Harry Potter had had many awful summers throughout his life. Those from before he attended Hogwarts don't bear repeating. The one between first and second years began horribly, as he spent most of it imprisoned in his room with no mail because a mad house-elf decided to steal it. The next had featured his odious aunt's sister-in-law, and while he spent the rest of the holiday with other witches and wizards, she was horrible enough to make it a net negative. The last summer had been a huge improvement: the Dursleys had decided to ignore him and hope for the best.
Their living room was destroyed and their son was cursed, again, at the end of Harry's stay that year, but, either despite or because of this, they had decided to continue to pretend Harry didn't exist for the summer leading up to his fifth year at Hogwarts. This was its most notable improvement over previous years, but there were also many shortcomings. His best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, had barely written him, giving evasive and partly blacked-out letters. His owl, Hedwig, had caught an infection and was bed-ridden, reduced to feebly hooting for owl treats while Harry nursed her back to health. And he had the intermittent voice of the Dark Lord Voldemort in his head.
Voldemort at least chose not to abuse his mental link and kept mostly quiet when Harry asked, but even his politeness had begun to grate on Harry's nerves. He almost would have preferred the raving psychopath to this new, aggressively reasonable Voldemort.
He had also hidden a cache of books several blocks away, covered in Muggle-repelling wards, which Harry lost no time in retrieving and reading through. The main focus was Occlumency, the discipline to shield one's mind from invaders, which Voldemort insisted Harry learn to defend against his Headmaster. Unfortunately, Voldemort wasn't the best tutor alive; he tended to assume other people knew everything he did.
[What's a hippocampus?] Harry thought at Voldemort, flipping through glossaries and the preceding chapters. He was reading through An Introduction to Differential Psionic Permissivity, which turned out to be every bit as difficult as it sounded.
[Part of the brain,] Voldemort replied promptly. [Responsible for regulating the magical processes associated with vectored, atemporal, and nonconservational magics.]
[… What?]
[Don't they teach the Cyralian classification schema any more? Honestly, Dumbledore, I expected better of you.[
[That's great, but I can't learn Occlumency if it's founded on a whole lot of theory no-one but you knows,] Harry thought with frustration. [Don't you have a textbook which a fifth-year might have a chance of understanding?]
[No. Occlumency isn't like Transfiguration. You can't just learn it without doing any real work.]
Harry grumbled at this. Voldemort, who was unquestionably brilliant, had barely spent an hour a week on Transfiguration homework at school, and wound up with Outstanding N.E.W.T.s and a special commendation. For everyone else, it was the hardest core subject offered, except possibly for Potions, which Snape deliberately made unreasonably difficult, and History of Magic, which was so boring even the Ravenclaws reportedly slept through two lessons in three.
[Maybe there's an easier book in the Hogwarts library?] Harry suggested.
[Hah! As if Dumbledore would let any of his students get the counter to Legilimency.]
Harry pushed the book aside in disgust. [I'm getting nowhere. I might as well get started on my actual homework. What do you know about the giant wars?]
[That they were so bitter afterwards all I had to do was suggest they might kill wizards and they flocked to my banner in droves. I couldn't understand it. I mean, my side was all about killing giants, along with Mudbloods and pretty much everything but the purebloods. And even some of them. You'd think surely they would have realised things would be worse under pureblood tyranny, but no.]
[Are you going to recruit them again, this time?] Harry asked.
[I'll try. But it might not go the same way as in the First War. For one thing, Dumbledore will have people trying to win them over, or, failing that, kill them pre-emptively. For another, they did lose out after I died. And for a third, they're really, really stupid. I would never trust them to behave consistently.]
Harry took out a roll of parchment. [So do you know anything about their internal war of 1951-55?]
[Harry, I'm a Dark Lord. I'm plotting to subvert the Ministry of Magic. My mortal enemy is protected by the sacrifices of dozens if not hundreds of quote-unquote virgin witches. I'm busy researching a ritual written in blood a book bound in human skin. And you want me to write your History of Magic essay for you?]
[Not write it for me!] Harry protested. [Just give me some pointers. Voldemort! Voldemort?]
Voldemort's own mastery of Occlumency allowed him to shut their connection down cold at will. Harry sighed and reached for his textbook, but before he could, an owl landed on his windowsill.
It was huge, tawny and had an insufferable bearing. Looking down its beak at him, it presented a letter with the Ministry seal. Harry accepted and read it; the owl hooted loftily and took off.
Dear Mr. Potter,
It is with greatest pleasure that I write to invite you to the Ministry of Magic's upcoming High Gala, graciously hosted by Greengrass Manor. This is a night of fun and networking offered by invitation only to respected, established witches and wizards, or the most promising up-and-coming members of magical society.
The Gala represents an excellent opportunity for your future career, especially should you choose to pursue one with the Ministry, and I urge you to attend if at all possible. Entry is free, although tables may be reserved for a 1,000 Galleon amenity, and donations at the door are welcome. All proceeds go to the Lucius Malfoy Wing at Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Please RSVP by the 10th of August at 6:59 p.m. for a 7 p.m. sharp start. Formal wear is expected. Partners are allowed.
Yours sincerely,
Dolores Jane Umbridge
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic
Harry re-read it twice, then reached for his parchment and quill.
Dear Hermione and Ron,
I just got a letter from the Ministry inviting me to a "High Gala". It sounds like one of Malfoy's schmoozing parties, but he must have had some reason to invite me. Is this a trap? Should I go and find out what it's about anyway? And do you know anything about the Greengrasses (the name sounds familiar …)? They're hosting.
Yours,
Harry
Hedwig withdrew her head from under her wing and gave a look of resignation.
"So, girl," Harry said coaxingly, "I'll bet you need to stretch your wings after resting for so long?"
Hedwig gave a bark of disgust.
"Good girl," Harry said, and tied his missive to her leg. She chirped again and flew off.
[Voldemort? Are you there? See, this is why you shouldn't ignore me. I have something important I need to ask you, and you're not listening.]
There came a sound like a snake being trodden on. [Yes, Potter, I can hear everything you think at me.]
[Really? I thought you blocked it off.]
[I did. For five minutes. I figured you would get to work on your essay without me in that time. Don't tell me you can't write for five minutes.]
[You were much more accommodating at the graveyard,] Harry thought crossly.
[That was before I had a fifteen-year-old nagging me for months to do homework which was beneath me when I first had to do it, fifty-five years ago. What do you want now?]
[What do you know about the Ministry's High Gala? I assume it was Lucius' suggestion, on your orders.]
[That was actually Fudge's,] Voldemort said. [He occasionally likes to use tax money to throw himself parties, where he can give self-aggrandising speeches to political donors.]
[I can't work out which of us hates him more,] Harry said. [I thought I did, because he arrested Hagrid for no reason, and is in Malfoy's pocket, and he's evil.]
[Tut tut, Harry. You're on Lucius' side too now, you know.]
[Shut up, Voldemort.]
[Might I remind you that Fudge is the buffoon who allows the wholesale slaughter of Muggle-borns and the otherwise unconnected? People like me, when I was your age?]
[Point,] Harry conceded. [So why am I invited? I thought we agreed I would still act hostile toward Malfoy in public to avoid suspicion.]
[Probably because you're the Boy Who Lived,] Voldemort said. [You know, who killed me. Also you won the Triwizard Tournament … but mostly because you killed me.]
[You sound bitter.]
[Don't worry. Revenge is a sucker's game. I see no reason to avoid the Gala. Unless you think spending an entire evening with people like Dolores Umbridge would be more than you can bear. I wouldn't blame you. Even Lucius cannot stand the woman.]
Harry thought about this. Either there was no trap, or there was but Voldemort didn't know about it, or Voldemort was the one who'd laid it. [Do you think I should go?]
Voldemort had a dry serpentine laugh which sounded something like air hissing out of a punctured balloon. [It's an introduction to high society. You're only young once. Live it up while you can. Unless, of course, you'd rather spend the night getting ahead on your History of Magic essay, or bonding with your aunt.]
"Oh, sweet Merlin," Harry said aloud, realising in that moment that he'd choose to go even if he had to spend it talking with Snape and Malfoy. [Speaking of which, Snape isn't going to be there, is he?]
[Hardly. He hasn't socialised to my knowledge since he was blacklisted from his favourite karaoke bar sixteen years ago.]
[…]
[Yes. It was, truly, an unforgettable experience. One never to be repeated. It was beyond mortal comprehension.]
[Yeah, let's never speak of that again,] Harry thought.
Hedwig swooped back in through the window. Harry was relieved to see she really was looking better, and she had a reply in her beak.
Dear Harry,
The Ministry is refusing to believe You-Know-Who is back. I can't believe He'd be stupid enough to attack you in full view of the Minister himself and give away that advantage. Maybe Fudge just wants the publicity? I'm supposed to be in bed now; I'll ask Lupin in the morning.
The Greengrasses are another pureblood family. You'd recognise them from Daphne's name. She's a stuck-up snob but I've never heard of anyone from the family being Death Eaters. Again, give me time to check that. It sounds as though everyone there but you will be Slytherins, so if you do go (and don't promise anything until I get back to you!) be careful.
Mrs. Weasley says it'll be okay for you to come and stay with us soon. I'm looking forward to it!
Love,
Hermione
... … …
Lupin's letter came the next morning after breakfast. It was carried by Pigwidgeon, who came in through Harry's open window, zoomed around in a wide circle, and slammed headfirst into the raised window pane. He moved the undersized owl onto his bed to revive while he read Lupin's response.
Harry,
Our sources indicate this Gala is the brainchild of either Fudge or Malfoy; both wish to silence you. In addition to that, the hosts are the Greengrasses, who have never been aligned with the Light, and almost everyone invited is their ally. There's no way Dumbledore would allow you out of the protection of your aunt's blood ward to venture into the snake's pit. Refuse to go.
Yours,
Remus
Harry sighed and rubbed his temples, a headache already forming. Feeble though his declaration of Voldemort's return had been, Fudge still wanted to discredit him. However, Malfoy would ultimately be the one calling the shots, and if he answered to Voldemort, Harry should be safe. It was anyone's guess what the Greengrasses had in mind, but surely they wouldn't defy Malfoy. That Umbridge woman surely couldn't be all that bad. And as for Dumbledore and the blood wards, Harry wasn't sure he trusted the first and knew for a fact the second was useless, now that Voldemort had his blood anyway.
[Hey, Voldemort?]
[Callers always come when you're eating, don't they.]
[Ha. Also, ha. Do you know how the Greengrasses are aligned?]
[Hardcore neutral. Have you ever tried to persuade a clan of land owners to do anything which might interfere with their farming? It's like herding cats. And they choose to believe that EVERYTHING interferes with farming, no matter how trivially. I once asked Cincinnatus Greengrass to let a wounded Death Eater spend the night in a haystack for gold. He refused, saying she might BLEED on his prize Pegasus' STOOL. I ask you.]
[Didn't need to know that, Voldemort.]
[You're welcome.]
Harry crumpled the letter into his pocket, packed his rucksack with gold, his old dress robes, and his wand, and headed out. He'd grown a few inches since last year and needed the hems taken out.
He didn't bother saying goodbye to the Dursleys, just quietly shut the door behind him. It was a bright, burningly hot day, as the entire summer had been; for the first time in weeks, storm clouds massed on the very horizon, promising needed rain. Petunia had been beside herself with her flower beds dying. The neighbours on the left obeyed the water restrictions to the letter, the ones on the right not at all, so she felt justified in setting her sprinklers only half the time.
"Going somewhere, Harry?"
He looked back. It was a little girl, maybe six years old, trying to play cat's cradle; her fingers were thoroughly trussed up. She was dressed in an army camouflage shirt which came down to her knees, thongs, stockings, and a tricorne. She had a lurid blue purse over one shoulder. Harry dived behind a row of bushes and rifled through his bag for his wand for about a minute, then rolled to his feet with it trained on the girl.
"Seriously?" she asked. "You keep your wand in your backpack under a pile of loose change and your dress robes? Maybe you should stick it in eight layers of wrapping paper, too. And put it away; you don't want the Muggles to see it."
"Who are you?" Harry asked, turning red but pocketing his wand.
"Rosie Lalor, your friendly neighbourhood schoolgirl," she said, bowing. Her fingers were still stuck together, and she fell on her face. "Ow. I hate swapping bodies. Would you give me a hand with this?"
She kept fidgeting, but after a minute Harry got the string off her fingers. "Right. So who are you really and why are you watching me?"
"I'd rather not say in public. Someone might be watching."
"You're under Polyjuice Potion, then," Harry said.
"Something like that. But I'm on your side. I'm here as a guard."
"You didn't think that maybe it might be a good idea to tell me I had a guard in advance?"
Rosie shrugged. "You never asked. And Dumbledore thought you might get … actually I don't know what he thought."
"Ah," Harry said. "So you're specifically on Dumbledore's side, guarding me from Death Eaters on his orders."
"Don't say his name out loud, either. The Ministry may well be listening; Fudge has been trying to discredit him as senile ever since he began saying You-Know-Who was back. He's, er, mostly left you alone because you're not saying it too, but if he gets wind that you're in league with Dumbledore …"
Harry's headache got a touch worse. That meant there were three major factions already: Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Fudge. He, Harry, wasn't sure he wanted to side with any of them, which would spell a fourth faction. Other than him, each had multiple spies and double agents. And the war hadn't even started yet.
On second thoughts, if everyone else already had moles, maybe that meant he should too.
"Right," Harry said. "Well, I'm taking the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley, if you want to follow along."
"You are?" Rosie asked. "I thought the school lists hadn't come out yet?"
"They haven't. I'm getting some clothes adjusted."
Rosie thought for a moment. "If it was just for school, you'd wait and get them done at the same time as your supplies, so this is for something earlier. You also haven't asked for someone from the Order to go with you, so it's probably for something you know they wouldn't approve of. Gee, I wonder what that might be."
"What do you mean, the Order?" Harry asked.
"Er. I mean, that is … yes."
"It's secret," Harry said. "I would usually ask for help from someone from it, so it's a codename for Dumble– uh, for our mutual friend's supporters."
Rosie sighed. "I'll make you a deal: I'll Apparate you to Diagon Alley, and you don't tell anyone about that, and especially not that you got it from me."
"Done."
Rosie scrunched up her face. There was a blur of melting flesh, and she aged ten years in as many seconds. She was suddenly his age, with twin blonde pigtails, mild acne and a healthy bust. Now that the army shirt only came down to mid-thigh, Harry saw her stockings were actually part of a unitard.
"My eyes are up here now," Rosie said. "Age Charm. It would make much more sense to have you go shopping with a school friend than some random girl, wouldn't it? You paedophile."
"Er," Harry said. "Right. And if someone points out that you don't actually go to Hogwarts?"
She shrugged again. "The same thing I guess we'll do if we run into the actual Lalors." She Switched her 'outfit' for a traditional set of robes in her purse, took Harry's hand, and Apparated into Diagon Alley.
It was even brighter, cheerier, and more full of life than Harry remembered. The shops weren't flooded with students like they had been on the previous occasions he'd visited, but they still did a boisterous trade with adult witches and wizards. There seemed to be many more foreigners than usual; mostly Continentals and Americans, with a smattering of darker-skinned and Asians. A handful of buskers was spread around the Alley, playing fast-paced music Harry unconsciously began tapping his foot to. Fliers for the Panemque Circus, which was to provide a series of free shows in London, courtesy of the Ministry, were tacked to walls and liberally strewn across the ground.
Harry picked up a flier and read it in detail. There was a stylised cartoon of a man flying a broom around an angry Hippogriff with his hands cuffed behind his back, on a fifteen-second loop, at the end of which the Hippogriff caught him, messily.
Death-defying feats!
Life-threatening situations!
You will not believe your eyes!
You will not WANT to believe your eyes!
An incredible show of talent and ill-advised bravado, with a very real chance of FATAL ACCIDENTS!
Come and see THE AMAZING PANEMQUE CIRCUS, premiering on the 13th of August in London, for a FREE night of awe-inspiring terror!
On the reverse side was a series of reviews:
"Whichever sick mind thought this up should be arrested."
- The Daily Prophet
"My children still have night terrors!"
- Julia Hottsborough
"Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, oh Merlin …" [repeated eighteen times]
- Eric Danwidges
"This looks interesting," Harry said to Rosie.
She glanced over at it. "I remember them from years ago," she said. "I saw their last show before they disbanded, after the Amazing Splinching Man …" She shuddered. "… After his act didn't go as planned. I suppose it's taken them this long to get new members."
"Think I could get together with Ron and Hermione and go?" he asked.
She snorted. "I doubt Dumbledore would like that. Too easy to attack. Someone could blast the entire circus into orbit, and people would assume it was an accident."
They walked towards Madame Malkin's shop. "Do you think Voldemort will attack it?"
Rosie cut him a shrewd look. "I thought you weren't so sure he was back?"
"Er. I'm not, really. I mean I was under a lot of stress, and there was a fair amount of mind-altering magic flying around. There's no telling what really happened. But I mean Dumbledore thinks he is, and you obviously trust him, so … Ginny?"
The little redheaded girl playing Witches, Curses, Money on a worn fiddle looked up and froze on an off note.
"Oh Merlin kill me now," she said in a very small voice, turning scarlet.
"No, don't stop, that was really good," Harry said. "I didn't know you played. Or busked."
She was standing before a battered stand with a book of sheet music. At her feet was a top hat containing a scattering of Knuts and two Sickles.
"Uh," she said. "Well. Er. Yeah. Mum tried to make me learn to sing when I was younger, and I wasn't very good at that, so I … yeah. An uncle gave me this for my eighth birthday, so I thought I might as well try. And, well, I've done this every summer for a few years, just to earn a little spending money and get out of the house."
"I wish I'd thought of that," Harry said, thinking of life with the Dursleys.
"Please don't tell anyone," she said. "I really couldn't stand it if my brothers found out. Or Mum. Dad might be all right. But not anyone at school. I mean, could you imagine if –"
"What's all this, what's all this?" said an unwelcome voice behind Harry. He and Rosie turned. It was, of course, Draco Malfoy, with Pansy Parkinson by his side.
"Oh, no," Ginny mumbled miserably.
"Leave her alone, you git," Harry said.
"My, someone's feeling touchy," Malfoy said, his face glowing with delight. "I can't imagine why. Sheasley, play something calming for him."
"Unless that thing breaks halfway through," Pansy said.
Ginny put her fiddle down and squared her jaw, despite looking close to tears. "If you've got something to say, then why don't you just go ahead and say it."
"Who, me?" Draco asked. "I could laugh and laugh, of course, but really, when you get right down to it, I can't think of anything funnier than knowing that you're living on my charity." He fished a handful of Galleons out of his pocket, threw them into her hat, then strolled off with Pansy, singing Witches, Curses, Money at the top of his lungs; Pansy came in an octave above him after a few words.
"Gits," Harry said.
"You should have thrown those Galleons back in his face," Rosie said.
Ginny looked down and emotions plainly warred across her face: contempt for Malfoy against avarice for more money than she'd had in her life.
"I don't think we've been introduced?" she said instead. "I'm Ginny Weasley."
"I'm Rosie Lalor." They shook hands. "And Harry's right; you were very good. Keep playing."
Ginny's blush still hadn't abated. "I don't think I can with you watching. For people who don't know me it's not so bad, but … "
Rosie nodded. "Boy, do I know about performance anxiety. Bane of my existence. Come on, Harry." She took his hands and led him along.
"How old are you, really?" Harry asked.
"Why, you've known me for years, Harry. I'm the same age as you: fifteen. Except when I'm not."
Harry rolled his eyes and followed her into Madame Malkin's, where he met his next surprise. Malkin was out, and her assistant was minding the shop floor: Cho Chang.
"Oh," Harry said, his stomach dropping at the sight of the pretty witch.
"Hi," Cho said, colouring.
There was a pause.
"I suppose you both know each other?" Rosie asked. "My name's Rosie Lalor, by the way."
"Yes, we're a year apart at Hogwarts," Cho said. "My name's Cho Chang. How did you two meet?"
"Also at Hogwarts," Rosie said. "I guess we must have just never noticed one another."
"I would have thought I'd notice you," Cho said, eyes flicking below Rosie's neckline.
"I didn't know you worked here," Harry said, trying to change the subject.
"Well, yes, it's good to do some part-time work over the holidays. Get some references and work experience, you know. Don't you do anything like that for your holidays?"
"Er," Harry said. "There's this Muggle family that likes me to help around the house. Cook dinner, do the gardening and so on."
"Oh, do you cook?"
"Yes; he's very good," Rosie said, with a well-fed smile. "Harry, are you going to show her your robes?"
"Oh yeah. I need these taken out."
They made more feeble conversation while Cho set Malkin's array of enchanted tape measures and needles to work, but Rosie kept making vaguely creepy comments, and after she accidentally tripped over her own feet to make him catch her, he was only too happy to pay and get out.
"What was that about?" Harry asked angrily, back in the Alley.
"Hmm?"
"Accidentally-on-purpose tripping over your own feet."
"Actually, that really was an accident," Rosie said. "Like I said before, I hate swapping bodies. When we're walking along like now across flat ground and I get a rhythm going, then I'm fine, but most of the time I'm dead clumsy when I'm not in my real body or something very close."
"Yeah, right. Will you Apparate me back to Privet Drive, then?"
… … …
Dear Harry,
I know that I am not your father and I cannot forbid you from going to the Ministry's High Gala, but you must see that it is too dangerous for you to go alone. We've sent a guard to go with you to make sure nothing happens. If she tells you to run for it, don't argue, just go, please.
Be careful, don't touch anything you haven't seen someone else touch, keep away from anyone with a wand in hand, be careful of any known Death Eaters or anyone wearing long sleeves, don't wander off alone, and don't go exploring the Manor. Keep on your toes.
Yours faithfully,
Remus
"It's a party, not a firing squad," Harry said indignantly, reading it twice in his bedroom, on the evening of the Gala. "And no, I was going to team up with a Death Eater to go looking for Dark artefacts. Honestly."
There came a crack from behind him.
"Wotcher, Harry."
"Hello, Rosie. Are you posing as my date tonight?"
"What do you mean, posing?"
He turned around and did a double-take. Gone were the shapeless black robes and the pimples: Rosie was now in skin-tight red Spandex which covered her torso and little else, with heels, gold-trimmed white gloves, a yellow tie, and a beret. Her hair was bleached platinum and about a foot longer than before, tied in a thick braid coming down lower than her dress did. Her face was smooth and clear, with the perfect complexion of someone who couldn't find a use for makeup if she tried.
"Hot damn," Harry said involuntarily.
"Down, boy. Before we go, a warning: I'm your only backup. Everyone else there is an enemy or neutral. See if you can't make friends with someone, because it'll really bite later if they all go over to the other side."
"Yes'm." He thought for a moment. "Do you have your wand on you?"
"What kind of bodyguard would I be if I didn't?"
"Where? You can't possibly have a pocket in there anywhere."
"I'll tell you when you're older," Rosie said. She stepped forward and overbalanced; Harry darted forward and caught her. "Cheers. New rule: you walk me everywhere. I can't learn the lily walk in under ten minutes."
"Why did you wear heels, then?" Harry asked, somewhat distracted.
"Because it's fun to dress up at these gigs. Come on, use that Gryffindor courage! Fortune favours the bold!"
There was a pop and a squeezing feeling and they were gone.
… … …
Greengrass Manor, better known as The Outpost, was a mansion of about ten thousand square feet, two storeys high on average, with dark wooden panelling and a slate roof. It was surrounded by a small forest of mostly magical trees, bushes and flowers; beyond this were fields stretching out as far as Harry could see. Rosie landed him on a six-yard-wide sun mosaic fifty yards from the house, surrounded by floating torches. A twelve-foot marble statue of a warlock with a staff glared down at them.
"State your names," it growled.
"H– Harry Potter and Rosie Lalor," he croaked. The staff was bigger than him. "We were invited."
"You were invited for seven o'clock sharp."
Harry rolled up his sleeve to check his watch. It was a minute twenty seconds past.
"Don't let it happen again," said the warlock. It straightened and froze.
A path of sand and chunks of granite meandered up to the house. Statues of magical animals lined either side; Aethonans seemed to be the most popular. One was emblazoned across the front doors, which were wide open, letting out light to join the last of the sun's. When Harry and Rosie drew level, the hosts stepped out to greet them: Daphne and her mother.
Harry knew Daphne by face as the only blonde girl in Slytherin of his year and by reputation as possibly even more arrogant than Malfoy, but thankfully she mostly kept her arrogance to herself rather than shoving it down people's throats. She wore a bottle green dress which just happened to match his perfectly.
"Good evening, Mr. Potter," the mother said, smiling warmly and shaking his hand. "So glad you could join us. And you brought a little friend!" The temperature dropped a few degrees. "So charmed. Dwynwen Greengrass."
"Rosalind Lalor. This is a lovely house, madame."
"Oh, indeed. Daphne, why don't you show Mr. Potter around?"
"Hang on," Harry said.
"I'd love to," Daphne deadpanned, and with a smile like her teeth were being drilled, she took Harry's arm with surprising strength and led him into the reception room. It was easy to see why this part of the house looked three-storey: it had a very high ceiling. Candles floated everywhere; the walls were covered in Realist paintings; Ministry officials were chatting with bevies of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws.
"Greengrass," Harry said, pulling her to a stop, "what's going on?"
"Potter. First, let me say that none of this is my idea."
He reached inside his robes for his wand.
"Oh put that down. If you curse me, you'll have fifty wands on you in seconds, and again, none of this is my idea."
"Rosie will be here in seconds –"
"Mother could talk the legs off an Acromantula," Daphne said, rolling her eyes, "and then talk them back on. Shut up and listen for one moment, Potter. Mother wants me to" she put an extra dose of contempt into the word "seduce you and persuade you, with your purported honour, to marry me."
"What?"
"I know you're lying when you say you don't know about You-Know-Who being back, although I don't know why. Malfoy's been trying to get us over onto his side for months. He tried to make mini-Malfoy charm me; you can imagine how well that turned out. Mother thinks that, assuming he really is back and it isn't some elaborate plot, either you will win, and we'll ride your coattails to victory, or you'll be killed, and we'll claim to have been the ones to double-cross you. Either way, we get more power.
"Except this all involves me having to sleep with you. I don't like you, Potter. There's a very good reason I've barely spoken three words to you in my life before now. I'll pretend to be civil to you for tonight and tonight only. If you touch me, I will curse you, Mother be damned. Understood?"
"Yes," Harry said. "I appreciate your honesty."
"Oh, shut up, Potter. Just talk about something else until your own tart shakes Mother and I can tell her I failed."
"Is your family really neutral?" he asked.
"I take it you don't know a single thing about us," she said.
"Give me a break. I don't spend my time reading up on every family in Hogwarts in the off chance I might have to fake a date with them."
"Which is why you would never have been put into Slytherin," Daphne said, looking down her nose at him with the aid of her eight-inch heels. "Greengrass is old, rich, and powerful. We've built our fortune over the centuries by never getting involved in any conflict. We run our farms, we sell to whoever buys, we buy more farms. We do not get involved."
"But that is involved, isn't it?" Harry asked. "If you sell food to Voldemort or Dark people, you're helping their side."
Daphne snorted with contempt. "Food? Show some imagination, Potter. Animals. Herbs, raw potion ingredients. Special breeds. Services. And we sell to whoever buys. If Light families are too stubborn to do business with those who don't sacrifice their children to their cause, that's their own lookout. We. Are. Neutral."
"What do you mean, sacrificing children?" Harry asked quickly. He still wanted verification of Voldemort's claims about Dumbledore.
"Will the Weasleys fight You-Know-Who?" Daphne asked. "Doubtless. That's Gryffindor's entire raison d'être, isn't it, always get involved? Note which of us has the fortune. And if you allow six sons to fight someone like that, you can't expect all to come out alive."
"You don't know they won't," Harry argued.
"No? Do you think you can win a war without losses? Who on your side do you suppose will die?"
Harry's mind whirled over everyone he knew who would fight against Voldemort. None of them deserved to die, but the odds of all of them making it … "Someone has to fight for what's right."
Daphne raised a pencilled eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, Greengrass knows that it is possible to win a war without losses. By selling weapons to both sides. Enjoy your war, Boy Who Lived."
Rosie came staggering out of a doorway and almost knocked Harry down. He caught and steadied her. Dwynwen was two paces behind and shot Daphne a glowering smile. Daphne gave an I-tried-my-best apology shrug.
"Oh, hello again, Minister," Dwynwen said, brightening. Cornelius Fudge had arrived, surrounded by an entourage of lackeys; beaming, he shook Harry's hand. The only person of his group Harry recognised was Percy Weasley.
"Hello, Dune," he said; Dwynwen gave a tinkling laugh which Fudge apparently didn't realise was fake. "Young Daphne, Harry. And who's your charming friend? Is this the Hermione Granger I've heard so much about?"
"No, sir," Rosie said, curtseying and almost falling yet again. "Rosie Lalor. Hermione couldn't make it today."
"That's too bad," Fudge said. "The brightest witch of her generation, they say, and only a Muggle-born?" Harry's hackles rose, but he kept mum. "I should like to meet her. Still, Boy Who Lived and Triwizard Champion, and not even fifteen yet! Not bad, not bad at all. With accomplishments like this, who knows? One day, you might even be a contender for my position. I only hope I've retired by then!"
His cronies laughed.
"Of course, before then, you really must learn how to speak in public," Fudge went on. "What to say, when to say it … and most of all, when not to say it."
"If this is about those – those ramblings about You-Know-Who being back after the Third Task," Harry said, "you're right, and I'm sorry if that's caused you trouble. I think I had been Confunded."
"Oho!" said Fudge. "You hear that, Xenophilus?"
Harry had the impression of a large, pot-bellied man who had been struck by lightning a few times. "So you believe there was a conspiracy at Hogwarts?" he asked. "Confundus? Possibly Imperius? Strange spells and potions?"
"Xenophilus Lovegood, press," Fudge said. "By the way, didn't you bring your daughter along? She'd be about Harry's age, wouldn't she?"
"Oh, yes," Xenophilus said absently. "She went outside to talk with the Aethonans."
"A Lovegood is with our Aethonans?" Dwynwen asked suddenly.
"She loves animals," Xenophilus said.
"I must be going," Dwynwen said. "I must check on the – er – house-elves." And she hurried off.
"Yes, Mister Lovegood," Harry said, after a pause. "Barty Crouch actually used Imperius on us in the classroom. He was posing as Mad-Eye Moody at the time."
The journalist's mind was clearly whirring, and Harry had the unwelcome feeling that he had just unleashed a monster. "Fascinating … and your potions master is Severus Snape … I must talk with Luna. Would it be possible to receive an interview at your convenience, Mr. Potter? Our readers must know about these events."
"Absolutely," said a man in navy robes and a lavender fedora, who was standing as far from Lovegood as the group's size would allow. "Quixus Richly of the Daily Prophet, and we would be willing to pay well for an exclusive."
Gears turned in Harry's brain. "Well, if it would be in the public's best interest," he said.
"I'll send an owl," Richly said.
"I'll send two," Lovegood said immediately.
"Come, gentlemen!" Fudge said, laughing jovially. "There will be plenty of time for business later. For now, there are people you simply must meet! Nivideus Drax, the owner of British Quidditch Limited, made me promise to present you the instant I saw you. Here, have a drink."
A platter of wineglasses floated over; he deftly plucked two off, passed one to Harry, and took a sip of the other himself. The rest of the group took glasses.
"Aren't I a little young?" Harry asked dubiously.
Daphne rolled her eyes again and sipped from her own glass.
"Never stopped me," Rosie said, and downed hers.
"You know," Daphne said to her in an undertone, "I've had Potions with Gryffindor for four years, and I've never seen you once."
"That's probably because I'm a Hufflepuff," Rosie said easily.
"Oh, really?" Daphne asked. "You poor thing. What electives do you take?"
"Muggle Studies and … Care of Magical Creatures," Rosie said, thinking that Daphne would never have taken the first and remembering from Ron that Slytherins shared the second with Gryffindor.
"Drink up, my boy," Fudge said.
Harry looked down at the wine. Well, he'd been having Butterbeer for years. He tried a sip, found it was quite nice, and tried a bit more.
"Hey, this ain't bad," he said. He keep drinking, and soon the glass was gone.
"Of course our nettle wine is good," Daphne said. "I'll have Mother send you a bottle. Share it with the Weasleys. I imagine it'll be the best they ever have." They laughed, except Rosie and Percy; even Harry chuckled idly. "Present company excluded, of course."
"Yeah," Harry said, looking down at his empty glass. Hey, Vodlermort. Heh. Vodkamort.
Harry, what in Merlin's name are you talking about?
Eh? Wine. With nettles. Daphne's pretty.
Sweet Merlin. Harry, how much have you had? It's not even a quarter past yet!
I haven't been dricking! Well, barely. Just the one. Hey, did you know there's a girl at school whose dad works for the papers? Called Lula. No, wait.
Harry, Bellatrix Lestrange, whose BASELINE is crazy as a burning sack full of rabid Nifflers, sounds more coherent than you, after 'just one glass'. You sound like you've had a dozen and probably mixed medications in, too. Voldemort paused. Oh don't tell me you've been taking anything harder than alcohol. That's supposed to be a FORMAL PARTY, you moron!
I haven't touched nothing! Heh. Haven't, nothing. But serially, just the one glass. An it wasn't that bad. Rosie had one, an she's broser as a brick. She's pretty, too.
Oh, for the love of … THIS is why I never had children. Look, get outside with someone who can Apparate and have them take you somewhere you can sober up.
I ent drunk! One glass ain't enough! It ain't enough! It ain't enough!
… Oh sweet Merlin, you're telling the truth. Which means someone's obviously drugged it. It's a trap. Get out of there, now.
But Daphne –
DAMMIT POTTER! Someone's either trying to poison you or get you to sign a contract or I don't even know what. Get outside NOW. I'm sending people to pick you up. You did at least get some privacy before calling me, didn't you?
Uh?
Harry looked up, to realise that he had been muttering under his breath for the past few minutes. Rosie, smile fixed, was shaking his arm and squeezing hard enough to cut off circulation; everyone else was just staring. He stumbled backward, pulling Rosie down with him, and broke out giggling.
"Uh, nothing to see here!" Rosie said. She kicked her shoes off and pulled Harry to his feet and then to the exit. "Just … thinking about a joke from the other day … uh-oh."
Outside, two figures in dark blue robes and bronze masks popped into the circle of the mosaic. The warlock statue moved to attack them; one shot a spell at it, freezing it cold. A klaxon split the night.
"They're closing in," Rosie shouted against the siren. She pulled him inside the doorway, retrieved her wand from somewhere, took off her hair tie and gave it to Harry. "This is a Portkey. It probably won't work unless you get to the entrance circle; it's triggered by the phrase 'Up, up and away'. Get to the mosaic!"
"Ten four!" Harry shouted. He drew his wand, and they ran outside.
The two Death Eaters fell back and assumed defensive stances; guests ran out of the manor to gawk. Daphne snapped her fingers, and the alarm cut off.
"No-one attacks our territory," she said. She put her fingers to her mouth and gave a splitting whistle. Somewhere over on the right came an answering roar from something big.
The Death Eaters glanced in that direction, clearly startled. One began firing Stunners toward Harry and the house, but he was staggering so badly aiming was a lost cause, and most fizzled harmless against the Outpost's façade. One hit Percy, who was standing in the entrance way; another knocked Rosie out.
"Indepemental!" Harry cried, waving his wand randomly; it gave a sound like a party horn. "Expellimellius!" The sleeve of the Death Eater throwing Stunners burst into flame. The other grabbed his shoulder, and both popped out of sight. "Up, up and awaaay!" There came the familiar hook behind navel feeling …