Impstar, Not an Eldritch Horror: The reason Jen is so intent on keeping Candyland open is that while she was still with the Dursleys, Vernon threatened numerous times to send her to an orphanage – like we've all seen in fanfics before – so she inadvertently internalized the idea that Socials Services is an enemy. Combine that with horror stories about foster homes she heard from other employees, and she honestly thinks keeping the cops away is the best way to protect "her" kids; as I've mentioned before, this is one of the only morals she has left.

I think I'll elaborate more on this in a later scene, but fair warning: it may be somewhat graphic by the time I'm done.

I thought I was going to get all the way through the Solstice Ball this week, but… Let's just say that one scene in particular got away from me. Then again, it's also one several people have been waiting for, so maybe that isn't a bad thing.

Disclaimer: Was Tom Riddle able to go anywhere in Hogwarts he wanted when he returned for his job interview, even though Dumbledore knew he and his Death Eaters were there and was still highly mistrustful of the budding Dark Lord? If so, I don't own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., and whomever else she sold the rights to.

Chapter 25
Dark Devotions

Jen twisted the knob to cut off the shower, and water ran in freezing rivulets down her body to wash away the last few grains of salt still sticking stubbornly to her skin. A warm bath in salt water, then a cold shower in pure, she recited to herself, but why the temperatures for those two can't be reversed, I'll never know. Pulling back the curtain, she stepped out of the shower and picked up a rough towel to dry herself. And of course any magic that would make me more comfortable is strictly forbidden.

A breath of the smoldering bundles of sage and jasmine scattered through the room quickly cleared her head, or at least reminded her of what was at stake.

She walked to the sink, or more specifically to the bowls of paint she had put there before her watery ablutions. Sponges, already dripping with black and purple dyes, rose and began sweeping over her outstretched arms while a snap of her fingers caused her hair to be pulled up in a loose clump on the back of her head. It would need to be loose during the ritual – which was why she had sheared it off to just above her shoulders rather than leave it stretching to her upper back, to keep it from disturbing anything – but for her preparations, it was best that it stay completely out of the way. The sponges reached her shoulders and turned to continue down her back and over her breasts, and she dipped her fingers in the smaller dishes of black and white paints.

This degree of preparation was unusual for her; normally, she would simply worry about the runes and veves and not bother with what she herself looked like. Not even Elsie, born and raised in Haiti, the heartland of Voodoo itself, went through a complete purification or dolled herself up like this on a regular basis. While it never hurt – in point of fact, it made the magic more worthy of the Baron's attention – most of the rituals found in the grimoire she generally used, Maji a ak Spirtuèl nan Vodou, made no mention of such details, the procedures so old and so practiced that they had been stripped of all but the barest essentials. Honestly, the last time she had ever gone to this much effort was when she was eight and still learning the finer nuances of her craft.

Unfortunately, the magic she was about to work was not in that book, nor in any other that she knew of. It was instead of her own creation.

Hence the elaborate decorations. She was confident that it would succeed, as she had cobbled it together from several other rituals, even if they were only tangentially related to tonight's grisly purpose, but if this were not exactly right, the dedication her preparations displayed was believed to persuade the Baron to be more forgiving of mistakes and thereby ward off a potential rebound. She would rather not have to go home in a couple of hours and explain to the rest of the family how she had lost her magic or a limb or even the entirety of her physical form. And that assumed she could survive the backfire of magic in the first place.

The sponges trailed over her feet and tumbled away, and a loincloth, the only clothing she would wear during this early morning ritual, rose almost of its own accord and tied itself around her waist. The silver blocks of the belt sat heavily on her hips while the ragged ends of the cloth strips tickled the middle surfaces of her knees. She pulled her fingertips away from her neck and wiped the excess paint off on a rag, a flick of her wrist causing her hair to tumble down from its perch. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head to examine the finished product in the mirror.

A white skull, wreathed in darkness and shadows, stared back at her.

Another deep inhale, and the black witch walked solemnly out of the bathroom and down the hall. The false wall that normally hid the entrance to the basement had already been pulled away, and the candlelight issuing from that secret room lent a mysterious and disturbing cast to the stairwell. Her feet itched as they transitioned from cool wood to dirt, and she quirked one blanched eyebrow when she saw the table in the back. Her bone dagger sat on the edge, hilt facing her; to its left was a glass ashtray and a sackcloth pouch of tobacco, and to its right, a lowball glass and a bottle of sweet rum. What made their appearance so surprising was the fact that she could swear she had not set them out yet.

She felt an odd sensation as soon as her eyes left the items, almost a tickling inside her head. Casting her magic out around her found nothing around her, and the results a tentative, metaphorical poke yielded were less than helpful. The sensation, as best she could tell, was not malevolent, but beyond that she could determine nothing. After another moment, it pulsed, and shoring up her courage, she slowly allowed it to approach. A wave of power, colder than even ice, swept through her body, and for a brief moment she could almost smell the aroma of burning cigars. Straightening her posture and allowing what could only be the mantle of the Baron's strength to settle upon her shoulders and smother her doubts, she waved her hand to fill the ashtray and glass and summon her blade. "It's showtime."

Five is the number for 'manifestation'; this is why the ancient philosophers were convinced that five elements, balanced in opposition, were required for life, she thought as she finished carving the last of that many coffin icons into the dirt. That it was also the reason Muggles believed pentagrams could summon demons was something she really did not want to consider at the moment. Between the equidistant veves she sketched lines of four runes: closest to the circle she had previously traced around her workspace was fehu for possessions and glory, followed by gebo for unity and connection – or, as Elsie had always described it, 'like calls to like' – then ehwaz for transportation, and finally jera, the character for a hard-won success, the closest inward. In the middle of the space she drew the complete veve for the Baron: a crosshatched cross on an elaborate stand, representations of flowers projecting from the points. She then set the enchanted skull containing Voldemort's soul jar in front of the coffin nearest the desk. It stayed silent due only to her earlier command, which she had given after checking that she had squeezed all the information she wanted out of it, but the flames that made up its eyes danced and trembled in obvious fear.

A wave of her hand to erect a frame over each coffin, and the stage was set for the more… gruesome scenes of this production.

She walked over to the table, activating the circle as she passed so the deathly magics within would be contained rather than allowed to dissipate, and picked up a cage sitting on the ground. Opening the top and smiling at the mice scurrying around in fright inside, she levitated each of the tiny mammals to its respective frame, and then she ended the transfigurations.

"W-W-What the hell?!" one of the men shakily exclaimed, shrieking when ropes slithered from the corners of the wooden rectangle surrounding him to lash his limbs tight to the rack.

"I'd say I'm sorry to keep you trapped as rodents… for three straight days… but I'm really not," Jen said with a smirk, picking something else up from the table before stepping back into the circle. "Now I must admit, normally I don't care about the past actions of my sacrifices. Hero or monster, saint or devil; you are all the same in death. You five, however, managed to brass me off something fierce. You want to sell drugs, break into cars, murder rivals? Sure, that's fine. But breaking into people's houses to rape women and kill them when you're done?" She shook her head, all signs of amusement vanished. "That just isn't something that I can permit to continue."

"Who are you?! What are you?!" another cried, shouting to be heard over the first gangster's words.

Her expression of gleeful malice only grew larger as she took in the mental states of the five sacrifices. Being transformed into mice for several days would be bad enough, but when they were just Muggles who did not know the first thing about magic? Why, one of them was already broken, his eyes roving unseeing around the room! It is a very good thing this doesn't require them to be… completely intact.

Rather than answer their increasingly desperate pleas and demands for explanation, she turned her attention to the next step in the ritual. Flipping her dagger around in her hand, she stabbed into the scar on her left wrist. The blood did not drip or dribble like usual, but instead it positively gushed out.

I think I hit something important this time, she thought in a mental voice far calmer and more disinterested than she knew she should be. She straightened her arm, letting gravity direct the river of crimson into her palm. A flick of her right hand then had the incision sealed, though the resulting scar was thicker and more distorted than it had been before, a band of white tissue rather than a barely visible line.

After another second or two, it shifted to become thinner again, but now it was also tipped with the same flowers she had drawn jutting off the central veve.

She moved her gaze down to her drenched hand, specifically the leaves her familiar had gathered for her that were soaking in her vital fluid, and waved her bone blade over the bloodied leaves once, twice. On the third pass, they shifted; not in shape or substance, but instead becoming flattened and hard, as if they had been pressed between the pages of a book. With a sharp smile, she showed the serrated edges to her captives. "I put a lot of consideration into just how to kill you. Originally I was going to emulate Vlad Tepeş, who executed his enemies and criminals by having them slowly impaled on trees, but then I had a better thought. If I'm going to kill the unkillable"—her grin even more wicked—"then I'm all but required to use mistletoe to do the deed."

The four rapists who had not yet lost their minds stared at her in fear and confusion.

"People have no appreciation for the classics these days," she pouted, throwing the leaves into the air and causing them to whip rapidly around her. Her arm snapped toward the earthen floor, and the spelled plants shot into the men's throats.

Blood poured from the holes left behind when the leaves shredded their way through flesh, and more leapt into the air. Unlike the venous blood streaming down the men's bared chests, the arterial spurts did not continue falling to the ground; instead they hung unsupported like puddles of rubies, growing larger as more scarlet arcs pooled together. After several additional seconds, the five criminals breathed their last, and then the sanguineous spheres swelled and began spinning in place, splattering the walls and floor and even ceiling. One by one, items dropped out of the orbs: a golden locket, a silver circlet… a carved skull?

How in the world did that manage to move without me noticing it?, Jen wondered as she looked down at the feet of the man beside her, just in time to watch a short strip of – hard as it was to believe – vibrant pink flesh fall to the ground. When the last soul jar, a heavy gold ring, dropped into the dirt, she gave them all a final check. Sure enough, each of the objects contained a copy of Voldemort's magical core.

Her ritual, for all her prior uncertainties, had succeeded.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

She whirled around at the sudden sound, dagger held high above her head, but her eyes could find nothing. Nor could her sonar, though that was due more to the magical circle she had erected cutting her primary sense off from the wider world than any other factor. The only thing in her line of sight was the basement's table, and it was this that held her attention. The tumbler of rum had been moved to the edge and now sat empty; the last ember of the burning tobacco glowed briefly before snuffing itself out.

"…Well, that isn't creepy at all," she muttered, shuddering when the scent of cigars and almost imperceptible weight she had nearly forgotten about disappeared as well. Fearful eyes shot to her wrist and examined the altered scar that now adorned her skin. How had she dismissed that?! And the leaves; she had planned to transfigure them into spikes and stab the sacrifices, not give them attributes of her Death Focus! She hadn't even known that was possible!

Okay, Jen, hold it together. And don't think about what this could potentially mean too much, for all that lies down that road is madness and paranoia. Shaking her head, she instead turned around again to survey her prizes. A gaudy locket, a cheap ring, the skull… Wait. Is that Ravenclaw's diadem?! The silvery tiara gleamed innocently at her, and for a long moment she was tempted to keep it, to put it on, but finally she pulled herself back from the brink. Voldemort, if I didn't already have a reason to kill you, this would be enough of one. I don't have the materials to transfer this soul shard, or a receptacle to hold it in.

Should I keep this one with me, just in case I find something else to use? She pondered that for several seconds before sighing. Except I don't know when I'd get a suitable vessel, and I need to destroy this before I can kill him. And if I don't finish this by the Baron's deadline… Well, he would almost certainly make that word literal.

"'The last all see, but do not know / In the hands of another foe'," she recited as she turned away from temptation to focus on the strangest soul jar. Was it, like Voldemort's snake, from a living creature? "Well, the first part of that is true, all right. What could this have possibly come from?

"I suppose it doesn't really matter. It will be destroyed all the same." She took three steps backward to set her dagger down and scuff the edge of the circle as she passed, breaking the line and bringing down the boundary of her field. A swoop of her left hand had the five soul jars hanging together in space, and slowly, regretfully, she hurled a fistful of blue and white flames at them.

The loose fireball exploded when it touched the artefacts, and she stared sadly at the sphere of cursed fire. Three deep breaths later in a futile attempt to calm herself, she turned her head away and dismissed the dark fire magic.

Two voids thudded to the ground.

What in the Baron's name?, she silently demanded. The first and most obvious survivor of the conflagration was – to her immense delight – the diadem, though the knowledge that it was not truly part of this world was more than a little disconcerting. Creeping toward it with all due caution, she hesitantly stretched her hand toward the silver circlet. The instant her fingertips came in contact with the metal, she jerked them back with an aborted scream and cradled her injured limb to her chest.

"Madichon ou! Ou menm ak kreyatè ou! Poukisa sa a gen yo dwe majik blan?!" A flood of dark magic made the burning pain diminish and finally disappear, though that did little to nothing to restore her joy. Of all the horrible things she could have learned today, that Rowena Ravenclaw's fabled diadem had been forged by a Light Power and was therefore forever out of her reach was not one she would have ever expected.

At least it explains why Voldemort chose to house a fragment of his soul inside it instead of using it for its intended purpose. If he had put it on his head, his brain would have boiled inside his skull. It's a wonder his idea worked in the first place.

Jen turned her glare to one corner of the room, in which sat an unprepossessing wooden crate. A flick of her wrist lifted the lid to reveal the iron plates decorating the inside, and a second had the offending item flying into the opening. This was something Elsie had used numerous times to store cursed objects that fell into her hands – often later to sell them to Donald Borgin for a tidy sum – and the crotchety old woman would almost certainly agree with her on this point. In the eyes of a black witch, items given to mankind by the Light Powers were as cursed as one could could get.

Curiosity now sufficiently tempered, she bent down to get a better look at the second item. It was a small black stone, and tentatively reaching out with one finger, she sighed when all her poke earned was a chill. Fantastic. At least if it's a Dark Treasure, I can potentially find a use for it. She flipped it over and paled when she saw the design on its other face, a triangle circumscribing a circle and bisected by a line. Or maybe not.

The tiny gem sitting in her palm had several names. The Resurrection Stone, the Bijou Baron, or what she thought was the most descriptive title, Wòch la nan Namn Fou. The Stone of Mad Souls.

The way Elsie had told her the story when she was young, the stone she now held in her hand was not a blessing but a curse, given to a man who had thought to command Death. He had sacrificed a newborn and then, when the Baron appeared to ferry the child's soul away, used foul magics to bind the baby to him. 'If you want the child', the man said, 'you must give me something in exchange. Return to me my wife's soul.'

Such a thing was impossible, for the Baron was the Gatekeeper to the Afterlife and not the king, but the man did not know this. The Baron, most wroth at this blatant insult, merely chuckled and agreed amicably. He bent down to pluck up a stone from the crossroads he was standing in and waved his hand over it. 'You have clearly beaten me,' the Baron told the man, 'and so you are rightfully due your prize. Take this stone, and when you turn it in your hand three times and call out your wife's name, she will appear before you. Then the two of you can be together again.'

The man, not realizing the peril his grief and deceit had put him in, agreed to the bargain and traded the baby's soul for the stone. When he returned home, he did as the Baron had said, and the ghost of his wife appeared. She was unhappy to be called back to the realm of the living, however, and so she begged and pleaded for him to release her. Instead, she suggested, he should join her so they could spend eternity together. Moved by her words, he hanged himself that very night, and in his folly threw himself into the clutches of the entity he had so greatly angered.

The reason Elsie had told Jen that story was that it contained a couple of lessons anyone who practiced black magic absolutely had to learn. First, a black witch should never insult one of the Dark Powers, regardless of it was her patron Power or one of the other six, for those beings were quick to seek revenge and slow to forgive a slight. The second, however, was that it was crucial to know each Dark Power's demesne. The Baron, for instance, could usher souls into the Afterlife, but he could not return them by his own hands; that was a talent that lay solely with the leader of the Wild Hunt.

As for the secret behind the Wòch nan Namn Fou? While Death could not bring souls back to mortal world, he was fully capable of crafting illusions and seeing into men's hearts. The Stone, rather than raise the ghosts of the dead, merely displayed projections based on the user's expectations. Once created, those shades had a single goal: to lure whomever wielded it to kill herself. It was, without a doubt, a most terrible trick.

And not one I'm going to fall for. She threw the Wòch toward the corner as well, and it pinged off the ferrous plate on the crate's lid to clatter against the diadem. "Two Treasures, neither of which I can use," she sighed. "On the bright side, the soul jars are gone. That's something, at least.

"Now I just need to figure out how to deal with Voldemort himself."

Loki's curious pecks at the scar on her wrist pulled a sad laugh out of Jen. "I know it looks strange. That's not what I'm worried about, though. This is the second time the Baron's gotten into my head like that and altered how I thought, and now I've been truly marked by him. I'm just…" She thought for a moment. "…cautious, concerned about what this could mean. And understandably so, I think."

Shrugging his wings, the raven climbed up her arm and began preening her hair. His clicks and burbles succeeded in relaxing her, and he cawed a rebuke when her falling shoulders forced him to readjust his grip.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just panicking for no good reason. It isn't like he didn't already own me, body and soul." She turned her head to nuzzle his breast feathers. "And even if this did change me, turned me into someone else entirely, you'd still stay by my side, right?" A smile replaced her hint of desperation when he just looked at her like she were an idiot and resumed fiddling with her locks.

Her pondering was interrupted by a sudden burst of cold appearing in the townhouse. Jen redirected her unfocused sonar, and her momentary peace shattered when she realized that, other than the lingering haze of dark magic, she could not feel anything inside Cissy's room. Worse, the last she checked, that had been where the woman was.

She threw herself off the window seat and ran for the stairs, Loki taking wing and following her as she climbed to the third floor. Sliding to a stop, she was about to bang heavily on her aunt's door when she heard a voice speaking inside. "…and guide Draco. In his arrogance, he has chosen to walk a risky road, and I fear that he will fall before he can turn away from it. He is still a boy who believes the best of his father; that devotion may be his undoing if he is left on his own."

That sounds like her, but I've never felt her put up any protection like this before. Jen pressed her hand against the door and hissed when she felt the chill of the wood and the rattling of her bones. This was not just dark magic; it wasn't even black. It was something more.

"Please, protect Jen as well," Cissy continued, still unaware of her eavesdropping. "I know she's hiding things from us; we never would have even known that she had been ambushed and almost killed if it weren't for that letter from Flitwick. Her life is getting more dangerous, and I know she can probably handle it – better than any of the rest of us, I imagine – but she's only fifteen, and she doesn't know all the ins and outs that she needs to know if she's going to keep butting heads with Dumbledore. I fear that she will one day overreach herself and then not be able to recover. Please, shelter and protect her from those who wish her harm.

"These pleas I make in earnestness and honesty, entrusting all I am to your mercy."

Silence filled the hallway then, but a few seconds later she could hear Cissy's light steps moving to the door. The wood swung inward, and the older witch stepped back startled when she saw her niece waiting less than a foot away. "Jen! I didn't realize you were—"

The words cut off when Jen raised her hand, trapping the woman inside a paralyzing spell. She had known Cissy for eight years; she knew the feel of her magic. This individual's core was different, similar but not the same and studded throughout with shards of ice. "Who are you, and what have you done with my aunt?"

"What are you talking about?!" the imposter demanded, stretching her neck as if to wiggle out of her bindings keeping the rest of body completely motionless. "Jen, it's me! Let me go!"

"Prove it."

The woman stared at her for several seconds before inclining her head with a scowl. "Look for yourself."

"Loki, check her out." The raven nodded and flapped over to the other witch's shoulder to get a closer look and smell. That underway, she extended her mental probes and slipped inside; immediately she was bombarded by memories. Of Cissy watching her hex Sirius after getting pranked. Of dinners with the whole family, the air filled with laughter. Of her when she was a child, their naked hips grinding together. Of her lying unmoving in Hogwarts's infirmary, white blindfold stained with blood.

Loki scrambled down Cissy's arm and hopped back onto Jen's shoulder, only reinforcing her conclusion. If he had noticed anything wrong, he would have immediately started attacking or at least been agitated. Lowering her hand, she released the spell that trapped the woman. "Ah."

"'Ah'? That's all you have to say for this?" her aunt demanded in a cold tone.

"Your whole room suddenly disappeared from the wards, and your magic feels different now than it did yesterday." Though why that was, she still had no idea. She shrugged sheepishly. "When that happens, I have to consider that I could be dealing with an imposter, and from there where the real you could have disappeared to. Especially after your misadventure this summer."

Cissy's stern expression had softened slightly during her explanation, and now the older witch huffed through her nose. "And while magical signatures are supposed to be immutable, there is any number of ways someone could mimic my appearance." Pursing her lips, she continued, "Don't misunderstand; I'm still very unhappy about being assaulted – and in my own room, no less – but perhaps it wasn't totally unwarranted. We will still be having a talk about your actions later."

Unpleasant, but I suppose that's only fair. "All right," Jen agreed slowly, "but that doesn't answer my biggest question. What were you just doing that changed your magic?"

At this, Cissy flushed slightly, and Jen's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What I was doing?" the woman repeated in a slightly higher than normal voice. "Nothing. Nothing at all. And shouldn't you be getting ready for the ball tonight by now?"

"Aunt Cissy…"

The piebald witch glanced down in embarrassment and pulled the door all the way open. Now more worried than shocked, Jen stepped through and looked around. If this void weren't still interfering with my sonar, this would be so much easi… Oh. "Auntie? Is that what I think it is?"

The 'that' in question was a dark wooden platform slightly wider than the woman's lap, runes inlaid in white running around the edges. On the two corners nearest the wall stood a pair of candles, the wicks still smoking slightly and the shafts glued to the wood by piles of molten wax, and more to the middle were a silver-framed mirror and a crystal tetrahedron, the top point edging from a clear-white to the faintest shade of blue. Her gaze roved over the items, and for a split second she thought she saw a pale visage and a black eye staring out from within the mirror; another look proved it was just a reflection of the wall.

"Er… Well…" Cissy ran her hand through the white streak in her hair and sighed. "Do you remember how, last year when Andi and I told you about the Dark Powers, she mentioned that some people worshipped them? Um…"

"Which one?" Jen asked as she gave the pyramid a closer examination.

Her aunt's expression relaxed at the pure curiosity of her question, or more likely just the lack of horror or accusation. "The Unseelie Queen. I began following Her shortly after I married Lucius. She is said to look out for those who are lost or sold into bondage, which I certainly felt like at the time. I was praying to Her to protect Draco; he is in more danger than he knows, and She guards children zealously, so…"

Jen smirked at that. "A pedophile worshipping a protector of children?"

"Yes, I am well aware of the irony," Cissy answered with a roll of her eyes. "That is one of the biggest reasons I slake my lusts with Muggles rather than magical children. At least, I do so when I'm aware they are magical," she added with a mild glare at the retired prostitute. "By doing so, I avoid hurting anyone, and thereby keep from offending Her."

Whatever helps you sleep at night, she thought with another smile. Unlike the rest of their family, who all saw the bigotry of the youngest Black Sister as something abhorrent, she merely found it amusing. Willfully ignorant, perhaps, but amusing nonetheless.

"I have to admit, you're taking this surprisingly well," came the elder witch's tentative prompting.

"Not too surprising," Jen corrected. Considering for a moment, she lied, "Elsie worshipped Death, had ever since she was a child. When she took me in, she all but required me to take part, as well."

Her aunt hummed to herself even as one of the lumps of ice in her core melted away, allowing the threads to relax. Within an hour, Jen doubted she would have been able to tell anything strange at all had taken place. "Is that where you were early this morning? I couldn't sleep," Cissy explained to her raised eyebrow, "and so I decided to peek in on you and Sirius while I was already up. Imagine my surprise when you weren't in your bed, or anywhere else in the house."

"…Yes." She shrugged sheepishly. "I don't worship him regularly, but I do perform a couple of devotions a year. Just in case, you understand."

"That I do. Maybe I can join you next time."

"I'd really rather you didn't." The woman lost her smile and dropped her eyes at that immediate rejection, so Jen continued twisting the truth. "The traditions Elsie taught me are a bit… messy. I just don't want you to look at me differently because you saw me rip off a chicken's head and slather my face and chest with its blood."

Her gruesome description turn Cissy's face a rather unflattering shade of green. "Ah. In that case, I shall leave you to it. Thank you for telling me about your beliefs, though." Her aunt smiled sadly. "I should have known that if anyone in the family would accept my own, it would be you."

"Aunt Andi probably would, too. The way she talked about it, I think she already suspects."

"Perhaps I will speak with her about it later tonight, then." Shaking herself from her musings, Cissy pushed the girl and the bird toward the open door. "But enough of this. You still have a ball you need to get prepared for. A hostess cannot be late to her own party."

"Oh, this place is so beautiful!"

"I know. Who knew the Blacks were hiding such a jewel from everyone?"

"Maybe we can convince them to hold this again next year."

"Not bloody likely," Sirius grumbled under his breath.

Jen just rolled her eyes at his reaction to the compliments drifting toward them. For someone who was normally such a show-off, her godfather was acting remarkably withdrawn. She nudged her elbow into his side. "And here I thought you'd enjoy the chance to be center stage. And the place does look good."

"It had better," he muttered back, plastering on a smile for the next couple to step out of the Floo, "especially after all the work we did on it."

She had been equally as astonished as any of their guests when she arrived at Black Hall an hour before. From all her visits home on the weekends, she had gathered a progress report of sorts about how the restoration of their country estate was going, and thanks to Sirius's displeased mutterings, she had honestly expected it to resemble a disaster area. What she found, however, was anything but.

The foyer was all dark-stained wood walls with a mosaic of their crest on the floor, giving way to green marble tiles where it transitioned to the ballroom proper. A high ceiling made the room appear even larger than it already was, and the clever placement of the arches created several areas – each demarcated with a vase full of white orchids on a stand – where the muddle of conversations sorted themselves out into discernible voices and words. Along one wall was a table filled with a variety of hors d'oeuvres, continuously restocked by Kreacher and two other elves they had rented for the night, and serving trays charmed to hover at waist-height meandered through the crowd to make sure everyone had a full flute of champagne at all times.

Not that she had had a chance to enjoy any of it yet. Practically the minute she and Sirius arrived, they had stationed themselves in the foyer so they could usher in all their guests. Every noble who entered – be they Dark, Neutral, or even Light – had to be greeted with warm words and small talk. That was perhaps the oddest part of the night; that Sirius, who always claimed to hate 'pointless social niceties', knew enough personal details about every single person who walked through the grate. During a short break, he leaned over and whispered, "This is how your aunt earns her keep."

Which… explained a lot, actually.

Of course, most of these conversations were incredibly boring. The doughy-faced minor nobleman they were talking to currently, for instance. Perhaps it was due to growing up straddling the two worlds, but she could not for the life of her understand how anyone could make a profit, let alone a fortune, from importing Muggle items when it was so much easier just to walk into a store and buy something off the shelf, cutting out the middle-man entirely. It was not as if the goblins wouldn't happily exchange galleons for pounds sterling, albeit for an exorbitant fee.

The fire flared green, and the Potters stepped out, their gazes quickly fixating on her.

Then again, Aunt Andi is always telling me I need to meet new people. "So Lord Callahan," she prompted, "how exactly do you get around having to pay Muggle taxes for all these goods your company brings in?"

"W-Well, sometimes we do have to pay a bit, but most of our dealings are more… under the table, you know," replied the flustered wizard, his cheeks stained red. "It helps that we also do some exporting with them, which earns us quite a bit of favor with the companies. And since the Muggles we work with directly are all 'in the know', we can turn a tidy sum without running afoul of the Statute of Secrecy. It's an interesting legal grey area…"

The Potters, instead of speaking with Sirius and then moving on as she had half-heartedly hoped they might, stood back while the pudgy wizard droned on and on about the minutiae of his business model. It was not until another three Houses were waiting in line that he realized his error and scrambled off.

Though this works just as well, Jen realized. Now, unless they want to be seen as rude, they'll have to say hello and then move along. It won't stop them from approaching me once the ball proper starts, but I'll take any reprieve I can get.

"Lord and Lady Potter," Sirius said formally. "Good evening. Be welcomed at our hearth and under our roof."

"We thank you and your House for your hospitality," James answered.

Clearly reaching for some topic that would not step on any toes, her godfather asked, "Can we expect to see your son later tonight?"

James hesitated for a moment too long before shaking his head. "I'm afraid not; he is… indisposed at the moment. Augusta was kind enough to volunteer to care for him, so neither she nor Neville will be attending, either."

"I am sorry to hear that. I hope he returns to good health soon."

The Potters gave him polite smiles at that, and then they turned to her. She pulled on the skirt of her burgundy dress and dipped into a shallow curtsy before either could hold out their hands or – Baron forbid – try to hug her. A clearing of someone's throat behind them shook them from their uncertainty and chased them away into the ballroom.

"I've clearly been spending too much time around you and Davis," Susan commented when the rest of the line had cleared out, and then the redhead embraced her while Sirius and Madam Bones exchanged the traditional greeting. "I almost found their discomfort funny."

Jen grinned, grateful for the levity. "And just think: we aren't nearly done with you yet. Soon enough, you'll be throwing out sarcasm left and right and cracking up at gallows humor."

"Spare me that, I beg you," Madam Bones sighed dramatically, giving her a curtsy that she quickly returned. "She's been trouble enough ever since she got home. I've been tempted to ship her off to the Abbotts for the break, but then I wouldn't be able to counter these bad habits she's been picking up lately."

"Auntie!" Susan cried in a scandalized tone.

Smirking a bit, the Black witch replied in a faux-serious tone, "I would promise you that we will do better in keeping her away from whatever rapscallions she has been associating with, but you know how she is. Always finding trouble somewhere or another."

The witch in question stuck her nose in the air and sniffed haughtily. "I don't have to put up with this slander." Spinning on her heel, she stomped into the ballroom.

Sirius laughed and jerked his head toward the door. "Go ahead and follow your friend, Jen. You've been standing here with me for the past hour, and everything's going to kick off in a minute, anyway."

"Thanks, Sirius." She gave him a quick hug that lit up his eyes – and her reaction was entirely for this reason, not because she was just that grateful for an excuse to leave – and hustled into the enormous room. Susan was easy to find, hovering just inside the entrance. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it?" she asked, watching the milling crowds.

"Yeah," came the Badger's breathy reply. "I knew there were a bunch of people in the Wizengamot, but in the Chamber, it didn't look like it was this many."

"Well, it's not just the Wizengamot members here," she pointed out. "There's their wives and husbands, and their unattached children our age or older, and I think I met a couple of first cousins and mistresses and—"

Susan's tinkling laughter cut her off. "You're making that up! There's no way way anyone would bring their," she looked around, blush covering her whole face, and lowered her voice, "their mistresses to something like this."

"Hmm. Maybe you have a point." The older teen nodded, and Jen's grin widened. "Having to deal with this rigmarole would sure drive the mistresses away to find someone less stuffy. Those women must have been the paid whores."

"Jen!"

The large clock set high up in one wall chose that moment to chime loudly, and Sirius walked in, accompanied by Madam Bones. The old dog's smirk meant he was fully prepared and hoping for the murmurs that immediately sprang up; Jen had to wonder if her dismissal had really been as generous as he made it out to be. He climbed onto the stage that had been set up in a nearby corner for the musicians: primarily cellists and violinists, though Jen could spy a harp in one corner. The music selection tonight would be nothing like that played at the Yule Ball the previous year.

"Wizards and witches of the Wizengamot," Sirius's voice boomed, no doubt thanks to the amplifying spell wrapped around his neck, "welcome to the annual Winter Solstice Ball!"

The assembled nobility broke into applause at that announcement, and after a moment or five, he raised his hand for silence. "Thank you, thank you. I hope you will all enjoy your time here at Black Hall, and I'm sure that will start quicker the sooner I stop talking. So eat, drink, be merry"—his eyes twinkled for a moment—"and if you are too merry by the end of the night, please have someone Side-Along you home. Maestro, if you would?"

A jaunty tune filled the air, and Jen quickly pushed her way toward the stage. According to those adults in the family who had been to this function before, the dancing was always started by the Head of whatever House was hosting the ball that year. Normally it would be the Lord and Lady dancing, or assuming said Head was single, his or her escort for the night, but as Jen was old enough to attend, the role of partner fell to her. She dipped into yet another curtsy, the deepest of the night, and resigned herself to the aching legs that would surely be present the next morning if this kept up.

Sirius returned her greeting with a bow and guided her into position. As they began the waltz, she smiled and taunted in a whisper, "You know, if you wanted to escort Amelia Bones to the dance, you should have just asked her."

"Now I know where her niece learned all those 'bad habits'," he shot back sotto voce. She chuckled softly, and he added, "No, that won't happen. Maybe once upon a time, but I'm afraid that train left the station years ago."

"Really?" she asked in surprise. "I meant that as a joke. Did you really carry a torch for her?"

The next pair of dancers – the white-haired Lord and Lady McElroy, her being the oldest voting member of the Wizengamot – fell in step behind them. "Not really," Sirius answered. "What I meant was that back in the day, I chased every skirt in sight. Now, though? Sad as it is to admit, this prime stallion's days of being put out to stud are over."

"Thank you so much for that mental image."

He threw back his head and barked out a laugh, and as if the room was waiting for his signal, numerous other couples stepped onto the dance floor. They continued the dance for several more minutes, and then the music ended. Sirius gave her a second bow and stepped away, presumably to hit the snack table or talk politics.

"My lady, may I have this dance?"

Jen quirked one eyebrow and slowly turned around. "Scion Malfoy. This is a surprise."

"I don't see why." Now she was sure something dastardly was in the works, for the blond had never tried his hand at oily ingratiation before. That he was unpracticed in this form of deception was equally clear by how poorly his adopted persona fit him. It was as if he was trying to parrot another, likely his father, but had only recently started paying attention to the lessons. Before she could turn him down, the rest of the room resumed swaying to the musician's beat, and he held out his emerald-clad arms pointedly.

"Very well," she replied, forcibly keeping a snarl out of her voice; it was harder than she would have expected. They began the second number, and she was reluctantly impressed by his skill on the floor. After a couple of minutes, she commanded, "Don't keep me in suspense. What are you really after?"

Malfoy's facial expression was even less adroit at hiding his true purpose than his voice. "What am I after? Can't I just want to spend some time with my baby cousin?"

"No, cousin, you can't. We both know you are here for some ulterior motive, and the only thing I want to know is whether it was your idea, your father's, or your father's master's." He twitched at that last suggestion, which put a crafty smile on her face. "So it was at the Dark Lord's behest, hmm? How interesting. And confusing; I find it strange that he would send you to speak with me."

"And why is that?" he drawled, face pinched in anger at her insult.

"Why, because there is literally nothing he could send you for that could not be accomplished by someone else, and more successfully, too. It if were to issue another invitation to join him, he would have been better served by sending either a member of his inner circle like your father"—here Malfoy scowled—"or a Death Eater no one else knows about, as a show of power and trust. If he wanted to apologize for his previous actions—"

"The Dark Lord? Apologize to you?" the teenaged wizard hissed. "Your arrogance is unbelievable."

"Yes, apologize." She smirked again. "I would expect him, at least, to know there are some people you don't want to make enemies of unnecessarily. If that were what he wanted, again he would have sent someone important, not some Markless peon."

"How dare—"

She continued, heedless of his seething emotions. "The final purpose I can guess that he would want to communicate is that he plans on threatening me. And if that were the case, he'd send someone who was… well, actually intimidating."

"You think I'm not intimidating?" Malfoy growled. The music picked up in a faster beat. "For a Ravenclaw, you're incredibly stupid. I'm the one standing right next to you. It would be so easy to get rid of you right now…"

Jen laughed, actually laughed, at that. "No, I'm afraid you're really not. Partly that's because I've already proven I can handle a much bigger threat than you could pose—"

"If you think those Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs are a good comparison—"

"—and partly it's because I could counterattack before you even had your wand in your hand, and do so in a way you could never defend yourself against. Why, right this second I can think of thirty ways to kill you where you stand…" The music spiked, and he pushed her away in a twirl. A moment later, he reeled her back into his grasp, and she continued, "…and still be able to claim it as an accident or, at most, self-defense. Maybe in a few more years, I might give your claims more weight, but for now? No, you aren't a threat, and I suggest you keep your head down if you ever want to become one."

The music slowed and came to a halt. Stepping away, Malfoy gave her a bow that was little more than a minute tilt of the head, and she replied with a mocking dip that she then turned into a swirling about-face. She could barely keep her serious expression up for the brief time it took her to escape the dance floor.

That would be so adorable if he weren't such a little prick, she thought, finally allowing herself to smile darkly. It's like watching a puppy barking at a full-grown bear. He'd get torn apart in seconds if the bear didn't find the sight more amusing than irritating.

Although, he never did give me Voldemort's message, she realized. That wiped the grin off her face. That could have been important. Possibly. On the other hand, what I said to him still stands. There is nothing Voldemort could want to tell me that wouldn't get a more receptive ear if carried by someone else. Which only makes me wonder even more what…

Jen could not hold back a sigh when she felt someone trying – unsuccessfully – to sneak up behind her unnoticed. "What do you want, Lady Potter?"

Creole Corner: Curse you! You and your maker! Why does this have to be white magic?! Also, Bijou Baron means "Baron's Jewel".

I wish I could claim credit for my depiction of the Resurrection Stone's true purpose, but I first saw it pointed out in chapter 14 of Publicola's story Wait, What?, a collection of one-shots where the HP crew examines the horror present throughout the series with open eyes. I recommend everyone read it, that specific chapter at the very least.

Silently Watches out.