawcett and Applebee had both agreed that he needed to centre the whole thing with Raidō, so that was a solo rune positioned in the centre on the thickest part of the branch, chained with Algiz in a ring around it for protection.

“–and Raidō, for horses, riding, or a safe journey,” Karkaroff said, continuing his narration. “I believe what Potter has constructed here is some kind of rudimentary flotation device.”

After what felt like a painfully long four minutes of casting to carefully inscribe runes, Harry waded out into the water and hopped astride the branch right where Raidō was inscribed, holding tight to it like it was a broomstick. A lake-going broomstick. It floated on the surface, and while it was horribly wobbly, Harry thought it might work. The theory was sound.

Now here’s where it should all pay off, Harry thought excitedly. Let’s show them what spells can do with a little Muggle ingenuity behind them!

The idea had been his own, but the spell research to bring his vision to life had been a team effort. The Muggle-borns had best understood what he wanted. He wanted to zoom along in the water, but not under his own power. He wanted some combination of charms, runes, or transfiguration spells to make a magic speedboat.

They’d looked at household cooling charms first, but the fan charms weren’t powerful enough or had the wrong kind of movement – up and down rather than moving air in a circular motion. Eventually someone found a cyclone jinx that was perfect for Harry to adapt.

Some students had wondered why he didn’t go the whole hog and try to make a branch fly – broomstick enchantments were well-established as safe and well-documented. However, that was honestly a lot more work as even the simplest broomsticks took a lot of work to enchant and usually used magic unguents in their creation anyway. Speed was clearly going to be of the essence in this task with a one-hour limit. Besides, a crash at water level would be less traumatic than a crash from the air if something went wrong.

His legs dangled in the water as if he sat astride a very narrow surfboard and he hung on to his enchanted branch with his left hand, too. Harry nudged the branch in the direction he wanted to go, lowered his right hand and wand into the water, and cast his spell with a twirl of his wand.

“Ventus!” The overpowered wind spell was one used mostly in duelling to push one’s opponent out of the arena. It wasn’t really thought of as very useful, as it was easily shielded against, and usually didn’t cause any harm. But right now, a strong spiral of air was just what Harry needed.

With his wand held underwater, just under the surface, the spell swirled the water around instead of the air, turning Harry’s floating branch into something resembling an improvised speedboat with his wand serving as an outboard motor! Rudimentary, unstable, and probably horribly unsafe… but fast.

He clutched his shaking wand with a tight death-grip as the rune-inscribed branch rocketed forwards. Water from the lake sprayed in his face and the air rushed past with a fluttering roar in his ears as he zipped along, holding the wind spell as long as he could. It only took a few seconds for the branch’s rocking to make Harry fear he’d fall off at any second. He leant forwards and clung to his branch tighter, like a drenched, desperate cat. He adjusted the direction his wand was pointing to aim himself better at the middle of the lake where he knew the merpeople’s village was located.

Harry was sure he looked utterly ridiculous, and completely mad, zipping across the water on a hastily enchanted tree branch. It didn’t stop him starting to grin like a loon, once he was sure he wasn’t about to topple off any second. It was so fun, and it worked! The theory had been sound, and his small-scale tests had both worked, but he hadn’t been completely sure until he’d tried it out. He hadn’t been willing to risk testing it out on the lake for fear the other competitors would copy his madcap idea; zipping over the water to the desired location at a breakneck speed. Still, maybe they couldn’t? Maybe they – unlike him – hadn’t searched in advance for the merpeople’s location. Krum had swum in the lake, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure about Delacour.

His ears were filled with the splash of the water, and the distant roaring cheers of the masses of watching students (and a handful of adults), and everything was going great as he covered a good three-quarters of the way to his planned destination directly above the merpeople’s village in a mere handful of minutes. But lady luck couldn’t smile on him forever.

Just as Harry was starting to gleefully daydream about his glorious triumph and swift return with Neville to the surface, the typically placid surface of the lake shifted without warning. Perhaps he’d passed over some unknown trigger like a runestone underwater, or someone had cast a spell. He didn’t know, but something made the water underneath him start to swirl in a circle, round and round, faster and faster. With every passing second the swirling current grew stronger, and harder to escape. The vortex of water span around him, sweeping him off course and into a spiral. Cold sprays of lake water hit his face and it was hard to stay focused as the waves grew rougher.

He cast his cyclone spell again, trying to get enough power to escape the whirlpool that was slowly sucking him around and down, about to drag him under. “Ventus! VENTUS!”

It worked and he rocketed out of the whirlpool’s edge… and straight into the maw of another whirlpool lying just beyond it! The surface of the lake was dotted with a half-dozen of the blasted things!

There was a faint, distant shrieking noise from the crowd as he was caught in the accelerating swirl of the second whirlpool and lost his grip on his branch, slipping off into the chill, murky water. He had time to cast just one spell before he went under. Rather than trying to retrieve his craft he decided pure survival was the priority here and cast his best Bubble-Head Charm.

It was just in time and he was sucked underneath the water feet first, legs dragged down and his body following. He was spun and whirled around so rapidly that he didn’t know which way he was facing, or even which way was up anymore. He reflexively held his breath, even though the Bubble-Head Charm should keep him safe, and his arms thrashed helplessly and instinctually as the maelstrom dragged him down.

The water swirled around him in a churning mess of bubbles, and he couldn’t hear or see anything, and was getting sickeningly dizzy. He clutched onto his wand with such a white-knuckled painful grip he was terrified he might break it, but he was even more scared of drowning should he let it go for even an instant. A torn piece of slimy kelp slapped against his forehead and eyes as he spun around the water, and Harry tore it away with urgent desperation, terrified something was attacking him and would pop the precious bubble of air magically secured around his jaw. It must have been on him already before he got the spell up.

Eventually he neared the bottom of the funnel, dizzy and disoriented, and spied the terrifying cause of the whirlpool. A monster awaited him at the bottom of the lake, its gaping maw almost all he could see as he approached. It was sucking in water with a mouth as big as a whale shark’s, and its pale grey body could only be glimpsed behind the tremendous funnel of a mouth because it was bloated from gulping down immense amounts of lake water. Except for the mouth it looked vaguely like a dugong, all smooth-skinned with flippers, but swollen up like a beach ball. Its mouth was enormous, bigger than a car! He wasn’t sure what the creature was just based on a quick glance, but it certainly wasn’t native to the Black Lake!

As he span around Harry tried desperately to shoot some spells off at it before he was swallowed whole. He tried a whole litany of spells: spells to Stun it, to knock it away (or himself away from it!), and a couple to try and make it spit the water back up to stop the whirlpool.

“Stupefy! Flipendo! Depulso! Vomitare Viridus! Anapneo! Ventus! Stupefy! STUPEFY! Damn it, Expulso!”

None worked, and his best-aimed Stupefy just glanced off its tough skin and failed utterly to send it unconscious; it must be as tough as troll-hide! He wanted to scream when almost every single spell missed its target as he was still being spun about and it proved nigh-impossible to aim accurately. Scamander probably wouldn’t be happy he’d tried to make the beast explode, if he ever heard Harry’s list of spells, but frankly Harry just wanted to survive. He didn’t exactly want to do it, but hurting a rare magical creature was a sacrifice he was well prepared to make to save himself, if it came to that. With its size and toughness there was no way it was going to die from an Expulso. A rat would, maybe, but not a monster that large.

At one point in his whirling he thought he caught a glimpse of a green-skinned merperson armed with a net and a trident like an ancient retiarius, hiding in the kelp forest but he had bigger concerns right now. Literally much bigger!

He needed an area spell, or spells to cast on himself; things that didn’t need him to aim!

“Arresto Momentum!” he called out, which slowed his acceleration towards its mouth and stopped him from spinning around, buying him a precious minute of time to act.

“Lumos Maxima! Glacius! Glacius! Glacius!”

Harry closed his eyes as his first spell made his wand tip flash a single brilliant burst of light which illuminated the area and hopefully blinded the beast. The next spell was one he’d practiced recently over and over, even though he’d already known it for ages, trying to master it for the Tournament in case it came in handy somewhere along the line in the water-based challenge. His hard work paid off now – giant chunks and long masses of ice formed in the water, shooting away from his wand and rocketing straight into the creature’s cavernous maw.

There was a burbling sound from the blubbery beast, and the inrush of water cut out suddenly and the unstoppable force of the whirlpool diminished into less powerful eddies. It gurgled unhappily, and Harry swam desperately to one side before it regathered its wits and started again.

“Ventus!” he called out, pointing his wand behind him, and shot quickly away out of the path where the whirlpool had been. It wasn’t graceful, all flailing limbs, and he had little control, but it got the job done.

From the shelter of some giant kelp plants that hadn’t been uprooted and ripped apart by the whirlpool, and thus presumably marked a safe distance to observe from, Harry turned back to get a good look at the creature. It was shaking its enormous head slowly from side to side, and Harry thought it hadn’t liked swallowing down a bunch of miniature icebergs. Its tiny, black beady eyes didn’t seem particularly affected by his blinding spell but then again, it was hard to tell for sure; it didn’t seem to have eyelids to blink with, so there was no obvious tell one way or the other.

Its mouth looked less terrifying from a distance – there was a fringe-like row of baleen in place of teeth at the edge of its jaw, though there were also multiple rows of tiny sharp teeth further inside its throat. It looked like a cross between a dugong and a monstrously large bloated grey toad, with an unbelievably weird mouth running the entire width of its body.

It gurgled again, and instead of sucking in more water, it spat it out this time. As it spat a massive current of water whooshed out carrying out the unpalatable chunks of ice that had caused it digestive upset, and a number of pieces of kelp. Then its mouth closed almost all the way shut as its baleen sieved the smaller fish and tiny lake creatures from the water.

He knew what it was now he wasn’t busy panicking – there were multiple sea monsters that might swallow you whole, but only one variety that regularly regurgitated the water it had swallowed, though it was supposed to live only in the Mediterranean! It wasn’t in his textbook, but Neville had mentioned it to him in passing in a discussion of water plants.

“Charybdis!” Harry murmured in wonder. “They imported some! I hope they haven’t brought in a scylla as well.” Still, if the scylla really did have multiple snake-like heads, perhaps he’d be able to talk to it.

“The scylla’s not an aquatic animal anyway,” he mumbled to himself, kicking through the water.

He wasn’t even aware that a charybdis could survive outside of saltwater, but then, neither should a giant squid. Perhaps there was magic at work.

It didn’t look like the monster was interested in pursuing him, or even moving. Looking closely, he spotted a tether of sturdy black rope tying its tail flukes to a massive boulder. There were even two more identical beasts similarly tethered nearby, though those two were still sucking water in – the Tournament organisers had clearly planned for this whole swathe of the Black Lake to be made into a major hazard.

The merperson he’d spotted earlier was now nowhere to be seen; he called out to them in Mermish with no response. Perhaps he was here to protect the charybdis, or perhaps he was here to enact a last-minute save of the less capable competitors if things got even more dire than what Harry had just experienced.

Harry wasn’t sure where he was and used a compass spell to get his bearings after getting a bit of cautious distance from the monsters.

“Yppan Septentrionalis,” he incanted, with his wand on his palm, which spun round slowly in a juddering circle in the water just above his hand until the tip of his wand pointed north... or at least he hoped it had. Hermione had shared that spell with him in case he got lost, though apparently Arithmantically it was a mess and she was sure it could be made simpler. Being a mix of Old English and pure Latin apparently wasn’t doing it any favours either – she’d said she was surprised it worked at all and shouldn’t be relied on for anything more than a very rough direction.

Due south, that’s the way he wanted to go, and that meant swimming straight through the kelp forest. The alternative was going back up to the surface, and that put him at increased risk of being sucked back down by the whirlpools, whose area was far greater at the mouth of the funnels than at their origin points.

There were two major sections of kelp forest in the Black Lake that Harry had mapped the rough locations of, and if he was correct in his reckoning the merpeople’s village should be right on the other side of this one, which was a farmed crop; the other underwater forest should be much further to the south-east where the giant squid usually laired and was wilder in its layout and composition, being a mix of different plants.

Harry grabbed two rubbery leaves of kelp and transfigured them into elongated flippers, which he stuck to the soles of his feet with sticking charms. They were the same shape as Muggle flippers, but without the snug nooks to slot his feet into. The research team led by Alice Tolipan (a whiz at Transfiguration and Arithmancy, her best subjects) and Cedric Diggory had worked hard to create and perfect a flippers-creating spell for him, and while they’d managed to get the rubbery flexibility he was after and an improved spell duration (with a better incantation and a starting material of kelp), having the spell manifest the right shoe size had been a dismal failure and they’d run out of time.

He also summoned a small pebble off the lake bottom and carved the rune Sowilō into it, then while it was still glowing he quickly cast a spell to anchor to it. It was dark near the lake bottom in the kelp forests, with the bright clear waters dimming to a shadowy green. Down here the tremendously tall kelp plants blocked the view of the surface; the sunlight was only seen through the semi-translucent green leaves, and was dappled by the shadows of the ropy plants that swayed violently in the powerful currents that were currently dragging them to and fro.

“Lumos Lapis,” he murmured, and the lake pebble brightened with a soft glow. Perhaps not his best casting, but with the rune as an anchor it should last well; certainly for the hour he needed. He very carefully and slowly reached through his air bubble to affix it magically to his headband, which he’d worn primarily for this purpose – keeping his hair out of his eyes had just been a bonus. If he needed to dim the light he could just take off the headband and wouldn’t need to muck about with a Finite which might disrupt other spells on himself like the all-important breathing charm.

He proceeded forward cautiously, wand at the ready. The Disillusionment Charm would be next to useless and wasn’t worth bothering with, for the glowing beacon stuck to his forehead was practically an invitation for any lurking predators. He just had to swim as fast as he could through the waving weeds and hope he encountered nothing worse than a placid school of fish. However, he didn’t fancy his odds of managing that today.

He guessed he was halfway through the field of kelp when he saw a school of tiny silvery fish dart away in panic before he’d approached them.

“That’s not a good sign,” he muttered. “Better safe than sorry. Protego!”

A shimmering barrier sprang into place in front of him as he scanned the weeds, looking for movement. There! A pale-green blur in the kelp, larger than most fish, moving against the current; a Grindylow, for sure! You often found them lurking in any kind of weeds – they were ambush predators, like Storm was.

Harry’s shield spell dissipated as he moved forward, getting ready to go on the offensive; he wasn’t worried - he had the creature in his sights now - and waited for the clean line of fire which was essential to get his chosen spell off correctly. It turned its horned head to look at him, hesitating, its octopus-like tentacles waving gently underneath it. It bared its razor-sharp needle-like pointed teeth at him. Their rows of sharp teeth were usually only used on fish, but he knew the Grindylow would go for his legs and arms if he’d stumbled across one of their nests by accident… or if the merpeople that domesticated some of the lake’s Grindylows had ordered it to attack him.

“Confundo!” he incanted, loudly and gleefully. He hoped someone – somehow – would make note of his awesome spellcasting. How were they going to judge how well all the champions did underwater? They hadn’t been given any objects that might have eavesdropping charms on them this time. He guessed they’d probably use that spell that showed what you’d recently cast with your wand.

Derrick and some other older students in the senior Potter Watch group had drilled him mercilessly in the Confundus spell – usually taught only in sixth or seventh-year DADA class – which was designed to confuse an opponent. It was a particularly tough charm and rumour had it that it would impress the examiner if cast successfully for a NEWT or DADA practical exam. It was tough to get right on a human subject but worked a treat on the more vulnerable and animalistic minds of Grindylows! Hermione could cast it now but hadn’t managed to master it; Harry thought she just didn’t want it badly enough. She’d eventually decided to try casting it in the first place upon Harry’s suggestion that she think of it as a ‘Jedi mind trick’. The thought of a spell that messed with your mind seemed to somehow bother her more than spells that simply did direct damage or knocked you unconscious; she worried that it might have permanent effects if miscast. Harry, on the other hand, was more motivated. He was willing to spend precious homework time being drilled by Derrick or Diggory in mastering a rather nasty but totally legal charm that Derrick assured him was guaranteed to impress the hard-to-please Tournament judge Professor Marchbanks.

No light or sound came from his wand, but his target Grindylow shuddered in the water, then swam in pointless circles before drifting away from him in confusion. He swam forwards in triumph through the kelp… and as he did, he was rushed on his left by two more Grindylows that had been waiting to ambush him.

“Protego!” he yelled quickly, and they bounced off his shield like rubber balls off a brick wall.

While they were still reeling he hit one with the Jelly-Fingers Curse.

“Digitus Wibbly!”

Grindylows’ hands were both their strongest attack and their weakest point. Without being able to grab onto him they wouldn’t dare to try and take a bite out of him.

The second was too fast for him, however, and the weird little creature that was like a cross between a demon and a squid darted past from his hasty and misaimed Stunning Charm to grab onto his leg. He tried to kick it off, but it held fast and chomped down hard, piercing his calf with its finely pointed teeth and making him scream loudly. His blood made a red cloud in the water.

“Ossio Dispersimus!” he screamed at it. He didn’t care right now if he hurt it; it had hurt him.

The creature unclamped its jaw and looked at him in bewilderment as all the bones in both its arms disappeared. Its movement was unaffected, however, and it fled away rapidly, propelled by its rubbery, boneless tentacles.

“That’s right! Flee!” Harry called out after it, still angry. “You’re lucky I left you your skull!”

Technically it wasn’t a curse at all, it was a healing spell. One that Harry thought was woefully underestimated as one of the most horrifically damaging and potentially fatal curses around, since you couldn’t counter it with even the strongest Finite variant; it could only be reversed with a potion to regrow bones, as far as he knew. Curses, technically speaking, had to cause pain or injury, and the Deboning Spell was painless. Theoretically. Harry knew that it was just a matter of picking the right bone to vanish if you wanted it to hurt, like the ribs.

He cast a well-practiced healing charm on his leg to fix up the bite marks; they healed over instantly.

Any remaining Grindylows lurking in the kelp – if there were any – didn’t dare approach him after that ambush-gone-horribly-wrong.

With powerful kicks of his flippered feet Harry zoomed out of the kelp forest and saw a cluster of rocks he recognised – it was one of the wardstones placed in a circle around the merpeople’s village. Correcting his course, he headed for the centre of town. If the hostages weren’t there then they certainly wouldn’t be far, and he thought he might have good odds of persuading a merperson to talk to him if there weren’t any clues to be found as to Neville’s location. He hoped Krum wasn’t too far behind him, for Hermione’s sake.

As he spied the first of the merpeople’s rocky domed houses in the distance and heard distant voices singing, he saw something long and colourful zipping through the water towards him.

He lowered his wand with a smile and hissed a welcome as his pet snake approached.

“Ssstorm! What are you doing here?”

“Helping!” Storm hissed smugly. “You always like coming here, and you sssaid there was a task in the lake. So I waited here with the fish-men, and you came! I knew you would not be long when the other Clever-men came here. Now I will help you!

“You’ve ssseen the hostages?” Harry asked. “Neville? Hermione? A little girl? Which way are they?”

“Not far, follow me!” Storm hissed. “In the middle of the burrows! Friends are there!”

Harry was glad they weren’t far away; probably in the town square by the sounds of it. He didn’t know how long his Bubble-Head Charm had been running for, but it was long enough that he was starting to worry. The air inside his bubble was starting to taste stale, like a small closed-up bedroom – or cupboard – did in the mornings when there was no open window to let in fresh air.

He and Storm hadn’t gotten far before Storm reared up to face behind them both, hissing a warning.

“Attacker! Behind uss! Cannot sssee with eyes but the warmth is there! It ssstalkss you, ready to attack, Harold! Now!!”

Harry spun about and swept his wand in an arc, trying to aim roughly at the area where Storm was indicating, all reared up and pointing with his head like a scaly bloodhound.

“Glacius! Glacius!” he incanted repetitively, trying to pepper the area with enough ice that he’d be sure to hit something with the bursts of ice he propelled through the water towards the target area, even if he didn’t freeze his attacker directly.

A couple of chunks of ice impacted an invisible target, and he knew he had hit them, though he couldn’t think what or who he had hit. Perhaps Delacour?

“Finite Incantatem!”

A witch suddenly appeared in the water where his spell hit, looking wide-eyed and panicked, but it wasn’t Delacour. It was a middle-aged brunette woman in a very old-fashioned swimsuit, like a Victorian era swimming costume that covered her from neck to thigh in horizontal black and white stripes, with a frilly skirt around the waist. She had a small bag slung over one shoulder and held a chunky radio announcer’s microphone in her right hand. She was fumbling about in her tiny satchel and drew out a wand that shouldn’t have fit inside the tiny bag – it was obviously enchanted for a greater capacity.

“Sorry!” Harry called apologetically, as she cast a wordless Bubble-Head Charm on herself and took a gasping, panicked breath.

“Dear Merlin!” she cried out, as she spat out a little water which wobbled in place at the bottom of the bubble around her jaw, before dropping out and mingling with the lake water. “Friend, not foe, Potter! I am with the Wizarding Wireless! I am one of the reporters doing the underwater commentating!”

“Really sorry!” he called again.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Storm waving back and forth rhythmically in the water; he was beginning to flicker with tiny sparks on his skin. “Don’t attack! She is not a threat!”

“Sure?”

“Yess!”

“Alright then, but it was going to be a good attack,” Storm hissed, sounding disappointed he wouldn’t get to zap someone.

The flustered witch held the microphone up near her mouth inside the bubble of air, and said, “Apologies for the disruption in transmission, listeners. This is incredible! I was just spotted by Potter thanks to what I suspect was a warning from his pet snake Storms, and though I was thoroughly Disillusioned I was hit with a pounding barrage of ice from a Freezing Charm followed up with the General Counter-Spell! It ripped away my concealment and my water-breathing charms, as well as interfering with transmission! I pity any wizard or witch who dares to duel this ruthless young opponent! His loyal pet also looked ready to attack on the slightest hissed command, but this Parselmouth champion appears to have commanded it to stand down, as he has himself, now his error in mistaking me for a threat is plain.

“He is close to the merpeople’s village now, so stay tuned for another exiting update. For now, it’s over to Tolipan for another update on Delacour’s progress!”

“It’s just ‘Storm’, actually,” Harry corrected, but the woman just shook her head.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, hand over the top of her microphone. She cast a new Disillusionment Charm, and he just barely heard a muttered charm he didn’t recognise which made the area she was in go silent – he couldn’t even hear the slightest movement from her swimming any longer.

He resolved to ignore his invisible stalker, as she clearly preferred. At least now he had an answer about how the judges would know how he’d been doing underwater.

The merpeople all looked ready to fight as he entered their village, ready for trouble and armed with spears. A chorus of young merpeople sang as he approached, singing out from inside the stone dwellings, peeking out the crude windows at him with their yellow eyes gleaming with curiosity and excitement.

“An hour long you’ll have to look,
And to recover what we took…”

If he hadn’t known where to find the village, the singing would’ve lured him in the correct direction.

“Thiss way!” hissed Storm. “On the ssstone thing!”

The three hostages were tied to the tail of the giant stone merperson (now holding the lyre Harry had retrieved for the village), secured with thick, slimy weed ropes. Neville was there as his hostage, Hermione for Krum, and young Gabrielle Delacour for her sister. Each wore a necklace of a rough dark-green cord with a single large shell dangling like a pendant.

He was first! So long as he returned to the shore with his hostage quickly enough. He was in the lead, at least. A fine showing, even if something went wrong!

Harry smiled as he cut Neville free with a swift Severing Charm. “Diffindo.”

Neville looked asleep, and bubbles issued from his mouth. He was heartily glad to see the bubbles; if not for that, Neville would’ve looked corpse-like. Harry’s mind flashed unhappily to the too-still figure he’d seen in the Hospital Wing after the werewolf attack, before Pomfrey had pushed him away and swished the curtains around the bed shut. She’d given him cocoa, as if that would help comfort him. It had given him nothing but a temporary distaste for hot cocoa.

He shook his head to rid himself of the memory.

Draught of Living Death might do to knock Neville out, Harry thought, determined to regain his focus rather than dwell on that horrible moment, but I don’t know how Neville is still breathing. Obviously there’s a water-breathing potion or charm that’s not in any of the books we looked at. I’ll leave the shell in case it’s what is keeping him alive underwater; no point in taking unnecessary risks.

He pulled Neville’s floating unconscious body over to himself and pulled him onto his back wrestling him into place in a piggyback position and, securing his limbs in place with more Sticking Charms. They were really useful!

Hesitating, he turned to the fierce bearded merman who stood guard over the hostages with a wickedly sharp spear. “You will guard the other hostages?” he double-checked, in screechy Mermish. “Hermione, and Miss Delacour? You promise you will take them to the surface right away if anything goes wrong, or their champions don’t come for them?”

The air in his bubble was very stale now, and every breath was more of a laboured effort to get enough oxygen from the rank air. If he waited much longer it was likely to pop – it was clearly nearing the end of its usability after only fifteen or so minutes. He had cast it under some pressure, after all.

The merman undulated in agreement, tail wiggling. “Yes. When the gong sounds, or if there is trouble,” he promised, gesturing to a tiny shiny-new bronze gong that rested on the ground near the statue, tucked almost out of sight beneath a stretch of stone tail.

Harry gave a worried sigh but nodded – then gave an undulating wiggle of his body and legs for better cultural communication of agreement and appreciation – and started kicking furiously for the surface with his best friend, directing an occasional cyclone spell straight downwards to power his way upward faster.

He was the first champion to breach the surface with his hostage (plus a bonus snake), and gratefully clambered into one of the three small Hogwarts dinghies that now floated directly above the Merpeople’s village. They were unexpected, but very welcome.

It floated north – magically propelled without any intervention from Harry – back to the lake’s shore next to Hogwarts and beached itself right next to the table where the judges, the three heads of schools, and Percy waited. Madam Pomfrey stood right at the lake’s edge, a vial of potion in hand and a calm and ready expression on her face. He’d never seen her look truly worried – even when people had literally been dying under her watch she’d stayed calm – but she did fret, all the same. It just didn’t show much on her face, as a rule.

He watched worriedly as Neville was fed a potion by Madam Pomfrey and his friend vomited up water from his lungs, then was immediately hit with a charm Harry hadn’t heard before.

“Are you alright Neville? What was that charm?” Harry asked.

“Just something to dry his lungs out, dear, lest the imbalance of humours causes an excess of phlegm,” Madam Pomfrey assured him. “Here, drink this.”

She passed Harry a potion which he obediently quaffed, and steam gushed out his ears as he felt himself warming up and drying off rapidly.

“Warm,” Storm hissed happily. “You were too cold.”

“You might want to take your charms down too, unless you would like me to do it?”

“I can do it,” he said, stripping off the various charms with a General Counter-Spell, then putting the Warming Charm back up. He should’ve brought a robe or something, for after the task was done.

Ludo Bagman summoned Harry’s rune-engraved pebble over to his own hand as it plopped off Harry’s headband, the Sticking Charm broken but the glow still persistent. “A little souvenir. You don’t mind do you, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s fine I guess, sir.” It wouldn’t do to offend a judge right before he got his score.

“Well done, Harry!” Percy said, beaming proudly over at him from his prime spot at the officials' table.

“Thanks, Percy!”

“Harry! You did it!” Neville said, coughing and sitting up. He looked positively delighted and waved to the cheering crowds as he stood up. “Were you first? Where are the others?”

“Still looking for their hostages. I was the fastest! Are you alright?” Harry checked again.

In the background he heard Karkaroff grudgingly reporting Harry’s record time before signing off from his spot of commentating.

“I’m fine,” Neville promised.

Distant sounds of loud voices – one male and one female, came from over where the students were seated on stands, watching the dull surface of the lake. There was a quieter echo coming from a Wizarding Wireless on the judges’ table – there were radio commentators narrating the two remaining champions’ adventures in the lake, as Karkaroff had done for Harry while he’d been above the surface. Marchbanks had her ear trumpet out and had the wide end placed next to the radio’s speaker grille.

Delacour was reported as having continuing trouble with Grindylows, while Krum had just escaped from a school of tiny Chizpurfles that had swarmed him when he’d passed through a patch of infested water weed, and was drawing close to the merpeople’s village, circling around the whirlpools and the monsters creating them. Having transformed his head into that of a shark, Krum was currently restricted to wordless spells only, which had been slowing him down.

“Not much to watch from up here, is there?” Harry observed, gazing out at the near-featureless surface. Two bobbing dinghies and three whirlpools – that’s all you could see from up here. “It’s much more exciting underwater. Above the surface it’s as thrilling as one of Binns’ lectures.”

The adults chuckled. “Thus the radio commentary and speakers so that everyone could listen to what was going on,” Dumbledore said. “Young Weasley here observed that there would not be much of a view for the audience for this task–”

“Damn fine point!” Bagman agreed, interrupting. “I thought the Wireless was a good solution, don’t you?”

“A superb plan,” Harry flattered. “What a good idea, sir! You too of course, Percy!”

His friend preened proudly along with Bagman.

“All at no cost to us!” Bagman boasted. “They brought their own speakers to enlarge for the crowd, and everything.”

“I was of the understanding that there was a fee applied to the Wizarding Wireless business to broadcast today’s event, in fact,” Dumbledore asked.

“Don’t know where you got that idea,” Bagman blustered. “Ah! Here comes Krum now! Your clue for the next task is the necklace your friend is wearing, by the way.”

Harry eyed the shell pendant speculatively, and Neville handed it over for him to inspect curiously. It was a plain white whorled shell with a smooth interior, and had a cord tied around the narrow tip, which looked slightly flattened or trimmed at the end, with a groove carved into the shell just before the end, where the cord wrapped around it snugly and securely. The shell pendant’s cord looked like the ropes the merpeople fashioned from kelp and water weeds. He’d seen these shells worn before in the merpeople’s village, so figuring out this clue should be easier than the last.

Krum surfaced with Hermione’s unconscious form and made it to a boat safely, followed on the one-hour mark by Delacour. A merperson loaded Gabrielle Delacour’s unconscious body into a waiting dinghy, which then was sent zipping across the water (far away from its position above the merpeople’s village) to where Delacour emerged from the water and clambered into the boat.

She frantically patted and shook her little sister’s limp body, tears running down her face as she screamed for help in French while her little boat headed towards them. Madame Maxime boomed out a reassurance in the same language – echoed over the radio’s large speakers near the crowd – that Delacour’s sister was unconscious and perfectly healthy.

Delacour was still distraught when her boat arrived at the shore.

“I thought I was too late! I thought I’d gotten Gabrielle killed. My god! I thought I was too late and something had gone wrong!” she babbled in French, while Madame Maxime murmured reassurances and wrapped her in an engulfing hug, glaring at the judges.

Scamander looked particularly apologetic, stammering his reassurances in very awkward French that he’d made sure the hostages would be completely safe.

She got the lowest score of all the three champions but didn’t seem to care one bit. Her sister was alive.

Chapter Text

March 1995

Harry was proud to receive the top score of eighty-two points, thanks to his creativity and adroit spellcasting. He had lost a few points due to Storm’s aid from the stern Professor Marchbanks who loved his spellcasting but didn’t seem completely convinced by Harry’s assurances that he hadn’t asked his pet to help (in advance of the task). He had to promise very sincerely to make a greater effort to ensure Storm wouldn’t interfere in any future tasks. Scamander, at least, seemed sympathetic to Harry’s explanation that Storm was very attached to him and had spontaneously wanted to help, and that Harry had hidden his pet away in Hogwarts for fear of him being the thing he’d ‘sorely miss’ and potentially being put in harm’s way. He knocked off a few points due to Harry’s ‘permanent maiming of a poor Grindylow’, but otherwise marked him high. Bagman loved his showmanship above the lake’s surface and had given Harry a great score for ‘ingenuity and courage’.

Harry’s lead wasn’t too big, as he had been narrowly followed by Viktor Krum with eighty points (mostly thanks to Krum’s reportedly very impressive wordless spellcasting and able handling of the lake’s threats), and they were trailed by Fleur Delacour on sixty-seven points who’d made a decent showing of things, but not in comparison to the other faster two competitors, and had failed to free her hostage. Her lack of practice with underwater spellcasting had showed in some poor spell choices, apparently.

While he’d won the individual task with a new personal best top score, Krum was still narrowly holding onto the overall lead position, with one hundred and sixty-one points to Harry’s one hundred and fifty-nine. Delacour was behind on one hundred and forty-one points for Beauxbatons, but certainly still in with a chance with two tasks left to go.

While he’d expected to get to head straight back to the castle after the scoring, the instant the official announcements were done Harry turned around to find Newt Scamander hovering about, eager to meet Storm.

“Might I say hello to your Wonambi?” Scamander asked hesitantly. “He really is superb, and I have been hoping to meet him for some time ever since I read his interview.”

“Of course, sir!” Harry agreed happily, both out of a genuine willingness to see his pet admired, and also a guilty hope that it might incline the friendly judge to favour him in his future scoring.

“Can you warn Storm that I’ll be handling him and checking for Chizpurfles?” Scamander asked.

“An admirer wantss to check you for Chizpurfles – the sssmall biting things that live in the lake. He sssays hello and thinkss you are sssuperb, by the way.”

“I like him,” Storm hissed happily, perfectly willing to be handed over.

Scamander accepted him with delight, and immediately cast a gentle spell on Storm to dry off his scales, then checked him over for bugs. “There we go, isn’t that nice, you handsome fellow? You don’t want scale rot now, do you,” he murmured. “Ah, one little Chizzie on you, let’s get him off. As they are attracted to magic, Mr. Potter, it will be less painful to Storm as well as the Chizzie to lure it off, as we don’t want its fangs to snap off in his scales.”

Scamander lit up the tip of his wand with a quick Lumos, and a tiny crab-like animal the size of a small tick detached from Storm’s scales and leapt for the wand like a flea, only to be caught mid-air with a deft flick of Scamander’s wand as he wordlessly switched to a Levitation Charm and floated the parasite over to the lake. “There we go little fellow, back in the water for you.”

“Good, that feels better,” Storm hissed approvingly, and Harry translated his thanks to Scamander.

“Episkey,” Harry said, healing Storm’s small bite mark.

“Does he have any other aches or pains? Any misty or fuzzy vision from old eyecaps – scales stuck on his eyes?”

Harry checked, then reported, “No, he says he’s fine now, sir.”

“Excellent! He does look to be in very fine health. Now, I have so many questions!” Newt said, his eyes alight. “Where to start? Can you ask him what the most important factors are for creating a comfortable living environment for Wonambi, please? What is his preferred diet, what depth of substrate is sufficient for his comfort, what temperature does he prefer his pond when moulting, and so on?”

Scamander whipped a large journal out of a pocket that looked far too small to contain it by normal means, and a self-inking quill.

Harry played translator, while around him people started packing up the judges’ table, and students and guests left the stands. He waved to Sirius who gave him a cheery wave and a big thumbs up as he hollered out his congratulations as he left, moved along by press of the exiting teachers and other guests.

“Tasty snackss are important, my big warm rock is nice, I like lotss of leaves for burrowing, and to go ssswimming. I liked the frog. Fairies are tasty, but sssometimes dangerouss with thorns. Harold protectss me, that is good,” Storm said thoughtfully.

“Marvellous!” Scamander said, scribbling away. “He has some very advanced language skills, then? I did get that impression from the interview, however, sometimes Lovegood does embroider the facts for a better story, from time to time.”

“Yes, sir, he does, and the article was pretty accurate. He’s smarter than ordinary snakes and I’m translating his comments as best I can so those are his words, not mine, but he doesn’t think quite like a person,” Harry said, and added some extra explanation for Storm’s comments. “The ‘tastiest’ snacks for him are small magical creatures he can swallow in a single bite, though he’ll also enjoy fish. He prefers his prey live and enjoys hunting it. The frog he referred to is a magical native frog from his home country of Australia that he got to eat a few months ago; a gift from an admirer.”

“He has an excellent memory, then! Species?”

“I… don’t know, sir. It was blue?”

“Ah! The blue tree frog. Enough croaking and an army of them can bring on rain, you know. First collected by Banks, their existence had to be covered up once wizards back in England realised the Muggles had gotten their hands on many magical creatures from a new country. A patchy cover-up in their case as the Ministry was thoroughly distracted hiding more dangerous creatures first like Wonambi, bunyips, and drop-bears. You may be interested to note that the ‘blue’ is still there in the name for the mundane green tree frog - Litoria caerulea.” Harry noticed that Scamander sounded a lot smoother in his speech while rambling confidently about magical creatures.

Noticing Harry shivering as he stood on the lakeshore, trapped by courtesy and an interesting conversation, Madam Pomfrey passed him a towel and transfigured it into a bathrobe, and another towel was transformed into a pair of slippers. She gave him another Warming Charm and a pat on the back and made him promise to go get changed before the spells wore off.

“Let’s talk about substrate!” Scamander said eagerly, ignoring their interaction. “I favour a minimum of twelve inches of aspen or coco substrate for a burrowing snake his size, which I find is excellent for retarding mould growth near the pond, and two hides partially buried in the substrate, one in the wet corner of the enclosure, and another in the dry area. What kind of hide does he prefer; a dry hollow log or a damp hollow rock or cavern lined with sphagnum moss?”

“Ah… I don’t have any hides in his tank? Just a pond with a plant in it that Neville gave me, and a couple of rocks enchanted to warm nicely, which is very important in winter especially. Lots of eucalyptus leaves for a topcoat for his substrate – he likes those best, so I special order them. Sometimes I add clippings from the greenhouses; the Hogwarts house-elves collect and shred some for me. Magical plants – I understand a magical environment is best for Wonambi, so I thought that might help him, and he seems to enjoy the… scent isn’t the right word. He likes magical things and places, anyway, they feel ‘special’ to him. I add a branch on top of the leaves sometimes.”

Scamander hummed thoughtfully. “Would he like a hide? What enclosure enrichment do you offer? Live fish in his pond? Plants? A climbing wall?”

“Ah, I recently got a new tank, sir, and I haven’t had time to add much to it yet,” Harry said, feeling very guilty that perhaps he wasn’t being a very good carer. “He likes live fish, but he’s been hunting those for himself lately in the lake. I worry about him being out on his own, though.”

Upon questioning, Storm agreed that he would like all of Scamander’s suggestions except the large rock wall for climbing.

“…And I would like an even bigger nest with a bigger pond, and more warm rockss to lie on, and a tree of my own with rootss that go into the water so I can hide in them, and Harold should be awake at night to talk to me because I get bored, and I want water plantss, and fish, and lots of frogs, and fairies to hunt, and tasty-wormss that I can burrow and find in the leaves…!” Storm babbled eagerly, getting excited about sharing his wishes like Scamander was his own personal Santa Claus.

Harry translated it all then sighed. “I don’t know how I can do even half of that,” he admitted. “His tank is enormous already; it takes up a whole wall. I had to get rid of the wardrobe so our dorm wouldn’t be too crowded, so I keep my clothes in my trunk instead.”

“…And waterliliess in the pond, and my water should be warmer, and I do not want anything in the water that bitess me…” Storm babbled in the background. Harry obediently translated, and Scamander made more notes.

“Have you considered something rather the opposite?” Scamander suggested. “Bringing back the wardrobe, and keeping Storm in a trunk? I can recommend a trunk maker for a reasonably-priced basic set-up; only ten square feet for the largest compartment but that would do for a start. They come with lighting included for the storeroom.”

“Ten square feet?!” That sounded enormous! It put his four-foot rectangular tank to shame.

“I know, not much is it?” Scamander said sympathetically, “Storm should outgrow that within a couple of years with good care, but we all have to start somewhere. While it is of course much smaller than a wizarding tent it is much safer than a tent for transporting magical beasts as it is easily moved and won’t disturb the animals inside even if tipped upside down, and you can expand it yourself once you master Ancient Runes and Charms. You may need someone to help you with the Arithmantic calculations on how to safely expand its size to a new optimal layout and tweak the environmental wards, but you can always ask a friend or hire a Master Arithmancer or Warder for that part.”

“Yes, sir. I will see if I can afford that, perhaps over summer I might go shopping, or see if someone,”– Sirius –“might buy me a new trunk for my birthday.”

Harry hoped he wouldn’t seem ungrateful to be wanting a new enclosure after Sirius had only gotten him a new tank last birthday. Maybe he should just focus on asking for the trunk itself, without emphasising that it was mostly for Storm?

“Now, tell me, how much socialisation do Wonambi require? Would he hypothetically prefer to be housed with others of his kind, or at his juvenile age does he prefer a solitary lifestyle?

“Perhaps we could continue our conversation as we return to the castle?” Harry asked diplomatically.

Scamander looked around and was startled to realise the stands had all emptied out. “Oh! Well… yes. Alright then. My apologies, Mr. Potter.”

“Not a problem at all, sir,” Harry said, starting to amble towards the castle. “Now, Storm prefers a solitary lifestyle – he gets jealous of other snakes getting my attention, nervous to hear of larger snakes, and possessive of his territory and prey, though he sometimes wants me to give people a live duck as a sign of his favour, as he believes them to be the favoured prey of humans and I’ve never quite managed to explain otherwise.”

Harry answered many more questions as they went. Scamander was particularly fascinated to hear that snakes, at least those of Storm’s species, could talk to each other even without a Parselmouth around; Storm’s mother had told her hatchlings legends and stories while still in the egg, and when newly hatched.

As they neared the castle Scamander was doing his best attempt to imitate Harry’s sibilant speech to learn a single word in Parseltongue.

“Friend,” Harry hissed.

“SFffreinsah,” Scamander tried. It sounded very strange to Harry’s ears. Half nonsense syllables, half comprehensible Parseltongue.

“Friend.”

“ShsFrren!”

“Getting closer!” Harry encouraged. He hadn’t thought it would work at all, but it was sounding roughly right. “Friend!”

Storm tried to help teach Scamander too, but he didn’t actually make any sound Scamander could perceive well, just a very tiny hiss. “Friend! You can do it!”

“Frrem! Fremd!”

“Close enough,” Storm said approvingly.

“Storm’s happy, we think that last one’s good enough, it sounds like Parseltongue now, if a little oddly accented. Remember, the translation into English is a little iffy, it has overtones of ‘not-prey’ to it in Parseltongue; those terms feel very similar somehow.”

“How exciting! I am just glad it worked at all. I thought it might work a little like Mermish, but it was just a theory. Fremd!”

“It was a very interesting experiment, sir, and one I would never have thought of myself,” Harry said. “You have been a fount of knowledge and ideas, and I know Storm and I are both grateful for your expert and caring advice.”

Harry hoped he wasn’t laying the flattery on too thick, but Scamander seemed happy with the praise, and promised to be available for consultation about Storm’s care at any time.

“Just send me an owl. Well, uh… after the Tournament, that might be best… all things considered,” Scamander concluded.

-000-

Back in Hogwarts at last Harry was just barely allowed by the waiting crowd to dart into his dorm and change into a black school robe before he was hoisted up on the Weasley twins’ shoulders and carried off to the club room in triumph, as the top-scoring champion for the second task. Someone even conjured a laurel wreath which popped into existence atop his head. The post-task party was immense, and Harry basked in the congratulations and adulations of the crowd… for a while. There was such a thing as too much of a good thing, and after a while he tired of the press of people who were eager to shake his hand or try to hug him. He never even had a chance to get near the refreshments table, but Neville pressed through the crowd on his behalf and returned with his spoils.

“I know you hate missing meals, so I grabbed you something,” Neville said, pressing a ham and cheese croissant and a bottle of Butterbeer into his hands.

Harry murmured his embarrassed thanks and scarfed his quick lunch. He hadn’t had much of an appetite at breakfast, being so nervous.

Neville and Hermione – the latter of whom arrived late to the party, blushing – got their own share of attention, and Neville in particular was delighted to regale the eager listening crowd about his experiences.

Someone – probably Draco or Vincent – must have noticed Harry’s smile starting to eventually look painfully fixed, for later on Harry found the crowd around him had lessened, and noticed Greg and Vincent flanking him. They gave warning glares to anyone who pressed too close and raised an occasional hand to block the path of anyone who got too pushy.

“Potter does not want you grabbing at him,” Vincent warned a well-intentioned but overenthusiastic young student.

The crowd was eager to hear what the next clue was, and Harry was happy enough to oblige their curiosity.

“Let’s check it for invisible runes!” someone called out, to general agreement.

“I bet it’s earth element next!”

“Put it underwater! It’s a shell, and it worked last time!”

Harry smiled and shook his head. “Not necessary, I think I’ve already got it figured out. The merpeople use these to magically record messages instead of writing things down. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am, so let’s see how this goes! I think it’s not water the shell needs but air!”

Raising the conch shell to his lips he blew firmly into a small hole in the narrow end. A recording of Marchbanks’ voice emanated from the shell’s mouth.

“You cannot see it, but you cannot live without it. In silence, it is your friend, yet when it howls loudly, beware! With that either grown from blood or seen through grief, you must pass through it to defeat the unseen. Then release that which is dead and yet alive, seen and unseen, then secure it once more to triumph.”

There were cheers and whoops at his success, and a tremendous babble of speculation.

“Air! Air element for sure! Quiet air and dangerous cyclones!”

“You cannot see Nargles, maybe they’re the ‘unseen’ you’ll have to defeat,” Luna speculated.

“I bet it’s ghosts!” someone else suggested.

“Definitely!”

“Release a trapped ghost? Then trap it again afterwards?”

“WHO YA GONNA CALL?!” a Muggle-born student yelled excitedly.

“GHOSTBUSTERS!” a ragged chorus called back. The room was patchily divided after that into those laughing at the joke, and the wizarding-raised who looked deeply puzzled.

“Could be ghouls. They’re dead and alive, and like to hide,” Ron suggested, after the furore died down. “We have one in our attic.”

“The howling part has to be wind or air.”

“Grown from blood? Like… animated skeletons?”

“Undead?!” someone gasped. “I’m glad I wasn’t picked as champion!”

“Living skeletons don’t grow from blood, you need dragon’s teeth!” Theodore argued.

“And blood! You need a sacrifice to raise them!”

“They’re not going to use illegal Dark magic for a Tournament task!”

“If it’s for the Tournament it’s not necessarily illegal,” Hermione countered, “there’s lots of exceptions grandfathered into the rules. Still, I doubt they’d stretch the law that much.”

Not everyone had unalloyed praise for Harry’s performance in the second task, however.

Draco seemed rather whiny about the whole hostage situation and complained about it to Harry while the Gryffindors were occupied elsewhere in the room. “I do not see how Hermione can be the person Krum would miss most in the whole world. Does he not have any friends? What about his family?”

“Quite right,” rumbled Greg. “It is much too soon for such an attachment, and Krum is not suitable for her. Too old, for one, and he will be gone next year. She deserves someone who can make a proper commitment, perhaps a nice English half-blood, and Krum is–”

“Go away, Goyle,” Draco snapped, without looking at him.

“Oh. Alright,” Greg said, looking puzzled but leaving obediently.

“That was rude, Draco,” Harry chided, but Draco just shrugged inelegantly.

“Why wasn’t I your hostage?” Draco asked plaintively, shifting to a new topic. “Am I not your best friend?”

Harry cocked his head to one side. “Uh, no, I mean we’re good friends, but Draco, Neville is my best friend. He understands me.”

“You are my best friend,” Draco said quietly, clearly not wanting to be overheard. “I tell you things I cannot tell anyone else. Do I not understand you too?”

Harry floundered and did his best to reassure Draco (who could be quite insecure at times underneath his arrogant bluster) that yes, he was also a very good friend that he’d miss, and knew things that Neville didn’t, and that they did indeed understand each very well too. He only escaped from the party when the bell rang for the end of lunch time, warning students that their half-day of classes was starting. Lord Voldemort was right; Draco would go mental if he ever found out that he’d ended up merely fifth on Harry’s list of people to protect. Not that it exactly meant he was a lesser friend, it was just that Harry hadn’t thought he needed that protection as much as others.

Having so many friends was hard to manage sometimes. He wondered if Dudley ever had this kind of trouble.

-000-

Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor Argo Pyrites stood up at dinner on the first of March to announce some changes to staff and subjects.

“Following two months’ rigorous evaluation of staff and the curriculum, I have the following changes to announce,” he said, and the Great Hall was so quiet in anticipation you could hear a pin drop.

“The following teachers and subjects have met with approval, upholding the fine standards of schooling we expect from our premier institution: Professor Slughorn – Potions, Professor Sprout – Herbology–” He paused there as House-proud cheering broke out from the Hufflepuffs, drowning out the politer satisfied applause from the Slytherins.

“Quiet please!” he ordered, and they settled down. He glanced warningly at the Gryffindor table, and Harry guessed he knew who was coming up next.

“Professor McGonagall–” was as far as he got before more cheers and whoops drowned him out again. The prefects shushed their table as quickly as they could, seeing Pyrites’ irritated face.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” Pyrites snapped, his mild face looking suddenly harsh. “I specifically asked for quiet. Some respect, thank you.”

Most teachers were fine: Babbling was staying on as their Ancient Runes professor, Sinistra for Astronomy, and Vector for Arithmancy. Moody passed too, though with a grudging tone that suggested Pyrites wasn’t entirely happy about his teaching of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Flitwick also got a grudging pass and was listed last, occasioning some worried glances amongst students at the Ravenclaw table until his name was finally mentioned. They limited their expressions of delight to strangled gasps of joy and some furious clapping.

“That concludes the list of subjects that remain unchanged,” Pyrites finished. The absences were notable, and three teachers up at the top table looked nervous.

Pyrites started with the easy target first, however; a teacher who never bothered to attend meals, having no need to eat.

“Professor Binns’ services are no longer required at Hogwarts and he is being asked to step down and move on to his final reward,” Pyrites announced, tolerating the cheering this time. “He will be replaced by a new teacher appointed by the Ministry from the start of next week since Headmaster Dumbledore has struggled to find a suitably skilled replacement despite the ample time allocated to that task this month, or indeed at any point over the past few decades.”

Dumbledore looked irritated by Pyrites’ cutting slurs, but Hermione didn’t seem to have any sympathy for their Headmaster.

“Quite right!” she murmured approvingly.

“Students should note that attendance at History of Magic classes will henceforth be mandatory,” Pyrites said, “and your new teacher Professor Trocar will be taking the roll at the start of each class, with absent students losing their House points.”

No-one dared to grumble too loudly at that, but there were stormy and grumpy looks around the Great Hall, particularly at the Slytherin table where students were notorious for skipping classes.

“As she has been unable to demonstrate significant talent as a Seer or in any of the divinatory arts, Professor Trelawney is also being let go,” he continued, an announcement which got primarily moans of disappointment. A thin scattering of applause made the flighty teacher burst into tears and clutch at a lacy handkerchief, and the clapping soon petered out in guilty embarrassment.

“However, thanks to the generosity of your Headmaster, she will continue living at Hogwarts as a guest until the end of the year while she arranges suitable alternative accommodation and looks for another position.”

Dumbledore stood briefly for an announcement of his own. “We will all be sad to lose Professor Trelawney; please say your official farewells to her this week but know that she is available to any students who wish to meet with her. She will be running a non-curriculum Astrology Club on Friday nights. Professor Firenze will take over Divination classes from Monday onwards, and I hope you will give him a warm welcome.”

Dumbledore sat down, and Pyrites took back the duty of making announcements. “Professor Burbage retains her position for now but is required to present a comprehensive overhaul of her Muggle Studies curriculum that meets with my and the Ministry’s satisfaction or she will unfortunately need to be replaced at the start of next year.”

That got uncertain applause, and a wince and a smile from Burbage.

“A lot of what she taught was out-of-date, but I don’t know how much of that was her fault, and how much was about meeting the Ministry’s requirements,” murmured Hermione. “I think she’ll probably work with him to change things. Burbage was fairly decent, but I think a Muggle-born teacher would do even better in that role. I’m a bit worried about the Ministry setting the curriculum, though. That could be bad if Umbridge’s ‘Muggle Management Office’ gets involved.”

“Professor Hagrid is also on probation,” Pyrites announced, “and will be working with an assistant teacher from next week onwards. He will be required to competitively reapply for his job next year. I hope you will join me in wishing him well as he studies for his OWL and NEWT qualifications to formally recognise his superb experience with magical creatures.” Pyrites clapped his gloved hands politely to lead a loud round of applause.

Hagrid looked equal parts worried and pleased, settling on happy. He raised a large light-coloured wand in his right hand which let off a burst of red sparks.

“I got me wand rights back while I’m studyin’!” he said happily, which got him a round of cheers. “Thank yeh all!”

“Oh, that’s excellent news!” Neville said approvingly.

“If he doesn’t pass he can always be the groundskeeper again,” Harry said. “He’s got less to lose, really. He’s done alright as a teacher since he got his curriculum sorted out, so I hope he makes it.”

“I have no idea how he expected to pass his exams without an official wand,” Hermione murmured. “He’s been practicing with an old, broken one, but he really shouldn’t have been.”

“Now, on to the new subjects! These are available from next year onwards, so if you require further information please consult with your Head of House if you are a second-year about to choose your electives, or a fifth-year deciding on your NEWT subjects.”

“We’re going to miss out on everything new,” Hermione sighed sadly. “There is another year before we can pick our NEWT subjects; that is something at least, I suppose. But wait until you hear about the new first year subjects!”

“Ghoul Studies is returning to the Hogwarts curriculum as a NEWT level elective for students newly choosing their subjects, covering a study of the undead and various spirits, the spiritual realms, and warding against various malign influences and creatures. As it is a newly revitalised subject there are currently no prerequisites, but experience with Divination or Ancient Runes is recommended.”

“Hmm, maybe. It sounds interesting but the undead part is creepy,” Harry observed. “I think I can live without it since I have so many other subjects to do, but I might grab the textbook once someone can tell us what it is. I’d like to read up more on ghosts.”

“Good idea!” agreed Hermione.

“Professor Dumbledore would like to remind students that as always, Alchemy is available as a NEWT elective should sufficient interest be shown by a student cohort for that year. He will teach the subject himself if it goes forward. He requires a minimum OWL grade of Acceptable in Potions and Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration; however, higher is strongly recommended for this challenging subject.”

There was a murmur of interest at that news.

“Did you know that? I didn’t know that,” Harry said.

“Yes, McGonagall mentioned it to me back in second year during my interview about subject selection,” Hermione said.

“I knew it was sometimes available as a subject. I just thought it was not available right now,” Neville said. “I was unaware we had to ask for it. Hmm. I shall have to work on my Transfiguration grade if I want to apply for that…”

Pyrites continued, “For third-years and onwards, a new subject will be offered which is an amalgam of subjects previously available at Hogwarts: Creative Arts.”

“I don’t know what it’s going to have in it, but I already know I need to do that subject,” Dean Thomas swore fervently, eyes wide.

Pyrites explained how it covered art, music, household charms for cooking and sewing, and charms and runes used by builders and carpenters.

“I need it. I need it,” Thomas repeated. “I’ll take it with the third-years, if I have to! I can at least get an OWL in it before I graduate.”

“Your timetable will probably clash,” Hermione pointed out, making Thomas swear.

“Language!” she chided primly. “You can always just buy the textbook and self-study, then take it at NEWT level after graduating.”

“I only have two electives. I’ll make it work!” Thomas insisted. “Maybe I can drop Divination… say I only took it because of Trelawney. I’ll still have two electives if I can count Creative Arts.”

“Incoming first-years–”

“Oh! Here’s my news!” Hermione said, bouncing eagerly in her seat.

“–will from next year onwards be assigned to a mandatory introductory subject: either Muggle Society or Wizarding Society,” Pyrites announced. “It will run for half a year, with Flying Classes taking up the remainder of the year. Muggle Studies will remain as an elective for third-years onwards.”

“My textbook is going to be used for Wizarding Society!” Hermione squealed excitedly. “Oh my god, I promised not to tell before now!”

House-proud Gryffindors congratulated her roundly, and some of the girls hugged her.

In the background, Pyrites talked about how students would be sorted by blood status into the appropriate class for them. Half-bloods would be required to take a short general knowledge test to determine which class would be most suitable for them to attend. McGonagall’s lips looked unhappily thin at that pronouncement.

Harry wasn’t sure what else they could do. If they let students self-select, those most familiar with wizarding culture might take Wizarding Society just to have an easy class, and vice versa for Muggle Society.

McGonagall was a smart woman. Surely she could figure this out for herself, so perhaps the cause of her irritation didn’t lie with the half-blood tests. Perhaps there was something he was missing, some undercurrent of prejudice behind it all, beyond the obvious sorting of students by blood status into the best class for them.

-000-

The Gryffindors’ last class with Professor Binns was on Friday morning, and Hermione and a couple of the other girls seemed a bit teary in saying their farewells to him, even though he got half of their names wrong.

“There, there,” Binns said. He attempted to pat Hermione’s shoulder comfortingly, but his hand passed right through her; he didn’t seem to notice. “Dumbledore and Dippet agree that it is best I moved on now; there will be a new teacher coming soon. Settle down now and take your seat, young lady.”

Harry leant across the aisle to whisper to her, “I thought you wanted him to go to heaven and to get someone new as a teacher?”

“I do!” Hermione insisted, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose noisily. “It’s just all so sad.”

On Sunday evening at dinner Dumbledore announced that Binns had moved on and was no longer haunting Hogwarts. Students, teachers, and assorted Hogwarts ghosts observed a minute’s silence with hats doffed in respect, and those who felt inclined to do so joined the Headmaster in offering up a silent prayer.

Dumbledore then introduced Professor John Trocar, who would be taking over History of Magic (which was to be held in a new classroom downstairs), and Professor Walden Macnair, who would be assisting Hagrid in Care of Magical Creatures classes.

Harry recognised Macnair – the tall wizard with short black hair and a thin moustache. They’d been seated near each other at the Malfoy’s Chinese feast over summer.

“Macnair used to work for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures,” he whispered to his friends, as everyone applauded for the new additions to the staff. “I wonder if he lost his job with the Ministry? Maybe he wants to take Hagrid’s job next year and sees this as a good head start.”

“That would be a shame,” Neville said. “I like Hagrid. Mayhap it is merely a temporary appointment.”

“Professor Trocar looks so pale,” Hermione observed. “Vampire?”

They all had a good stare at the new teacher; the young man did indeed have deathly pale skin, and was toying with a goblet of liquid, rather than eating a full meal like everyone else. Apart from his pallor he didn’t look exactly like the Muggle stereotype of a vampire, however, with short brown hair and a well-groomed mutton-chop beard and moustache that left his chin and jaw bare. He wore a smart ‘modern’ suit (by wizarding standards) consisting of a blue tailcoat and trousers, a cream shirt and waistcoat, and a white cravat.

“Vampire,” agreed Neville. “The new classroom is down in the dungeons, with no natural light.”

“Storm will be able to tell for sure,” Harry said. “He can sense body heat, with these heat pits on his snout. It’s a bit like infrared vision.” Harry pointed out the small depressions on Storm’s head in between his eyes and nostrils to his friends.

“What are you doing?” Storm asked curiously as Harry poked at him.

“Showing off how you sssee heat and can tell us if the new teacher is a vampire.” The word didn’t translate well in Parseltongue, coming out as ‘blood-drinker’.

“The cool-blood sssnake-men?” Storm checked.

“Yes, one of those. Like Sssanguini in the bookstore. Where you met the other sssnake in the basket,” Harry reminded him.

“I shall come to classes with you and check them all, if you wish,” Storm promised.

“Just History of Magic will do.”

They were all very curious about what a class run by a possible vampire would be like, but they’d have to wait for Tuesday to see for themselves. They had two other new teachers they’d be meeting first: Professor Macnair, and the mysterious new Divination teacher Professor Firenze, whom no-one had seen yet.

-000-

Macnair’s presence at Care of Magical Creatures proved less problematic than Harry had expected. Hagrid seemed much more relaxed than when Pyrites had been attending and judging his classes, and seemed to be getting along surprisingly well with Macnair (given that he had been, after all, the man who would’ve been sent to kill his beloved Hippogriff had the Ministry decided it was necessary).

“Potter, pleasure to see you again,” Macnair greeted, making a beeline for Harry when he saw him.

“Likewise, sir. Professor. Welcome to Hogwarts!” Harry said politely, shaking his hand. “I hope your presence here doesn’t mean you lost your job with the Ministry?”

Macnair shook his head. “No, I still retain my role, and will be carrying out some of my duties on weekends; someone else is filling in for me as required during the week.”

“Will you be teaching today, Professor Macnair?” Draco asked respectfully, in tones he never bothered using with Hagrid.

“A little, just assisting. I will demonstrate a couple of charms during the lecture and will be available to deal with any magical creature attacks or to help students if needed; we do not want a repeat of what happened to you, Dr… Malfoy. Though I do not believe you are in any danger today. Nifflers do not have any teeth worth speaking of!” he said with a laugh. “Nasty claws, though, especially the males which have venomous spurs. Still, they are usually gentle little beasts.”

“Is Mr. Pyrites going to keep observing the classes?” Pansy asked, as Hagrid lumbered up to join the gathering students waiting in the field near his house. He was carrying two large crates, one under each arm.

“Just for another week or so, I believe, to monitor the implementation of his changes and to have a look at the various clubs. Though I am not in charge of his movements, and thus cannot say for sure! He watched our first class this morning with the fourth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and seemed satisfied enough. I believe he is observing the fifth-year History of Magic class now.”

Hagrid got all the students to empty out their pockets and remove any jewellery before the class properly began.

“Anythin’ shiny or made o’ metal, pop it inter a paper bag with yer name on it, then in this box which is goin’ ter be locked up. Yeh don’ want a Niffler grabbin’ yer money and jewellery! I can’t promise yeh’d get it all back afterwards.”

Some students didn’t have much to secrete away; a pair of earrings for the girls, or a few Knuts. Others like Harry had a lot to remove, drawing a few curious or envious stares.

Harry drew from his pockets his father’s old fob watch on its new silver chain that Neville had given him a couple of years ago, with four weights attached to the other end: his silver Gringotts key, his solid gold Potter Heir ring, his silver Black Heir ring, and the Portkey Snape had insisted he carry around at all times that should transport him to Hogwarts’ gates on the road approaching Hogsmeade. The last item looked innocuous and unattractive to Nifflers, being a plain grey stone with a hole in the middle, so he took it off the fob chain and tucked it back in his pocket.

“Does silver thread count?” he checked.

“Yeah,” Hagrid confirmed.

Harry added a linen handkerchief with a tiny silver snake embroidered in the corner in metallic thread, with miniscule green glass beads for eyes. It had been one of his Christmas presents, though he couldn’t remember who from. One of his various admirers.

From his satchel he removed a roll of leather which wrapped up his rune-engraving tools that used to be his mother’s (both solid silver and gold-plated) that he’d been using in class, a cloth pouch with a few coins in it that he’d forgotten he’d left in there, a silver knife for trimming his quills, a vial of invisible ink (just in case, since the cut crystal vial was so glittery), a brass-tipped fountain pen and a couple of biros (for doing his Muggle assignments), and a crystal jar of unguent with a silver-plated lid.

“What’s the ointment?” Hermione asked curiously.

“A gift for Professor Trocar if he is what we thought he might be. I want to get on his good side.”

“Tch. Through bribery?” she tutted disapprovingly.

Harry shrugged. “Whatever works.”

They spent a happy hour herding frankly adorable Nifflers through a field sown with transfigured gold. Hagrid lectured all about the fuzzy black beasts, their underground lairs, and their love of treasure-hoarding. Macnair demonstrated using the Accio charm to catch them, and two options of charms that would help you get the creatures’ scavenged gold back off them. You could either hold them upside down with the Levicorpus Jinx and shake them about, or you could use the Tickling Charm (Rictusempra), which was the option Hagrid favoured, along with just simply physically holding them upside down and tickling their bellies. For a “particularly rambunctious Niffler” Macnair recommended the Tickling Hex (Titillando) which would leave them weakened and less likely to run off, or a Stunning Charm.

Storm’s vampire-spotting services weren’t going to be needed, for the rumour mill worked fast. By lunch time that day it seemed like everyone in Gryffindor had heard the gossip from their House’s fifth-years, who’d had a History of Magic class that morning with the Hufflepuffs.

“Trocar is definitely a vampire,” Kirke confirmed, to an eager listening audience at lunch. “He announced it and everything. We spent half the lesson asking him questions about it. Did you know they don’t burn up in sunlight, but it really hurts them?”

“I did, actually,” Harry said. “They have a special unguent for dealing with sunlight burns. They do burn, just not as dramatically as in the movies. The sun makes their skin blister and bubble, like a second-degree burn, but they don’t burst into flames, it’s a slower burn than that. It’s pretty bad though, and they won’t go in the sunlight if they can possibly avoid it. Heavy clothing isn’t enough, they need a solid wall of stone or thick wood between themselves and the sun.”

“Tired of reading about healing werewolves, moving on to vampires now, Potter?” Finnegan asked.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He hadn’t been reading up on werewolves that much… admittedly because there wasn’t much on the topic he hadn’t already read, and he’d also been busy with Tournament research; Marlowe Forfang’s book had been one of the few new tomes he’d found. He’d just wanted to see if there was anything he’d missed that could have saved the lives of those who’d died recently. Pomfrey had told him there wasn’t and not to blame himself… at least three times so far. She had refused to lend him more books from her private collection about healing after their last talk, telling him he needed to stop worrying about things he couldn’t control and focus on his classes and the Tournament instead.

“No, I read about vampires over summer.”

“Do you think he will try and bite anyone?” Ron asked, looking rather pale.

“Not unless he wants to be summarily executed by the Ministry,” Harry said. “It’s a death penalty to feed on someone without their permission. Well, on a wizard or witch, anyway.”

Muggles would probably count it as assault, and sentence accordingly… if they could manage to keep a vampire in custody. A recent Daily Prophet article had reported that the Muggle Management Office was turning sentencing for crimes against Muggles over to the Muggles themselves, managed through a liaison in their office allegedly familiar with both worlds. Some saw it as respecting the laws of the country they lived within and giving self-determination to Muggles. Others thought it left Muggles open to terrible and wide-ranging abuse by witches and wizards, who could legally Obliviate Muggles who’d observed anything that breached the Statute of Secrecy, and most adults could also easily escape from a Muggle jail should they be convicted of any crime.

Dumbledore had looked visibly furious when he’d read the paper the morning that article had come out. Sirius had written to Harry about the article, commenting that it was ‘almost enough to make a man dabble in politics’. He had a seat on the Wizengamot should he take it up, but also had a deep loathing for politics and saw the whole exercise as useless and the entire Wizengamot as irredeemably riddled with corruption. Harry had cautiously asked him in a letter why he supported the Ministry if he thought so little of it; the answer was simply that it was ‘better than the current alternatives’.

Harry and Hermione didn’t get to see the new Divination teacher that afternoon, as they had Ancient Runes, however, Neville and Brown were eager to gossip after classes finished for the day about their new teacher, Professor Firenze.

“He is a centaur!” Neville reported excitedly. “He liked me, too, and he is really nice! He said it is hard for wizards to see anything more than vague possibilities, and to keep trying. We have some exercises to practice for homework that are supposed to open your inner eye.”

Lavender Brown seemed less impressed. “He is not as gifted as Trelawney,” she pronounced. “He kept going on about how nothing is fixed, it is a time of change, and the future is malleable, and how hard it is to know anything for certain. She was always certain in her predictions. He doesn’t even seem to want to predict the weather and is very biased in favour of astronomy over the other divinatory methods.”

They saw Professor Trocar up close for the first time on Tuesday, down in a windowless room beneath ground level. He was dressed less formally than he had been for his introductory dinner, in a modern dark grey suit with a dark blue tie. If not for his Victorian-style muttonchop beard and unnaturally pale skin and dark hollowed eyes, Harry thought he would have blended in perfectly in Muggle society. He might still; just looking a bit sickly and with an unusual beard.

Their teacher seemed in a bit of a touchy mood as the Gryffindors filed into his class, their second of the day (Harry and Hermione had Ancient Runes first thing that morning, while Neville had headed off with rare excitement to Divination).

His eyes narrowed at the students as they filed into the classroom, gawking at him with a typical Gryffindor lack of discretion.

“Well?!” he snapped, as Ron gaped at him a little too openly. “Any observations you would care to make about my appearance or my attire?”

Ron’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly.

“Anyone else?” Professor Trocar asked, his eyes looking dark and dangerous as he looked around at the room full of milling students. “Anyone have anything to say, as the other Slytherins did? You wish to gawp some more?”

“No, sir,” Ron said, which only made their teacher glare at him again. Ron shrank back nervously, bumping against Finnegan.

“You look very nice, sir,” Harry flattered, deliberately drawing their teacher’s attention. “Your suit is very modern and up-to-date. I believe the tie is silk? It looks expensive.”

Trocar smiled at him with a flash of teeth, his ire washed away. So did Ron, who threw Harry an expressive look of gratitude.

“Yes, Italian silk. Well, what are you waiting for? Take your seats children, and I shall mark the roll. Do let me know if there are any errors in Binns’ notes.”

“Black, Antares.”

Harry winced. He was top of the list.

“Here, sir,” Harry said. “Though uh, it’s Potter, Harold.”

Trocar blinked slowly and stared at Harry’s forehead. “Harold… Harry Potter. In Gryffindor.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, politely brushing aside his concealing fringe so their professor could see his scar, since he seemed to be looking for it. He tried to make it look like a casual motion. “Binns called me Black. It seemed uh… polite to go along with it.”

Finnegan muffled a snicker, wiping his face clean to a bland expression as Trocar’s head whipped around with unnatural sharpness to stare at him.

“Hmm. Brown, Lavender.”

“Here, sir.”

Hermione answered to ‘Grant’ (as well as ‘Granger’) and offered her own correction, and confirmed she was in Gryffindor. Finnegan answered to ‘O’Flaherty’ and confirmed he was also a Gryffindor, as he corrected his name.

“Are there any Slytherins in this class at all?” Trocar asked, puzzledly. The chorus of negatives made him sigh and scribble a note on his roll.

“Any absences today? I will be checking with your Head of House.”

“No, sir,” the room chorused.

“Smith, Helena.”

Hermione raised her hand again. “That’s me again, sir.”

Trocar rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”

“Sorry, sir,” she apologised. “Professor Binns got confused sometimes; I wasn’t trying to make things worse for him. He called me ‘Smith’ whenever I wore my hair smoothed back in a ponytail with Sleakeasy’s. I think he had trouble recognising me then, and confused me with a student he used to teach years ago.”

The lesson was interesting, even engaging. Harry left his book on wind charms in his bag and paid attention to the lecture on the introduction of wands to the celtic Britons by the invading Roman culture. Trocar clearly knew his history!

Hermione asked a couple of questions, including inquiring about how the Ollivanders might legitimately claim a pre-Romano-British origin for their store. She delightedly earnt ten points for Gryffindor for a good question (previously an extremely rare treat in History of Magic), and the class learnt that the ‘olive wand’ family had emigrated from Italy in the seventh century A.D., bringing their shop and wand-making skills with them.

Well, most of the class learnt that. For some, old habits died hard. Ron and Finnegan had gotten bored and started playing a game of hangman on a sheet of parchment, while Brown was picking at her nails distractedly and whispering quietly to Patil.

“Does it have an e?” Finnegan asked.

“Nope!”

Finnegan scowled as Ron gleefully drew another line. “I can’t believe it!”

“OW!” Finnegan yelled, as a blackboard eraser hit him square on the forehead, knocking his head back and leaving a choking puff of chalk dust lingering in the air, making him cough and look around in panic.

Professor Trocar was dusting off his hands and scowling at Finnegan and Ron. “That will be three strikes each, boys, and five points each from Gryffindor. Come here and hold your hands out.”

He lifted a thin rattan cane off his desk and gestured for them both to come forward to the front of the classroom. Finnegan went instantly, wide-eyed and rubbing nervously at his sore forehead, but Ron dragged his feet.

“You can’t do that!” he objected. “You’re not allowed to hit students.”

“On the contrary,” Trocar said blandly. “Only striking by the means of whipping, birching, and slippering are specifically prohibited under Hogwarts’ rules. Along with curses causing permanent harm, naturally including the Unforgiveables, forcible transfigurations, and manacles and chains. Caning, and strapping with the use of the tawse or a belt, are both acceptable under both wizarding and Muggle law. In good schools such as Hogwarts, at least. I checked. It is a constant struggle to keep up with shifting laws over the centuries, and I can assure you I was most rigorous in researching the matter of appropriate discipline in the schoolroom.”

Harry looked over at Hermione, raising his eyebrows inquiringly – he knew she’d read the rules more thoroughly than anyone really should. She gave him a helpless shrug in return, which he guessed meant it was either legal or she wasn’t sure.

“Five more points from Gryffindor. Now, step forwards Weasley, or it will be five strokes and a detention on Saturday.”

Finnegan flinched with every blow of the cane to his palms but bore it as stoically as possible. Harry wondered if he’d been hit before, as Finnegan seemed relatively unfazed by the experience. Ron seemed to either feel it more or was hit harder; as the cane swished down on his fingertips he bit his lip rather than giving into the obvious temptation to swear aloud. When it was over Ron crossed his arms and tucked his sore hands into his armpits, his face red and tense with the effort not to cry.

Harry half-expected Trocar to be in a foul mood for the rest of the lesson, the way Snape always had been if someone made a mistake in class or talked back. But with the class temporarily cowed into submission their professor was perfectly happy, lecturing away about the development of the broomstick (and the less popular flying distaffs, staves, and butter churns), asking and answering questions, and awarding points. Not even the risk of corporal punishment from a temperamental teacher could quell Hermione’s love of questions, and she gained eighteen more points for Gryffindor by the end of class, to Harry’s mere three he’d earned for his cautious sole volunteered observation about the importance of rune-carving in the development of enchanted objects.

Harry quietly gifted his little jar of ointment to Professor Trocar on his way out of the classroom with a murmur of welcome, receiving a brief smile (that flashed startlingly sharp fangs once more) and a nod of thanks, to his relief. He scurried away after the others.

The subdued attitude of Ron and Finnegan melted away once class was over and their teacher was safely out of earshot. They complained loudly to anyone who would listen all the way to Charms, and even to Professor Flitwick who was, unfortunately for them, insufficiently sympathetic.

“I find his planned curriculum very impressive, and my Ravenclaws have no complaints about Professor Trocar,” he piped. “In fact, they find him an excellent teacher; they cannot stop raving about him! I am almost jealous. Perhaps if you amend your behaviour in class you will find him more palatable too, Weasley.”

“But he hit me!” Ron whined, displaying his reddened hands.

“It’s not right, Professor!” Hermione agreed. “No-one does that in Muggle schools anymore. Not in state schools, anyway. It’s barbaric.”

Harry and Neville both stayed quiet, for similar reasons. Complaining didn’t do you any good; they both knew that.

“Yes, well, it is not my preferred method of discipline for a class, but it did me no harm in my youth,” their elderly professor squeaked. “I don’t know what Albus will make of it, but as Professor Trocar was appointed by the Ministry and is acting within the guidelines for class discipline, I doubt much can be done, really.”

“It’s awful if you ask me,” Thomas said, coming to his friend’s defence. “Having a bloody vampire as a teacher who likes beating his students!”

Flitwick turned to him and his usually kind eyes turned steely. “However, I did not ask for your opinion, so you will kindly be seated and keep your bigoted thoughts to yourself. Five points from Gryffindor for your language, Thomas. Professor Trocar deserves the chance to work here and prove himself capable of his position, just like anyone else.”

Thomas’ mouth gaped. “My language?” he asked, looking puzzled. “Bloody?”

Flitwick shook his head sharply, and realisation dawned on Thomas’ face. “Oh… I get it, you think I’m being a racist prat? Well, he’s still violent and shouldn’t be teaching! But sorry about the vampire part.”

“Sit.”

Thomas sat, and so did everyone else.

As the days passed opinions continued to be divided on their new vampiric teacher. The Ravenclaws almost universally adored him and considered him ‘almost as good as Flitwick’; he taught more than was in the textbook, littered his lectures with personal reminiscences of historical events he’d actually witnessed, and gave points liberally. Amongst the Ravenclaws in their year only Lisa Turpin, whose homework he’d humiliatingly held up to show her class an example of what not to do, seemed to dislike him thus far.

Hufflepuffs in their year were divided. Susan Bones he’d taken under his proverbial wing to mentor and was especially kind to; she and her friends all loved him, and Hufflepuffs in general flourished and adapted well to the increased workload now expected in History of Magic. However, Wayne Hopkins was getting caned on his left hand at least once a week; Professor Trocar insisted he write only with his right hand and berated him in front of the class for smearing wet ink across the parchment when he wrote left-handed. He and his friends were united in their dislike for the new professor who, despite his best efforts to be as modern as possible clearly still held some very old-fashioned beliefs.

The Slytherins were mixed as some loved the class and few minded that their teacher was a vampire, but many students missed having a free period and resented being forced to attend class again. However, Millicent was seething with suppressed anger that she now had to study to get an O in History of Magic. She blamed Hermione, but wasn’t mad at Hermione or Draco, just at the situation, and was trying her hardest not to spill her resentment onto her friends.

“It is not like she knew we were cheating our way through that class,” she bemoaned to Harry in private. “Neither did Draco. I cannot blame them for wanting a superior teacher, but I wish they had waited until after I had gotten my OWL.”

“I’m not loving the extra homework either,” Harry agreed, “but it is a lot more interesting to actually learn something in class for a change. I would rather get an A and learn something, than an O and be bored witless. Whatever grade I get will be fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Millicent. “It was my best subject.”

“Ask Hermione to help you with your assignments, or Anthony,” suggested Harry, and Millicent sighed and agreed she’d have to try that.

Gryffindors were very markedly split in their attitudes and typically very vocal about it; you either loved or hated Trocar, there was little middle ground. Harry, pressed to take a side, eventually came down on the side of ‘loved’.

“If you behave, he’s fine,” he insisted. “He’s predictable. If you get in trouble you know why you were in trouble; he’s not picking on people for no reason. And he actually teaches history, which is more than you could say for Binns.”

“He picks on Muggle-borns more than pure-bloods,” insisted Thomas, who was on the side who disliked him.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. He tells off Ron a lot as well, and he’s as pure-blood as they come. He doesn’t pick on me, he likes me, and I’m only a half-blood.”

Thomas snorted in derision. “Everyone likes you, Harry. You’re Hogwarts’ Golden Boy right now who can do no wrong, even with all the rumours about your Slytherin roots. You could probably hex a first-year in the halls and people would applaud.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably and denied it, but that didn’t make it untrue. Heck, he could probably order some random Slytherins to join him in hexing a random student and they’d do it, and Creevey would take a photo in the sure and certain knowledge that no doubt the random student deserved it for some reason.

Still, he very much doubted he was universally loved. It could be that some people thought he needed taking down a peg, or suspected he was Dark, or disapprovingly suspected he wasn’t, but if so, they were all keeping discreetly quiet about it.

-000-

Harry and Neville received another invite to tea and ‘reminiscences’ with Dumbledore.

Their afternoon tea with Dumbledore was uncomfortable, despite his best efforts to put the boys at ease. He had a memory of Tom Riddle he wanted to share and spoke at length about how Riddle was obsessed with his parentage, to a fanatically dangerous degree. The few who knew him at Hogwarts and recognised him as Lord Voldemort were not even prepared to discuss his name let alone his origins, and fewer still were willing to share any memories of him, verbally or otherwise.

“He never had friends, you see,” Dumbledore started, and while he wasn’t staring at Harry as he said it Harry felt the observation was directed at him, more than Neville. “He may have promised friendship, he promised many different things to different people; he was a charismatic young man who told people the lies they wanted to hear. However, he had followers, not friends. He was always surrounded by those who flocked to him for a chance at the spotlight, at sharing in his triumphs or joining in with his cruelties. That has never changed.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and sipped his tea nervously.

“Few know how Riddle began his career. It did not begin, as you might expect, in politics in the Ministry. It began at Borgin and Burkes, where he persuaded people to part with treasures for a fraction of their true value. Some of those trinkets he had a very particular interest in. Here we will now see a memory from an elderly house-elf named Hokey, and through her eyes we will see a rather foolish old woman who once thought of Riddle as a trustworthy friend…”

The Pensieve swirled, and Harry and Neville let themselves be drawn into Hokey’s recollection of her mistress, Hepzibah Smith, and her visitor, Tom Riddle. He was not the dreaded Lord Voldemort yet, he was at the moment nothing more than a young shop assistant sent to coax an old woman into parting with some of her collected treasures, such as some goblin-made armour.

Harry eyed Riddle with curiosity. He was older than the spirit in the Chamber of Secrets had been, but not by much, perhaps three or four years at most. More hollow-cheeked, and quieter. Politer. Saner too, at least at first glance.

Riddle ingratiated himself with Smith, but Harry didn’t think his heart was in it; he was clearly just going through the motions, but the subject of his attentions couldn’t tell that. Harry didn’t know whether it was something Riddle wanted to do, or something he’d been ordered to do. He definitely looked saner, calm even. It was interesting to observe.

They watched as the old lady primped and simpered over her young visitor who’d brought her flowers, to her squealing delight. She showed off one of her finest treasures, a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles.

“Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. Watch Tom’s eyes here,” Dumbledore warned, drawing their attention to him just in time to catch a startling red gleam in his irises.

“What was that?” Harry asked, his gaze flicking between Riddle – Voldemort – and the equally fascinating Founder relic.

“They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and Tom’s soul was bleeding by this point,” Dumbledore explained, poetically but unhelpfully.

“Hufflepuff’s Cup!” Neville said, wonderingly. “No wonder he wanted it. Who would not? Is she a relative of Smith? Zacharias, that is, a third-year in Hufflepuff?”

“I believe so,” said Dumbledore. “The pure-blood Smith family has long claimed descent from Helga Hufflepuff. The cup was, as we learn here, allegedly passed down in the family for centuries. However, it is not the only relic of interest to see in this memory.”

They watched as Smith drew out another treasure to display and boast about, that she’d bought off Burke some years before.

“Salazar’s locket!” Harry gasped. “How did she get it?”

Riddle seemed quietly awed as he picked it up to admire it. However, as Smith chattered obliviously about the ‘ragged-looking woman’ who’d sold it to Burke, his eyes flashed red again, more brightly this time, and Harry noticed his knuckles whiten on the locket’s chain.

“He doesn’t like her insulting his mum,” he observed.

“You think so?” Dumbledore asked, surprised. “I always assumed he was angered at the relative theft of his family’s heirloom, for as Smith admits, Burke only paid a pittance for it. He covets it for himself, you can see that.”

“He’s angry before she says that, though,” Harry rebutted. “I do agree he wants his family’s locket, though. Look how tightly he’s holding it. So, his mother sold it to Burke?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed. “That is a story for another day, perhaps. To summarise, she was homeless, pregnant, and in dire need of funds.”

Harry thought that sounded very sad. His hand dipped into his pocket to turn over his father’s watch, and the family rings. How desperate would you have to get to sell your last family treasure?

“If the cause is anger, why would his eyes have turned red last time, when he saw the cup? I think it is avarice, or perhaps any strong emotion,” Neville said.

“What a good thought!” Dumbledore praised. “Quite likely, I think. Emotion causes control to slip; I believe at this point his eyes were always red, and the true colour usually hidden. I suspect ritual blood magic was to blame, though perhaps I will never know the full truth, for it is not something he ever talked with anyone about, to the best of my knowledge. He is jealous of his power.”

The scene ended with Riddle reluctantly passing the locket back to its owner, and they withdrew from the Pensieve.

“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene, and her house-elf, whose memories were altered to obscure this incident you just witnessed, was convicted of poisoning her mistress’ evening cocoa.”

“Impossible!” said Harry. “House-elves can’t do that!”

“I am of like mind.”

“Not even by accident?” Neville said, and Harry hesitated.

“Maybe if they added something to cocoa that they thought was sugar, but was actually arsenic in a sugar bowl, or something,” Harry conceded. “If someone set her up to poison her mistress… maybe?”

“It was indeed the sugar, though it was a little-known poison that was the lethal agent. Hokey confessed, and it was concluded that Hokey was just old and confused –”

“But you suspect Riddle was responsible, and then muddled Hokey’s memories,” concluded Harry, frowning thoughtfully. It seemed plausible. More plausible than a house-elf poisoning someone on their own, even by accident. It was only a short snippet, but Hokey seemed to like her mistress; she was tiny, old, and wrinkled but looked otherwise healthy. She had been dressed in a crisp white toga and had dashed swiftly to fetch a tray of tiny cakes for her mistress without even needing prompting. She seemed like a happy elf. And even a resentful and angry house-elf like Kreacher didn’t do more than over-salt his Master’s dinner, and Dobby had hinted at his old Master’s secrets but never offered him any injury; they just couldn’t. The blood curse stopped them, or so evidence strongly suggested. No, there was a wizard’s hand at work here, and Riddle seemed a very credible suspect.

“And the Founders’ treasures…?” Neville asked leadingly, while Harry was lost in solemn thought.

Dumbledore smiled at him. “Stolen, as you no doubt suspected. Both gone by the time Hepzibah’s family knew to search for them, after Hokey had been convicted. Mr. Burke’s charming young assistant had resigned his post and vanished. That was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.”

Dumbledore expounded on Riddle’s dark nature for some time, while the boys listened and nodded obediently. How he had killed again, not from anger, or for any purported righteous cause, but purely for personal gain. Killed a foolish, besotted woman who trusted him.

“I believe it was at least his fourth murder; a terrible start for a young man. Poor Myrtle was the first, killed by the Basilisk at his orders–”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to kill Myrtle,” Harry interrupted. “Custos never wanted to hurt any of the students in second year – she was ordered to do so, but she tried not to. That’s why so many were petrified rather than killed. She said she did that on purpose.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I shall take your word for that! It does explain the relative lack of harm, all things considered. ‘Twas a shame a creature that ancient and rare had to die.”

Harry gave a careful, sad sigh, and dropped his eyes remorsefully. “Yes, it really was, but she was very dangerous, all the same.”

“What I don’t understand,” Harry said, changing the subject, “is why he stole the cup, and not just the locket? Does he think he’s descended from Hufflepuff, too?”

“Not to my knowledge. It was avarice, I believe. He coveted that sense of connection to history, and the reputed powers the Founder’s objects are imbued with.”

“Did Gryffindor have something, too?” Neville asked.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled kindly at him. “Yes, though Tom never got his hands on Godric Gryffindor’s famous sword. It remains here at Hogwarts, ready to be used by any true Gryffindor who has need of it in defence of the school.”

“Where? Can I see it, sir?” Neville asked eagerly.

“That will remain a secret for now,” Dumbledore said, tapping the side of his nose and winking.

Harry didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t want to admit it out loud, but he’d never felt much of a connection to the boisterous, brave, warrior Founder in any of Ambrosius’ rare stories of him. He wasn’t very interested in him, like a true Gryffindor probably would be. He felt more connected to his shunned and misunderstood Parselmouth ancestor. However, he knew that both he and Ambrosius might be biased, because Ambrosius knew him best of all the Founders, so most of the old wizard’s Hogwarts stories revolved around him.

Harry thought Helga sounded the nicest, though. There was never a story in which she didn’t sound really kind. Harry couldn’t identify with that either, though. He liked it, but he didn’t feel that he was that kind. He felt that she’d probably look really sadly at him if she knew some of the choices he’d made in life. She’d probably still hug him though, he thought. He liked to think so. She sounded really nice. Ambrosius had a really funny story about how she’d tried to hug Salazar right in the middle of an argument when he’d gone to draw his wand on Godric; Salazar had ranted afterwards to Ambrosius about her successful interference in his duel, his anger tempered by a soft affection.

Dumbledore rambled on a bit more about Riddle’s murderous nature and his fickle and ultimately fatal ‘friendship’ with Smith, and Harry’s impression that his Headmaster had heard at least something about his truce with Voldemort, or of Voldemort’s attempts to befriend him, solidified into a near-certainty.

Message received, he thought to himself, while Neville nodded seriously and attentively. Harry copied him. Hah! Like I don’t already know Lord Voldemort would turn on me and break the truce if he thought he had a good reason to do so. Still… I guess I didn’t really get how little that might take. Good thing I don’t own a Founder’s relic!

He thought worriedly for a moment about Ambrosius’ – Merlin’s – mosaic down in the Chamber of Secrets. Was that worth killing over? He already had no intentions of mentioning Ambrosius’ true identity to anyone… best make that a definite plan. Just in case the Dark Lord got wind of it and decided Harry was an obstacle to sole possession of the mosaic.

Dumbledore moved on at last, and showed Neville, then Harry, a more personal memory each, just for them. A memory of their parents.

Neville emerged from the Pensieve with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

They didn’t have time to talk about his experience straight away, for it was Harry’s turn next.

The Headmaster shooed them off to bed after that, and they left with effusive and genuine thanks for his gift of memories. It was really thoughtful of him!

Neville started talking as soon as they were on the stairs down from Dumbledore’s room.

“Wasn’t that amazing? It was both of them; my mum and dad. They were at a meeting – ‘The Order of the Phoenix’ – it was a secret group that fought against–”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it, it’s still going now,” Harry whispered.

“Is it really?” Neville asked, eyes shining. “Well, they were both in it, and mum was pregnant – with me! – and they were announcing the pregnancy to everyone. Talking. You know, healthy and whole and… it was amazing. They were so excited, Harry, to be having a baby. Me! They were just… so happy…”

Neville shook his head, in joyful disbelief, and then genteelly dabbed away some happy tears with a linen handkerchief.

He sniffled, then asked, “What was your memory, Harry?”

“Slug Club,” Harry said, grinning broadly. “I think Professor Slughorn must have donated the memory. It was nice, just a quiet dinner, everyone chatting and having a lovely time. Mum was talking with some bloke named Adrian about photography, and with a Slytherin girl named Wendy Slinkhard about some book Slinkhard wanted to write after she graduated. And potions of course! Everyone talked potions, and what they wanted to do after graduation; mum hadn’t decided yet but was thinking of a Mastery in Ancient Runes or maybe Potions. And then, after the meeting, my dad ambushed her outside the door!”

Neville caught Harry’s infectious smile, grinning at him. “Something romantic?”

“Yes! He sang ‘When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman’ while Sirius played guitar chords, and Remus and… another boy threw flower petals. She laughed, and there were bits of daisy petals all through her hair like snowflakes, and then she kissed my dad. I think they must have been dating for a while already, but not for long because he still looked really surprised and pleased at the kiss.”

Neville laughed along with him. “I guess he was a good singer.”

“He was dreadful,” Harry said, in mock-confidential tones, then chuckled. “But he tried so hard! I guess persistence won the day. He looked… really devoted.”

“Sounds nice,” Neville said wistfully. “I hope one day I find someone to love like that…”

Harry gave him an awkward look. “Uh… aren’t you and Patil…?”

Neville shrugged, a predominantly Muggle habit he’d picked up from Harry and Hermione over the years. “Sort of. We are still seeing each other for now, but… I think she likes the idea of having a boyfriend more than actually having to put up with me every day. I do not think it is going to lead to anything permanent.”

“Her loss,” Harry said, bumping his shoulder against Neville’s in rough comfort. He desperately hoped Neville didn’t want to talk about his feelings about it all, and thankfully, his friend seemed done with the topic too.

Chapter Text

March-April 1995

The second Saturday in March was the fourth Quidditch match of the season: Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Various friends and assorted Gryffindors (in particular) strongly encouraged Harry to go along to the match since he’d missed the last one. No one (except maybe a couple of quietly muttering Slytherins, notably Millicent) blamed him for skipping the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match in favour of preparing for the upcoming Triwizard task, but a Gryffindor match was another matter altogether.

“You’re the one who got Quidditch brought back for the school, Potter,” Johnson pointed out earnestly, “and if you don’t show up to at least some of our matches, it just looks… bad. Like you don’t really care, and just did it to look important, or something. Like a miniature Professor Slughorn – just in it to earn yourself some favours.”

“I did it because my friends really wanted Quidditch on again!” Harry said, aghast. “That’s all. Someone asked me to help, and I wanted people to be happy, so I did what I could! I don’t need more favours!”

Johnson’s face softened into sympathetic lines. “And that was really nice of you. Now, won’t you come and cheer us along?” she wheedled.

“Just the Gryffindors,” a Weasley twin said, with a sly smile. “You need not cheer the Hufflepuffs. You can read a book when they are scoring goals if you like.”

“Johnson even talked to Hooch and Dumbledore and got the Hogsmeade weekend moved to next week so that students wouldn’t skip out on our match,” Ron added, joining in the peer pressure effort.

“Okay, okay!” Harry said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I still don’t think me being there is going to make a difference to anyone, but if you guys want me to go, I guess that’s enough.”

“Excellent!” the Weasley twins high-fived each other, then turned to Harry. “So… while you’re there, Potter, do you want to make a little pocket money?”

He sighed. “A Sickle on Gryffindor.”

One twin snorted his amusement, while the other chuckled. Harry wondered which twin was which. The snorting one was standing a fair bit closer to Angelina Johnson; perhaps it was Fred, who’d gone to the Yule Ball with her.

“Good guess, but no. Though we’re always happy to take bets! No, I was wondering–”

“We both were,” probably-George added.

“–Whether you might like to help hawk our fine line of face paints and amusing sweets for Marvellous Marauder Mayhem!” Fred concluded.

“We’ll be busy out on the pitch!”

“Don’t you have other people to do this for you?” Harry asked.

They exchanged a look. “Well… yes. But people will buy from you who wouldn’t buy from a Gryff firstie!”

“And our family could use the money!” Fred said entreatingly. “We’re sending some of the profits home to mum, some for us to reinvest, and some go to Pa… Sirius.” His arm was absent-mindedly curling around Johnson’s waist, which hopefully meant it was indeed Fred. Johnson wore a soft smile as she looked at him.

Harry sighed. “Tell you what, I’ll sell face paint at the start of the match, but once the match starts I’m done, and I’m not selling your sweets. I don’t even know what half of them are, so I couldn’t promote them very well.”

“We could teach you–”

“No,” Harry said firmly, if a little nervously at how they might react. “I have too much to do. Start of the match – face paint only. Take it or leave it.”

They took it.

So the Quidditch match found Harry hawking the Weasleys’ goods for them – for minimal pay and the warm and fuzzy knowledge that he was helping out the Weasley family. Ginny Weasley, Mafalda Prewett, and Dennis Creevey were helping too. He and Creevey were the only ones being paid a token handful of Knuts for their time; the others had been talked into it on grounds of familial loyalty.

Creevey and Weasley were both a little too eager to stick close to Harry, so he split off from them and went with Mafalda to sell their wares to the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs while the other pair concentrated on the other two Houses.

Harry – unsurprisingly – attracted the lion’s share of customers. Lots of Hufflepuffs bought yellow and black paint to support their team, and some Slytherins were persuaded to buy face paint for later matches. Some from both Houses were even coaxed by Mafalda into buying all four colours so they could wear ‘Hogwarts colours’ to the next Triwizard task.

When pretty much all the students had arrived at the Quidditch stands who were going to, Harry handed over the scant remnants of his stock to Mafalda and decided to make some small talk – just to be polite – before he headed off.

“Are you settling in well at Hogwarts?”

“Yes! Thank you, everything is going a bit better now,” she said brightly. “Emma – Dobbs, that is – and Malcolm Baddock are good friends of mine now, and that helps a lot. Oh, and some Hufflepuffs too. Did you know you’ve set a really good example of inter-House friendships? Not just you though, it’s all the clubs, you know? It’s helping Slytherins a lot, apparently – the older students say we’re not being as shunned as people have been in some previous years. Eleanor Branstone and Laura Madley study Charms with me. Madley’s in the Bible Study group with me, and she and Eleanor are good friends. I think it’s good when people who hold different beliefs can all get along, don’t you?”

“Absolutely!” Harry agreed sincerely. “I do wish everyone could be more open about that, you know? Maybe one day.”

“Everyone finds their own path to God,” Mafalda said earnestly.

“Uh, I guess. I don’t exactly believe…” Harry said awkwardly.

“It’s alright. You believe in something beyond what you see and touch, something greater, don’t you?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Harry conceded, which seemed to make her happy. “Well I have to go watch the match…”

He couldn’t say exactly why her rare preaching bothered him more than Pansy’s even more impassioned speeches about the power of magic and the circle of the year. Perhaps it was the bad history between Christianity and witches. Perhaps it was the Dursleys; they’d always made him feel like he wouldn’t be welcome at their church. It wasn’t his religion, perhaps it was that simple.

Harry joined his friends in the Gryffindor stand, and dutifully cheered for their team, but Hufflepuff won the match in the end. At least it didn’t take too long. The Gryffindor team was good, and dominated by Weasleys, with the twins as Beaters, Ron as Keeper, and Ginny Weasley called in from reserves to be a replacement Chaser after Katie Bell was injured. However, they weren’t good enough to beat the tight teamwork of the Hufflepuffs.

Applebee and the other Hufflepuff Chasers had a poor start (which was good news for the cheering Gryffindor spectators), but after they got a couple of goals in Ron seemed to lose his nerve and the Hufflepuffs snuck the Quaffle past him increasingly often with a display of coordinated passes and feints that seemed to bewilder him. The Seekers’ race to the Snitch was hotly contested, but Diggory seemed fiercely determined to win, and used his larger size to advantage in blocking Andrew Kirke’s path to the Snitch, snatching victory from right in front of his nose.

The victorious Hufflepuff team was jubilant in their celebration as the team did a victory lap of the pitch, while the Gryffindors were left with only the consolatory knowledge that it had been a close match and a fair win.

-000-

It was Harry’s turn to work on the new version of the ‘Marauder’s Map’, which they’d tentatively dubbed the ‘Golden Trio Map’. Hermione had said so very emphatically, and Harry couldn’t disagree that he should also be helping with their joint project. So on Tuesday while Hermione was off at Arithmancy Harry grabbed Storm and made his way down to the Dungeon level. Drawing out the large, partially filled in parchment from his satchel, he quaffed a particularly noxious potion that Hermione had brewed. He cast a linking charm on himself and then tapped the parchment with his wand. Sirius had explained that it kind of scaled your movements to match the map scale on the parchment (which had been permanently set with some complicated runes and linked charms).

The magic ink for the next part of the process was something he’d brewed himself, as it required Invisible Ink as a base (which he owned in excess) which was then infused with herbs and frog liver. Harry poured a small amount of ink onto the parchment, which soaked in immediately without a trace.

“I solemnly swear to use this responsibly,” Harry said, tapping the parchment with his wand. The unfinished draft map slowly appeared in a wash of black lines and labels. It was just rooms so far; they wouldn’t be able to add people onto it until the castle was completely mapped out.

Hermione had set the passphrase; she liked the idea of a password-locked map but had sniffed disapprovingly at the Marauders’ choice of phrase. She’d thrown herself into the project with the most enthusiasm of any of them; a difficult, advanced project that chewed up a lot of free time and required extensive magical theory knowledge was like a late Christmas gift for her.

The hallway was deserted, with most students in classes, and those with a free period studying or entertaining themselves somewhere more interesting than a gloomy corridor. There was no-one to watch Harry trail his left hand along the stone wall while his right held onto the draft map. As he proceeded along the wall a matching line – drawn to scale – appeared on the map. There were dips occasionally where he ducked behind a tapestry concealing a small alcove, and he paused occasionally to use an extra charm on the map that would add on a special symbol denoting a statue or a door. He got out a quill, dipped it in more enhanced ink, and labelled the rooms as he passed each door; they were popularly known by dull names like ‘Dungeon Room 5’. The insides of the rooms they’d cover in the evenings when they were empty, but there was one particular room he and Storm were here to map while classes were still in progress; Professor Slughorn’s office. If Harry couldn’t get through the door, Storm had agreed to sneak through the small crack underneath the door; Sirius had promised the mapping potion was safe for animals to consume, although it would be challenging to get an ordinary animal to drink it because it tasted disgusting (they’d found that out for themselves, after all, especially Pettigrew).

With the current corridor complete, Harry next went to tackle the office. He tested the doorknob and found the door was magically locked, and while Harry could try an unlocking charm, he was wary of possible alarm spells or ward.

Spotting a small snake statue on the lintel over the door, he tried hissing at it.

“Hello door-guardian.”

“Hello?” Storm hissed sleepily, waking up and lifting his head lazily off Harry’s shoulder.

“Not you, Ssstorm, I’m trying to talk to the ssstatue,” Harry said.

The statue looked like it was animated – it moved its head very slowly to look at Harry – but it didn’t speak.

“Aparecium. Diffindo,” Harry cast, revealing the invisible runes on the statue’s head, then making a small cut on his hand. He reached up and smeared a little blood on the runes, and the statue perked up as it soaked into the stone scales.

Just like magic, Harry thought with amusement, as the blood disappeared, and the statue came more alive, slithering about animatedly above the lintel.

“Sssspeaker?” it hissed at him.

“My Ssspeaker,” Storm said jealously.

“Hello! Would you please let me into thiss room without sssetting off any wards, please?” Harry asked politely.

“Yess, Heir, I can do that.”

“I could help, I could go under the door,” Storm pouted, but it was too late for him to show off his infiltration skills for the office door was already swinging open.

Harry threw his dad’s invisibility cloak over his head – just in case there were any tattletale portraits inside – and skulked in, pushing the door mostly shut behind him.

The office looked less forbidding than it had under Snape’s tenure; many of the jars full of pickled magical creature parts had been replaced with various knick-knacks and autographed photos. He looked around warily for portraits, but luckily photos were all there were, and they weren’t animated enough to dob on his intrusion.

“I could have done it,” Storm sulked. “I am a sssneaky hunter.”

“I know you could,” Harry affirmed, tracing the boundaries of the room with his hand on the wall. “There will be plenty of other rooms for you to help with, like you did with the Ssslytherin dorms.”

Hermione – having helped Ron sneak into the Slytherin Dungeon a couple of years ago – had already noted down the entrance to their dorm and Storm had already mapped the inside, helped in his explorations by his unwitting accomplices Millicent and Draco, who’d been delighted to ‘take him in for a visit’. Not being able to hold onto the map Storm couldn’t add fine details even if he understood how, but ‘follow the walls’ was a simple enough instruction so they had the room outlines mapped, at least.

The large cupboard of potions ingredients gave Harry a little trouble as it blocked wall access. He fished Hermione’s list of special charms out of his satchel and read off the correct charm to fill in a gap on the map with a straight line, tapping the points on the map before and after the cupboard.

It didn’t take too long to get the room mapped; he spent a little extra time double-checking for secret passages but somewhat to his disappointment there weren’t any. The desk lit up with runes that indicated there might be a secret compartment or two, but Harry didn’t regard that as any of his business. He wouldn’t want someone poking through his personal possessions and had no reason to be tempted to do so with Professor Slughorn’s.

He left the room and closed the door behind him.

“You can help me tell which of these classrooms are empty and good to map,” Harry said to Storm, who was delighted to be offered a way to prove his worth. “Then we’ll go find the kitchen and the entrance to the Hufflepuff Basement.”

After the few empty rooms were mapped out, Harry lurked around the below ground levels for a while until he found some Hufflepuffs to follow when classes let out. It turned out the Hufflepuff Basement was behind a cluster of large barrels, one of which you tapped in a particular rhythmic pattern to gain access. After giving Storm a tiny sip of the mapping potion, Harry disillusioned him and tapped the barrel, then waited invisibly for his pet to re-emerge, which he did eventually.

“They have a nice burrow,” Storm pronounced approvingly, “it is warm and snug. Yours is up too high. I do not like ssstepss.”

Harry moved away from the Hufflepuffs’ secret entrance and made sure he was unobserved before removing his cloak and encouraging his still-Disllusioned pet to crawl up his arm back up to his favoured perch on Harry’s shoulders.

“Shall we do some more corridors before the ssspell runs out?”

Storm agreed that they may as well, and they mapped out the kitchen, which was a sight to see. It was full of copper pans and food floating through the air in carefully coordinated paths, and the whole room was warm from multiple fireplaces and stone ovens and smelt delightfully of rich meaty stew and fresh-baked bread. It was also full of excited house-elves who were delighted to have visitors. There was one house-elf who wrung his hands guiltily at seeing Harry, however.

Dobby was working in the Hogwarts kitchen, and apologised profusely.

“Dobby is sorry! Dobby did not have enough to do, and Jilly said Dobby could work here during school times and be near Master Harry!”

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to go places without my permission. Well, if the home owner or whatever says it’s alright, obviously. Uh, so are you living here? I mean, if you’re unhappy with me I’m sure we could work out a transfer–”

“No!” Dobby yelped, yanking violently down on his ears with anxious hands as his eyes widened. “No, Dobby wishes to stay with Master Harry. Dobby does not lives here, Dobby goes home every night to Potter Cottage, and Dobby is still looks after the house and garden there. Every day! Dobby is a good elf!”

From the faint mutters of disapproval, Jilly’s approval of Dobby’s initiative in finding extra work was thought by some to show an unpleasant air of ingratitude to his master, but Harry didn’t care about that.

By the time he’d eaten a polite snack and finished soothing Dobby and affirming his choices Harry’s Disillusionment Charm on Storm had worn off and more importantly, classes had let out for the day. The hallways of the lower levels were bustling with students again; mostly Slytherins and Hufflepuffs nipping back to their dorms to drop off their books or to meet up with friends. So that was it for discreet mapping for the day. Even with an invisibility cloak the odds of being caught simply by bumping into someone were too high now.

Harry came across Draco outside one of the potions classrooms, being berated by a teacher. His friend was presumably on his way back to the Snake’s Den (or the Slytherin Dungeon, as most non-Slytherins called it) since Harry knew Draco must’ve just finished Divination. It wasn’t that he’d memorised everyone’s timetables, it was simply that he knew what classes his friends were in while he had a free period (not having selected a third elective subject). The Slytherins had Divination or Ancient Runes, while Hermione went off to Arithmancy for the shared Gryffindor and Hufflepuff class.

What Professor Moody was doing way down on the lowest levels of Hogwarts was unclear, unless his sole purpose in visiting was to harass Slytherins, of whom there were a good handful milling around. Perhaps the crowd was too nervous to intervene or speak up, or perhaps they were just there to watch the show; Harry couldn’t tell.

Professor Moody was growling out his words, almost spitting in Draco’s face he was so close. “Turncoats, the Malfoys! Everyone knows it. Crawling on your bellies to anyone who’ll protect you, then cursing people in the back the instant you think you can get away with it! I know exactly the kind of scum your father is. He is as bad as Karkaroff; the lowest kind of Death Eater filth!”

Draco’s chin went up defensively. “My father is not–”

“If there is one thing I hate it is a Death Eater who walked free!”

Moody knocked Draco’s pointed hat off his head with a quick spell, and it rolled on the ground.

“Crawl! Get on your belly and pick it up! Get some practice in now, boy!”

“I am going to tell–”

“Run and tattle like a mewling child, will you? Crawl, I said!”

Harry wasn’t sure what to do. If it was another student harassing Draco he’d say something. But it was a teacher, and one who felt he had a legitimate grudge against the Malfoys; Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater who’d sold his friends out to walk free. Obviously the humiliation and bullying wasn’t warranted – that was totally wrong. What Draco’s father did wasn’t Draco’s fault. He doubted the Headmaster would do anything about Moody though; he’d never done anything about Snape, after all. Maybe McGonagall would help?

What would a real Gryffindor do right now? he asked himself. No, what would a less suicidal, smarter Slytherin do?

He drew his wand and took cover behind a larger, older student as Moody continued berating Draco. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vincent knocking furtively on Slughorn’s office door, to no avail. It seemed like their Head of House still wasn’t in there and wouldn’t be riding to Draco’s rescue any time soon. On the far side of the confrontation, Harry saw Daphne watching the drama with wide, worried eyes. One of her arms was around Susan Bones’ shoulders, and she was hugging Bones close to her side. Bones was red-faced and crying, though Harry wasn’t sure why. A bit of yelling wasn’t that bad. Still it was bad enough, and Draco’s face was blanching white as Moody outlined with relish exactly what would happen to Lucius Malfoy when he got caught and thrown in Azkaban where he rightfully belonged. The tip of Moody’s wand was pressed up underneath Draco’s chin, pushing against the skin of his throat as Draco’s knees buckled and he moved slowly to kneel on the ground. No-one watching dared breathe too loudly.

What would I want someone to do if it was me? Harry thought, and it was this last question that broke his dithering indecision and had him push to the front of the crowd. He kept his wand out, and low at his side. If Moody saw it, well, so what? He always praised Harry for being ready to hex people at a moment’s notice – even himself.

“There you are, Draco!” Harry called out loudly. He advanced with a casual stroll as if he’d just arrived and had no idea what was going on. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You’re late for our study session!”

Moody straightened up from his looming over Draco and spun around to face Harry. His wand was suddenly pointed right at Harry, who didn’t want to take any chances with yet another crazed Defence teacher.

“Protego!” Harry rattled off the Shield Charm incantation as quickly as possible, and a golden field shimmered into place between himself and Moody; just in case.

“Ready to bite!” Storm hissed, rearing up protectively on Harry’s shoulders. His pet didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that the golden shield meant trouble.

Professor Moody grinned and lowered his wand, looking calmer rather than furious at Harry’s intervention. Harry hoped his teacher wouldn’t notice how his hands were shaking.

“Potter. Did you need this little snake, then?”

“Yes, sir. I believe Draco was most likely heading to the Snake’s Den? He’s got a book to pick up that he was going to lend me when we met up. He’s late.” He left his shield up, wand still outstretched and holding the charm steady. It wouldn’t last forever, it never did, but… maybe just a little bit longer was called for.

“Dark Arts, no doubt.”

Harry affected a shocked look. “Of course not, sir! I have no interest in that unless it’s to defend against that sort of thing, and neither does Draco. It’s a book about ghosts. Research for the Tournament.”

Moody – who knew Harry’s dubious borrowing history from the Restricted Section for the year so far – gave him a knowing, twisted smile that Harry determinedly ignored. If Professor Moody said anything about Harry’s more dubious reading material it’d be as good as admitting that he had quite literally approved every single book.

With a crooked grin, Moody gave Draco a shove between his shoulder blades that made him stumble forwards. “Off you go then, snake. Do not tread your father’s path; you had best be such a loyal friend to Hogwarts’ Golden Boy that people start wondering why you were not sorted into Hufflepuff,” he growled warningly.

Draco picked up his hat and bag off the ground, pushing some scattered class notes back inside his bag hastily, and scurried over to Harry’s side. Harry dropped the Shield Charm at last but kept his eye fixed on Moody as Draco grabbed at the crook of his left elbow and led them hastily away.

“Victory!” Storm hissed happily, watching Moody head off in the opposite direction as they left. “He cowers before your display of teeth and flees!”

The crowd was also scattering, now the show was over.

“I owe you one,” Draco muttered.

“You sure do,” Harry agreed. “We’re lucky Moody favours me. I thought he was going to curse me there for sure, for a minute.”

“I do not have any books on ghosts, but Nott does,” Draco whispered. “I will fetch one of his; he will be happy to be owed a favour.”

“I don’t think Moody is going to check,” Harry said with a frown.

“Details and follow-through are the key to a good deception,” Draco averred.

Draco stopped in the hallway and glanced back.

“He’s gone,” Harry said reassuringly. “He went up the stairs pretty much right away.”

“I knew that,” Draco said, but his shoulders notably relaxed, all the same. “I was looking to see where those two useless trolls got to.”

“Has he done something like that before?” Harry asked.

“Well… Father just said not to provoke–” Draco started, but cut himself off as others approached them.

Vincent was lumbering in pursuit of them, and Daphne and Bones were also moving in their direction, but Greg (presumably the second ‘troll’) was nowhere to be seen, as yet.

“Big help you were,” Draco grumbled to Vincent.

“I tried to get Slughorn,” Vincent apologised. “He was not there. He would have helped you; he likes you and your father.”

“Draco’s fine,” Harry reassured, seeing Bones’ teary face as the girls approached.

“No, I’m not, I think he left a bruise,” Draco complained rubbing at his throat.

“Oh, good,” Bones said vaguely, not looking at all concerned.

“Good?!” Draco yelped. He glared angrily at Bones.

“I’ve got some Bruisewort Balm up in my dorm,” Harry said, but Draco just shook his head crossly.

“She is just rattled,” Daphne said, drawing Draco’s attention. “She got some bad news and was not paying attention. She did not mean to imply she is happy you are hurt.”

“No!” Bones said, her eyes wide. “Not at all! Please accept my humblest apologies, Malfoy. I was distracted, I was just glad it wasn’t worse. It was dreadful, how Professor Moody treated you. He is… odd but never like that in our class.”

“Hmph. Accepted, I suppose. And what has you in such a dither, then?”

Bones sniffed sadly as she said, “I got a letter from the Ministry. Someone must have complained to someone there that I have been using a wand in class sometimes. Hogwarts classes, that is. It is acceptable if I use it while supervised by Karkaroff or another Durmstrang teacher, but technically not on my own or in Hogwarts classes. It is only thanks to my aunt that I have not had my wand snapped and been thrown in Azkaban! She argued I was too young to understand the law, and occasionally forgetful, and I got a warning letter instead, and I have to have my wand checked every month by someone from the Werewolf Registry. But if I do it again she won’t be able to help me!”

“How are you still studying? I mean, I see you in Herbology… I just kind of assumed you were doing Hogwarts classes while officially being enrolled at Durmstrang?” Harry asked.

“Well, sort of. I mean, the Durmstrang students are joining in most Hogwarts classes; they are here on exchange, but Karkaroff is also teaching a couple of classes, and there’s a couple of extra teachers who send through work and occasionally Portkey in for lectures.”

“What are you studying, then?”

“Four of the five core subjects. It’s enough, as you only need three at OWL level. Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, and Duelling. Karkaroff teaches me the last one – it is their replacement for DADA, basically, and he does not want me learning from Professor Moody, so I train with Headmaster Karkaroff and a couple of the Durmstrang students who are basically volunteer tutors. I didn’t want to do Ritual Magic – I do not have the background in Arithmancy or Divination to pick it up easily, and it sounds… Dark, anyway.”

Bones seemed to be calming the more she rambled about classes, so Harry kept up his questions. “Is the Duelling class any good?”

“Yes, I would say so. It reminds me a bit of Potter Watch, actually! It is more practically focused than Moody’s class, and stricter on duelling etiquette than either of those. It covers defensive and offensive charms, hexes, and curses.”

“So the only one of those classes you’re really doing with Durmstrang is Duelling?” Harry checked.

“Yes. The other three I do with the Hufflepuffs like usual, though I am getting some extra homework to do from teachers at Durmstrang so they can be assured I am covering all the basics their students learn.”

“Four classes does not sound like a lot of work,” Draco observed.

“Oh, sorry, I did not explain well. I had to pick some electives too; it’s a minimum of seven classes. I added three electives; Herbology, and Magical Creatures were easy picks. They do not offer Muggle Studies so I cannot continue with that, but perhaps that is no surprise, given the school’s reputation. And it’s true – they do have a Dark Arts class, though it’s only a NEWT elective.”

“So do we, really, if you think about how many curses – including the Unforgiveables – that Professor Moody has taught this year,” Harry observed thoughtfully. Hogwarts was really a bit hypocritical in looking down on Durmstrang for what it itself was doing, with Dumbledore’s explicit permission.

“That is very different! We learn how to defend against them!” Bones objected.

“Hmm,” Draco said, looking thoughtful. “An argument for another day, perhaps. What else did you pick, Bones? You said you needed three electives.”

Harry certainly didn’t mind avoiding a pointless argument, and Susan also seemed happy to get back on track and went along willingly with Draco’s redirection of the conversation.

“The last elective was tough to pick because I don’t want to join a class a year late on a topic I know nothing about,” she said. “I picked Witchcraft in the end. It’s only for girls – so sexist! – and covers household charms and potions, cooking and sewing, farming rituals, childcare, healing, and midwifery. That last part is only for NEWT students, though. It all sounded useful, at least.”

“A class covering healing sounds awesome, they should let everyone do it; boys too. Everyone likes food, right? It’s so weird some people don’t know how to cook,” Harry said.

“That is what house-elves are for,” Draco said, looking genuinely puzzled.

“What about when you move out of home and do not have a house-elf anymore?” Bones asked.

Draco pondered the question seriously. “Well… I shall just have to either marry someone of high enough status to have a house-elf of their own or tell my parents to buy or give me one. Mother would not want me to starve. Putting up with Hogwarts food and a shared bedroom is bad enough. The pastries here are appalling. So stodgy.”

“How you suffer,” Bones said dryly, making Daphne snicker and Draco glare at her.

-000-

March ticked along with dry weather and cruel winds, and while the temperature wasn’t quite so cold any longer Harry wished the wind didn’t bite so fiercely, for some of his Tournament research team were pushing him to brush up on his Quidditch skills, convinced that an air-themed challenge must involve a broomstick race at some point.

“And even if it doesn’t,” Ron added, “if you have to fly on a pegasus or a Hippogriff then the same basic dodging skills will surely come in handy.”

So one morning a week Harry trained – in clear but gusty conditions – with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who delighted in pelting Bludgers at him, training him in how to throw a Quaffle, and racing Andrew Kirke and Fay Dunbar (the reserve Seeker) to the Snitch. It was exhausting, but at least he got to escape after half an hour, unlike the rest of the team. Their sessions were longer than his but not as bad as they once were; Johnson wasn’t so much of an obsessive slave-driver about practices as Wood had been, which the whole team seemed to appreciate.

Harry didn’t think it was the most likely scenario for the next task, but he couldn’t completely rule it out. He and his friends (and assorted hangers-on and helpers) had spent a lot of time researching creatures ‘born from blood’ and had a few front-runner candidates, plus they’d ruled various other creatures out.

Firstly they’d ruled out dragons; despite some Greek myths about their origin it seemed highly unlikely they’d use the same creatures twice in a Tournament.

Snake-haired gorgons (mythologically born from blood according to some accounts) were extinct, which Harry was rather disappointed by as facing a snake-creature might give him an edge over the other contestants.

Red Caps were suggested, as the European dwarf-like creatures sprang up – almost like mushrooms – in burrows on battlefields where a lot of blood had been spilt. Blood-drinking Kappa were also considered. However, neither could fly (nor could vampires, another theorised candidate), and the consensus was it had to be either a flying magical creature that he’d have to ride or have accompany him through the air (except for a few stubborn holdouts who were convinced broomsticks had to be involved, on the grounds that once upon a time blood used to be used to fertilise the trees whose wood was used in their manufacture).

The Filipino creature called an Alan was winged, and had backwards-facing hands and feet, and needed blood for its children to grow. It was a serious contender, but research was stymied by an almost total lack of information about them. A couple of short paragraphs in a textbook plus one gory story from a Muggle book of myths (that ended very badly for the poor Alan and her baby) was the entirety of knowledge they could scrounge at Hogwarts from the Euro-centric library or people’s personal book collections.

Pegasi were the most popular guess; sprung from the blood of the gorgon Medusa when she was slain, or so the myth said. They’d covered winged horses in Care of Magical Creatures in November and December, so Harry felt moderately well prepared to deal with them – Abraxans and Aethonans, at least. Some people were guessing Thestrals might be a contender for the ‘dead and yet alive, seen and unseen’ creature, so there were two reasons to research that variety of pegasi in particular.

Ghosts arose chiefly from bloody, violent death or grief at tasks left undone (a great match for the clue), so they and pegasi were thus almost exclusively the focus of study, along with a general blitz of studying all kinds of wind-related spells. Harry felt smug that he’d already mastered a cyclone hex for the second task; perhaps it would come in useful a second time.

So, they had only a few creatures (plus broomsticks) in mind for ‘that either grown from blood or seen through grief’, but far too many options for defeating ‘the unseen’, and for releasing and then securing ‘that which is dead and yet alive’. There were so many magical creatures and creepy undead that could apply to, as well as magically animated constructions. Harry wished the clue had been a bit more specific. He polished his Incarcerous Spell some more, as odds seemed good that whatever it was he had to secure would probably be easier to deal with if tied up.

Studying with a large group of his friends was both delightful (to have such support) and a trial, as various clashes and dramas kept things from being as harmonious as he’d like. Hermione was tolerating Draco’s presence again (if only just) and talking to him once more, but relations remained strained. Pansy and Hermione were feuding, as Pansy had taken jealous umbrage to a Witch Weekly article describing Hermione as Krum’s ‘strikingly pretty lost-born paramour’, and Hermione had overheard her complaining to Draco about how ‘plain and buck-toothed’ Hermione really was. Pansy and Draco seemed to be courting, in a restrained pure-blood way involving Tracey as their tag-along chaperone. Daphne – usually Pansy’s best friend – seemed to be spending most of her free time with Susan Bones. With the other girls all occupied, and Hermione doing non-stop study either for school or for the secret mapping project they didn’t discuss outside of the Gryffindor’s ‘Golden Trio’, Millicent gravitated towards spending more time with Luna, who seemed delighted at the friendly attention. On one notable day two Ravenclaws ended up in the hospital wing and Millicent got detention… but Luna had reclaimed some fur-lined winter boots that Harry hadn’t even known had gone missing.

“You should have said something sooner,” he chided.

“She told me. I took care of it,” Millicent said smugly.

“I did not want to be a bother,” Luna apologised. “You are so busy all the time, Harry, and I knew they would come back eventually. The tea leaves said so.”

“That doesn’t mean people can’t help destiny along,” Harry said firmly. Luna promised to tell ‘someone’ a bit faster, the next time she was bullied.

Neville was quietly fretting over the possibility of being a contender for a prophecy involving You-Know-Who, though he’d spoken of it only once to Harry since Harry’s revelation. He hadn’t told anyone else, being informally sworn to secrecy, so could only talk over his worry with Harry or work it out through action.

“I have been training,” he announced, “as much as I can. However, I need to do more. For either you or myself might have to face You-Know-Who in combat. If it is myself, well… I am woefully unprepared. If it is you, I wish to stand at my amicus’ side to aid you.”

Neville joined in Harry’s practice sessions from time to time, but also grabbed other keen Potter Watch members for extra duelling practices of his own which weren’t so air element focused. Harry admired his determination. Harry was mostly hoping that he’d ‘vanquished’ the Dark Lord when he was a baby, and that the prophecy was thus moot, an interpretation that Neville also hoped that was the correct one.

Whether Neville would actually have to fight the Dark Lord or not (Merlin forbid!), learning duelling spells would still be useful for his friend too. Neville was chuffed to occasionally be able to teach Harry a spell he hadn’t learnt yet, and Harry was happy to learn extra combat spells that might be useful for either the Tournament or for generally protecting himself from other dangers, like werewolves.

For they were still causing major trouble, and in mid-March on a Friday evening when the moon was full, the inhabitants of an entire Muggle moorland village in Devon, adjoining the Dartmoor National Park, were utterly slaughtered. The werewolves left no survivors, and Fenrir sent an announcement to the press pronouncing it his pack’s new territory and a haven for werewolves who wished to live ‘naturally’, free from ‘wizards’ oppressive laws’. Tensions were high, and Susan Bones went around the next two days with a protective cluster of friends surrounding her at all times; she even usually had Megan Jones or Daphne accompanying her to the bathroom.

After a couple of days had passed, the Ministry announced its first major success of the growing war in the morning’s Daily Prophet, which had students gathering in eager clusters to read the news. Eight werewolves had been killed, Fenrir had been injured (but had escaped), three werewolves had been captured for later execution, and the remainder had fled. The Muggle village had been reclaimed from werewolf rule and returned to the Muggle authorities. The paper was a little vague on what the Muggles knew about it all but reassured everyone that the Muggle Management Office was in firm control of the situation.

There were gory photos of the public executions in the paper. A black-hooded wizard shot the green light of the Killing Curse at the trussed werewolves’ heads – a legal spell for executions of ‘non-humans’ and preferred for criminal executions to ensure there was no chance their spirits would return as vengeful ghosts. They looked all too human as they collapsed to the ground, and Harry wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to look at the pictures too long. In the background of the photo – set outside the Ministry – Harry could see people cheering and clapping. Someone strolled through the crowd selling bags of hot chestnuts, and Hermione pointed out one lady in a corner of the photo who’d brought her knitting to the execution. Presumably to give herself something to do during Fudge’s long-winded self-congratulatory speech prior to the execution.

“It’s all so horribly Victorian,” Hermione complained, handing her copy of the paper over to a hovering student eager to read the news for themselves. “Executions a hundred years ago, two hundred maybe, used to be a nice day out with the children. Buy some snacks, read the lurid broadsheets about the crimes committed, and enjoy the show. They’re still a spectacle here.

“At least they don’t execute non-infected wizards and witches anymore, though I’m not convinced the Dementor’s Kiss is any more merciful, nor lifelong incarceration with those hellish creatures. But non-humans and part-humans? Werewolves, vampires, goblins, hags, and anyone else in the Peregrini or Servi classes? They can still be executed. You don’t even need a particularly good reason to kill a house-elf; their masters can just chop their heads off because their slaves are getting old. It’s not regarded as murder even though they’re sentient beings, it’s more like putting a pet down.”

“You should go into the Ministry when you graduate,” Harry suggested. “The Magical Creatures department. Get some laws changed.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s the Wizengamot that votes on such things, and I don’t have the family connections for that, recent research notwithstanding. You should join though.”

“Ugh. Politics. I suppose I should later on, maybe. I know you have to be at least seventeen, and I think I heard somewhere that you might have to be twenty-five? I’m not sure. There was something written somewhere about how only ‘mature’ witches and wizards were allowed to decide the fate of the wizarding world, but I forget the details.”

“I will join when I am older,” Neville promised. “We can back each other up.”

Exactly what should be done about werewolves was a hotly debated topic; everyone agreed something should be done, but whether it was more freedom for werewolves or less was not agreed upon. People in all Houses and of all blood statuses were split on the issue, and where those arguing had personal stakes in the matter (such as having a relative infected with lycanthropy, or knowing someone killed or injured in one of the recent attacks) matters got decidedly heated.

One such altercation had Harry called upon as an off-the-books trainee Healer. An older Gryffindor student woke Harry one evening shortly after he’d gone to bed, shaking his shoulder gently.

Harry woke in a dazed panic, hands going up to protect his head.

“Hey, it’s okay, Potter,” the student said. Harry didn’t recognise him, apart from a vague feeling the boy had played Quidditch for Gryffindor at some point. “There’s a Slytherin downstairs asking for you, outside the portrait. He says to bring your Healer bag.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Looked alright to me. Anxious, though, so I reckon you should hurry. Try not to get caught, eh? It’s after curfew. Well, I’m off to bed.”

The boy headed out of the fourth-year dorm and went further upstairs, leaving Harry to yawn as he shucked off his pyjamas and slid into a Hogwarts school robe.

“Harold is awake? Hello Harold!” Storm greeted excitedly. “Take me with you.”

“You don’t know where I’m going,” Harry replied, rubbing his bleary eyes and retrieving his Healer’s bag from under his bed and his invisibility cloak from his trunk (which he stuffed into his bag). All his precious belongings were back where they belonged now the second task was over; his paranoia that something would be stolen had been all for naught.

“It will be more interesting than here. I am bored.”

“Fair enough,” Harry said, lifting Storm from his tank and draping him over his shoulders.

Harry explained what little he knew to Storm on the way downstairs, in quiet hisses so as not to wake anyone else in the dorm.

He expected to see Draco or Pansy outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, but instead saw Graham Montague standing there. He hadn’t seen much of him since the meetings to get Quidditch reinstated had successfully concluded; Montague was a Chaser, but not captain (that plum role had gone to Derrick).

“I’m calling in my favour from last year,” Montague said, starting abruptly without bothering with the usual formalities, “when I helped you smuggle your correspondence discreetly. I need a Healer, and fast. Follow me.”

He turned on his heel, and Harry jogged after him, casting a quick Disillusionment Charm as he went. “Celero. Is someone hurt? You should take them to Madam Pomfrey–”

“Obviously if that was an option we would have already done that,” Montague said quietly. He paused for a moment as they approached some presumably blabbermouth portraits, casting his own Disillusionment Charm and padding past them quietly. Harry followed his very blurry outline down the hall.

Once they were in another stretch of empty hallway with nothing more interesting in it than statues and suits of armour, Montague resumed his explanation. “Two idiots were duelling about werewolves. One was defending Fenrir and saying how Muggle deaths didn’t matter and werewolves deserved full cives rights and their own lands, and the other said they were animals and should be put down like them, lest they contaminate other wizards.”

“Madam Pomfrey’s good about not telling about illegal duels,” Harry reassured. “She might lecture, but I promise she’ll patch them up and not take points. She doesn’t want people scared to come to her for fear of the consequences.”

“Maybe,” Montague said, “but the matter is more complicated because both of the fools used illegal Dark curses. Neither of them wants to risk prison.”

Harry sighed. “I’m not an expert, you know. Not even close. You could ask Elena Caldaras? From Durmstrang. She was good at countering curses. Or Applebee, she is going into Apprenticeship as a Healer next year. Or that Ravenclaw, um… I forget his name. Seventh-year. He studies with Pomfrey on weekends.”

“Pure-as-a-unicorn Applebee? Don’t make me laugh,” Montague snorted. “Caldaras yes – I would ask her if she was free. I heard how she helped in the hospital wing after the attack on Chudley. But the Durmstrang ship is locked up tighter than a Mokeskin pouch once they are all on board and settled in for the night. No, it has to be you, or no-one.”

Harry sighed. “Anyone hurt that I know?”

“Do you know Urquhart? He is the person I’m calling you in to help.”

Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was a Reserve Chaser last year,” Montague said. “Urquhart is in my year – a fifth-year – and said he wanted to concentrate on his OWLs this year so he did not even try out for the team.” He shook his head as if the thought was a little unbelievable.