SO it's been like…three months? Four? Honestly that's not too bad, coming from me. Sorry for the wait nonetheless :) Also, regarding the pairings, and all I can say is this: the wheels of fate are in motion. The slash is an imminent eventuality, and also I planned it from the beginning and am so not going to change it when I'm already 30K words into this story, so the pairings shall remain :) Note, however, that romance is still not one of the story categories. It'll be there, but not a big deal. Family is the focus here.

Warnings: Some angst, some violence. Hibari.

Disclaimer: If you recognize any terms, characters, or concepts, that's because they don't belong to me.


Chapter 7

"Identify yourself, herbivore."

Harry hissed as his cheek was pressed into the cool wall, took a moment to recover from the shock of once again not having detected another's presence, and then strained to twist his neck and glance behind him–

Only to see Fon. Unadulterated befuddlement consumed him, and Harry opened his mouth to question the man when his adrenaline kicked in, clearing his mind and sharpening his focus enough to realize that this was in fact a stranger. This man was shorter, younger. He was lacking a long braid and his eyes were paler and harder, and despite having interacted with the man only twice, Harry could not imagine Fon wearing the sort of ferocious scowl that was painted across his assaulter's face.

"I will not repeat myself," the man hissed and yes, even his accent was different from Fon's. A close relative, perhaps? Family was famiglia, after all, according to his grandfather.

"Harry Potter," Harry choked out finally, feeling the man's metal weapon press tighter to his nape. "I'm Reborn's grandson."

The man behind him stiffened, then scoffed. "Do not insult me with such a transparent lie."

"I'm telling the truth–!"

"Oya, oya, Kyoya. Assaulting guests in abandoned hallways? Why, I never thought you the type," a new voice chuckled.

The man behind Harry – Kyoya, apparently – stiffened again, and Harry could feel a snarl rumbling from the man's chest against his back as his rage swelled to near palpability. Harry could not blame him; the smug insinuation in the newcomer's voice set his teeth on edge.

"This lying herbivore is not on any guest list," he growled, "And if he won't admit his purpose here, then I will bite him to death!"

If that wasn't an opening of hostilities, then Harry didn't know what was, but he knew that – as much as he would like to give the other man a good, solid shove right back – he could not retaliate without exacerbating the misunderstanding. Taking advantage of Kyoya's brief preoccupation the newcomer, Harry wrenched himself determinedly away from the wall, cast a pair of Jelly Legs jinxes to impede the pair, and then turned on his heel to Apparate away with a sharp, echoing crack!

He reappeared in the kitchen he had snagged the powdered doughnut from a few hours before. Unless he was mistaken, it was in an entirely different wing from the one that violent security guard had accosted him in, so he hoped he would be safe for long enough to contact his grandfather to clear up the misunderstanding.

He reached into his pocket for the cell phone Reborn had insisted he carry – despite his own insistence that technology did not last very long when exposed to his magic – only to let out a yelp and instinctively throw himself to the side to avoid a steak knife sailing through the air. The steak knife was rapidly followed by two cleavers, a filet knife, and a frying pan, and at that point Harry had quite enough. He called up a powerful shield charm just in time to bounce away a blender, and he was finally able to lay eyes on his newest assaulter.

Oh– the purple guy from the night before. Skull.

"S-stay away from me!" Skull screeched, arming himself with two handfuls of paring knives. "Just leave me alone, you bastard! I won't let you kill me!"

And Harry, who had been on the verge of stunning the man and bolting again, froze. Never before had he been faced with someone so intent on defense against him, so absolutely certain that Harry intended malicious harm. It was a terrible feeling, and despite his gut telling him to neutralize the threat and relocate as quickly as possible, instead he held up his hands placatingly and spoke carefully.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I don't even know who you are."

"You're my mortal enemy, you bastard! How dare you not recognize the Great Skull?!" Skull blanched immediately after, seeming to regret the brief spurt of bravado.

"But I haven't got a mortal enemy, not anymore," Harry said, frowning confusedly. "I really don't know why you think I'm going to hurt you, because I promise that's not my intention."

"Y-you–! Stop trying to trick me! You think I can't tell what you are? You think I can't feel that presence hanging all over you?!"

Harry growled in frustration. "I don't know what you're talking about! What am I?"

"The Master of Death, and you're here to kill me because I'm the guy who won't die!" Skull blurted. The man was nearly hyperventilating, and his hands trembled wildly as he tried to keep the knives held defensively before him. Harry's heart skipped a beat, and the kitchen was grave-silent for several long moments.

"How do you know about that?" Harry whispered hoarsely. Skull licked his lips, smearing the dark purple lipstick.

"I can feel it," Skull whispered back tremulously. "I'm the Immortal Stuntman; I've met Death so many times, of course I can tell when it's hanging around. The way it's sticking so close to you, circling around like a puppy, it's obvious that you're it's– it's Master. And y-you're here to finish the job it's never b-been able to."

Skull's shoulders sagged with hopeless resignation as tears washed streams of dark eye makeup down his cheeks. Harry had not seen anything so pitiable and heart-rending since the war, so he cancelled his shield charm and sat on the ground, hands still up.

"I'm not here to kill you. I promise you that. It's true that I'm the Master of Death, technically, but that's really just an empty title. It was an accident a few years ago, and I'm certainly not looking to do death's work."

Skull looked faint. "An accident…?"

Harry just nodded solemnly, trying his utmost to project sincerity. "A side effect of, well, doing what I had to do to protect the people important to me. I'm… a little bit different since it happened – I've got a few tricks I didn't have before – but I'm not Death Incarnate, or anything. I'm just Harry," he finished earnestly with a helpless shrug.

There was a long silence, broken only by the stuntman's sniffling, as they stared at each other, gauging. Harry must have done something right, because Skull's next move was not to lob more knives at his head.

"…So you're not going to kill me?" Skull's voice was very small as he finally loosened his hold on the paring knives and sank to the ground, leveling his runny eyes with Harry's.

"No, promise." Harry smiled tentatively, and was gratified to see Skull return it wobbily.

"What are you doing here, then?" Skull asked, reaching up onto the counter for a towel to wipe the errant makeup smears from his face. He had surprisingly fine features beneath the mask of paint, and looked quite young.

"My grandfather wanted to introduce me to his world. Reborn, I mean," Harry clarified, and Skull's face promptly morphed into a horrified, disgusted visage.

"That bastard bred?"

Harry sniffed, faintly offended for himself and on behalf of his mother and grandfather, but then recalled the cruel way Reborn had dismissed Skull the night before and supposed the other was at least a little bit justified.

"Apparently," he said stiffly. "What's the problem between you and him, anyway? He didn't have anything kind to say about you yesterday."

Skull's face contorted into what was probably supposed to be a righteously indignant scowl, but ended up looking more like a child's pout. "That bastard has no respect for the Great Skull. He calls me 'lackey' and makes me treat him like he's better than me, but he's not. He's just a big, stupid bully!"

"Er, sorry that he makes you feel like you're not important?" Harry offered, still treading lightly around the obviously unstable man. "But he doesn't seem the type to do something without reason."

"What the hell do you know!" Skull blustered, having apparently forgotten his terror from moments before. "I'm the one who's had to deal with him for forty years!"

And all of Harry's senses sharpened once again, detecting another opportunity to learn about his grandfather's mysterious curse. He zeroed in on Skull, who cast wary eyes at Harry, having noticed the sudden change in demeanor.

"So you were cursed along with my grandfather, then? And Fon as well?" Harry pressed. Skull nodded slowly.

"There were seven of us. Well, seven and a half; Lal got away with her flames unbound."

"Flames? What fl–" Harry broke off suddenly, instincts screaming at him, as he rolled across the ground and ducked behind a trolley as metal crashed into the place he'd been sitting. Ceramic tile exploded outward from the point of impact.

Harry stared disbelievingly, heart beating a violent staccato in his throat as his eyes panned to see one of the men he had encountered earlier– Kyoya, the one who wanted to bite him, of all things. The other one, who had interrupted the interrogation and provided an unwitting distraction for Harry's escape, was nowhere to be seen, but Harry was not concerned with him.

No, he was concerned with Kyoya, whose teeth were bared in a snarl and whose eyes glared murder as Harry had never before seen.

"You," came the animalistic growl. "No more negotiating. I will bite you for humiliating me."

Harry had a brief moment to wonder how he had been found so quickly, and then the man was rushing forward with such alacrity that all he could discern was a very angry maelstrom of spiked chains aimed at his head. Harry thrust himself backwards, mentally bemoaning that the frenzy of the assault did not allow him the brief moment needed to concentrate in preparation for Apparition.

Instead, he sank into himself, allowing the sheer sensation of combat to enshroud him. Left, right, duck, roll to the side, Expelliarmus!

Shit, he kept his grip, what sort of monster was this guy? Stupefy, stupefy, petrificus totalis, confundus! But no, each spell was flicked away by chain or tonfa and Harry grit his teeth, frustration welling inside of him at the easy, careless flicks dismantling his offensive. Indirect it is, then, Harry thought as he conjured a pressurized stream of water from the tip of his wand.

As expected, Kyoya was scarcely deterred, easily dancing around the torrent, but Harry was prepared and wrenched his wand to the side with a ferocious twist, wordlessly forcing the water to vaporize and surround his attacker with a whirling cloud of disorienting steam. In the man's brief distraction, Harry dropped to the ground and rolled, trawling his wand along the floor beside him to freeze the condensation on the tile beneath the plume, and was gratified to hear a distinct thud followed by a frustrated snarl as Kyoya slipped to the ground.

In the brief respite Kyoya's fall afforded him, Harry let his senses expand from the laser focus on his opponent and became aware of rapid, hushed speaking; a glance to the side revealed Skull crouched on the floor, pale and wide-eyed, speaking into a cell phone. Harry wondered briefly who he was talking to, but this moment of curiosity quickly proved to be a terrible mistake as a weighted metal chain coiled around his ankle and yanked him to the ground. He barked out a short cry of pain as his head collided painfully with the tile floor, but instinctively raised a shield above himself to cover his front as his vision spun.

And then the blow of the Kyoya's glowing purple tonfa crashed against his hastily erected shield charm, the tremendous force of it dispelling the slip-shod bubble, and Harry knew he was in serious trouble. But he just couldn't fight back with serious force, not with anything strong enough to actually make it past the formidable blocks of those metal tonfa, because this was one of his grandfather's allies! Damn it, if he would just stop and listen…!

But no, Kyoya was looming back above him, fully recovered from the powerful rebound of shattering the shield charm. His tonfa raised up menacingly to strike the wizard down, and Harry lifted his wand, bombarda on his lips – no choice, don't be too angry, grandpa – when the other suddenly thrust himself backwards out of the way of a blinding plume of orange flame. Harry pulled up another shield and rolled into a ready crouch as a stern voice emerged from the center of the blaze.

"That's enough," the Decimo said, back to Harry. The young man cut an impressive figure, silhouetted against the brilliant flames dancing around him, and most importantly, standing between Harry and the maniac trying to kill him.

Kyoya sneered at the order, waspishly bit out several terse phrases in a foreign language, then made to lunge past the don, aiming once again for Harry's throat.

Decimo raised a hand wreathed in flame, but Kyoya jerked to a halt before the boss could stop him as several gunshots rang through the air, knocking Kyoya's weapons from his hands and piercing into the tile before his feet. The man froze, and despite his attacker's inactivity, Harry could not bring himself to relax, not with the deadly aura that had suddenly suffused the kitchen. For there, looming in the doorway like a wrathful shade, was his grandfather, face stone cold and eyes glinting darkly, holding a green smoking pistol.

"Heel, Hibari. This family doesn't need mad dogs," Reborn intoned grimly. "Don't make me put you down."

Kyoya – Hibari? – looked outraged, eyes narrowed dangerously, but he thankfully refrained from pursuing Harry. Some of the harsh tension drained from the Decimo's shoulders. "Thanks for stopping, Hibari-san," he said. "And for doing your job. But you don't have to worry about Harry, he's Reborn's grandson."

Hibari's eyebrows jerked up for a moment and he gave one last glare to Harry, eyes disturbingly anticipatory, before turning sharply to stalk out of the kitchen. Harry's breath caught as he paused in the doorway, but he only muttered something quiet and demanding to Reborn, who nodded, before disappearing into the hallway. Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Injuries?" Reborn barked tersely as he came closer. Harry recalled that he was supposed to be frustrated with his grandfather at the moment and thought he should probably ignore the man, but was too glad to see him to be childish. The wizard shook his head in answer to the question, biting down on a wince as the motion made his skull throb.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, Mr. Harry," the Decimo said, finally turning to face him. And Harry gasped, immediately twisting his wand to pull the remaining steam from the air and condensing it over the brilliant orange flame burning in the young man's hair.

"Are you okay?! You were on fire!" Harry fretted as the flame fizzled out, leaving the Decimo staring up at him wide-eyed and gaping and looking very much like a kitten just given a bath, all betrayed affront.

There was a disbelieving silence as Harry began to get the feeling he'd done something wrong, but then his grandfather started laughing, deep and loud and thoroughly delighted.

"Reborn!" the Decimo whined, then whipped around to glare over Harry's shoulder as Skull began chuckling as well. Harry shifted and offered a nervous smile to the mob boss.

"Um, sorry, I–" but he was cut off as the man's lips twitched into a reluctantly amused smile.

"It's alright," he said wryly, voice pitched to rise over Reborn and Skull's laughter as he gripped a lock of hair and squeezed out the water. "I wasn't actually on fire, but thanks for the concern. I guess Reborn hasn't talked to you about Dying Will Flames yet?"

"Let's not ruin the surprise for Harry's first training session, Dame-Tsuna," Reborn cut in, still smirking widely.

The Decimo's face abruptly twisted into queasiness. "But Reborn, he's your grandson! You– you're not going to–!" Apparently it was too horrible to articulate, and Harry considered the merits of sending an emergency missive that Kingsley demand his immediate return to England.

Reborn merely smirked wickedly and turned to glide out of the kitchen, and Harry felt a terrible chill travel down his spine at the sight. Tsuna appeared similarly disturbed and rushed forward to grab the man's sleeve, presumably to continue the conversation, but Reborn was quite suddenly out of the younger man's reach, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. Tsuna froze as well, and although Harry could not see his face, there was an uncomfortable tenseness in the set of his shoulders.

Harry watched the standoff curiously, wondering at the source of the awkward by-play, but then the moment passed. The Decimo cleared his throat and retracted his hand, straightening away from Reborn, who similarly took a step back and regained himself.

"Um, anyway," Tsuna started, obviously grasping for a diversion. "I'm glad we got here in time."

Reborn hummed in agreement, ostensibly back to normal, then called over Harry's shoulder, "It was a good of you to call me, Skull, before the fight escalated further. It would have been annoying to find another Cloud Guardian of Hibari's caliber."

Harry frowned. "I wouldn't have killed him, you know."

"I never said you would," his grandfather rejoined blandly. Harry blinked, faintly confused, but couldn't help but notice Tsunayoshi staring incredulously at Reborn.

"Hmph," Skull snorted petulantly. "Maybe you'll remember this the next time you call me lackey."

As they all left the kitchen to Reborn's sneer that only a lackey would have been unable to handle the situation by himself, Harry paused and glanced back. He could have sworn he just heard an echoing chuckle from within the room, an eerie kufufu that made his skin crawl.


Mammon was… surprisingly not irritated. She had been sitting in on a meeting with the Torego famiglia to arrange a contract when the call had come from Reborn, but her presence there had not been necessary; Squalo was more than capable of discussing the details of the hit, particularly with the aid of the clearly defined price list she had compiled years ago. It was something of a relief, in fact – a diverting turn of events – to be called away, particularly for such an interesting reason.

"Chaos, Mammon," Reborn had said smoothly. "How would you like to bump up your little meeting with Harry? Have your favor a bit early?"

Mammon had been startled by the offer, to say the least. She distinctly recalled receiving a dark glare from the hitman upon declaring that his grandson owed her a small debt, and so was rightfully suspicious that he was suddenly so supportive of that debt. There was a catch, she was quite sure, and had let a skeptical silence do her talking. Reborn had capitulated after a moment.

"…Someone needs to watch him until my meetings are done for the day, and I know you aren't doing anything important. He had a bit of a spat with Hibari and Mukuro because they didn't know who he was, and I need someone recognizable to vouch for him in case security tries to arrest him."

Ah, there it was. Reborn's penchant for flashiness was coming back to bite him. She was tempted to say something smug about guest lists and paranoid Mafiosi and beginners' mistakes, but opted to simply suggest a location for the meeting. It wouldn't do for him to redact the offer, after all.

And so Mammon found herself seated comfortably in an out of the way lounge, awaiting the arrival of Reborn's grandson. A worm of anxiety twisted through her before she shoved it away viciously; she wasn't nervous about meeting the boy. Regardless of his fame and achievements and the rather fearsome reputation he had acquired in recent years, he was hardly mentally unstable in the way of her daily companions, after all.

No, it was the nature of her favor that left Mammon vaguely uneasy. It was not a major request, but it did require a degree of transparency that she was unused to affording anyone, let alone a complete stranger. But she trusted Reborn's judgment, and if the paranoid, emotionally distant hitman felt that his grandson – a highly decorated Auror – was trustworthy enough to attend the largest mafia alliance conference in the world, then she supposed she could trust the young man to an extent as well.

She heard the faint scuffing of the door opening – an ubiquitous and intentional construction flaw throughout the mansion caused all doors to rub across the floor to assist in alerting occupants to intruders – and turned to regard Harry Potter, the Savior of Magical Britain, as he entered cautiously.

Mammon was briefly revisited by the same whimsical notion that had touched her the day before, that the man should be taller and broader and generally more impressive for all of his accomplishments, but banished the thought; she herself was proof that lethality was not contingent upon stature.

"Good day, Mr. Potter," Mammon began. "Please sit."

"Just Harry, please," he responded immediately as he moved to settle into the armchair across from her. "What can I do for you?"

She took her time formulating a response and examined the man before her with a critical eye. A bit twitchy, she decided, noticing his stiff, ready posture and the way his eyes kept flicking about the room. But then he had just come from some sort of encounter with the Vongola Mist and Cloud, so a bit of lingering unease was understandable. Actually, Mammon considered, he appeared to be faring quite well from the incident, with no visible injuries but for a faint redness to one cheek that would likely deepen into a mild bruise. Capable and appropriately cautious, Mammon decided, and allowed herself to be satisfied.

Noticing with mild amusement that her prolonged silence seemed to be augmenting the young man's nerves, she finally spoke. "Tell me, have you any experience with teaching?"

Harry blinked, apparently momentarily taken aback, but then nodded in the affirmative. "Some. I did a bit of defense tutoring for other students back in school, and I've helped a few Auror trainee classes."

"Better than nothing, I suppose," Mammon murmured. Her mouth twisted, then, as she forced herself to articulate the favor. "I…require some guidance regarding certain advanced spellwork."

"Oh," Harry said, a bit blankly. "I'm no genius, but I'd be glad to help if I can. You didn't need an official request or anything for that."

Yes, I did, Mammon thought, but outwardly only nodded. "The first on my list is the encompassing shield charm…"

"D'you mind if I ask why you wanted my help specifically?" Harry asked, some time later. Mammon was pleased with their progress thus far; the wizard's practical advice on the casting of protective wards, concealment spells, and complex transfigurations was infinitely more helpful than the flat descriptions in the textbooks she had procured.

Having powered through the majority of her list in just under two hours, Mammon had suggested they take a short break before continuing the hour until lunch, and the wizard had apparently taken that suggestion as an opportunity to be nosy. She considered ignoring the question outright, but then recalled his earnestness and professionalism in assisting her, the blatant lack of condescension or frustration over basic questions.

Harry Potter had irreparably betrayed himself to be kind and honest. This was admittedly a refreshing change from Mammon's normal companions, but it could also prove quite useful. If she could just spin her story the right way, she stood a good chance of appealing to his sympathy, allowing further imposition on his good graces.

Mammon took a moment to mull over the question, considering how best to phrase her ordeal, before beginning. "I was born a witch, and I am one now, but for a very long time I was unable to use magic."

Caught. The young man appeared immediately enraptured, leaning forward with wide eyes. "Were you cursed as well? Like my grandfather and the others?"

Ah. He was aware of the existence of a curse on the Arcobaleno, but seemed to be lacking in details. And again, his eagerness betrayed him; this curiosity could be useful barter in the future.

"That curse had some role to play, but it was not the primary cause. No, I became unable to perform wanded magic at the age of fourteen." She paused here, thinking that the drama of it would go over well with him. Again, she was correct, as his face fell aghast. Gryffindors, she sighed.

"But how can you just lose your magic?" Harry demanded.

"I did not lose it; my magic was stolen from me," Mammon said grimly. "But I will start from the beginning. I was a student of Hogwarts, like yourself, although I was sorted into Slytherin." Mammon paused here again, almost unnoticeably, to gauge his reaction to her sorting. If he was complicit in the infamous rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, then he may be less willing to overlook any prevarication; but no, there was no hint of animosity in his expression, and Mammon continued.

"I thrived there, reveled in the magic and the arcane, but there were issues, of course. Children will be children, and I do not excuse myself from that fault. Growing up impoverished as I had, I cherished the opportunity Hogwarts offered to earn wealth in exchange for tutoring services, and so when another student blatantly and unapologetically stole from me some of that hard-earned money, I reacted impulsively in my rage. I was expelled, my wand was snapped, and my magic was sealed."

"…I didn't know it was possible to seal someone's magic away," Harry said quietly, his face grim.

"The practice has since been banned, deemed too cruel. But back then, it was considered the gentler alternative to Azkaban, enforced upon minors and others with constitutions too weak to endure the Dementors. The convicted were then allowed to live their lives as they saw fit, only without magic.

"In my case, the block was to be lifted upon the completion of my sentence, but I was cursed before then, and the circumstances surrounding that curse prevented me from returning to the magical world to have the block removed. When the curse was lifted seven years ago, the magic block was apparently lifted as well, although I did not realize it until three years ago. Since then, I have been attempting to refamiliarize myself with that world."

Mammon paused again. "It has been…difficult, trying to re-educate myself in the ways of wanded magic. I had not held a wand in many decades, and much of what I learned as a student I have either forgotten or is out-of-date, and textbooks alone can only teach so much. I needed an instructor, one whose questions concerning my circumstances I would feel… safe, answering."

"So basically, an experienced wizard within the family?" Harry asked. Quite astute, Mammon noted, before nodding in the affirmative.

"But you know I'm not technically family, right? I'm only here because Reborn – who is also technically not Vongola – wanted me to meet his people. I'm not staying or anything; I'm still a British Auror."

Mammon shrugged. "Close enough, and a better bet than anyone else around here. Particularly considering your history."

Harry hummed noncommittally, still watching Mammon shrewdly. "Speaking of history, there's a bit of yours that doesn't add up. Mind answering a bit more, since I'm apparently safe to speak to?"

Mammon frowned back, only visible in the downturn of her lips. "I will decide whether to answer."

"It was interesting how you attributed your crime to simple childhood pettiness, but I'd like to know what exactly you did, that you would have been thrown in Azkaban if you'd been of age and that even still you were given a sentence from the age of fourteen until at least your mid twenties, which I gather is approximately when you all were cursed."

Mammon cursed internally; apparently he was not just some puppet Auror. It had been difficult enough trying to downplay the severity of her crime, hoping the discussion of the cruel and unusual practice of cutting witches and wizards off from their magic and her subsequent difficulties would distract him from the specifics of her crime, but no luck.

She could not simply refuse to answer this question, as it would only deepen his suspicion, but she could not reveal the full severity of her actions, not to someone of his Gryffindorish disposition; he would surely condemn her, and retract his offer of assistance. Perhaps once she had garnered full use of him, she could divulge precisely what kind of monster he had aided.

Because Mammon did not regret it.

Even now, Mammon still felt rage as she recalled the events of that day. She had been minding her own business – literally, as she counted out her sickles for the week in a back corner of the library. But then several boys, older years of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, and sauntered in, spied the shine of her coins, and had set their greedy hands upon them.

Ha! one foolish fifth year had mocked. What do girls know about money, anyway? Really, I'm doing you a favor here. You'd just waste it all on shiny baubles.

And she had leapt to her feet, seething with fury at the insult and the theft, and they had just laughed even more. Vitriolic threats had erupted from her throat, and they just turned their backs and walked away. So she followed through.

CRUCIO! The child who was not yet Mammon had screeched, the Unforgivable leaping to her lips as she recalled the clandestine whisperings of those dark Slytherin boys who had graduated the year before. Crucio, crucio, crucio!

"…I attacked my tormentors with a very dark curse, one that several upper years had suggested I use should I ever feel threatened. I was unaware of precisely how dark it was, but that did not absolve me," Mammon lied coolly.

"What curse?"

"It was some sort of pain curse, if I recall," she hedged. How relentless, like a dog with a bone.

"The Cruciatus," Harry said flatly, eyes probing as he cut precisely through her bullshit. "You crucified another student for stealing a few galleons."

Damn it.

"…Yes," Mammon admitted grudgingly, and opted to not correct him, that it had actually been several students for a few sickles, not galleons.

Harry simply stared at her, the picture of austerity, until he sighed. "As much as I hate to admit it, I can't begrudge you for it, not when I've done something similar. Well, except that I actually do regret it, and it wasn't an Unforgivable," he added wryly, then continued, "Anyway, you've served more than your sentence, right? So let's let it lie and move on, shall we?"

And then he leaned forward, plucked the spell list off the table, and carried on as though the conversation had never happened.

"Cave inimicum, hmm? Here, if you finish the quarter clockwise rotation with this little twist-poke, it'll prolong the ward by a good bit…"

And Mammon, thrown decidedly more off-kilter than she could recall being for a very long time, could only follow suit with a faint shiver. Definitely Reborn's grandson.


Poor Skull. Poor Harry. Poor Tsuna. Poor innocent children traumatized by Mammon.

Concrit is welcome!